The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  Here there was a smell of stale urine and sour breath. It was warm inside for such a dark room. As the doors clanked shut behind him Etheil’s eyes found the shadowy form of the king laying upon his great bed. He could hear raspy breaths from him, but did not see him stir. There were other shadows standing around the bed as well. Seven forms that he could count. Beyond them, in the darker distance, he could see a pair of tall, shrouded figures and knew that they were Dark Star Knights like himself.

  Cautiously he stepped forward. “My Liege,” said Etheil softly. He bent to a knee, placing his black, gauntleted hands upward upon the stone floor.

  “Rise,” said a voice from the bed so hoarse that Etheil was scarcely sure he heard it.

  He stood up slowly. “My Liege, you have requested my presence?”

  “Yes,” came the hoarse voice, this time a little louder, and Etheil was certain it was the King. “Yes, I have.” The King fell into a short coughing fit where at the end he grunted and hacked and Etheil could hear spit, heavy and wet, hit the stone floor. “Forgive the darkness of the room,” rasped the King. “Light hurts my eyes.”

  “Understood, my Liege,” said Etheil softly, giving a slight bow. He eyed the figures around the bed suspiciously. He could see they were men, most of them rotund and well dressed. Through the shadows he could make out a few facial features, and realized that they were the Councilmen.

  “Raise the light a little,” barked the King in his terrible, cracking voice before falling into another coughing fit.

  One of the figures beyond the bed reached over to the wall. Etheil heard a couple pops as an ignition button was hit. Then a pair of gas lamps on either side of the King’s bed flickered to life, bathing the room in their soft, yellow-green glow.

  Now for the first time Etheil could see that the men were indeed the Council. Balin with his sharp beard stood closest to the bed. Beside him stood the fat Gefjon. Jord, Hymnar, Baldir, Aldur and Rankin were there too. Beyond them, looming in the background like shrouded statues, stood Lord Egret and his lieutenant, Lord Gregin. Etheil thought it odd that the two should be here.

  Lord Gregin had one of the most austere presences of any man Etheil had ever met. His face seemed to be molded into a permanent scowl and his dark eyes were unblinking as he stared Etheil down. He was shorter and stockier than Egret and had his arms folded over his chest, revealing the tidal-wave designs painted up the arms of his black armor. His dark-red hair fell in heavy locks upon his shrouded shoulders and his crimson beard was done up in a number of tight braids that cascaded off his chin and onto his chest.

  Etheil nodded his head slightly in greeting, but only Lord Egret returned it in kind, though his face was as stern and unflinching as Gregin’s own. Etheil began to realize why the castle had been so quiet. There was a good chance that this encounter wasn’t meant to end well for him.

  Etheil turned his eyes to the bed. The King lay there in white pajamas. Upon the collar and chest Etheil noticed speckles of red and pink stains. The pillow his head was propped up on was similarly stained. The King looked up at Etheil with milky eyes, his mouth hanging open and a terrible wheezing coming from him. Etheil had always known the King to be of broad shoulder and strong arms, but laying in bed he looked pale, thin and emaciated. His beard, once long and auburn, was thin and streaked with yellow-gray hair. The crown of Duroton, a lithe weave of silver and gold braids that formed geometric patterns, seemed a heavy burden on his head. Etheil could see that the King was missing clumps of hair, and the few long cords that draped haggardly from his scalp gave him a ghastly appearance.

  “My Liege,” said Etheil with concern, but the King waved his hand frantically as if shooing off any correspondence and began coughing again. The fit ended with him leaning over the bed and spitting. As the red, wet clump splattered on the floor, Etheil noticed a disturbing puddle of blood and phlegm there.

  Etheil looked at Balin.

  “King Garidrir has been this way for quite some time.” said Balin.

  Etheil looked back at the King. “My Liege, if I had known…”

  The King began coughing again but managed to bark out, “Enough…enough of your sympathies.” The King struggled to sit himself up in bed and Balin and Gefjon moved in to assist him. “Tell me,” said the King. He coughed as he settled into an upright position. “Tell me about my son.”

  Etheil looked at the King quizzically. “My Liege?”

