The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  And then Rook felt heat wash over him. A warm gust, and upon it was a terrible odor. It was an odor that overpowered everything. He had smelled it one night not very long ago. He turned his head, and in the darkest corner of the basement Rook saw the beast standing there. His hulking, shadowy form was cracked with veins of fiery heat and his eyes glowed white-hot from beyond the massive horns that spiraled around his head. At the demon’s feet Rook noticed a number of eyes. These did not glow with molten fire, but rather gleamed like pale moons. They were desperate eyes; hungry eyes. Eyes that were terrible and haunting.

  Bulifer stepped forward from the darkness and the creatures at his feet seemed compelled to follow him. Rook could see that they were lanky, pathetic, charred men and women, grovelling at his feet. Each of them were fettered around their wrists, ankles, necks and waists by heavy chains and weights that seemed to have their origins someplace beneath the stone floor of the basement. Their eyes were a terrible, stark-white within their blackened skulls, and their heads barren of all but a few wisps of hair that seemed agitated by some unfelt, hot wind. Their naked bodies were more starved and skeletal than Rook had even remembered seeing his father, and their skin was peeling and flaking with char.

  The children from the alcove screamed and a woman wailed out. Rook’s head snapped in that direction, thinking that they must have seen the demons. But that was not the case. None seemed to take notice of Bulifer and his grovelling slaves. Instead they screamed out at the headless body of a young boy. Rook gasped and nearly choked. It was Camellia and Brumal’s youngest son, Willow. He lay at Ovid’s feet in a pool of spreading blood. The Saint moved in upon another boy and more screams erupted from the alcove. Suddenly, the fettered beings at Bulifer’s feet began clawing at the floor, trying to move toward Ovid and his trapped victims.

  “Damn you!” they moaned. There was something so terrible, so desperate and hateful in their voices that it gave Rook a chill. They began to writhe upon the floor like snakes. They clutched and reached out toward Ovid, their scraping fingers leaving lines of charred flesh on the floor, but their heavy chains seemed to hold them at bay and none, save Rook himself, seemed to hear their desperate, terrible, voices. “Damn you! Damn you Ovid! Damn you! Damn you Saint Ovid! Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” they moaned.

  Bulifer chuckled cruelly and stepped forward, and the loathsome beings at his feet seemed somehow obliged to move with him, though they all still reached and clutched, trying fruitlessly to reach the alcove as they cursed the name of Ovid. Another child screamed and Rook could see the women clutching at Ovid’s feet, begging and pleading with him. None, however, seemed to take notice of the demons.

  Rook looked up through his cage of fallen shelves at Bulifer, bawling Ursula clutched tightly to his chest. “Please,” he said. “Don’t let him kill them.”

  Bulifer looked down at Rook and his lips stretched into a blackened smile that radiated with infernal heat. “So eager to help. So desperate to live. Yet, you have not even considered his offer. The thought of killing your sister has not even crossed your mind.” Bulifer moaned with a terrible pleasure. “You’re heart is so pure,” he said, and then looked down at the bound creatures. “Unlike these.”

  The beings writhed and moaned at Bulifer’s feet, damning Ovid. Bulifer kicked at one, as if it were no more than an annoying dog. “This one killed his daughter because Ovid promised him his sons’ lives if he did.” Bulifer’s white-hot eyes now turned to another of the bound creatures at his feet. “And she gave up her friends and family because Ovid promised her the lives of her babes.”

  Bulifer’s infernal eyes now fixed back upon Rook. “Now it comes to it; our covenant, Rook. I ask you now, with these bound to Hell by Ovid’s hand as witness: Do you still believe the Saints are good and are here to protect the people of the world?”

  The screams of the women and children were unbearable. “Please,” begged Rook. “Don’t let him kill them!”

  “You must answer me yes or no.” said Bulifer. “Such was our agreement, and such will our covenant be made whole.”

  Another scream.

  “Please!” yelled Rook.

  “Now, now,” said Bulifer. “If you want you and your sister to live, you must uphold your end of the bargain. I have upheld mine. Answer quickly and there may yet be time to save some of them.”

