“You’re right,” said Buckthorn coolly as he moved through the trees, towing the group along. “I don’t know how many miles. Maybe it’s ten, maybe it is ten-thousand. But we have nowhere else to go. And as far as Narbereth goes, I know for fact they welcome others. My father told—”
“Told you fairytales,” barked Forest. “He told you how the people there want for nothing and of the beautiful gardens and monuments King Dahnzeg has constructed for his people. He told you it’s the land of milk and honey where fairies suck your dick and leprechauns grant your every wish. He told you how they once almost joined with the demons of Duroton. Now tell me who’s sounding foolish.”
“They’re not demons in the north.” said Buckthorn. “The people of Duroton all read and write. They all live free. They have no nobles or kings. They bow to no Saints and fear no Oracles or Sin Eaters.”
“Stories for children,” spat Forest.
“I’ve not heard good things of Narbereth or Duroton.” said Thatcher. “I heard that King Dahnzeg does not allow any to be more beautiful than his daughters or more handsome than his sons. I’ve heard they cut the noses off their girls and scar the faces of their boys. And in Duroton they bed demons of ice known as Kald.”
“Like I said, Narbereth is a fool’s errand.” said Forest. “We have no food, no provisions. We’ll never make it.”
“We have the wills of nigh on fifty people,” said Buckthorn, his cool and calm never breaking. “We have the bountiful summer ahead of us. We have the animals and fruits of the forest. We have the fish of the ponds and rivers.”
“We have nothing to hunt with!” barked Forest. “We have no milk for the babies! We have no—”
“Quiet!” hissed a woman from behind. “Someone’s coming!”
Silence snaked its way through the group and Rook found himself crouching behind a tree with Ursula pressed to his chest. She was quiet and napping. Buckthorn, Forest, Thatcher and the other three men leading the group were close behind, and a few of the other children huddled near Rook. From down the way one of the babies started crying, and then another. Women started shushing them and cooing to them, but in the stillness of the forest their voices were loud, clear…jeopardous.
“Shut them up!” hissed Forest, and then one of the other men behind him smacked him across the head and put a finger to his lips. With his other arm he pointed through the trees.
Rook followed the man’s finger. He looked to the thick cluster of oaks he was pointing at. At first Rook didn’t see anything, but then he caught the glimmer of metal…of star-metal. There, hiding behind the trees, listening, was the golden-haired Saint he had seen. She had a large claymore of black star-metal in her hands and had her back pressed to the tree and her head tilted to the side. She was just barely visible, listening for them.
Buckthorn, Forest, Thatcher and the other men and older boys with bolt-throwers began slowly, quietly, taking them off their shoulders and aiming them.
“On my mark, we all fire.” said Buckthorn so silently Rook was scarcely sure he heard what was said. From down the way the muffled cries of the babies could be heard as the women pressed them into their bosoms.
JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK
The sudden eruption of bolt-thrower fire took Rook off guard and he fell on his butt onto the damp earth. Tree trunks exploded into showers of bark and shrapnel, exposing fresh wood everywhere. By the time Rook looked up the Saint was already bounding straight for them, glowing with radiant white light like a star made flesh. Her giant sword flashed in the late afternoon sunlight, bolts exploding off of it. And then she was on them. Her sword whirled, bolt-throwers broke. She spun and kicked and men fell or flew into trees. The children screamed and the women cried out. And then it was over.
The Saint with golden hair and eyes stood over Buckthorn as he lay upon his back in the mud of the forest. The tip of her black sword at his throat. His bolt-throwers were both shattered and broken in his hands. Thatcher, Forest and the others with weapons were also laid upon the ground, one of the other men missing a hand, rolling on the ground, screaming.
“Lay down your arms and you’ll live.” said the Saint loudly, looking around as women and children pressed themselves into small groups against the trees. She sniffled and then looked down at Mister Buckthorn.
“Please, we six are the only men,” he said. “The rest are women and children. Take us, but let the others go.”
