Here Shines the Sun (13 page)

Tarquin swatted the metal out of Tabar’s hand. “What’s next? Where do we go from here?”

Tabar sighed. He put his face down to the flattened star-metal, inspecting it. He brushed at it and some blue powder came off. “Nothing. Not a single grain fused.”

“What do you need?” barked Tarquin. “More chemicals? A new element? What?”

Tabar stood up and looked at Tarquin. He hiked his shoulders. “I don’t know, my Lord.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” spat Tarquin. “You’re supposed to be the best smith in the west of Duroton. What do we try next?”

Tabar made a troubled sigh. He stared down at the flattened star-metal, shaking his head as he thought quietly to himself.

“Commander Tarquin!” came a familiar voice, but not one that Tarquin particularly wanted to hear right now. “You live! Why, we all feared you dead, being that our last three quick-hounds hadn’t been answered.”

Tarquin turned to see four of his Guardians escorting Balin Yagdril across the vast chamber. The Councilman was dressed in a fine, yellow doublet with elaborate, red stitching in the form of a phoenix upon the breast. He walked briskly beside the Guardians, his polished boots clomping on the stone floor. Behind his well-groomed mustache and sharp beard was a stern face that was quite rare on the Councilman.

Tarquin scowled even as he bowed slightly. “Most Exalted Councilman.” he said. But then he noticed another figure, thinner and more frail, behind Balin. It was an old man in red robes. He walked nearly as briskly as Balin, though his back was hunched slightly. Still, he used no cane. Balin had visited sporadically over the last decade, but this was the first time Rankin Parvailes had ever come.

Tarquin’s scowl deepened. He cast a glance at the Ghost, and then looked down at his necklace. The old man would figure it out if he saw the Blood Iron. He quickly tucked the necklace under his breastplate. It was a thin, iron chain hung with three fingernails, each cast in the same pocked, bloody-red iron as his throne. A thought occurred to Tarquin that maybe there was nothing for Rankin to figure out. Maybe the old man already knew. Why else would Rankin make such an exhausting journey here? Tarquin silently cursed Saint Isley and his vexing little spies.

Tarquin approached the Councilmen. “Exalted Councilman Parvailes, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it time I see this thing with my own eyes.” Rankin’s voice was like two ancient stones sliding over one another. His gray eyes scanned up the height of the dragon skull. They fixed near its eyes. Tarquin watched Rankin’s face for any sign of knowing as the old man’s gaze fell upon the throne. Tarquin couldn’t be sure if the old man could see it, the way he was squinting.

“I hope your travels were well.” said Tarquin. Behind him, Tabar and his laborers helped lower the crane down to grab the flattened star-metal. As it lifted, all the blue metal crumbled out from the fold.

“Funny thing about travels,” said Balin, removing his riding gloves. His deep, brown eyes fixed on Tarquin’s sword, Whisper. “All you have to do is wave that sword of yours around and you can be in front of our Council table.” said Balin. “Yet, here we are, a seven-day ride from the comforts of the castle in this stars-forsaken mountain of yours.”

“My apologies.” Tarquin bowed slightly, more to conceal his smirk than out of respect. He couldn’t help but notice that Rankin was eyeing the Ghost strangely.

“Is there a reason our retinue was made to remain outside?” asked Balin, his eyes now catching sight of the spectral figure. “I see you’re fine keeping some new company of your own.”

“The Dragon Forge is to remain secret.” said Tarquin. “The fewer who know its tunnels and chambers, the—”

“We’re not in Council. Let’s not blow warm smoke up each others’ asses.” said Balin. “We have sent three quick-hounds asking for progress reports these last twelve months and you have not responded to a single one. King Dagrir sends me to remind you that you, your men, and this forge belong to the Lands of Duroton. Have you forgotten that, Commander Tarquin?”

“I know where my loyalties lay.” said Tarquin.

Balin seemed to take notice of the throne atop the skull. “Are you sure, Commander? I wasn’t aware that anybody other than the King sat upon a throne. Though, iron seems to be a poor choice of metals. It’s unbecoming of any ruler.”

Rankin turned his eyes to Tarquin. “There was one who found iron a worthy seat.” he croaked.

Tarquin averted his eyes from the old man. “It is merely a place I can sit and observe operations. Hardly a throne.”

“Good.” said Balin. He made a show of looking around the chamber. “Because what the Exalted Council giveth, the Exalted Council can also taketh away.” Balin turned to one of the Guardians and said, “If I told you that the King or Council had requested you leave this mountain and return to the castle’s direct service, would you obey?”

