“Countless, they were,” rumbled Solastron to himself. Upon the bed the Saint seemed to stir at his voice. Solastron’s head cocked slightly at this. “Do you remember me, little one? Somewhere deep from a bygone age does a memory stir? Of a memory you think now was only a dream? I cannot place your face. But then, mine was of an age when I ran upon rivers of stars. Countless and innumerable.”
Solastron hiked his front paws up upon the bed and loomed over the unconscious face of the Saint. “Do you not remember the Dragon? Do you not remember as your star was torn to pieces and devoured? The hour is very late, little one. Do not forget your purpose,” he said and then licked the crust from her mouth and eyes, his hot breath ruffling her golden hair. He got down from the bed and licked at her ear. “Time to wake up now, little one. Time to wake up.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Nuriel shot up in bed, a sudden gasp tearing through her as her eyes opened wide. She thought she caught the glimpse of something large and blue slip out the window, but that was quickly dashed from her mind as the memory of what had happened flooded her.
At first she wanted to believe it was a dream; that it had to be a dream. But then looking down at her nakedness, and the lone sheet that draped her waist, she felt her stomach flop and a sickness rise in her belly. Her hand went to her arm suddenly, seeking a final hope that it could indeed have all been a dream, but finding the crust of blood and puncture wound dashed any remaining hope and Nuriel buried her head in her hands and wept.
It was light outside when Nuriel finally looked up again. Gray, bleak, cloud-blanketed skies and their drab light streamed in from the open window. It was cold. Nuriel sniffled and wiped at her eyes and then, mustering all of her will, got out of bed. She wrapped the sheet around her naked waist and put her arms around herself and slowly walked over and closed the window. The room was small. Just the bed and a small dresser against the far wall. A solid oaken door was closed, and upon seeing it Nuriel ran over and quickly slid the deadbolt lock into place. She pressed a button at the side of the door and after a couple pops the two gas lanterns in the room sprang to life.
Near the bed she saw her belongings in a heap and walked over to them, sniffling. She tried to blank her mind. She tried to forget everything. But as she slipped into the lower portion of her leather bodysuit, latching it up under the bottom of her breastplate, a memory surfaced of the fight; of her battle with Tia and Umbrial and the rest; of how she was drugged and then raped last night. Then she wondered if it had been last night or if many days might have passed. She had no idea how long she had been out, but at this point she became aware of the gnawing thirst that gripped her. Her mouth was completely dry.
She slipped on the top portion of the bodysuit, sliding her slender arms in and then pulling it down and under her breastplate where it hooked securely into place. She put on her star-metal skirt and her bracers and boots but noticed that her weapon was missing. She bit her bottom lip and sniffled, willing herself not to break down into tears again. Her eyes looked up at the brick ceiling and began to well, but then the bleak light from the window took her attention. She walked over to it and opened it back up. Far down below the churning sea crashed upon jagged rocks. A thought crossed her mind to leap. To plunge headlong into the abyss and drown out her life now. Was this to be her life as one of the Saints Caliber? Was this really what she had longed to be a part of?
Nuriel sniffled and clenched her fist tightly. She felt stupid. She had been naïve. It was all right in front of her the entire time, but she was too stupid and blind to see it. The boys and girls back at Sanctuary all bullying each other; Praise going to the strong but not those who could endure their torments and turn the other cheek; Being chided for wanting to help the small few she had truly considered friends. Nuriel wiped a tear from her eye. Sure they trained to fight the Unbound, Infernals and Jinn by sparring with one another, but most of the time they fought mockups of poor villagers armed with pitchforks and occasional swords. How odd it had seemed to Nuriel that first time she had seen all the dozens of straw dummies dressed in rags and armed with gardening tools. How odd it had been to her that some had been dressed like women and children…and that some of those women were holding little straw babies.
