The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  Nuriel was ripped from her reverie as Isley tore her arm away. Nuriel looked at her hand, stifling her cringe by biting her bottom lip. The flesh of her hand was brown, taut and mummified. She clutched it to her breast, shining her Caliber. Her entire hand throbbed but it slowly healed back to normal.

  Celacia looked at Nuriel with some surprise. “Wow Nuriel. I like your no-fear attitude. It shows up here and there whenever you decide to come out of your shell.”

  Nuriel sniffled and combed her hair back over her ear. “Your armor’s not metal.”

  Celacia giggled. She clacked her arms together again. “This here is made out of the same stuff old Felvurn there was once covered in. Well, not Felvurn in particular. It came off my master.”

  Nuriel felt her stomach drop as she looked at Celacia. “Your…master?” she said. “Is…is he still alive?”

  “Oh well now I’ve gone and said too much,” chirped Celacia. She turned and patted one of the giant, stoney fangs of the skull. “Time to get Felvurn to his new home.”

  Celacia turned and addressed the soldiers who were milling about the skull and yelled, “I suggest all of you get to work getting this thing propped up and wheeled out of here. If this thing sits on the ground too long we’re going to have another lava pit to get this out of.” She looked back up at the enormous skull and tapped her chin as she stood there puzzling over things in her mind. “Good thing we got Ramiel’s armor. I suppose we can use that to keep Felvurn off the ship’s deck.” She turned back to Nuriel and Isley. “You know, getting Felvurn from here to Duroton is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Oh well, I guess nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

  “To…Duroton?” questioned Nuriel. She bit her lip. Duroton was forbidden land for all Saints. No Saint had set foot in Duroton for hundreds of years. Duroton was the birthplace of the Jinn; home of the Kald; ruled by ruthless Kings who had fallen from Aeoria’s grace; Kings who had slaughtered Saints during the Great Falling and turned against the Goddess. Duroton was forbidden and shunned even by the other kingdoms.

  “Of course silly,” chirped Celacia. “Didn’t Isley tell you? You, him and four of your friends back in Jerusa are going and doing a little gift exchange for me. I didn’t go through all the trouble of getting all your Sanguin…what the heck are these dog collars called again?” she asked tapping at the small black case that she wore at her waist.

  “Sanguinastrums,” said Isley. “Our Bloodstars.”

  “Yeah, those things.” said Celacia.

  “If I may ask, Celacia, what exactly are we exchanging?” asked Isley. “Are we to bring this skull?

  “I personally will be seeing old Felvurn home,” said Celacia. “Duroton’s ships should already be waiting for me. You two and the rest are going to meet me there.”

  Nuriel inhaled deeply and sniffled. She tucked her hair back behind her ear. She had absolutely no desire to go to Duroton. Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control so fast. Her head was swimming now. How would she get herself back to Sanctuary? How would she get her Sanguinastrum back? Did Sanctuary know everything already? Celacia had, after all, killed an Oracle. Had Gatima noticed her and Isley’s disappearance? Certainly he would be asking the Oracles for their whereabouts.

  “Don’t look so glum, Nuriel,” chirped Celacia. “You’ll like Duroton, I think. Besides, it’s not really a gift exchange. It’s more like a mutual scratching of backs. We can both use old Felvurn here, and they have something I desperately need. And who knows, if they really can find a way to forge star-metal into something more wearable by their own soldiers, maybe I can get a suit. Or at least some star-metal gloves.”

  Celacia paused and gave Isley and Nuriel a curious look. “What? You really think I like killing everything I touch? It’s made it really hard to have any sort of empathy for people. Plus, I seem to remember being able to suppress it better. I seem to remember walking through the meadows with my love, without leaving a trail of dead grass and flowers in my wake.” She waved a hand dismissively and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe that was all just a dream. Anyway, that brings me to my next task. Follow me.”

  Celacia waved a hand for them to follow as she began walking out of the cavern. Nuriel and Isley followed her, trudging through the fallen Dimethican knights who lay in a macabre sea of rusty armor and mummified flesh. Toward the entrance there were a number of Dimethican knights gathered, but they all moved aside as Celacia approached. Not one of them dared raise a weapon against her, and they looked upon her with terror and awe. Upon the plateau were some three-hundred knights, the remaining forces of the army. They stood there, most with weapons drawn, but none so far willing to risk life and limb to be the first to attack Celacia.