The Guardian nodded. “Absolutely, my Lord.”

“So, you are not sworn to Commander Tarquin?” pressed Balin.

“I am,” said the man. “But my allegiance to King and Country comes senior to him.”

“And what of you?” asked Balin of the next Guardian.

“I am sworn to King and Country above all else.” said the Guardian. “Wherever the Lands call me, that is where I go.”

“You see,” said Balin, turning to Tarquin, but all Tarquin could think was that this was exactly why he had the Ghost and his other specters, and that perhaps it was time to bolster their ranks. “You were given command of this place, but you are not the master. You are the dog.” Balin fixed Tarquin with his eyes, “Allowing foreign slaves into Duroton has brought a level of prosperity to myself and other nobles these last five years. But it has also taught me a great lesson. There is a certain level of trust that a master must give his dogs. Sometimes those dogs will test their master’s boundaries and a swift correction must be made, lest they do it again. However, some dogs will go so far as to bite the very hand that feeds them. Those dogs have broken a trust that can never be restored and it’s best to put them down. I assume you learned much the same during your days training Great-Hoofs, did you not?”

“I did.” said Tarquin coolly, but on the inside he was seething.

“Good.” said Balin. “I’m willing to consider this no more than a test of boundaries. Pray you don’t make it a bite.”

Tarquin nodded. Behind him, the Forge was swinging back into full gear and Tabar began issuing orders to all the laborers. Aside from working on star-metal, one of the Dragon Forge’s duties was refining the metals mined from the mountain or brought in from elsewhere. Men and horses began wheeling carts up the tracks laden with raw iron, as well as silver and gold ore. Carts full of scrap metal were also being brought in. Around the other side of the dragon skull, huge machines to crush and strip the stone rumbled to life, spewing steam into the chamber. Enormous, iron arms began to work back and forth, spinning towering flywheels that seemed to give the skull a roaring voice. A crane arm lowered, grabbing up a tremendous load of scrap metal. Rusty gears and chains shrieked, as if the skull itself were crying out in hunger for its meal.

“I’m glad we have an understanding.” said Balin, watching the steam from all the machines cast their fog over the skull, giving it an eerie, haunted feel. “I have my arenas and brothels to run and a country to serve, so let’s make this quick, then, shall we?” continued Balin, turning back to Tarquin. “King Dagrir would like to know where we are in regard to star-metal?”

“The reason I have not reported is because I have nothing to report.” said Tarquin. He waved a hand toward Tabar and sneered. The blacksmith was at the Heavy Hammer with a number of his assistants, poring over what looked like pages of formulas. The crane arm dumped the scrap metal into the skull’s mouth. Flames flared outward and in an instant it was part of the molten sea within. “I need a better smith.”

Balin watched the action for a moment. At the far side of the skull was another machine, like a crane with an iron bucket upon its arm. It swung around, quickly dipping the bucket into the molten interior. It swung back around and began pouring the fiery, liquid contents into another mechanical beast. “Quite an operation you have here. It’s a shame there has been little progress with star-metal.” said the Councilman. He turned to Tarquin, “You used to be a man of ambition, Commander. When we placed you in command of the Dragon Forge and its Guardians, it was because you shared the Council’s desires for more. Yet, here we are, ten-years later, and what do you have to show for all we’ve given you? Make no mistake, Tarquin: If the Council desired a man content with smelting ore to run this place, we would not have given you command. The entire world lies south of us, and last I looked to the sky, there was but one star remaining. If the prophesies are to be believed, that means a new age is nearly upon us. Where is the Lord Tarquin that was so intent on helping the Council make this new age all about Duroton? Where is the Lord Tarquin that desired star-metal armor to lead his armies against the Saints of the southern lands?”

“I am trying, Councilman,” said Tarquin, stinging from the words. He met Balin’s gaze. “It’s not as if I’ve busied myself by opening brothels and training slaves to fight in arenas.”

Balin huffed. “I’ll tell you what. Come by one day and see the establishments me and the other Councilmen have put together. You strike me as the type who would appreciate a good bloodsport and you’ll see that gladiatorial fights have become the favorite pastime of the people. Afterward, I’ll let you avail yourself of any of my women. I have a sweetheart from Dimethica who can make you forget all your troubles. Or, if you’re more adventurous, I have an exotic beauty from Escalapius who can bend in ways you’ve never imagined. They might put a little hop back into your step.”

