The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

The demon looked down upon him and bared its terrible teeth. With a roar it brought its fist down upon Brandrir’s frozen arm, shattering it like glass. Shock, pain, terror and confusion flooded Brandrir’s mind and he fell to his knees, screaming as he clutched at the frozen, mangled stump.

  A thin sheet of ice spread out upon the stone and stung his knees. Above him loomed the blue beast, the sword still sticking gruesomely from its belly. Its wings were spread wide. It’s cruel eyes pierced him. Its terrible mouth of needle-like teeth opened and a frosty hiss was released as it tore the weapon from its belly, slushy blood spattering on the floor. It raised its wicked blade, ready to strike him down. Brandrir clutched at his left arm where the mangled, ruined flesh was now warm enough to ooze blood. He looked the Kald in its yellow eyes and furled his lips, ready to meet his doom.

  There was a sudden twang and a whipping sound. A silver flash of steel—it was an arrow. There was another, and another. The demon looked away from him for a second. The pain in Brandrir’s arm was searing and ceaseless. He felt unconsciousness starting to take hold. There were voices. It was the Royal Guard. “There! Save him! Grab the child!” Then there was a different voice, “What about the young one?” The first voice replied, “Forget it, only the first born succeeds the king!”

  There was a hiss. Brandrir’s eyes cracked open. The maw of a demon was bearing down on him. There was a thwack of an arrow. A flash burst through the creature’s skull, destroying it. Brandrir gasped and the icy spray of black-red demon blood slapped him in the face, searing his cheek with its iciness.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Brandrir shot up in bed, his chest heaving as the nightmare dashed from his mind. He threw off the blankets and spun around, resting his feet on the cold stone and he buried his sweaty face in his right palm. He was eight years old that terrible night, and for many months after it he had relived it nightly in his dreams. In latter years it would plague him only once or twice a month. Now, at twenty-five years old, the dream came only a few times a year. But something was wrong. This was now the fifth time this week he had woken from this same dream. He knew why, too. The Kald were coming. He could sense it; he could feel the cold and the fear in his very bones. His father, the king, was dying and the demons would strike again soon.

  Brandrir looked down at the ruined stump of his left arm. It was healed now, no longer searing with pain and oozing blood like it was in his dream. But it would never be whole. Not in life, and not even in his fondest dreams. The Jinn had to cut off his elbow to save what they could of the arm. The demon blood had frozen his arm solid, and when the wounds finally thawed, the flesh was black with rot and frostbite from the elbow down.

  Brandrir stood and walked naked toward the heavy door of his bedchamber where a pair of lanterns were built into the stone walls. He pressed the small brass button on the wall and there were a couple of pops and then the lanterns slowly came to life, including those on the far wall and those to either side of the curtained window, bathing the room in yellow gaslight. From the red fabric of the drawn curtains a diffuse light came through, but Brandrir was not ready to be greeted by the morning sun.

  He padded his way over to his dresser where a large mirror occupied the wall. His body was lean and incredibly muscular; it was a warrior’s body. His auburn hair was long and straight and draped down to his shoulders and he had to push it back behind his ear. His reflection looked grim, even to himself. A light growth of hair covered his face and concealed the pink scars left where the demon blood had once splattered his cheeks and neck. His blue-gray eyes seemed darker than usual, but the nightmares hadn’t let him sleep all week. He exhaled deeply as he looked himself over and frowned. The Kald—the abominable demons of the north—were coming. He knew it. And these would not be small skirmishes like he had been dealing with at the Grimwatch his whole life. This would be all out war.

  Hanging beside the dresser was a metallic backpack of sorts fitted with a small bronze tank connected by copper pipes and outfitted with a handful of mechanical dials and meters. He took the thing from the wall, his right bicep becoming a sinewy ball from the heavy thing, and slung the contraption over his back. It had taken him many years to perfect fastening the leather straps and buckles to his chest and waist with one hand, but he was a pro at it now.