  “My son Brandrir,” barked the King. He coughed and hacked and then leaned over and spat upon the floor, leaving another bloody clump in the puddle. “Tell me about him. Is he a good warrior? Does he lead men well?”

  “A very good warrior,” said Etheil softly. “The men of the Grimwatch respect him. He leads them very well, my Liege.”

  “And how often does he lead them?” cracked the King, looking at Etheil with those milky eyes.

  Etheil felt a little confused by the question, but replied, “Every day, my Liege. Every day the men look to him.”

  “So, every day there are battles?” barked the King before he started coughing again. He grunted and hacked and looked back at Etheil. “Every day there is a war in the north?” The King hacked and leaned over and spat a wet glob upon the floor. He took up a handful of the blankets by his side and wiped his mouth. He looked back at Etheil. “Every day the Kald attack the Grimwatch?”

  “No, my Liege.” said Etheil softly.

  “Oh,” croaked the king. “So he does not lead them every day?”

  “Not to battle.”

  “Oh, well, by the way Brandrir makes it sound he’s at war daily.” said the King becoming a little more animated in his bed. “Tell me, Etheil, what exactly is he doing up there on a daily basis? If he’s not at war, what’s he leading? What’s he fighting? How many…” the King began coughing. He barked out, “How many…” but then buckled over into a severe fit. Balin, Gefjon and the others moved in but the King flailed his hands as if to shoo them away. “Water!” he croaked between coughs. “Apollyon below, get me some water!”

  Near the bed there was a dresser with a silver pitcher and some metal cups upon it. Aldur rushed over and filled a cup and quickly handed it to the King. King Garidrir took small sips in between coughs, sloshing most of the liquid upon himself, causing the red stains on his shirt to expand out into pinkish blots. At length the King’s coughing settled down and he sat in bed, slightly hunched, breathing deep, raspy breaths as he stared blankly down at the bedsheets.

  “My Liege,” said Lord Egret from the shadows across the room. “If Etheil’s presence agitates you perhaps I should have him removed?”

  The King looked at Egret and scowled. “No,” he barked. “I need words with him.” He looked over at Etheil, his milky eyes as sour as his breath. He raised a boney finger, its yellow nail pointing directly at him. “You’ve filled his head with nonsense!” The King drew in a big, wheezy breath and then leaned over and spat. “Ever since he was a boy you’ve filled his head with your nonsense.”

  “My Liege,” said Etheil. “I’ve never meant—”

  “All your stories,” continued the King, sneering. “Ever since you were a boy. It started with your father, the traitor.” The King took a sip of his water and then threw the metal cup to the floor at Etheil’s feet. It clanged off his steel boot. He returned his hateful gaze to Etheil. “You, the son of a traitor, filling my son’s head with the same poison your father spoke to you. You should never have returned from the long night.”

  “My Liege,” said Etheil softly. “If I may speak?”

  “No!” barked the King. He began coughing. “No!” he shot again as the coughing subsided. “Your words are poison.”

  “My Liege,” said Etheil. “I’ve always been loyal to you and your son. I’ve always had Duroton’s best intentions in mind.”

  The King scowled. He looked away from Etheil and waved a dismissive hand, mumbling something to Balin.

  Balin now looked at Etheil with his dark eyes. “Lord Ethei
l,” he began. “If you truly do have Duroton’s best intentions in mind, you will speak with Brandrir on behalf of King Garidrir and this Council.”

  Etheil bowed his head slightly but inwardly wondered what this might be about. The King sat upright in bed, his chest heaving and his breath raspy but he did not look at Etheil. His milky eyes just stared down at the bedsheets.

  “It is no secret that Brandrir respects you, Lord Etheil.” said Balin. “In fact, it has been observed by many that he follows your every advice.”

  “Lord Balin,” said Etheil. “It is true that I often advise Brandrir on issues, but it is never my intention—”

  “Shut your mouth and open your ears,” barked the King hoarsely and then immediately fell into a coughing fit. Balin and Gefjon had to help prop him up so he would not collapse from it. Hymnar poured him a new cup of water and the King began sipping it, still not looking at Etheil.