  The horrific screams of the women and children mingled with the terrible moaning of the beings bound at Bulifer’s feet. Rook’s mind flopped and he thought of the old man at the church, and the words he had spoken to him. Rook looked up at the demon. “I won’t answer!”

  Bulifer laughed. “If you won’t answer, then the deal is forfeit. You, your sister, and all the rest shall die, and yet my Golothic shall still pay me my dues, for it was a pact sealed by your forefather. I offer you a chance and a hope. It is a hope not many are given. And all you must do is answer me yes or no. Do you still believe the Saints are good and are here to protect the people of the world?”

  There was a terrible scream from the women and children. Rook’s head snapped around just in time to catch Ovid rip a little girl from one of the womens’ arms. Rook knew the little girl. She was four or five, and her name was Robin. She was named after a bird, just as Rook had been named after the crow. Ovid laid Robin down upon the cold floor and then placed his sword lengthwise over her body. The little girl began choking and gasping that she couldn’t breathe as the enormous weight of the star-metal sword began crushing her. Ovid laughed as the women moved in on him and began beating on his chest, but he swatted them away as if they were no more than flies. Then he watched and chuckled as the women hopelessly tried to lift the sword from the girl as she was slowly crushed to death beneath it.

  “I feel your fear, Rook.” said Bulifer. “You fear that you must answer me ‘no’. Look on as your people die. You wanted so badly to believe in the Saints. You wanted so badly to believe that there was still some good in this world. All you’ve known has been wrong. Your life has been nothing but a record of the evil that saturates this world. And this world is nothing but the record of the Saints Caliber, who you’ve held so dear.”

  Rook looked up at Bulifer as it laughed at him. Tears streamed down his face. He pulled the Golothic from his pocket. It burned in his little hand.

  “I give you one last chance. Do you still believe the Saints are good and are here to protect the people of the world?”

  Rook looked up at Bulifer, tears dropping from his cheeks. “No.” he growled, and all at once his body was broken by sobs. Suddenly the beings at Bulifer’s feet went silent and all their eyes fixed on him. Rook looked at them, rage swelling behind his tear-ladden eyes. “No!” he shouted more loudly, and he felt the Golothic move in his hand. It’s fingers had closed so that now it was almost in the shape of a fist.

  Bulifer laughed. “Our covenant is now made law and witnessed by these damned. I will come to you one day for a weapon, and the weapon you must forge for me.”

  “And my sister is taken care of!” shot Rook. Anger, hatred, regret, sorrow and shame all twisted his voice into something not of a child’s. “You promised my sister would be taken care of too!”

  “That I did,” said Bulifer. “And I too am bound by the Golothic you possess.” Bulifer waved his hand and part of the toppled shelves gave way. A beam cracked and one side fell, leaving an opening large enough for Rook to get him and his sister out.

  “Now run for the woods,” said Bulifer. “You shall meet some men there, and they shall take you and your sister. All shall be as promised.”

  Rook squeezed through the opening with Ursula in his arms. As he got out he looked at Bulifer. “Help them! Help the others!”

  Bulifer laughed as the beings at his feet writhed and damned Ovid’s name. “Our pact was for your life and that of your sister’s. You have little else to offer me now.” Bulifer’s eyes burned white-hot as they turned to Ovid. The Saint slowly plunged his sword into the chest of a young boy, watching
as he gasped out his last, bloody breaths to the screams and wails of the others. “In the dark corners of the night, Ovid has many times called to the names of my brethren. He seeks to sell his soul and free himself of his Sanguinastrum. But never for him shall I or any other demon come.” Bulifer turned his eyes to Rook. “Unlike you, he does my Master’s work willingly. What then does he have to offer? His soul is rotten. Even in Hell souls are weighed by deeds of kindness and good.”

  “Help them!” screamed Rook.

  Bulifer laughed. “Run now. Run to the woods. Our covenant is made.”

  Rook’s lips twisted into a snarl. He ripped off his shirt and quickly wrapped Ursula in it, and then he set her gently down upon a dry area of the floor. She screamed and wailed, but Rook’s mind was a flood of uncontrolled emotions as he gripped the Golothic in one hand, the dagger tightly in his other.

