Rook led them inside. Galavriel picked up a hammer from a nearby table and smacked it into his gauntleted hand a couple times, creating a menacing clink. “So, where is this Everlight stuff.”
Rook looked at the Saints. He was sure there was no way they would give him any privacy, so with a sigh he walked to the center of the room and pushed a table aside and moved the crates that were beneath it to reveal a steel door set into the stone floor. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, selecting a rather large and intricate one. He inserted it into the keyhole and turned. There was a mechanical clank from beneath the floor as gears went into action and the doors rose slightly before sliding apart.
Galavriel pushed Rook aside. Within the large safe were a number of Everlight swords and daggers, as well as some neatly stacked ingots of gold, silver and other metals. A few jars of chemicals were also nicely packed away. Rook hoped they wouldn’t ransack what he had.
Galavriel picked up a sword and held it before his eyes, twisting and turning it. There was a barred window on the wall opposite him and as the sunlight caught the blade it shown brilliantly with its silver grain.
“Light,” said Galavriel, sounding slightly impressed. He tossed the sword to Ertrael and picked up another.
“What’s this?” asked Ertrael, referring to the emblem upon the sword’s hilt.
“That’s my mark.” said Rook. “I put it on everything.”
Galavriel frowned as he looked upon the emblem of the sword he held. “This ugly bird and hand won’t do for the Sisters.”
“It’s a raven. I put it on everything.” said Rook.
Galavriel turned his silver eyes to him. “Not on theirs, you won’t.”
“I will, or I won’t make them.” stated Rook. “My weapons, my mark.”
Galavriel let the sword clatter to the floor. Rook backed away toward the stone wall where a small, unseen alcove lay. Ertrael grabbed Galavriel by the shoulder. “I’m sure he can make an exception,” said Ertrael, trading a glance with Rook.
Just then there was a scream. Rook’s head snapped toward the door. Another scream. It was Kierza. Rook’s heart began to race. Panic started to set in. But then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed out his fears, just as Diotus had taught him. Fear and panic could kill. It made you sloppy in battle. If he died here he would never be able to save his loved ones. From his sleeve Rook surreptitiously palmed a small key.
Galavriel laughed. “Looks like the Sisters didn’t take too kindly to those dresses. Not sure why they seemed to fancy you so much. I’ve never seen them eye a slave before.”
Rook’s eyes narrowed as his hand deftly unlocked the hidden door of the alcove. “There is one sword in particular you might find interesting. One that you and the Sisters might find worthy.” Rook grabbed the sword from the alcove. It was a long, curved, double-edged saber; something between a katana and a scimitar. It was made of Everlight—the best Everlight; what he called High Everlight. It had a golden, sun-like hue, unlike the silvery Low Everlight he made for the nobles. It weighed less than a pound but was hard and immutable. In all his practices with Diotus the blade had never so much as taken a dull edge. And when ignited, there was nothing it couldn’t cut. Its blade was deceptively long and broad; so elegantly curved and tapered that it was difficult to gauge its true magnitude. At the base of the blade was engraved Rook’s mark, but around it were the words written in ancient Durotonian, Hic Sollas Lumin—Here Shines the Sun. The golden hilt was arced and had four dagger-like peaks as if it were casting the rays of the sun, and in its center was a strange rune. The handle was wound with brown leather and was longer than those found on most two-handed swords. Due to the sword’s power and his fighting style Rook needed extra hand room so that he could whirl it around without risk to his limbs. In the round pommel gleamed a black crystal; the sonic crystal that had once belonged to the sword held by the armor in Diotus’s lab.
Another scream.
“This is Astrafractus.” said Rook. “Starbreaker.” His thumb swiped over the ignition rune and the sword began to thrum, its blade a smear of resonating, golden Everlight. “Apollyon take those I call my enemy.”
Before Galavriel or Ertrael could draw their own swords Rook was on them. For many years Rook had been trained in secret by Diotus in the Durotonian martial arts used by the Dark Star Knights. Though Rook was adept in many forms, he focused on Terra Praesidio, or the Land’s Guard style. It was an ancient and forgotten technique that predated the Dark Star Knights; a style, according to Diotus, that was relegated to the history books when the Durotonian Guard were affectionately known as the whirling warriors; elite guardians whose long, curved sabers had become something of legend. They were trained at a sacred place known as the High Citadels where only the most righteous of men were ever allowed. Even in Duroton today the whirling warriors were remembered fondly, their furious, spinning techniques spoken of in beloved myths.