  Once the King seemed secure Balin looked back at Etheil and said, “Lord Etheil, our Liege cannot be excited. Please refrain from speaking until I have finished, and then choose your words carefully.”

  Etheil nodded but couldn’t help notice Egret and Gregin casting him hard stares from across the room.

  “As I was saying,” said Balin. “Brandrir heeds your advice and that is why we have summoned you here. Tomorrow will be held the Rising of the Phoenix to determine Duroton’s new King. Unfortunately, as you can see, our Liege cannot put this ceremony off any longer.”

  Etheil looked at the scowling King and nodded. Garidrir sat brooding, the cup of water trembling in his frail hands as he glared into the shadows of nothingness.

  Balin inhaled deeply and briefly exchanged glances with the rest of the Council. He looked back at Etheil. “It is the will of King Garidrir that his son Dagrir succeed him. To that end, we ask that you speak to Brandrir in private and talk him into officially conceding the crown to his brother before tomorrow’s ceremony.”

  Etheil’s face betrayed him. There was no way he could contain his disgust. He bit his lip and cast Balin a severe gaze. “It is not my place to speak to him of that,” said Etheil at last. “The laws of Duroton say the first-born must succeed the King.”

  “He already gave up the crown once,” huffed Gefjon. “Beneath the Duroton sky he gave it up already! We just need him to concede it officially to his brother.”

  “It’s true,” said Balin. “Today during Council Brandrir became upset and told Dagrir to take the crown. It is true that Dagrir did not officially accept it, and we’ve heard that he has since talked his brother into taking it back. However, it is our hope that you might speak some sense into Brandrir and have him concede the crown to his brother in an official manner.”

  Etheil shook his head. “This is something I cannot do.” he said, not oblivious to the King’s look of disgust.

  “Lord Etheil,” said Balin. “I would strongly urge you to reconsider your stance.”

  Etheil could see Lord Gregin had exposed the handle of his broadsword at his waist and he tapped the blue-jeweled pommel with a finger, as if giving him his own warning.

  “What’s the difference who takes the crown so long as the Lands of Duroton accede it by rising a phoenix?” added Gefjon. “There are no laws that state an heir to the crown cannot grant it to another. All that matters is that a phoenix rises.”

  “All we’re asking you to do is talk to Brandrir,” said Balin. “All you’re doing is giving him a push in the right direction.”

  “With great respect to King and Council,” began Etheil.

  “The time for your respect is long overdue!” abruptly barked the King before falling into a severe fit of coughing. “I should have had your head that night!” he squealed as the coughing continued, turning his pale face red. “The Lands take you, Etheil! The Lands take you!” cursed the King until he buckled over in bed, his face purple as he coughed and hacked.

  Balin and the other Councilmen all rushed to his side and Jord tried forcing a cup of water to his mouth but the King swatted it away. He flailed an arm toward Etheil. “He should have died!” he croaked. “Lands take him and that wolf!”

  The Council frantically urged the King to relax as his coughing turned into something of a barking roar that splattered his sleeves with red droplets.

  Egret and Gregin moved from the back of the room. “Come with us,” ordered Egret as he approached Etheil, but just then Egret was hit upon the shoulder by the crown of Duroton. It bounced off his shrouded form and hit the ground with a clamor.

  The King flailed and fought against the Councilmen, waving his arms at Egret and Gregin. “Leave him! Leave him!” he squealed between coughs.

  Egret and Gregin cast Etheil a hard glare and then slowly moved back toward the shadows. Etheil took to a knee upon the stone floor, placing his hands up, hoping that it might settle Garidrir. “My Liege, I shall stay until you are finished with me.”

  By degrees the King’s terrible fit subsided as the Councilmen wiped the blood from his face and lips and tended him with water and pats on the back. Eventually the King settled into a hunched sitting position and he stared out into nothingness as his chest heaved and wheezed. After many long moments he began to speak, but did not look at anybody. He just spoke out into the same nothingness where he stared, his voice soft, slow and ever more hoarse.