  Bulifer laughed. “I can see the ends you forge even now. You shall grow strong and powerful, boy. Let not your anger ever cool. Seek to find me no more. When next we meet, a weapon you shall owe me.” And with that, the floor beneath the demon’s feet came alive with fires, and he and the creatures at his feet dissolved down into it.

  Rook turned toward the alcove, his face twisted by an anger and hatred far beyond his own years. His chest heaved with every breath and spit bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He charged forward and drove the dagger right into the back of Ovid’s knee, the same one he had hit before. As the black-haired Saint fell, Rook thrust in and dug the dagger into the man’s side, right beneath his star-metal breastplate, and he felt the knife slip between ribs. The Saint growled in pain and spun. Rook jammed the dagger into the base of his neck. Rook tore the dagger out, flinging blood. He snarled against the tears that blinded him. His scream was garbled by snot as he drove in again, this time the dagger deflecting off the man’s pauldron and biting into the chink between the elbow joint of his arm. The Saint fell to the floor, clutching at his neck wound, growling at Rook, but Rook fell on him and began driving the dagger down, again and again. Most of the blows deflected off the Saint’s armor, but two or three buried themselves in the man’s unarmored gut. Rook was only vaguely aware of the wet, sticky warmth all over his hands. Through his tears the Saint was a blur of black armor and red blood.

  Rook snarled and screamed like a rabid dog, the injured Saint flailing against him. Rook felt the heavy bite of a star-metal gauntlet as the Saint’s fist finally found the side of his head. Rook felt himself tumble across the cold, stone floor, sparks of unconsciousness firing before his eyes. Screams and cries were muffled and distant in his spinning head. He sat up, dazed from the blow, as a rush of screaming women and children flew past him. He shook his head and looked up, Saint Ovid staring wide-eyed at him, laying in a pool of his victims’ and his own blood.

  Their eyes locked for a moment, but then Ovid’s fell to the floor and went wide. “What is that?” he grunted as he struggled to prop himself up. Blood streamed from his side and his gut. He gripped at his neck, more blood flowing out between his fingers. The Saint was staring at the floor at Rook’s feet.

  Rook looked down and snatched up his Golothic and placed it in his pocket.

  Ovid’s eyes met Rook’s. “Where did you get that!” he growled, blood bubbling out his mouth. “Where did you get that!” He tried to claw his way toward Rook but the pain of his wounds wracked him and he fell back into a puddle of blood, coughing and choking.

  Rook scrambled to his feet, slipping the dagger into his other pocket. He ran over to his screaming sister and snatched her up into his arms. He looked at Ovid, their eyes meeting one last time. Rook’s flashed with anger and hatred.

  “Where did you get that!” yelled the Saint, but Rook could hear the fight had already left his voice. The Saint’s hand was encompassed in light as he held it to his neck. His other hand glowed faintly as he held it at his side.

  Rook’s eyes glared at the fallen Saint, and his lips furled into a hateful snarl. “You’re going to have a lot to answer for.” He looked to where Bulifer and his charred slaves had been, but only cold, dark floor was there. He looked back at Ovid. “Die,” he spat. He held Ursula tight, and then ran toward the stairs.

  “Wait!” roared the Saint. “You’ve called one! How! Wait!”

  But Rook was already up the stairs.

  — 19 —

  BEHEMOTH KRAKEN

  Adonael was standing near the city’s fountain when Nuriel spotted him. He was gripping his elbow and looked a little pale. Nuriel tried to pay no mind to the sea of dead bodies as she approached him, but each step was a gruesome reminder of the death they had delivered upon the people.

  “You alright?” asked Nuriel as she came up to him.

  Adonael shook his head. “Took a bolt to my elbow. It’s healed up but it still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Joint wounds take a couple days if they’re really bad.” said Hadraniel as he strode across the street toward them. “I once got an arrow in my knee and the sucker hurt for hours. I can’t imagine what a bolt must feel like. You’re lucky to still have that arm.”

  Adonael sucked in a deep breath and shook out his arm. “Everything cleaned up, then?”

  “I think so,” said Hadraniel.

  “What about you, Nuriel?” asked Adonael.

  Nuriel sniffled and nodded. “Should be.”