  On the opposite side of the dresser hung his mechanical arm, and with his right hand he hoisted it down and fitted the gold-plated thing over what remained of his left arm where a leather strap fastened around his shoulder and connected to the backpack. It hung limply now, the polished metal gleaming eerily in the gaslight, the metal hand open and flaccid at his thigh. With some effort Brandrir twisted to the left in an awkward position that allowed the backpack to rest upon the top of his dresser so that he could reach his right arm under his mechanical left and grab the banded, copper tube that hung limply from the tank on his back. With a couple swings of his hip he was able to grab the flexible metal tube in his hand. It screwed in at the back of the shoulder of the mechanical arm. A few twists of the wrist and the tube was connected.

  Brandrir now reached his right hand over his head where behind the bronze tank was a small metal switch. He clicked it to the open position and the backpack made a few clicking sounds followed by a long, sharp hiss. He felt the familiar warmth upon his back as the metal tank began to heat up and in a moment he could already feel the cold, bronze arm coming to life. He flexed his elbow a few times, the arm making hydraulic hissing sounds as he did so. There was a soft, mechanical purr as he wiggled his fingers and they chimed and clanked as they rubbed against each other. A few shoulder lifts and Brandrir felt his arm all warmed up and ready for the day.

  Brandrir had always found it hard to trust them, but he appreciated the work of the Jinn at the Stellarium. That reclusive bunch of mages and alchemists dabbled in powers and sciences Brandrir felt best left alone, but he could not denounce their handiwork when it came to his arm. There were no other men in Duroton—or even the kingdoms of the south—that could make such a device as his arm with all the intricacies of fine gears, cogs and small hydraulic pistons demanded by the fingers and hand. Much of it, including the internal components, were made of tempered steel plated in gold to resist tarnishing and rusting. In all his years of wearing the mechanical thing, not once had it ever malfunctioned on him. Sure he had them occasionally replaced with larger models as he aged, and he did lose one in battle when the frozen axe of a Kald warrior lopped off the wrist, but never had one ever malfunctioned on him. The perfect functioning of the arm with all its complexities was a testament to the Jinns’ ability to merge science and magic.

  The backpack that powered the arm was a different story. It didn’t have the intricate internal mechanisms that the arm possessed. Instead, it was purely utilitarian, made of heavy-gauge steel and brass to withstand the energies of the runic crystals that powered it, and the pressures of the steam and hydraulic fluids that it pumped into the arm. It was a cumbersome thing to say the least, and Brandrir’s back and shoulders had permanent scars from bearing its burden for the last 17-years.

  Runic crystals, such as what powered his arm, were artifacts made by the Jinn. The Jinn had been creating the magical crystals since the end of the Great Falling, when Duroton claimed the Stellarium from Sanctuary many centuries ago. There were many types of runic crystals. Some were used to produce fire; others could heal; some could create light. Some crystals could power devices like Brandrir’s arm, while others could power devastating weapons like bolt-throwers, a relatively new type of mechanical spike-shooting gun now favored by many knights throughout the world.

  It was always a sore spot with Duroton that over the centuries some of the Jinn, seeking power and riches, defected to the southern kingdoms. In countries like Jerusa, Narbereth and Dimethica they sold powerful rune magic and technologies to any who could afford them. Brandrir’s father had always felt that the other kingdoms acquiring bolt-throwers was a slap in the face. Under hi
s father’s rule, Duroton kept a closer tab on the Jinn and the Stellarium than the kings of previous generations.

  Brandrir opened the large drawers of his dresser and put on his black pants and red shirt emblazoned with the golden phoenix crest of Duroton. He sat down upon his bed fastening his black leather boots when there was a knock on the door.

  “Your Grace,” came a soft-spoken voice from beyond the door. “May I request a word?”

  Brandrir knew the voice of Etheil well and could detect a hint of urgency in it. Brandrir stood up. “Come in, Etheil.”

  The door opened slowly and a figure shrouded in a black cloak seemed to float in, his black, armored boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. At the figure’s side was a sheathed sword, its handle wrapped in black leather, the pommel gleaming with a red runic crystal that bore the seal of fire. The figure took down its hood, revealing the young but care-worn face of Etheil with his golden locks draping over his shoulders. His blue-gray eyes seemed to smile at the sight of Brandrir. He bent to a knee, placing his black, gauntleted palms facing up upon the stone floor.