  “I remember that night,” said the King. “Me and my captains entered that chamber and I saw my wife in a pool of blood. I didn’t want to believe that Fameil had betrayed me, but there he was with the Kald, Brandolyn’s blood and scalp still on his sword.” The King paused for a long moment. “He looked at me with those hateful eyes. It all made sense then. All those years speaking to me about the ancient days of Duroton and the Congress of old. All those times he would tell me of the ancient Stewards of the Lands. I realized they had not been stories. They were his contempt. He held nothing but contempt for me and the Council.”

  Etheil did not speak or move, but remained upon a knee on the floor, with his hands flat on the stone. He listened, for he had never been told how his father died. All he knew was that the King had killed him that night.

  The King took a few deep, wheezing breaths and continued slowly and softly. “My captains took care of the Kald quickly enough. But Fameil was tougher and stronger. It took the efforts of both Lord Marrick and Lord Haldur to contain him, such was his power of the Dark Star. My son Dagrir had run to me and clung against my leg. Brandrir lay in a puddle of blood, but at that time I didn’t realize his left arm was gone. I was so blinded by rage at this point. All I wanted was to cut Fameil’s head from his neck.”

  The King paused for a long moment, his chest heaving and wheezing. He hacked and spat and then looked at Etheil who still knelt upon the floor. The King’s lips furled up into something of a sneer and he let out a hoarse chuckle. “I didn’t kill your father.” he said, his voice oozing with venomous pleasure. “Brandrir came to and took up a Kald’s blade in his right hand. He stumbled behind your father and sunk it into the side of his neck. Your father never even saw it coming.”

  Etheil bit his lip and looked down upon the floor. Part of him felt betrayed by Brandrir, another part of him felt liberated to finally know the truth of that night. All these years he had been told that it was King Garidrir that killed his father. Brandrir had always told him that he had fallen unconscious that night and never saw it. Dagrir had said he didn’t remember anything about it. But here was the truth. Brandrir was the one who killed his father, and he had lied to him his whole life. Etheil clenched his jaw. All he had wanted for these last seventeen years since that night was to know the truth.

  “It’s true,” croaked the King. “Truth be told, I was a little angry inside. Your father took my wife. He had nearly taken my son. He nearly took down all of Duroton with his schemes.”

  The King coughed and spat upon the floor. He kept looking at Etheil who knelt, plastered to the floor. At any time Garidrir could just say ‘Rise’ and Etheil could again
stand, but he knew the King was delighting too much in seeing him prostrated.

  “I wanted my vengeance but Brandrir took it from me.” continued the King. “But he was owed his vengeance too, and I never held it against him. I got my vengeance upon your mother. Her head remained upon that pike until the very bone rotted through. Its fragments are still somewhere in the dirt right outside the city gate.” The King huffed and looked out into nothingness. “Trampled by a thousand people by now, I’m sure.” The King looked down at Etheil. “I wanted my vengeance on you as well.” said the King, pointing a boney finger at him. “But my son took that one from me too.”

  Here the King paused for a long moment and looked down at his bed sheets as his chest began heaving. Balin began tending him and Jord handed him a cup of water but the King swatted it away and it spilled upon the bed. He looked back at Etheil. “I granted my son lenience on you, Etheil Freydir, but I did it for Duroton more than for him. I wanted the Lands to take their vengeance. My son had his on your father, and I had mine upon your mother. But even Duroton was owed a debt by your father’s traitorous actions.”

  The King scowled. “I sent you to spend a long night in the Blue Wilds so the Lands would be repaid their debt. Instead, you return riding upon a great blue wolf.” The King began to cough but choked out his words, “Some said that wolf was the spirit of Duroton itself. They said that the Lands ransomed you from your fate. I say that wolf is a servant of Apollyon!”

  The King ended in a coughing fit, frantically gesturing for a cup of water. After a few long moments the King settled back down and spoke again, looking out into the nothingness of the room. “How long must the Freydir bloodline poison my own?” he heaved a breath and it wheezed out. “Do I sit here and let another Freydir try and destroy Duroton?” He heaved a few more breaths and sat in silent contemplation.

  “My Liege,” said Etheil at length. “I am truly sorry for my father’s actions against you. I do not know why the Lands of Duroton chose to let me live. I do not know why the Lands sent the wolf to my aid. But, with all my heart, I swear to you that I have nothing but respect for you, your sons, and the Lands of Duroton.”