But Terra Praesidio was no myth. Diotus had an ancient book that predated the Age of the Great Falling, it’s crumbling pages detailing every aspect of the fighting style. And Rook had studied and memorized each page, having perfected all the techniques with Diotus over the years. It was a dizzying combat form that leaned heavily on defensive maneuvers that doubled as attacks. It often required the sword to be wielded blade-down—opposite all other combat styles—so that it could be whipped about with quick spins and twirled like a bo-staff, hence Starbreaker’s long handle.
Rook had always known that one day he’d be going against those more powerful than him; Saints who were uncannily fast and armored in star-metal. He’d have to defend well and strike only when the opportunity presented itself. Terra Praesidio had given him many tricks and it seemed the day of reckoning for all his training was upon him. He only hoped Starbreaker would hold up against star-metal.
Rook’s sword hummed its deadly tune as he kept the blade horizontal at his chest and spun in on the Saint. Galavriel raised his arms, his body encompassed by Caliber light. Starbreaker cracked upon the Saint’s bracers. Purple and gold sparks rained down as Rook’s momentum took him around. He swept his sword out slightly as he stepped back and it cut across the Saint’s breastplate. More purple and gold sparks exploded and the Saint was thrown back where he landed on an oak table that split apart as his breastplate impacted it.
Apollyon below, Diotus was right. Not even a sonic Everlight weapon can cut Star-Armor. Still, Starbreaker had a satisfying effect. He might not be able to cut through their armor, but he could throw them back. And their partial armor left plenty of bright, white unarmored bodysuit as targets.
Ertrael now stood before him, a heavy, oaken table between them, but the Saint did not have his weapon out. The ruby-eyed Saint looked as if he were about to say something, but Rook could not risk faltering against such an opponent. He tumbled forward, Starbreaker held in such a way as to make him into a deadly wheel that sheared right through the table as if it weren’t even there, and opening a huge gash in the stone floor as he went. Such moves were risky with a sonic weapon like Starbreaker. The slightest contact with the thrumming blade and Rook could sever his own limbs, or worse. He came up just in front of Ertrael, bringing his sword up defensively. The Saint stumbled back and Rook swept it out as he spun low. Sparks flew as his sword cut across Ertrael’s Star-Armored shins and the Saint fell backwards, landing flat on his back, his breastplate fracturing the stone floor.
Rook leapt into the air, hiking his legs high and flourishing the sword beneath him as he came towards Ertrael’s head. For the first time, Rook noticed that the Saint’s Caliber was unlike his partner’s. Ertrael’s seemed to be glowing unsteadily and wisps of golden-yellow plasma were wafting from his hands and body. The Saint also had a confused look in his eyes, at least until he noticed Rook baring down on him.
Ertrael rolled just before Rook hit the floor, Starbreaker splintering through the bricks and sink
ing deep. Rook spun to face Ertrael, tearing his sword from the floor while his right hand slipped the dagger from his sleeve. The Saint stumbled to his knees as Rook’s dagger came around. Ertrael narrowly got his arm up in time to block the dagger, but Rook sunk it deep into the Saint’s elbow nonetheless. The Saint howled as Rook swept his left arm over his head, ready to plunge his humming sword into the base of the Saint’s neck. This time, however, Ertrael got his arm up in time and swatted the thrumming blade aside. There was a terrible crack as the sword struck his bracer. Sparks popped in the air and the Saint tumbled away.
Rook turned. Galavriel was back on him now. The Saint swung out his sword and Rook raised his left arm, the one that had the small, silver disc sewn into it. Just as the star-metal blade made contact with the disc, a crackling yellow energy shield burst into brief life. The Saint’s weapon bounced off in an explosion of buzzing electricity, filling the room with the scent of ozone. But the powerful force also tossed Rook backward.