  Brandrir rolled his eyes. He looked down at Etheil and grinned. “Alright, enough of that now.”

  Etheil remained on his knee, head bent down with the back of his hands plastered to the floor. “You have to say ‘Rise!’” came his muffled voice.

  Brandrir smiled and turned his eyes up. “Rise!”

  Etheil stood, smiling at Brandrir. “You better get used to that,” he said.

  Brandrir laughed. “I’ll never get used to that. And it’s completely unnecessary.”

  “It is kind of silly,” said Etheil. “It surely makes the Kings of old turn in their graves.” He approached Brandrir and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye with a sort of playful seriousness. “But after the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony in a couple days, everybody will be doing that to you. And they’ll be addressing you as ‘Liege’.”

  “Until I do away with it,” said Brandrir. He turned and walked over to the curtains and spread them wide, allowing the sunlight to fill the room. Outside the sky was bright and milky with diffuse clouds, giving a clear view of the Graystone Mountains that loomed upon the entire southern horizon. With such clear skies even the snowy top of Mount Cloudborn gave an incredibly rare view of itself and the star-metal dome of the Stellarium sparkled like a star upon its white peak.

  “Taking to knee has kind of been tradition ever since King Palendar,” said Etheil. “The Council probably won’t approve of you doing away with it. Nor will your brother, or father for that matter.”

  Brandrir turned and faced Etheil. His most trusted Captain always looked so thin and lithe with the shroud concealing his armored form. “There will be a lot of things the Council won’t like, but I intend to keep my word and restore Duroton to the ways of old.”

  “May I ask you a blunt favor?” asked Etheil.

  “I believe I know what that is, but go ahead.” said Brandrir.

  “Wait for your father to pass,” said Etheil. “You know I stand by you and commend what you intend to do. Just be patient. You’re introducing a lot of change to those in power.”

  “Those in power should be the people of Duroton,” said Brandrir. “They’ve waited and endured long enough. And you know I’m not good with patience.”

  “I do know,” said Etheil. He chuckled. “That’s why I’m here to remind you.”

  “I think you’re here for something else,” said Brandrir, giving Etheil a more serious look. There had been a tone of urgency when Etheil had come to the door, and it wasn’t over asking him for patience.

  Etheil grimaced and looked down for a moment. “You and me know each other too well,” he said. He looked at Brandrir with his gray-blue eyes and stepped forward. “A quick-hound returned from the Grimwatch with a message for me last night. Syrus says the Kald are amassing. He said his scouts returned from the Shardgrims and the Kald are constructing their machines of war. They believe they are preparing for all out war on Duroton.”

  Brandrir bit his lip and nodded.

  “Shall I return immediately?” asked Etheil.

  Brandrir raised his mechanical hand and balled it into a fist as he contemplated. He exhaled deeply and then looked at Etheil. “No. Stay with me for the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony. Syrus and Aries can handle things for now. Send a hound and tell the others I shall return soon.”

  Etheil smiled softly and approached Brandrir. He placed both his hands upon Brandrir’s shoulders and said, “You know I’ve always admired your ability to stay away from the politics of the King’s Council,” said Etheil. “But your time to sit upon the throne has come. Your father and your brother want to know you will be a good King to the Lands of Duroton. Stay here and let me lead the Grimwatch in your stead.”

  Brandrir looked at Etheil with a devious little smirk. “Old friend, you’ve told me far too many tales and legends of Duroton for me to ever stay cooped up in a castle. One day, the Mard Grander shall be reforged and I’ll charge headlong into battle carrying that hammer like King Tharick did in the wars against Apollyon during the age of the Great Falling.”

  Etheil smiled and nodded. “Just remember, it was King Tharick who eventually broke that unbreakable hammer in the first place. You know, sometimes I think I’ve done you a great disservice by filling your head with all the tales of the kings of the first and second ages.”

  “Nonsense,” said Brandrir. “In fact, when we were boys your stories were the one selfish reason I begged my father to spare your life.”

  Etheil chuckled. “He didn’t exactly spare my life.”

