The demon waved its hand and Karver’s bedroom door opened with a click. The demon pointed a long, clawed finger into the room.
Rook stood for a moment and swallowed hard. Then, with a breath, he steeled himself and padded over to the door. Karver’s room was much larger than Rook’s own. The walls were lined with dressers and he had a large mirror upon one wall and a writing desk at another. A pair of windows whose curtains were drawn let in just enough moonlight for Rook to see the fat man sleeping upon his large bed. He was naked but for a red sheet thrown over his waist and his closed eyes looked up upon the ceiling, his mouth opened and wet with drool. The nostrils on his pudgy nose flared as he sucked in a ragged breath and wheezed it out. Upon a chair next to his bed were thrown the clothes he had been wearing that day, and upon the floor in various areas were strewn other dirty laundry. The room reeked of sour body odor and flatulence.
Rook looked up at the demon and it smiled wickedly down at him. It pointed into the room and said in a low, quiet voice, “You must kill him.”
Rook’s eyes went wide. His stomach dropped and his heart began to pound painfully in his chest. What?
“The knife. Slit his throat.”
Rook looked at the demon and then into the room. Karver stirred momentarily as he shifted his bulk, causing the entire bed to rock and squeak. He snorted and grumbled something, then resumed his rhythmic, ragged, breathing. The dagger, as light as it was, suddenly felt like a million pounds in Rook’s hand. He began to tremble. “I…I…I can’t.” he whispered.
“Garrot has just finished his pleasures with the boy.” said the demon. “He and Rennic plan to pull the old woman’s teeth from her skull. Garrot figures they’re worth more than she would bring as a slave. Then they’ll be finished for the night.”
“I…I can’t kill somebody,” said Rook quietly. He looked up at the demon. His arms and legs felt weak. “I…I can’t.”
The demon chuckled quietly. “Then you’ll have to find a way to pick the lock of the artifact room before morning and sneak the knife back. If morning comes and things are not as they should be, you know what that man will do to you. Take his life, before he takes yours. And your sister’s.” The demon’s eyes burned into Rook. “Ursula is counting on you.”
“C-C-Can’t you kill him?” asked Rook, hopeful.
“My deal was that I would help you escape,” said the demon. “And help you I am. But you must do the deed yourself. Do it, Rook. If not for you, for your sister.”
Rook looked into the room and at the sleeping Karver, but he could not bring himself to move.
“Do you know that Garrot once placed a baby in a sack and smashed it against the wall just because he couldn’t deal with its crying any longer?” said the demon. “I wonder what he will do to Ursula once you aren’t around. Maybe she’ll be lucky enough to meet Behemoth Kraken.” Then the demon’s voice changed into the exact likeness of Karver’s own, “I’ve seen him take babes too. Says they like to suck and ain’t got no teeth to worry about.”
From down below there was an horrific scream.
“There’s the old lady’s teeth.” said the demon. “Tick-tick-tick…”
Rook’s heart was beating out of his chest. His breaths were so loud he swore they would wake Karver up, but he forced himself forward and he padded his way into the room. He approached the bed from the side and stood next to Karver’s round head. His head was tilted the other way and his neck bared its jugular to him. Rook raised the knife, his hand shaking.
“Kill him.” hissed the demon.
Rook stood there shaking, staring at the fat neck that presented itself to him. How hard would he have to push the knife? What if he failed to kill him? What if the man woke up first? Rook knew there was no way he could do the deed. He started to lower the dagger.
“DO IT NOW!” the demon’s voice roared.
Karver’s eyes opened wide at the sound and the next thing Rook knew he had sunk the dagger into the man’s neck. There had been some resistance, and the knife made a sickening, crunchy sound as it bit through tissue and wedged into bone. Karver sat bolt upright in the bed, blood washing down his neck and fat body in sheets. The man’s arms flailed and wet choking sounds erupted from his mouth. Rook backed away in horror as Karver’s eyes met his. They were wide with terror, disbelief, and the sudden realization of mortality. Karver’s hand grabbed the dagger and pulled it from his neck. It fell to the ground with a sharp clamor. Then the fat man’s body hunched over, the sheer weight dragging the rest of his body over and he tumbled to the floor with a disgusting, wet slap. He moved and breathed no more.