Rook let the force of the impact tumble him and he rolled back to his feet. The Saint ran at him, his golden Caliber glowing brightly around him as he leapt into the air, his star-metal broadsword poised for a deadly strike. Rook ducked, spinning his sword around over the top of his head as the Saint landed upon him. Starbreaker’s incredible might struck sparks off the Saint’s sword and tossed it away. The black blade tumbled through the air, its enormous weight cracking the far wall when it hit. Rook rolled with the Saint’s landing and whirled his sword around him in a wide arc that caused Galavriel to flinch back as Rook spun up to his feet to face him.
Bringing his sword in close, Rook danced forward. The weaponless Saint threw a punch but Rook ducked low as he whipped the blade around over his back as if it were a staff. Starbreaker cut across the Saint’s breastplate and Galavriel staggered backward. Rook drove forward, his thrumming blade a dizzying array of flourishes. Galavriel had to step back as Rook came upon him. The Saint kicked high and Rook tumbled beneath it, pulling a dagger from his boot as he came up on his knees. He plunged the dagger up Galavriel’s star-metal skirt where it sunk deep into the Saint’s thigh.
Galavriel screamed as Rook now pressed forward as he rose to his feet, cleaving his sword downward. Purple and gold sparks exploded off Galavriel’s raised bracers and he was knocked against the iron mouth of the furnace. Rook dashed in and knocked his left forearm against the staggered Saint, square in the chest. Once again the energy disc crackled into brief life, sending Galavriel tumbling backward into the furnace’s coal-filled maw.
Before the Saint could react, Rook grabbed Galavriel’s star-metal boots and pushed for all he was worth. The Saint slid the rest of the way into the large furnace and Rook slammed the steel door shut. The locking mechanism clanked into place and Rook pounded his hand down upon the brass ignition button. There were a couple pops and then the furnace roared to life. From within Galavriel screamed.
Rook now spun to face Ertrael, but the Saint was still on the floor where he had left him. There was something wrong. Ertrael’s Caliber blazed with a strange intensity. Golden plasma drifted from his hands in billowy plumes.
“It… it’s happening again!” screamed Ertrael, looking at his hands. His Star-Armor, once black, was beginning to glow with silvery light, as if it were coming to life.
From behind Rook there was a terrible pounding on the furnace door. Rook spun just in time to see Saint Galavriel’s star-metal boot kick the door from its hinges. Within, the Saint was consumed by the glow of his Caliber, and so intense was the light that it drowned out the flames that engulfed him. Galavriel pulled himself from the oven but past the white glow of his Caliber Rook could see he was unharmed by the flames.
The Saint was about to lunge for Rook when the hum of Starbreaker broke the air. Rook whirled in, Galavriel deflecting one strike off his bracer and then another. But then Rook swept his sword out and Galavriel’s head tumbled backward into the furnace. His body stood for only a moment, blood pouring from the fleshy stump protruding from his breastplate, and then collapsed.
Rook turned again to Ertrael. From behind, Rook heard the terrible pops and cracks as Galavriel’s body was consumed into his armor. Ertrael was on his hands and knees. Golden plasma drifted from his back. The light from his armor was intensifying, the very star-metal burning like a white-hot sun. For whatever reason the Saint seemed to be incapacitated. Rook raised his sword. The Saint turned his head, fixing Rook with those ruby eyes. “I know who you are! Help me!” cried the Saint. “Help me!”
Rook paused. His hand squeezed the handle of Starbreaker tightly. Should I help? Should I just kill him while I have the chance? Rook pursed his lips, and then he heard the screams and he remembered why this all started in the first place. But this time it was not Kierza’s screams. These were the screams of Callad and Sierla. Rook bolted for the door.
Outside, Rook noticed all the knights pointing to the sky, gasping. He chanced a look upward as he raced toward the cottage. In the sky a constellation of a serpent was traced. Its light blazed despite the azure skies, but Rook had no time to watch. He kicked open the cottage door and burst into the house.
There was blood. The dining room table was dripping with it, the walls and ceiling painted in it. Ribbons of flesh and clothing clung to everything. Rook’s breath caught in his throat and he froze. The King sat in his chair laughing, his eyes wide and maniacal; his form darkened by an otherworldly shadow, giving him a purple cast. He turned and looked at Rook. “Aren’t they precious!”