  “You there,” said Celacia, pointing to one of the knights. “How many of your men retreated?”

  The knight looked around at his comrades before taking a gulp and looking at Celacia. “N-n-none, milady.”

  “Good,” said Celacia. “No witnesses.” She tilted her head back and whispered to Nuriel and Isley out of the side of her mouth, “You might want to stand back for this.”

  No sooner had Isley and Nuriel stepped back then a tremendous wave of purple-black energy washed forth over the land. Like a ripple upon the ocean it spread out before her, leaving in its wake dead earth and nothing more. In the blink of an eye, some three-hundred soldiers and their horses were gone. Ashes of rust, earth, stone and flesh swirled in the wind and an eerie silence loomed over the land.

  Nuriel gasped, her right hand going to her mouth and her left hand finding Isley’s. She felt Isley’s hand squeeze hers, and she looked to him.

  “It’s all for the greatest good, Nuriel.” he said with those sincere, silver eyes of his. “You must believe me, Nuriel. It is all for the greatest good.”

  Celacia stood there for a long moment, not moving or saying anything, just looking out at the death that had washed over the land. She turned toward Nuriel and Isley, her face no longer displaying her patent, chipper severity. She yawned and rubbed her emerald eyes. “I hope I don’t have to do that again for a while,” she said in a soft, weary voice. She exhaled deeply and rubbed her heavy eyes again. She yawned and stood there silent for a moment, looking at the ground. She bent over and picked up a handful of the crumbled earth near her feet and it rotted to dust between her fingers as she stood back up.

  “The sun has set for everyone and everything I have ever known but me.” she said in a somber, dreamy, trance as her emerald eyes looked out at nothing.

  “Celacia?” said Isley, looking at her with some concern.

  “Where is the one who walked beside me?” she whispered to herself. She rubbed her fingers together and the last vestiges of the dirt disintegrated away. “Where is the one who undid all this for me? Were you real, or were you just a shadow of a dream within my long sleep?” She stood there silently for many moments, her heavy eyes seemed to look more inward than outward. Slowly her head craned up and she looked dreamily upon the sun. “When will you set for me?” she whispered.

  Nuriel bit her lip and found herself feeling slightly perplexed by Celacia. The woman no longer seemed disassociated from the terrible things she had done. For the first time Nuriel felt something of emotion coming from the woman, though admittedly it was a step removed from reality and seemed to be occurring within a waking dream. She looked out at the sea of death and found herself wondering if Celacia was truly the embodiment of Death, and if so, was she absolved of her actions? Would the sleeping Goddess grant her forgiveness? Would Aeoria’s love find even this women?

  Nuriel placed a hand on Celacia’s shoulder, her palm and fingers throbbing, her knuckles stung and tightened. “Celacia?” she said, giving her a gentle shake.

  Celacia jumped slightly at the touch and then turned around slowly. Her sleepy eyes looked at Nuriel and she smiled. “You’re a good girl, Nuriel.” she said softly. She rubbed her eyes, shook her head, but remained standing there silent and
absent. After a moment she rubbed her eyes again and looked up. “Isley,” she said sleepily. “You two go back to Jerusa. Gather Saints Umbrial, Tia, Gamalael and Arric.” Celacia’s voice trailed off into incoherent mumbles. She hung her head low and she trudged past them and headed for the cavern. She yawned again and without turning around said, “Take them all to Duroton. You know what to do.” Her voice was scarcely audible as she disappeared into the darkness of the cavern.

  Nuriel looked up to her mentor. “Isley,” she began. “What is in Duroton?”

  “Death,” spoke Isley. He turned and looked down to Nuriel. Those tender, silver eyes of his were quickly filling with fervor. He placed his hands upon her shoulders and smiled as he gently shook her. “The death of the world as we know it, Nuriel!”