Rook’s chest heaved. He felt dizzy. He thought he might black out or faint. He looked at the demon. And the demon looked at him, smiling. “Wh…what’s your name?”
“Bulifer.” said the demon. “My name is Bulifer. It is the name your great-grandfather’s great-grandfather summoned.” The demon pointed to the knife that lay in the bloody pool. “That knife was made by him.” said the demon. “Take it back. It’s yours.”
Rook bent down and grabbed the bloody knife from the floor. His entire body was trembling. He looked at the demon, and it pointed to the dirty clothes left in a heap upon the chair near the bed. “The Golothic. It is in the right pocket of his pants. Take it with you.”
Rook looked at the blood all over the floor, all over the knife he held. He looked at the demon and shook his head. He had never intended to kill somebody. He had never wanted any of this. He just wanted him and Ursula out of this house.
Bulifer laughed. “If you do not take it with you, it will one day bring you to it. Sometimes the circumstances that arise from that are quite unpleasant, as you yourself have come to experience. Remember, it brought you to it now. Imagine what may happen next time. Take it with you and save yourself the pain.”
Rook scrambled over to the chair and rummaged through the stinking pants. He knew when he had found it right away, for it had a pleasant warmth about it. It felt sandy and rough. He grabbed it and placed it in his own pocket.
“Well done Rook. Well done.” said the demon. “Now take your sister and run.”
Rook looked at the demon. Its eyes burned white hot.
“RUN!”
— 11 —
THE RISING OF THE PHOENIX
Brandrir looked at himself in the mirror one last time and wondered where in the Lands of Duroton Etheil and Solastron could be. He hadn’t seen Etheil since yesterday morning, and Solastron had run off as soon as the pair had arrived in Durtania. Brandrir sighed and moved his face closer to the mirror, inspecting his scraggly growth of beard and wondering if he should have shaved it. Then again, if he shaved it, the pink scars from that terrible night when the Kald blood splattered him would be visible on his face.
He sighed again, this time with more annoyance. Etheil would give him an honest opinion. Brandrir grunted. “Where in Apollyon’s Hell is he?” He looked out the window of his bedroom and the sun was just starting to set and the inky night sky was overtaking the horizon. He sighed yet again. “Well, too late to shave now anyway.”
He stepped back from the mirror and inspected the rest of himself, inwardly promising that this would be the last time. His red armor was lacquered to a glossy sheen. His mechanical left arm was polished and the gold-plated steel gleamed nicely in the gaslight. The white cape bearing the golden phoenix crest of Duroton hung nice and straight from his shoulders. His auburn hair was brushed straight and hung down to his shoulders. His blue-gray eyes looked weary as if he hadn’t slept all night, but he hadn’t, and he figured that was the best they were going to get. The red leather scabbard at his side was oiled and shiny but hung slightly askew so he took a moment and adjusted it. Inside was his broadsword named Raze.
Brandrir unsheathed the sword, admiring the silvery blade. He paced the room flourishing it. Like all Crystallic Swords created by the Jinn, a power crystal within the pommel gave it extraordinary abilities. Raze’s crystal was black and it spar
kled dully in the glow of the lamps. In the center of the silver hilt was an engraved runic character. Brandrir’s thumb easily found it as he flourished the blade and he quickly swiped it across, causing the rune to glow black. Immediately the sword began to hum, the blade a smear of resonating, silvery steel. He could feel its powerful vibrations through the black leather that was wound around the handle. He swung it about, the blade buzzing and throbbing through the air.
The power of Raze was that it could cut through just about anything. Brandrir danced about the room flourishing his sword, maneuvering through different combat routines until he ended at the stone wall. He pressed the tip of the blade into the stone and it sunk into it as easily as if dunked into water. He pulled Raze out and then turned around and raised his mechanical left arm. Upon the bottom plate of it was a small runic symbol. He rubbed it over his right forearm and instantly an electrical-yellow disc spread around, creating something of a glowing shield attached to his left arm. He cracked Raze against it a few times, sending sparks popping and flying and filling the room with the smell of ozone. Within his left arm was concealed a yellow power crystal and the shield that it created was one of the few things Raze could not cut. Indeed, it was one of the few things nothing could cut.