The Saint looked skeptically at him and the other men who lay upon the ground. All around, more babies started crying and now even Ursula screamed within Rook’s arms. Rook looked up at the Saint. She was so close he could reach out and touch the armor of her leg if he wanted to. The glow of her Caliber light was fading now, just a barely visible golden aura. He looked up at her golden hair, at her fair face and molten eyes, and wondered how such beauty could contain such evil.
She sniffled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You, get up.” she said to Buckthorn. She looked around. “Everybody, get up.”
Slowly, the women and children began to comply. Rook stood to his feet, the children with him all pressing into him. All around the women clutched the children into their arms. Buckthorn and the other men and older boys got up. The man with the severed hand got to his knees, clenching at the profusely bleeding wound, gritting his teeth in pain.
“What do you mean to do with us?” asked Buckthorn.
The Saint sniffled again and said without looking at him, “You’re all going back to the caer.”
The men began to protest, saying that they’ll all be hung or burned. Rook looked up at her, clutching his screaming sister to his chest. There was something vacant about her eyes; something distant and disconnected. They weren’t like Ovid’s hateful eyes. His eyes were in the moment, delighting in everything. Her’s were removed from everything.
“Please,” said one of the women. “They are but children!”
“Take us,” said Buckthorn. “Take us men, but leave the women and children.”
“They mean to kill us!” shouted Forest. “She’ll take us back and we’ll all be burned!”
“He’ll never make it back with his wound,” said Buckthorn, pointing at the man with the missing hand. “Please, you have to help him.”
“All of you,” said the Saint curtly. “Over here. Move it!”
Buckthorn and the others fell silent and began grouping up. Thatcher helped the injured man and tore a piece of his shirt to tie off the wound.
“Please,” begged a woman who had a number of children huddled around her. “Please!”
“All of you, move it!” shouted the Saint.
Rook stepped forward, moving past the other kids around him until he was standing right before the Saint. He had Ursula on his shoulder and she was crying. “You’re nothing but a lie.” he spat.
The Saint looked down at him. Silence fell amongst the group.
“You’re a lie.” said Rook again, venom in his voice. He looked her directly in her golden eyes. “You think your power lets you do whatever you want. You could do good. You could help people, but instead you do nothing but evil.”
“Rook!” shot Buckthorn. He reached for him, but Rook tore himself from the man’s grip and moved forward and the Saint took a step back.
“Saint Bryant of the Horn,” said Rook, a warm tear fell from his eye but he steeled himself against any others. “He brought candy and gifts to the people he visited. He slew the Cerberus of Apollyon. Was he a lie too?” Rook moved forward and the Saint took another step back from him. “Saint Gadiel of the Blessed Nights who stood guard upon the walls of war-torn cities so that no harm would befall the people. Was he a lie? Saint Crystiel of the Songs who would offer her prayers to those in need. Was she a lie?” Here Rook took yet another step forward and his voice took on a hateful edge. “Aeoria of the Stars, the Sleeping Goddess, whose love encompasses all, is she a lie!”
The Saint dropped her sword and clutched at her head as if h
is words had caused her great pain. Mister Buckthorn grabbed Rook in his arms and said, “Please, he’s just a boy. He doesn’t know what he says.”
“Mercy!” cried a women from the back. “Mercy for the children!”
“Just shut up!” screamed the Saint. She fell to her knees, her hands clutching the sides of her head. “Just shut up!”
Rook tore himself from Buckthorn’s arms. “Rook, no!” he yelled.
“She’s a lie,” spat Rook. “They all are. Holy Father Admael too!”
The Saint looked up at Rook, tears in her eyes. “You don’t know! You don’t understand how it is!”
“One day, I am going to make a weapon more terrible than the seas.” snarled Rook, his face falling into shadows, his eyes darkening. “It will be more powerful than the winds. It will be more frightening than fire and more fearsome than the earth. And I am going to find you. I am going to find all of you who have spread evil upon this world.” Mister Buckthorn pulled Rook back from her but Rook spat one last thing out, “I promise you, there shall be a terrible vengeance exacted upon all those I call my enemy!”