Nuriel sniffled and wiped at her nose. It was nothing for her to blow through the ranks of straw dummies, tearing them down like reeds in a hurricane. Straw dummies didn’t fight back, but as Nuriel now knew, real villagers hardly posed any more of a threat. Yes, at first how strange and pointless that training all had seemed. But as months turned to years the training had become routine until there was never a second thought in her mind when she was told to annihilate the mockups of women, children and poorly armed men. And that had been the goal. Nuriel knew it now. They were training to desensitize themselves to the real world.
Nuriel scowled and huffed. “The real world,” she spat. The real world wasn’t full of Unbound demons and Infernals warring for control of the world. The real world was full of kings playing god and villagers fighting their oppressors. It was full of villagers selling their souls to the minions of Hell in hopes to gain just a little something from this world; of villagers collecting every last penny they could scrape together to pay a Jinn to kill the Saint that had wronged them. The real world was full of Saints being used like attack dogs by the kings and their exalteds.
The reward for Saints? They got to use the world as their playground. Everything goes, no holds barred, nothing off limits…except of course, the kings and their nobles. After all, it was as Isley had said: Saints were the very will of the Goddess Aeoria, and all things they did were righteous in their course. They could take, kill, rob, loot, destroy all that they wanted. Nothing was off limits, nothing was forbidden. Not even the body of a fellow Saint.
Nuriel bit her lip and scowled as she looked out the window and into the bleakness of the world. The gray skies turned to diffuse morning mist far off in the horizon, but she knew Mount Empyrean was there; that Sanctuary, her home, was there. And she missed it.
She missed Karinael, her only real friend, most of all. She was there, back at Sanctuary. Right now Karinael was probably feeding the horses, or possibly painting one of her pictures. She had been happy back home with Karinael. She had been happy and blissfully ignorant. Right now Karinael probably thought she was off in some exotic locale, fighting against the demonic hordes of Apollyon. Nuriel hoped so. She hoped Karinael was still dreaming. She hoped Karinael would never make Saints Caliber and never have to see the real world and that she could live in that dream forever.
Nuriel hung her head low and exhaled deeply, defeated. Everything had been right in front of her the entire time. She nodded her head. “You were right, Ramiel,” she said. “We’re not the ones the little kids pretend to be. We’re the ones they set off to slay with their wooden swords.”
Far below, Nuriel could see the churning sea upon the rocky shore. “What’s the purpose to all this? What purpose can I possibly serve?”
Purpose? The word seemed to suddenly have a profound significance to her. She did have a purpose. She knew it. Perhaps it was a purpose long forgotten and clouded, but she knew deep down that she had one. That all Saints had one. She just had to figure out what that purpose was.
She turned around and looked at the bed and the lone sheet they had covered her with. Not even a blanket. Not even a glass of water. Nuriel sniffled and wiped her nose, but then a sudden anger swelled in her. Not even her sword. They had taken her dignity and taken her sword. Right now, those two things were her purpose, and she would get them both back. In fact, she determined she would get far more than that back.
Nuriel looked down at her hand and her stellaglyph painted in red upon the leather glove. To her the stellaglyph represented the sword and scales of justice. She had dreamed of making it to the Saints Caliber, to fight for Holy Father and the righteousness of Sanctuary. One day, she would be known as Nuriel of the Scales, just as she had drea
med.
Justice. That was her purpose. She balled her hand into a fist.
There would be justice.
Nuriel bit her lip and her golden eyes narrowed into slits. She was going to play by the rules now. Everything goes, nothing is forbidden. Not even the body of a Saint. Not even the dead bodies of Tia, Umbrial, Gamalael and Arric.
— 7 —
THE COUNCIL OF DUROTON
The council room was large and brightly lit by the late-morning sun that looked in from the domed glass ceiling. As if mocking Brandrir, a shaft of light was focused right on the stack of documents at his left. Brandrir dipped the fountain pen into the inkwell and withdrew it hastily, slopping black ink upon the long table and upon the document he was signing. The mechanics of his left hand whirred as his metallic fingers struggled to keep the long parchment unfurled while his right hand scrawled out his signature. Without so much as blowing upon the ink, Brandrir released the parchment and it snapped back up into a roll. With a flick of his wrist he sent it tumbling across the table before Dagrir could catch it. Again the mechanics of Brandrir’s left arm whirred as he took the next sheet of paper off the stack, and after a quick pause to locate the line upon which he was to sign, which was apparently missing from this document, he began scrawling his signature in the open space at the bottom of the sheet.