The power crystals that were used to make Crystallic Swords were especially powerful and incredibly time consuming and difficult for the Jinn to create. It could take upwards of a year or more to make a power crystal strong enough to fuel a Crystallic Sword. That made the weapons incredibly rare. So rare, in fact, that they were solely reserved for the Knights of the Dark Star. Once ordained, a Dark Star Knight got to choose what type of power crystal he wanted, and the Jinn would fashion him a special sword containing its powers. Of course, select nobles throughout Duroton had these weapons too, but they rarely had the honor of choosing which type of power crystal they wanted. In fact, most had the swords of fallen Dark Star Knights. Usually, nobles lucky enough to have Crystallic Swords were gifted the weapon as a favor or honor by the King.
Power crystals themselves were not incredibly rare in Duroton. The Jinn could produce hundreds of them a year and they were used to power bolt-thrower guns, the ignition switches for the gaslights, and other devices. It was the weapons-grade crystals needed to power the Crystallic Swords that were special and rare.
Brandrir, as the King’s first-born son, was lucky enough to have three of these weapons-grade power crystals. The black crystal that powered Raze was a Sonic Crystal. Sonic Crystals could be used to produce sounds, vibrations and other such effects. Raze used sonic vibrations to devastating consequence, tearing through the very elemental fabric of things. It could melt through steel, stone and flesh with ease.
Energy Crystals were yellow and could contain raw energy. In their simplest and least powerful forms they could power the ignition switches of gaslamps. In slightly more powerful form the Jinn could use them to power bolt-throwers and mechanical things. In their most powerful form they could create electrical barriers such as the shield his arm could generate. Truth be told, Brandrir’s mechanical arm could probably suffice with a standard Power Crystal. Having it powered by a weapons-grade crystal just allowed his arm to do some ridiculous things, and Brandrir kind of liked it that way.
He flourished his humming sword a few more times and then cracked it off his shield for good effect. He caught a glimpse out the window and could see night quickly falling. With a sigh he swiped his thumb over the rune on his sword and it instantly deactivated. He bumped his left forearm on his right wrist and deactivated the shield and then sheathed his sword. With a heavy sigh he went back to the mirror.
He stood back and inspected himself, then suddenly realized he was breaking the promise he had made to himself. “Gah!” He turned away from the mirror and stood tapping his foot on the stone floor, wondering where in the Lands Etheil and Solastron were again.
He screwed his lips up as he pondered the many possibilities of where the two had run off to. Solastron liked to wander alone and had been known to disappear for weeks at a time, so it wouldn’t really surprise Brandrir if the wolf didn’t show up. Besides, a wild, mindless wolf wouldn’t understand the ceremony anyway, thought Brandrir. But Etheil? There was no way he’d miss this. Brandrir pursed his lips and thought. He was probably planning some sort of silly and embarrassing surprise. Brandrir huffed a little laugh to himself. Maybe he was already seated and waiting for the ceremony to start so that he could heckle him from the bleachers.
A loud uproar drifted through the window, breaking Brandrir from his thoughts. He clomped over to the open window. It was dark now. He poked his head out into the cool air and craned his neck around. He could see the torches all lit in the courtyard and the crowds all gathering in the bleachers. He could hear somebody shouting words to the crowd but couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Then the crowd cheered again. Brandrir pulled his head back in and sighed deeply, thinking that the ceremony would start any moment. His stomach began to flutter and he found his head flooding with the same doubts he had told himself he would not think about. The omen of the Jinn sat heavily upon him. What if it were true? What if he would bring Duroton to ruin? What if the phoenix did not rise for him? Brandrir bit his lip. His foot began tapping on the floor again.
There was a knocking at his chamber door. “Your Grace, it is time.” It was the voice of Egret, Commander of the Durotonian Guard.
Brandrir strode to the door and opened it. There was a procession of Royal Guardsmen lined up in the hall. They all wore lacquered, white armor trimmed in gold and had long, red capes and helmets crested with red phoenix feathers.
Egret stood before the door, draped in his black shroud. “Your Grace, it is time.” Brandrir nodded his head and Egret patted him on his shoulder, his gauntlet clanging on Brandrir’s armor. “You shall make a fine King, Brandrir.”