  — 3 —

  THE KALD

  “Hold the wall! Hold the wall!” Frantic cries, faint and ubiquitous like the silvery glow of the moon on this overcast night, drifted through the stone walls of the castle and filled every darkened corridor with their ghostly presence. Brandrir heard thunder outside, but it was not storming. The very foundation of the castle shook. From the inky abyss of the ceiling dust floated down in curtains around the bed. The queen held her son tightly in her soft arms, and Brandrir felt her tears trickling through his scalp. He squeezed the hand of his little brother, Dagrir, and pulled the blankets around them. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered.

  Across the room the curtains fluttered in the cold night air. Shards of glass lay upon the floor like a puddle of silvery tears in the moonlight. The curtains flapped and fluttered and Brandrir sensed something in that darkest breeze; something more than the screams of men, the whipping of arrows, or the clashing of swords that was carried upon it. Dagrir saddled closer to him and Brandrir felt the arms of his mother clench him tighter. Brandrir’s eyes—the same color as storm clouds against the full moon—were transfixed on the window. Black forms danced beyond the dark curtains, though Brandrir could not be sure it wasn’t a trick of the shadows.

  Another thunderclap rocked the castle and the sound of crumbled stone and splintered rock could be heard raining down from the distant walls that encircled the castle. Now the sound of timbers bursting pierced the night, and the queen’s wails were drowned out by a tempestuous downfall of stone that sundered the ground it fell upon. Did the walls of Durtania really fall? Brandrir had to dash that impossible thought from his mind. He darted out of bed, ripping himself from his mother’s grip and Dagrir’s clenching hands. Bare feet upon the cold, stone floor and dressed in his red pajamas, Brandrir made his way toward the fluttering curtains where black shadows danced in the nebulous moonlight.

  Dagrir cried out for his brother, empty hands outstretched for him, tears reddening his eyes and nose and drenching the top of his nightshirt. The queen gasped. Sliding from the bed in her ethereal nightgown, she ran to snatch her firstborn son back into her arms. “Brandrir!” her voice was weak, frantic, failing.

  But Brandrir had to know. Did the walls of Durtania fall? What foe would dare stand before his father? What evil danced beyond the windows of the bedchamber? Brandrir’s feet now felt the broken glass of the window; sharp, cold and stinging. His small hand reached for the fluttering curtain. Then a darkness overtook the casement and a coldness as deep and overriding as primordial fear engulfed him. He stumbled back, falling into the arms of his mother. From the bed, Dagrir shrieked.

  At first a silver sliver penetrated the curtain, as if the very moon were entering the chamber. But in a moment it grew to reveal a serpentine blade, curved and wicked and covered with white frost. A clawed hand—slender blue fingers stained with slushy clumps of dark blood—gripped the sword’s handle and that too had a thick, opaque layer of rime. A scaly arm of cobalt blue, flecked with white frost forced its way between the curtains, and finally the body of a terrible demon stepped through the portal. It was one of the Kald, the ancient and demonic creatures of the far north.

  Brandrir had only heard of them in tale, or depicted as slain monstrosities in tapestries throughout the castle. Until now they had been mere phantoms of the imagination; he had slain them in the woods as he played with Dagrir and the other noble children. But now, face to face, the thing was a terrible reality. Its body was sleek and slender, serpentine even, and covered with cobalt scales that shone like lacquered steel dusted with white frost. And nothing in the stories or tapestries—nothing even from the deranged depths of his imagination—could prepare him for the true atrocity of its eyes and face. It was an abomination. It was a tormented union of serpent, beast and man with a broad, blunt maw of needle-like teeth. Its eyes were piercing, frigid and glowed like a cat’s but with an unnatural yellow light.

  Its maw opened in a hiss of pleasure, its icy breath smoking. Those chilling eyes fell upon Brandrir and his mother. It spread its bat-like wings wide and arched its back and released yet another terrible hiss, sending a spray of frigid smoke out into the room. The creature wore black, plated armor to which clung misanthropic frost, much of it stained red with fresh blood that had coagulated in icy clumps.

  Brandrir was lifted to his feet by his mother, but he planted himself firmly where he stood. His storm cloud eyes were fixated upon his nemesis, his auburn hair tarnishing but not diminishing in the beast’s murky, glacial aura. The queen tugged with feeble strength at Brandrir’s arm as her cries, “no…no…no…” faded into frantic sobbing.