“That’s an appeal by the Icelanders. They are still owed this year’s and last year’s restitution for the Crashingstones.” said Dagrir. “It does not require a signature, but it does require some form of action by you.”
Brandrir looked up at his smirking brother and then turned his eyes back to the document.
“It’s crudely written, yes,” said Dagrir. “But coming from the barbarians, that’s actually quite an impressive show of academics.”
“Well what do they want?” asked Brandrir, holding the paper up. There was a daunting number of paragraphs and his eyes scanned through them as rapidly as possible, but the stack of papers at his left was too much a distraction for him to actually read anything his eyes were looking at.
“You should read it,” suggested Dagrir.
Brandrir slapped the paper down on the table and looked at the stack of papers he still had to get through. There had to be at least a hundred documents there. He exhaled in exasperation and then wiped his flesh hand down his face.
“Getting huffy about it won’t make it go away,” said Dagrir.
Brandrir groaned and pushed himself away from the table, the ornate wooden chair scraping obnoxiously across the stone floor. He stood up and covered his mouth with his hand as he looked down at the stack of papers and shook his head.
Dagrir sighed. “This is just the unimportant stuff,” he said. “This is what happens when the King is constantly gone for extended periods of time up north.”
“I’m not the King,” said Brandrir.
“You will be tomorrow!” shot Dagrir. “Do you not understand that the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony is tomorrow night?” Dagrir sighed and looked at his brother. “Father wanted you back here six-months ago to start taking care of some of this. You’re the first born son. You’re the one to be King, yet you hide yourself away up north in the landsforsaken Grimwatch.” Dagrir exhaled deeply and softened his voice. “There is a reason the Council doubts your ability to lead this country. And it’s the same reason why I want to strangle you.” Dagrir smiled.
Brandrir returned his little brother’s gaze and screwed his lips up, contemplating his words. Dagrir was shorter than Brandrir by a full hand. He wore his typical lacquered black armor with intricately etched patterns of phoenixes up and down both arms and legs, and a giant, singular one upon his breastplate. All of the etchings were silvered, and they stood out in beautiful contrast upon the shiny black of his armor. Upon his back was draped a crimson red cape bearing the phoenix of Duroton. Dagrir had auburn hair, much darker than Brandrir’s own and cropped much shorter than his as well. His eyes were similarly darker than Brandrir’s and the light growth of scruff that covered his face did little to hide the pink scars upon his neck. In those scars Brandrir could still see the fingers of the Kald wrapped around his throat.
“They’re not your fault, you know.” said Dagrir.
Brandrir shook his head and looked away, realizing that he had been staring at the scars again. It was true that he had never forgiven himself for what had happened that night 17-years ago, when he was 8 and his brother 5. He himself still bore the scars on his own cheek from that night when the icy blood of the Kald seared him. Any time he was around his brother his eyes just went right to those scars; those perfect pink rings of ruined flesh, and they took him back to that night the Kald attacked.
“Can we get back to the Icelanders before the council convenes?” asked Dagrir, hopefully.
Brandrir groaned and plopped himself back down into the chair, his crimson plate armor clanking loudly. He looked out the window that overlooked the royal gardens and began wishing he were out there in the open air and sunshine. He looked back down at the parchment.
“They have not been paid for two years,” prompted Dagrir.
“Well why not?” snapped Brandrir. He scooped up the paper again but was still in too much of a hurry to bother reading it.