  “‘Think so’ and ‘Should be’ aren’t good enough.” said Adonael. “I was over by the eastern gate and saw him coming down the road. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Nuriel saw the color leave Hadraniel’s face. They both knew who ‘he’ was, though Nuriel herself had never seen nor heard of Behemoth Kraken prior to meeting her new constellation. Based on what they had told her, this man was not somebody you wanted to have to deal with.

  “Let’s get out of here.” said Hadraniel. “We slip back out the west gate and he’ll never see us.”

  Adonael shook his head. “Unless we can say for sure everything is mopped up, there’s no way we’re leaving. That man finds one kid hiding in a basement and it’s over for us. He’s going to want every last person from this shit-hole accounted for and either dead or in chains before him.” Adonael nodded his head at the countless dead in the court. “Believe me, we did these people a favor. He’ll take his way with any survivors. He’ll report to Gatima that he killed them all, but I’ve heard rumor he makes a good penny selling them off as slaves.”

  Hadraniel inhaled deeply and looked at Nuriel, fear in his eyes.

  “Where’s Ovid?” asked Nuriel.

  “Last I saw him he went into the church.” said Adonael, pointing across the way. He was about to say something else when the front doors flew open and the black-haired Saint stumbled out of them, falling upon his hands and knees and almost toppling down the stairs. Nuriel could see blood everywhere on him. It stained every inch of his bodysuit and even clung to his armor as darker, opaque splotches.

  “There was a boy!” roared Ovid, struggling on the steps. He lifted his head. There was a ghastly wound at the base of his neck that was caked with what seemed a mountain of dried blood. His face was deathly pale and splattered with crimson. His black eyes wide, frantic. “There was a boy!”

  Nuriel, Hadraniel and Adonael exchanged a quick look and bolted toward the church, dashing up the stairs to him. Adonael grabbed him around the shoulders and tried to help sit him down on the stairs, but the dark-eyed Saint seemed to be driven by something and resisted any aid, struggling to stand on his own.

  “The boy!” he roared, gripping his horribly injured neck as he swung his head around frantically. “There was a boy with a babe!”

  “Ovid!” shot Adonael, grabbing the Saint around the shoulders and more or less forcing him to sit down on the stairs. “Calm yourself!”

  “We must find hi—” Ovid choked on his last word and began coughing. Thick, wet sprays of blood stained his lips and cheeks and Nuriel noticed fresh oozes of blood trickling from stab wounds in his gut and
side. The Saint flared his Caliber, swatting Adonael away from him and tried to stand but fell back on his butt. Adonael and Hadraniel took him by either side and made sure he remained seated.

  “What happened?” asked Adonael.

  Ovid held his neck but Nuriel could see his eyes desperately scanning the streets. “He was with some women and children…there were escapees…”

  “Calm down,” said Hadraniel, trying to sound relaxed. “Just calm down.”

  “I’ve got to find him!” Ovid struggled to stand up but Adonael and Hadraniel held him down. Even had he managed to stand up, Nuriel didn’t think he possessed the strength to make it down the stairs.

  “Just calm down and tell us what happened.” said Adonael. He and Hadraniel placed their own hands on his wounds and began flaring their Calibers, helping him hasten his healing.

  “I can’t…I can’t let him get away.” said Ovid, panting. He closed his eyes and laid his head back on Adonael’s shoulder. “I’ve got to—”

  “All rise for the glorious and exalted Behemoth Kraken.” came a loud but lifeless voice from the court.

  Nuriel and the others whipped their heads around to find Saint Rathaniel sitting high upon a brown steed in full barding that gleamed in polished silver. The helmet upon the horse’s head was horned with a golden spike and down the snout was painted Rathaniel’s stellaglyph in red. Upon the horse’s armored haunches was a tall pole that flew the banner of Behemoth Kraken: a field of green painted with a many-tentacled beast.

  Rathaniel himself was a taller Saint, and though he sat straight and rigid in his saddle there was something about him that seemed to slouch and project a demeanor of defeat. Nuriel wasn’t sure if it was his vacant white eyes, which themselves seemed dull and drooping, or the way his thin, white hair draped lazily down his scalp. Neither his hair nor his eyes had any of the luster or opalescence that Saints possessed, and his eyes sagged with dark circles.