There was silence amongst the people as the Saint sat on her knees rocking, gripping her head. Tears fell from her eyes and she sobbed for many moments before she looked back up. The eyes of all the people were on her in stunned silence, but the only person she was looking at was Rook. “You don’t understand how things are,” she said through her tears. “I know this isn’t right! I know things aren’t right! But Holy Father Admael is good! I know he is! I’ve seen him; I’ve touched him! His hand is gentle and he speaks only love!”
“Please,” said Buckthorn softly. “He’s just a boy. He doesn’t know what he says.”
Rook scowled at her as he rocked Ursula on his shoulder, never taking his dark eyes from her.
“He has to be good!” screamed the Saint, shaking her fists, her voice suddenly becoming terrible and desperate. “He is good!” she roared at him.
“Then please, let the children go.” said Buckthorn softly. Rook could feel his trembling hands on his shoulders.
“Oh Aeoria, what have I done!” sobbed the Saint on her knees, looking up to the sky. “What do I do? Aeoria, help me!”
One of the women ran up and knelt beside the Saint, wrapping an arm around her. “Let us go then,” she said desperately. “Let us go! Let us all go! That is the will of Aeoria.”
The Saint swatted her away. “I can’t! …I can’t …I can’t.” she said through her tears, shaking her head.
“Please, dear,” said the woman, getting on her knees, clasping the Saint’s hands into her chest. “Please, let us go. You are kind, like Holy Father. I know it! I feel it!”
The Saint shook her head. “I can’t. None of you understand. If I don’t take you back…”
“Then take me.” said Buckthorn. “Take me. Take me and any who would go with me, and let the women and children go.” He looked around and shouted. “Who will come so that the children might live? Who amongst you?! Come forth!”
Thatcher, the wounded man and all the others except for Forest stepped forward, as well as a handful of the oldest boys and a few women.
“Take us,” said Buckthorn. “Take us and let the others go.”
The Saint fell upon her hands, sobbing. “I’ll go into the fire! I’ll go into the fire! I’ll go into the fire one more time!” She looked up, but didn’t seem to be looking at anybody in particular. “I’ll burn with you. I’ll burn. Yes, let me burn with you!”
They stood there for many moments, watching her speak nonsense to herself, before Buckthorn finally nudged her shoulder. She shook her head, as if startled from a daydream. She looked around and slowly stood up, sniffling. She didn’t make eye contact with any of them, almost deliberately looking away as she said, “Alright,” she sniffled. “You all come with me. The rest of you go.”
The men and the older boys began grouping up near the Saint, all of them trembling, fear upon their pale faces. Buckthorn looked back at Forest. “Watch over them. Protect them. It’s all on you now.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
It was a long, quiet trip back to Caer Gatima and the evening sun was now casting reds and yellows upon the western sky. The thought had crossed Nuriel’s mind to just leave them all and run away. Maybe run back to Duroton, or run and hide away in the Woes. She had her own Sanguinastrum, after all. There was no fear of being recalled. But she couldn’t. There was something she had to do, now more than ever. She had to go back to Sanctuary. She had to go back home and see Holy Father Admael again.
In fact, she would be going back to him. If she could just get through this. If she could get through these townspeople and Behemoth Kraken. The Oracles had told her back in Gatopolis that they were going to send her back to Sanctuary after this. They wanted her report on Celacia and on Yig. Once there, she could see Holy Father again.
And right now, Nuriel felt like the rest of her life depended on seeing him. She had to feel his touch one more time. She had to see his gentle eyes, hear his kind voice. Feel his love. If she could just see him again, she knew that she would know if he was good. In her heart, everything could be made right if she could just see Holy Father Admael again. The world might be evil. Apollyon below, Nuriel was even ready to admit that those who surrounded Holy Father might even be evil. But Holy Father himself was good. She knew it. She had felt it the day she met him when she received her Call to Guard. She had heard the tenderness in his voice; saw the kindness in his eyes; felt the love of his touch. Those were things that could not be faked. Love could not be counterfeited.
Nuriel shook her head. No. Holy Father was good. There was no question in her mind. In fact, she would go back to Sanctuary and speak with him. All would be set right again. She could believe in him and Sanctuary again. She could believe in everything again.