“Because we can’t afford it,” said Dagrir. “The Ageless Accord guarantees them restitution for the life of Duroton. I know, it’s ridiculous. A hundred thousand phoenix a year over the last ninety-four years and you’d think it’d be paid in full by now.” Dagrir sighed. “All for some rocky islands that aren’t even worth the stones they’re made of.”
Brandrir tossed the paper to the table. “So just pay them already.”
“Where shall I pull the money from, sire?” asked an ancient voice from across the room. Brandrir started, having completely forgotten about Councilman Parvailes. The old man was dressed in fine red robes and surrounded by a number of abacuses and ledgers at the far end of the table. He looked at Brandrir through thin-framed glasses and his gray eyes were almost accusing.
“Your constant battles up north cost a lot.” said Dagrir. “Many of our cities need new infrastructure. Snowbearing has been without gas for light and heat since that small earthquake knocked out their gasline four months ago, and the people are starting to get upset.”
“So fix the gasline!” snapped Brandrir.
“We’ve been trying,” said Dagrir. “It’s cost us a small fortune already. It takes a lot of effort to dig through frozen earth.”
“They need another ten-thousand phoenix to finish,” said the old man. “We have eighty-six thousand left in our construction coffers but you mentioned we might need to divert those funds for more weapons and armor for the Grimwatch.”
Brandrir could feel the old man’s accusing stare. He shook his head but that window was distracting him now. He couldn’t take it anymore. He exhaled deeply and shot up from his chair and walked over to the window and turned the small crank to open it. From outside the perfume of many red flowers, both common and exotic, filled the cold northern air and their blossoms lay like a crimson sea upon the grounds far below.
Brandrir stuck his head out the window, letting the cool breeze caress his face and muss his long, auburn hair. He looked down at the cobblestone path that cut through the gardens. To either side of it grew rows of ancient trees, their green canopy casting pleasant shadows upon the trail in the late morning sun. It was a private place, surrounded on all sides by the castle’s ancient and towering walls. The castle’s walls were made of gray, hewn stone of varying sizes and shapes, but in many areas repairs were obvious and new mortar and stone were ugly blights upon the venerable old wall. One section in particular stood near an ancient grove of gnarly trees who themselves had quite obviously been damaged at some earlier time. Brandrir remembered well the night the walls fell. His brother’s neck and his own arm were constant reminders.
Brandrir breathed deeply, pushing the memories from his mind. He liked the gardens and spent most of hi
s time there when he was home. He hated the politicking that went on within the castle’s chambers and wished he were out there instead of cooped up in the council room signing papers. He had no doubt that very soon this room would be swarming with the rest of the castle’s council members, all campaigning him for favors or looking to assuage him of some plight somewhere within the kingdom. He dreaded the thought of being bound to the throne to mull over contracts and budgets.
Beneath the Duroton sky I say that shall not be my fate, thought Brandrir to himself. He sighed and looked up through the glass ceiling, taking note how the sun had already moved across it, ticking away the hours until tomorrow’s ceremony.
Brandrir was determined to bring Duroton back to its ancient roots of liberty where people looked to its King only as a symbol of their own strength. He wanted Duroton to again be a kingdom whose cities took pride in their own abilities; a country whose people unwaveringly upheld the pacts of old. He wanted the old Duroton from the books and legends, where people sung of their duty and its King upheld the mighty Mard Grander against the Kald.
Although that powerful hammer of the gods had been broken during the age of the Great Falling and could not be wielded, Brandrir still armored himself like the kings of old, much to his father’s and brother’s chagrin. Brandrir always wore plate armor finished with a rich, glossy red known throughout the Lands as Duroton Red. It was the national color and its deep, rich shade had once flown proudly upon all banners. The armor covered Brandrir from neck to feet, save for his left arm whose metallic components whirred softly as he leaned back from the window. At his side, in a red scabbard embellished with golden highlights in the form of a rising phoenix, hung a mighty broadsword. Upon his back, concealing the tank that powered his left arm, was draped a white cape bearing the phoenix of Duroton.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 19