  Like locusts, more Kald flitted through the window until there were at least six of them. Where their frosty steel boots hit the floor icy cobwebs spread out, tinkling like breaking glass. Still Brandrir stood his ground like a lion before its den. He felt his mother’s grip fade from his hand. Behind him, Dagrir wailed again. Brandrir felt unbidden tears stream down his cheeks. He was weaponless. He had no armor. He was too young; too little; too weak. He planted his feet firmly on the floor, his little hands balling into fists. A couple convulsive sobs wracked his body, then he bared his teeth and released all of his anger, despair and frustration into something of a scream, something of a roar.

  The demon’s blade hit him cold and ruthless in the side of his face. White stars fired on and off within his eyes and the room spiraled as he toppled to the stone floor. Brandrir peeled his body from the frozen stones. His elbows and hands were torn raw by the clinging frost, making the effort agonizing. Brandrir looked up, his eyes flitting from side to side as he struggled to lift himself from the floor. Shadowy images of the demons bobbed in and out of focus above him. The coppery taste of blood stung his tongue and fell in heavy drops to the floor. Sadistic, bestial laughter echoed in his skull. A demon’s foot, searing in its coldness, drove his body back into the stone and Brandrir’s arms had not the strength to resist.

  His mother’s hands tore at his back, fighting to grab his shirt, yet he could feel no warmth from her touch. Her screams were frantic but hollow in his wavering mind; reality seemed distant and faint. Darkness and shadows, mired with blood and frost, spiraled around him.

  It was Dagrir’s shrieking that pierced Brandrir’s mind like lightning. It was not muted or distant. It was not subdued by unconsciousness. It was real and tangible, filling his ears and crackling in his mind. Dagrir screamed for mama, its piercing crescendo could have shattered glass. He screamed out for help, his cries more bloodcurdling than any Kald’s yell.

  As Brandrir lay upon the cold, hard floor, he began to feel the icy touch of the demons melt away, replaced now by waves of fiery anger that coursed through his throbbing head. His scraped hands and knees, his bleeding mouth, all seemed to throb with this uncontrolled energy and they burned just as sure as if they had been touched by flames. Dagrir cried out again, his wailing for mama piercing and terrible in its fear.

  Brandrir pushed himself to his feet, his chest expanding with every feverish gulp of air. Blood and spit bubbled at the corner of his mouth and his eyes were focused and penetrating. Upon the floor his mother screamed and cried as the Kald tore at her gown, expos
ing her breasts, groping her flesh and searing it with their icy fingers. Upon the bed two beasts hunched over his brother with their disgusting lips furled as they pawed at his throat, scarring it with frostbite. Brandrir saw Dagrir reach toward him with hands spread as wide as his eyes, but demonic fingers wrapped around his neck and choked his wail into an horrific, pinched scream.

  In less than a second Brandrir was upon them. He jumped on the nearest creature, clinging to its back with his legs wrapped around its frozen armor. His hands clenched into small maces and he flailed and pounded at the demon, forcing it to release its grip on Dagrir. The sharp, frozen steel of the creature’s armor tore his fists and left frosty red marks upon it with every blow. The creature stood, but still Brandrir clung to it, seeing and hearing nothing but his fists upon the beast’s back and head, blow after blow.

  The Kald turned and hissed, and in that second Brandrir noticed the thing’s blade at its side. His hand reached down as the creature tore him from its chest, and the wicked blade slid from its sheath as Brandrir was thrown to the floor. He landed hard on his back, but the weapon was in his left hand. In a flash Brandrir rolled himself up from the floor to face the beast.

  The Kald lurched forward with an icy hiss and Brandrir drove the sword forward, the curved blade finding a gap in the steel bands of the demon’s armor. Immediately blood like liquid nitrogen poured out and clung to his arm in a heavy sheet of red slush. Brandrir’s scream drowned even that of the beast’s as the terrible cold seared its way to the very bone. He tried to tear his hand free of the blade, but his hand and arm up to the elbow were frozen and immobile.