Brandrir looked at Egret and forced a small smile. “Thank you, old friend.”
“Your father, brother and all of the Council are seated and waiting.” said Egret.
“Is Etheil with my brother?” asked Brandrir.
“I have not seen him with your brother,” said Egret. “Come, your Grace. Almost all of the nobles have come and there are crowds of people from the very reaches of the Lands.”
Brandrir sighed and shook his head. From the window he could hear another muted roar of the crowd.
Egret patted him on the shoulder again. “We have all heard the omens. Do not worry about the words of the Jinn. They are mortal men like me and you. Let the Lands decide their new King and rise the phoenix in your name.”
Brandrir looked into Egret’s blue eyes and nodded his head. He forced another smile. “Thank you again, Lord Egret.”
“Come, your Grace.” said Egret. “It is time for the phoenix to rise in your name.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Hidden beyond the castle corridor, just within the open portcullis, Brandrir had the perfect view of the long walk to the courtyard arena. For the ceremony, walls and extra bleachers had been constructed along the entire 100-yard length from the portcullis to the arena proper, and from above Brandrir could hear the crowds cheering and roaring. The pathway to the arena was lined on either side with braziers sculptured like phoenixes set atop tall pikes, burning with coals. In the far distance, in the arena proper, a million points of light twinkled from the stadium benches where the overflowing crowds of people all sat holding candles in the night. At the center of the arena Brandrir could see the great, risen stage where the seven High Jinn were all gathered. They stood before a giant, bronze dish sculptured like the very crown of Duroton.
Brandrir breathed deeply. Upon either side of the corridor stood the ranks of Royal Guardsmen waiting to escort him to the stage. At the front, just inside the portcullis, Egret sat high upon his proud Icelandic Great-Hoof named Snowbreaker. Of all the Icelandic Great-Hoofs kept at the castle, Snowbreaker was perhaps the largest and strongest and was perfectly s
uited for towing the heavy chariot harnessed to him.
The chariot was glossy and red with the phoenix crest of Duroton proudly emblazoned in gold on all sides. Within the chariot was a squat, silver pedestal and sitting upon it was a large nest of thick, interwoven copper bars. Within the nest sat an egg the size of a man. It was rough and black and flaking as if it had been made of stone and charred within some volcanic lair.
Phoenix eggs were rare and the bird was known only within the Lands of Duroton. They laid their eggs within thick, pine forests and covered them with a black, sappy excretion that turned to a stoney crust over the ages. The egg would lie dormant until an inevitable forest fire would one day set the bird free. Such forest fires were few and far between.
About every two or three years a great wave of summer storms might strike fire upon a forest, and in Duroton it was cause for great excitement. Men and women from miles around would gather at safe vantage points near the forest fire, hoping beyond hope to see a phoenix rise from the burning tree tops and fly off into the heavens. It was said that a phoenix could live for a hundred years, though none knew where they went after hatching. On the rarest of occasions a hunter or woodsmen might catch a mated pair affixing their precious egg to the top of a tall pine. Once the egg was secured, the couple would fly off to Lands only know where.
Obtaining a phoenix egg for the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony was always quite difficult and the hunt for an egg usually started soon after the new King was crowned. This particular egg had been found about ten years ago and had been locked in the castle’s vaults ever since. It had been considered more precious than the gems and gold that surrounded it.
Brandrir exhaled loudly and tapped his foot nervously. He peeked out around Snowbreaker and the chariot. In the far distance, upon the risen stage, he could just see the Jinn as they addressed the audience. Slowly the crowds fell silent, their thousands of candlelights flickering like a sea of stars in the night. Brandrir could just barely hear the words of the Jinn as they spoke the opening rites of the ceremony, calling for the Lands to bear witness and asking their consent to crown a new King. The Jinn then asked all to rise for the Call of Duroton. All at once, everybody within the stadium stood like a clap of thunder, their candlelights wavering and sparkling. After a brief pause the Jinn began reciting the Call of Duroton, and even Egret, the Royal Guardsmen, and Brandrir himself spoke along to it, placing their right hands upon their hearts.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 30
