Read Online Here Shines the Sun by M. David White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. David White
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come up facing his assailant. He shot forward, his sword sweeping up. The Ghost moved like black water, flowing away from the blade and into the guard’s space. Before the guard could even bring his sword back around, the long, obsidian blade sunk into his eyesocket.
The Ghost ripped the blade out and the man fell to the floor. The Ghost straightened, once again standing tall and rigid. It padded to the door and plunged its gloved hand through the steel as if it were water. It felt the lock on the other side and twisted its wrist, and the door clanked opened. It removed its arm from the door and slid into the vault beyond. It was a steel chamber whose shelves were meant to hold sacks of coins and bars of gold and silver. But they were empty, long bereft of any treasure. Upon the floor were a couple limp sacks, both empty of all but a few copper coins.
The Ghost stood silently for a moment. Then it waved its hand and a dark portal opened. It stepped through and emerged within another hall of cold, ancient stone. This one was higher up within the Grimwatch’s keep. The gaslamps glowed more brightly here, and upon the south-facing wall was a barred window where icy wind blew through and let the moonlight cast a puddle upon the floor.
“You! Halt!”
The Ghost’s head turned around, followed by the rest of its body. Six of the Grimwatch’s more elite soldiers rushed down the corridor with swords raised, their capes waving behind them. Each had some level of mechanical build, whether it be a hand or arm, leg or jaw. Like a cobra ready to strike, the Ghost stood its ground.
Brass tanks hissed with steam and hydraulics whirred as the soldiers struck at the Ghost. The Ghost’s body twisted and weaved even as it stood, flowing around and between every sword as its own dagger menaced the air, slashing through armor and carving up flesh. Armor clanked as soldiers fell, and after a moment, the corridor was silent.
The Ghost padded forward, its boots leaving bloody tracks as it came upon the thick, oaken door of the King’s private chamber. The wooden door seemed to pose a slight problem for the Ghost, and rather than open it from within, it stepped through a black portal and walked through to the other side.
Upon the far wall was a window whose edges were painted with frost. Silver moonlight came through it, illuminating a large bed where a lone man slept. Brandrir Thorodin, King of the Grims, lay upon his stomach, a red blanket over his waist and legs. Where his long, auburn hair did not cover his muscular back, ancient marks and scars traced the outline of the brass tank he wore day in and day out since he was a boy. His head lay upon his right arm as he slept, but his left arm was a mechanical thing, and it hung limp and lifeless off the edge of the mattress.
The Ghost flowed forward, its obsidian dagger catching in the moonlight. Its tall, rigid form now loomed over the sleeping King. It raised its dagger, but then paused. It recoiled, as if there were a dire warning scrawled across the man’s naked back. But then it seemed to resolve upon its course, and lifted its dagger again.
Perhaps it was the stench of iron upon the Ghost’s body that gave it away, or maybe it was the sense a predator has when an intruder invades its territory. Whatever it was, Brandrir rolled from his bed just as the glassy blade sank into the mattress. He came up beside the Ghost, his mechanical arm useless at his side. He kicked and swung a punch, but the Ghost flowed away as if blown by the wind. Brandrir dove past it, tumbling across the floor to his dresser where he snatched his sword, Raze. With a swipe of his thumb over the activation rune, the Crystallic weapon hummed to life, its blade a smear of resonating steel.
The Ghost moved in on him, its dagger slashing in an array of gleaming obsidian. Brandrir stepped back and to the side, his thrumming sword too slow to make contact with his assailant’s weapon. The Ghost snaked its way
The Ghost ripped the blade out and the man fell to the floor. The Ghost straightened, once again standing tall and rigid. It padded to the door and plunged its gloved hand through the steel as if it were water. It felt the lock on the other side and twisted its wrist, and the door clanked opened. It removed its arm from the door and slid into the vault beyond. It was a steel chamber whose shelves were meant to hold sacks of coins and bars of gold and silver. But they were empty, long bereft of any treasure. Upon the floor were a couple limp sacks, both empty of all but a few copper coins.
The Ghost stood silently for a moment. Then it waved its hand and a dark portal opened. It stepped through and emerged within another hall of cold, ancient stone. This one was higher up within the Grimwatch’s keep. The gaslamps glowed more brightly here, and upon the south-facing wall was a barred window where icy wind blew through and let the moonlight cast a puddle upon the floor.
“You! Halt!”
The Ghost’s head turned around, followed by the rest of its body. Six of the Grimwatch’s more elite soldiers rushed down the corridor with swords raised, their capes waving behind them. Each had some level of mechanical build, whether it be a hand or arm, leg or jaw. Like a cobra ready to strike, the Ghost stood its ground.
Brass tanks hissed with steam and hydraulics whirred as the soldiers struck at the Ghost. The Ghost’s body twisted and weaved even as it stood, flowing around and between every sword as its own dagger menaced the air, slashing through armor and carving up flesh. Armor clanked as soldiers fell, and after a moment, the corridor was silent.
The Ghost padded forward, its boots leaving bloody tracks as it came upon the thick, oaken door of the King’s private chamber. The wooden door seemed to pose a slight problem for the Ghost, and rather than open it from within, it stepped through a black portal and walked through to the other side.
Upon the far wall was a window whose edges were painted with frost. Silver moonlight came through it, illuminating a large bed where a lone man slept. Brandrir Thorodin, King of the Grims, lay upon his stomach, a red blanket over his waist and legs. Where his long, auburn hair did not cover his muscular back, ancient marks and scars traced the outline of the brass tank he wore day in and day out since he was a boy. His head lay upon his right arm as he slept, but his left arm was a mechanical thing, and it hung limp and lifeless off the edge of the mattress.
The Ghost flowed forward, its obsidian dagger catching in the moonlight. Its tall, rigid form now loomed over the sleeping King. It raised its dagger, but then paused. It recoiled, as if there were a dire warning scrawled across the man’s naked back. But then it seemed to resolve upon its course, and lifted its dagger again.
Perhaps it was the stench of iron upon the Ghost’s body that gave it away, or maybe it was the sense a predator has when an intruder invades its territory. Whatever it was, Brandrir rolled from his bed just as the glassy blade sank into the mattress. He came up beside the Ghost, his mechanical arm useless at his side. He kicked and swung a punch, but the Ghost flowed away as if blown by the wind. Brandrir dove past it, tumbling across the floor to his dresser where he snatched his sword, Raze. With a swipe of his thumb over the activation rune, the Crystallic weapon hummed to life, its blade a smear of resonating steel.
The Ghost moved in on him, its dagger slashing in an array of gleaming obsidian. Brandrir stepped back and to the side, his thrumming sword too slow to make contact with his assailant’s weapon. The Ghost snaked its way
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