Free Here Shines the Sun by M. David White

into his space and Brandrir ducked a slash at his neck and then tumbled forward, the black blade grazing across his back. He came up a few feet away and turned, bringing his sword up. The Ghost had to slither back, unable to plunge its dagger into Brandrir’s chest.
    Brandrir stood only feet from the being, both of them trying to gauge when to strike. Before either of them could make their move, the chamber door was torn from its hinges and savaged by a giant, blue wolf. Timbers flew as they crumbled within its snarling maw. A figure shrouded in black with long, blonde hair leapt over the wolf and into the room. It was Lord Etheil, Brandrir’s Dark Star Knight and Captain of the Grimwatch. Etheil’s blue eyes fixed on the tall being before Brandrir and his sword roared to life in brilliant fire, lighting up the chamber.
    Around Etheil’s waist debris from the ruined door swirled up into a disc, taking with it furniture and objects from the room. Etheil spun in on the being, his sword a blazing flurry. The figure turned and stepped through a dark portal just before Etheil’s sword could make purchase. The portal closed and the being was gone.

— 4 —
    Gatima

    The late afternoon sun of summer had the blue sky awash in its radiance, casting the billowy tops of the great clouds above in warm golds and oranges. But this was not a pleasant sun. This was a Jerusan sun and its warm rays could do little to lift the spirits of its broken people. The dark bellies of the cloud drifts swept over the city of Gatimaria, their shadows as perceptible as the pall upon the people who lived, literally, within the clutches of Castle Gatima.
    Like the arms of a monstrous, stone giant, the walls of the castle enveloped the perimeter of Jerusa’s largest city. Gatimaria was built in an enormous valley at the foot of the mountains and the greedy arms of the wall grasped at the land, holding it and hoarding it all to itself. They stood no less than a hundred-feet high and at either end were massive fortresses that could be the thing’s very fists. And miles away, where these arms emanated, stood the titan’s head: Castle Gatima. Its enormity blocked the very mountains it was set against and it looked contemptuously out upon its people. Its towers were like the spires of a crown; a single, circular stained glass window more than a hundred-feet around was its cycloptic eye; the iron gates that led up to it were opened in a gaping maw, which from a distance made it look like it had a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.
    The road that cut through the forest and led up to the edge of the city had long been pillaged of all its stone to build the castle, and the star-metal boots of Saint Karinael and Saint Hadraniel left deep imprints in the dirt. In other kingdoms and other cities a dirt road might show wear from heavy foot-traffic, or the wheel and hoof-prints from merchant caravans. But not in Jerusa. Everything was King Gatima’s, and nothing in Gatimaria left his clutches.
    The two enormous fortress-watchtowers of the wall’s arms stood at least two-hundred yards apart and the road cut between them. Beyond their intimidating shadows Saint Hadraniel could see the sprawl of the city. But it was a lifeless city. As lifeless as all the other cities in Jerusa, only this one much larger. There were no proper houses here. The people lived in dilapidated homes of rotten timbers. Many even lived in dens of debris built from crumbled buildings.
    At one time, perhaps many hundreds of years ago, Gatimaria would have been magnificent with brick-paved streets and avenues winding their way through gothic structures of brick and mortar. Gaslamps would have lit every corner and it would have been bustling with commerce. But in King Gatima’s age the city had been plundered of all value. There were no stones left in the streets; no bricks to make even the foundations of homes. It had all been taken for the glory of the King, to make the most monstrous castle