Tarquin smirked. “I suppose you and the others already had such establishments in mind when you passed the laws opening Duroton to foreign slaves.”

“What we’ve had in mind, Commander, is to have our armies south. Unfortunately, without star-metal armor of our own, or the Mard Grander reforged—both duties tasked to the Commander of the Dragon Forge, I might add—we have no way to face Sanctuary on an even playing field. But, as Council, we take what we can get and have adjusted our plans accordingly.” said Balin. “The new age is upon us, Tarquin. Pray you do not allow it to pass us by. Duroton will not survive another thousand years of isolation.”

Tarquin started to speak, but Rankin’s ragged voice interrupted. “Tell me, Lord Tarquin, who is that?” The old man was staring at the Ghost who stood a rigid specter off to the side.

“I call him the Ghost. One of my three assassins. They’re my insurance against Isley and his rabid minions.” said Tarquin, as if the Saint’s name were poison in his mouth. “I’m ready to put an end to his prodding. Not a week goes by that we don’t catch one of his Wolves poking around the mines.”

“Isley won’t stop until he finds Celacia.” said Balin. “He haunts the Council as well. He knows that we know where she is. He knows we all had something to do with her disappearance, and he’s hoping to find something that will lead him to her. He’s quite the thorn in all our sides. Believe me, we’ve tried to have Isley removed. The Dark Star Knights hate him, but unfortunately the people of Durtania love him. Not to worry, though. He’ll never find her, not even with Egret’s help.”

Tarquin spat at the name ‘Egret’.

Balin smirked. “Egret and Isley. Weeds, the both of them.”

Tarquin frowned. Weeds indeed. The two of them had made a mess of everything. Lord Egret had foiled his plans at every turn, starting with the arrival of Isley ten-years ago when Celacia brought the dragon skull to Duroton.

Celacia was something of an enigma. When she first showed up in Duroton the Jinn had thought she was a Saint. However, it quickly became apparent that she was something more. Her very touch was death; wherever she walked her path would wither and die. She had come to Duroton seeking the Mard Grander, the legendary hammer that had been broken six-hundred years ago during the Age of the Great Falling when King Tharick used it to strike down Apollyon. For hundreds of years the broken hammer had remained a sacred artifact within Durtania, but there had been no way to reforge it and reclaim its lost powers. But Celacia changed all that. With the promise of allowing her to reforge the hammer, Celacia brought the ancient skull of the fire dragon to Duroton. The deal was that in exchange for use of the hammer, Celacia would give Duroton their first Saints and that Duroton would one day use the hammer to awaken the sleeping Goddess.

Tarquin himself was to head the elite order known as the Saints Alliance; an order that would have been above the Dark Star Knights. But those plans all went south almost immediately. In the first of a string of many insults, Lord Egret had kept Saint Isley for his own. Then, when Tarquin led the other Saints against the Icelanders, Saint Nuriel went berserk. She turned on him and killed the other Saints. After that the Council agreed that having Saints in Duroton was not a good idea, but here too Egret worked his will and was allowed to keep Saint Isley as his lieutenant.

But things did seem to have a bright side, for it was also determined that Celacia was too dangerous to have around. Not only that, but the Jinn speculated her true intention in obtaining the Mard Grander was to call the ancient, black dragon of destruction, Darkendrog. They believed that she was the herald of the final age; an age of great destruction prophesied to befall the earth once the final star fell from the sky. As such, there was no way they were going to allow her to get her hands on the Mard Grander. To this end, Tarquin himself volunteered to bring Celacia down. In exchange, he would be given command of the Dragon Forge and be placed above the command of any but King and Council. He would use the forge to seek a way to make star-metal armor for Duroton’s armies and use it to reforge the Mard Grander. With all that power, Duroton could march against the corrupt kingdoms of the south and be the herald of the new age.

With that promise, Tarquin had done the deed of disposing of Celacia, trapping her in a dungeon of star-metal from which not even she could escape. Tarquin had suffered grievously—he had lost his left arm and his face was still disfigured from where her aura had touched him. But that had been a small price to pay to get command over the Dragon Forge. But here was where Egret and Isley levied their final and most egregious insult against him. They had been placed in charge of the hammer’s safe keeping, but when it came time to give it to Tarquin, they were unable to produce it. They had given it to Brandrir, the King’s displaced son, when he was made King of the Grims.