  Brandrir laughed as well. “Well, he didn’t outright have your head cut off either. He sentenced you to spend a long night in the Blue Wilds, and that was quite lenient considering how hard the Council was working against you.”

  “You know, some would rather have their head cut off than spend a long night in the Blue Wilds,” said Etheil.

  “Well, for you old friend, it was a happy chance.” said Brandrir. “And you survived, so one can reasonably say my father was lenient.” Brandrir chuckled.

  “I can thank Solastron for my life,” said Etheil with a smile. “I wonder where that big, blue wolf went off too anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Brandrir. “But I do know one thing. I think when you were sentenced to spend the long night in the Blue Wilds that the Lands of Duroton spared your life just so you could fill my head with the legends of the kings of old.”

  Etheil breathed deeply. “I hope you are right, old friend. I hope you’re right.”

  — 4 —

  THE STELLARIUM

  OF THE JINN

  The wool cloak Nuriel wore over her armor did little to shield her from the biting winds. She wrapped the lower end of the hood around her neck and mouth, but her breath smoked in the cold nonetheless. All around her was nothing but gray. Gray skies and gray stones. Even the cloaks that she, Isley and the other four Saints wore were gray. There were patches of snow here and there, but they hardly did anything to liven the landscape. If anything, they only added to the dreary bleakness. Nuriel thought these were called the Graystone Mountains for good reason. She shined her Caliber, its faint glow far too bright amongst the barren stone and snow drifts of the mountaintop, but the warmth it brought her was too alluring to resist.

  “Bear and endure, Nuriel.” said Saint Umbrial from behind her. “Bear and endure.”

  Nuriel coughed and sniffled and surreptitiously wiped her nose on the bundle of cloak she had wrapped about her face and neck. Ahead of her Isley stopped upon the rocky path and turned to her. “He’s right, Nuriel. We don’t want to attract any undue attention up here. Who knows how far away that might be seen from.”

  “Yeah, Nuriel,” piped Saint Tia from behind her, and Nuriel’s jaw clenched at the voice. Tia had made a hobby of ridiculing her at every chance this entire journey, and the woman’s voice was wearing on her more than the grayness of the mountain
tops. “Sanctuary is just south of here and beyond these mountains is the kingdom of Duroton and all their Saint-hating knights. So go ahead, Nuriel, just shine your Caliber as bright as you can. Announce our presence to the world, but it won’t matter as long as Nuriel is warm.”

  “She’s too green,” added the loud-mouthed Saint Arric, and Nuriel heard Saint Gamalael laugh at his side. “Should have left her behind.”

  “She just needs to learn some endurance,” added Umbrial.

  Tia puffed. “Youngest Saint to ever make Saints Caliber and she can’t even handle a little cold air.”

  Gamalael laughed again. “So much for her reputation.”

  Arric smirked and added under his breath, “She’s an idiot.”

  Nuriel rolled her eyes. Part of the reason she had wanted to become one of the Saints Caliber was to get away from the constant ridicule she had endured back home in Sanctuary. She had hoped she’d find respect once she was out in the field, but it seemed Saints were the same out here as they were at home. Nuriel tried to remind herself of her new dream of becoming an Eremitic. Perhaps as a solitary Saint she could finally find peace. But then she also had to remind herself that she had a long way to go to realize that dream, and a little voice in her head also reminded her that it might be impossible at this point. Nuriel sighed, her breath smoking in the cold air. So far her career wasn’t panning out quite the way she had hoped.

  “Enough,” said Isley over Gamalael’s and Arric’s giggling. “We’re almost there.”

  Tia, Gamalael, Arric and Umbrial pushed their way past Nuriel, each of them giving her a quite deliberate brush-by. Nuriel rolled her eyes again and let them pass. She had known all four of them back at Sanctuary. They were all about seven years older than she, and had all received their Call to Guard about three or four years ago. Gamalael, Arric and Umbrial were typical of the boys back at Sanctuary: loud, obnoxious and arrogant to the extreme. Tia, though, was a beast all her own. She was vindictive, spiteful, jealous and mean, all in her own brand. Of the four, Nuriel hated Tia the most. Her eyes narrowed as she looked upon that white-haired witch.