She sniffled and breathed deep. All you have to do is get through this, she told herself. Get through this and go back to Sanctuary and speak with Holy Father. You could even ask to be reassigned to a different land; a better land. Maybe even the Woes. All she had to do was get through this. These townspeople.
Nuriel exhaled and took a quick glance behind her, at the men, women and older boys who trudged along in tow. The man named Buckthorn tried to make eye contact with her, but she turned away. She breathed deep and bit her lip, wondering if she had done the right thing, or if she might have just gone and blew her last hope of returning to Sanctuary. All told, she brought back only five men, six teenaged boys and two women. She inhaled deeply as she led them through the gates of the city. This wouldn’t go over well with Behemoth Kraken or her fellow Saints. But she would have to make it go over well, because she only had to get through this to go back home.
Nuriel led them through the streets, back toward the church. As they entered the courtyard, the people stopped and gasped. All the bodies and limbs of the dead had been nailed to the front of the church. It was a ghastly sight, like some type of netherworld where the bodies of the dead swirled in limbo. The coppery stench of blood was thick in the air. The front doors of the church were missing and the brick wall there broken into a wide, gaping maw framed with heads. It was a gruesome entryway, large enough—and fitting enough—for Behemoth Kraken.
Nuriel turned around and said without looking at any of them, “All of you, into the church.”
“We…We can’t go in there!” cried one of the boys.
Buckthorn grabbed Nuriel around the arm. “They’ll kill us,” he said in a loud whisper to her. “You know they will. Please, just take me and let them go.”
Nuriel clenched her jaw and her eyes.
“Please,” he whispered into her ear.
“In!” screamed Nuriel, clenching her fists.
Buckthorn released Nuriel’s arm. He gave her one last grave look, and she swore she saw his very hope fade from his eyes. She averted her gaze. There was nothing she could do. This was her only chance. Already that man—and the
dark-haired boy with the baby—had made her sacrifice more of that chance than she wanted to. Nuriel stood back and waited as the procession of captives filed past her. Buckthorn led the group and took them up the stairs. He paused for a moment at the broken entryway. Blood still dripped from the heads above. He breathed deeply, steeling himself, and then led them all through, Nuriel taking up the rear.
“HA! HA! HA!” boomed Behemoth Kraken. All of the pews in the church had been removed, some of the pillars broken, creating a large, cavernous chamber. At the front of the church, where the altar once stood, was something of a throne made of bodies. And seated within that gory mass was the hulking form of Behemoth Kraken. At his right stood the one-armed, emotionless, blank-staring, zombie that had once been Saint Rathaniel. At his left stood Hadraniel, but Nuriel could see from here he was pale, colorless, trembling more than Rathaniel’s remaining hand. He briefly looked at Nuriel, fear, shame and defeat coloring his silver eyes, and then cast his gaze back down.
“All hail the glorious and exalted Behemoth Kraken.” intoned Saint Rathaniel, loudly.
The prisoners immediately fell to their knees, shaking and muttering prayers to Aeoria.
“WHAT IS THIS?!” bellowed Kraken from his throne. “FIVE MEN, SIX BOYS AND TWO WOMEN? SURELY THIS IS NOT ALL! WHERE ARE THE YOUNG ONES! WHERE ARE THE BABES! WHERE IS MY FRESH MEAT AND TIGHT ASS! BRING THEM FORTH AS WELL!”
“We were all that survived,” said Buckthorn from his knees, his head bent low. “We are all that remains.”
Nuriel saw Kraken’s eyes flash. He stood from his throne of mangled flesh, blood raining off his waist and legs, the stone beneath his feet groaning. “WHO IS THIS WHO DEFIES MY NAME AND TITLE?! HADRANIEL, FEED HIS COCK TO MY HORSE AND BRING HIM BACK TO ME!”
“Y-Y-Yes g-g-glorious and exalted B-B-Behemoth K-K-Kraken,” said Hadraniel, and he immediately strode forth.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 51