The Sisters wheeled around, fixing Rook with eyes like pale, fractured marbles. These were not the same beautiful women they were when Rook had left. These were hunched, lanky, ragged hags. Their hair was like dry straw; their flesh antique porcelain, cracked and veined with blue. Their nails were curled talons, each dripping with blood and gore.
Rook’s eyes looked past them. On the floor behind them lay Kierza. Or, at least, what was left of her. She was just a limp, curled body covered in blood-soaked rags. Beside her lay Sierla. It was hard to tell which were strips of flayed fabric or flesh amongst the blood that soaked her back. Her hands clutched at the floor and she struggled for a moment to stand before collapsing into a pool of her own blood. “M-Mother…”
“Run, Rook!” Rook was snapped back to attention by Callad’s voice. He struggled against the two female Saints who held him. His arms were ripped and bloodied. He got one of his large arms free from the Saints and twisted, impacting one of them in the face with a giant fist. “Run, son!” They grabbed him by the hair and held a sword to his throat even as he continued to struggle.
“Join us, our prince!” hissed the Sisters. “Join us!” One of them held its hand out to Rook, vulturous fingers curling.
“Aren’t they precious!” laughed the King. He stood up, having to hunch so that his crown would not break through the ceiling. He was taller and more menacing than ever before, his form dusted in purple shadows. The walls around him, once made of fine cobblestone, were now dull clumps of plaster. The table before him was no longer made of fine oak, but was now warped planks of cheap cedar. The silverware and china that had once been set upon it was now crude iron and dull pottery; the chalices tarnished tin. Everything in his presence was an ugly reflection of itself. Crude and cheap. “Join us, prince! Join in the merriment! Aren’t my daughters precious!”
Rook’s face twisted into a hideous mask of rage. His hands squeezed the handle of Starbreaker. Anger, hot as the furnace of his smithy, welled inside him. He roared out his fury and the world dissolved into a realm of blood and the thrumming of his sword.
The two female Saints, Paniel and Rael, dropped Callad and shot forward as Rook’s blade tore its way into the room. Purple sparks rained. The table broke. Rook spun, star-metal flashed. More sparks. His blade whirled and hummed. More star-metal sparks. But he wasn’t quick enough to face two Saints and tears blinded him as much as his rage. He felt a powerful k
ick upon his side, the Saint’s star-metal boot hitting him like a charging bull. He tumbled, his body breaking through furniture, his sword fell from his hand. He rolled to his back just in time to see Saint Rael leaping through the air, her black sword ready to impale him.
And then golden light streaked across the room. Star-Armor cracked against Star-Armor as Saint Ertrael intercepted Rael and the two went sailing across the room where they crashed through the cobblestone wall of the cottage. Timber and plaster rained. Rook grabbed his sword and kicked himself to his feet just as one of the Sisters came at him. He flourished his sword and spun, but the hag’s talons were too quick and he felt the leather armor of his left arm rip; felt a gash open down the length of his arm.
Ertrael shot back into the house. Saint Paniel spun to meet him a moment too late and Ertrael’s sword cracked against her’s, knocking it from her hands. A quick spin-kick and Paniel flew across the room, breaking through the opposite wall. The Sisters wheeled to face him but Ertrael raised his arms, his hands flaring with brilliant, white Caliber energy, and the two were blasted across the room where they were knocked into the King.
Callad scooped Sierla’s limp form into his arms. Tears rained down his face. “Sierla!” he wailed. “What have they done!”
“We have to go!” Ertrael grabbed Rook by the shoulder. Behind him Rook saw the King’s face twist into an angry mask as the shadows around him deepened. The entire cottage began taking on a decrepit countenance. The Sisters cowered behind him.
“Not without her!” screamed Rook, pointing to the body of Kierza.
Ertrael turned and frowned. He dashed forward and rolled, scooping Kierza’s limp, blood-soaked body into his arms. The King lunged for him but Ertrael jumped and kicked himself off the wall, rocketing himself to where Callad knelt with Sierla. He grabbed the large man by the arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Bring her!” he yelled. “Hurry!”
Here Shines the Sun Page 35
