Requiem for the Sun by Elizabeth Haydon Page A

intermittently but remained closed, as did her heavy lips.
    Mutually the Bolg sighed, unspoken relief evident in the relaxation of their stances. They drew closer to the altar.
    â€œDoes she look — smaller to you, sir?” Grunthor asked after a long moment.

    Achmed squinted, examining the outline of her form on the altar. There was no shadow, no visible indication that her body had lost any of its size; still, there was something different, a frailer air to her that he couldn’t place, and didn’t like.
    Finally he shrugged. Grunthor crossed his arms, staring down at the Earthchild intently. Finally he shrugged also.
    â€œOi think she’s lost some of ’er, but it must be a very small amount,” he said, his heavy forehead wrinkling in worry. He tucked the eiderdown blanket beneath which she slept around her tightly, then gently caressed her hand.
    â€œDon’t ya worry, darlin’,” he said softly. “We got yer back.”
    â€œShe doesn’t seem ill, or hurt?”
    â€œNaw.”
    Achmed exhaled. Grunthor’s description of the wound he had felt in the Earth had unnerved him, had made him fear that the Earthchild might have been compromised or injured, or worse. It was an unending worry anyway; she was, to his knowledge, the last living Child of Earth, a being formed long ago from the pure element and sparked into life by an unknown dragon.
    The rib of her body was a Living Stone key that could open the Vault of the Underworld, where in the Before-Time the demons of elemental fire, the F’dor, had been imprisoned. It was the blood oath of the Dhracians, his mother’s race, to guard that vault, to keep the F’dor locked away for all time, to hunt down and destroy any that might have escaped. Likewise, it was the endless quest of upworld F’dor to find a way to free their brethren from the Vault, unleashing the chaos and destruction of the world that they, children of fire, craved incessantly. The Earthchild, therefore, was the fuse, the catalyst that could light a sequence of events that could not be undone. The fate of the Earth was dependent on her safety, and he, as a result, was sworn to an eternity of guardianship to see that she remained unharmed, hidden here, away, in the dark vault that once was to have been a shining city of scholarship and lore.
    It was a small enough price to pay, though not an easy one.
    â€œSleep in peace,” he said quietly to the Earthchild, then nodded toward the passageway.
    As they passed through the tunnel Grunthor had made in the moraine, Achmed looked up one last time at the firmament of the dome that towered into the blackness above the Loritorium and, finding that it appeared sound, glanced back at the altar of Living Stone.
    The Earthchild slumbered on, oblivious, it seemed, of the world around her, and of whatever might have threatened it.

    The Firbolg king watched her for a moment, then turned and walked back through the tunnel ahead of Grunthor, who closed the hole in the moraine behind them, his black robes whispering around him.
    â€œWhat do ya think did that, then, caused the Earth to scream that way?” the Bolg Sergeant asked, glancing one last time over his shoulder before turning to follow the king up the corridor.
    â€œI have no idea,” Achmed replied, his voice echoing strangely off the irregular walls of the ascending tunnel. “And there’s little more we can do, other than prepare, because sooner or later whatever it is will no doubt find me. Let’s make our way from one ruined landmark to another.” Grunthor nodded and caught up with him, traversing the rest of the corridor to the upworld in companionable silence.
    They were on the other side of the moraine, halfway home, and so were unable to see the single muddy tear slip down the Earthchild’s face in the darkness of her sepulcher.

    G runthor stepped gingerly over the scattered shards of colored glass and