“Let’s go.” said Asteroth. The Saints all shined their Calibers and raced like comets down to the valley.
— 23 —
Old Friends
Much to Diotus’s chagrin, Rook had transformed the apothecary shop into a staging area and the basement lab into a makeshift hospital where Kierza and Saint Ertrael tended the wounded. Upstairs the curtains were all open and the afternoon sun cast its rays upon heaps of armor and weapons that had been gathered and awaited any who might come to help. Much of it had been pilfered from slain city guards or knights who fought for King Dahnzeg. A large table occupied the center of the shop, and Rook gazed down upon a map of the city that Blake had given him.
“I have men with bolt-throwers on every rooftop from here to the edge of town square.” said Grandon Faust as he traced a meaty finger from Diotus’s shop outward on the map. He was a short but stocky man whose imposing shadow fell over Rook. His trademark four swords were strapped over his back. “Same here,” he said, his finger circling around Ragtown. “Every piece of furniture and debris has been used to wall off the streets and alleys. The Saints tried to breach us here,” said Grandon, his finger tapping the map a few blocks to the south of Diotus’s shop. “But they weren’t expecting to be met with so many bolt-throwers and they retreated after that new one with blue hair caught a bolt to the throat.” Grandon chuckled. “His armor is still there. Nobody can move it.”
“Any word from Diotus?” asked Rook.
“The old man last checked in four hours ago.” said Grandon. “He said the Narberian army is marching through the valley. Should be here before the sun sets. We’ll need to make preparations and get every man we can into armor.”
Rook frowned. “What about Blake?”
“Blake successfully got the King’s knights to believe that our defenses were weak here.” Grandon tapped the map. “We burned that alley up pretty good when they came.”
Rook bit his bottom lip, trying to stifle his anger. He looked at Grandon. “That wasn’t the plan. You were supposed to give them a chance to surrender or join us, not just kill them.”
“This is war, boy.” said Grandon, fixing Rook with his steely gaze. He punched a finger into Rook’s shoulder. “You best get that through your head.”
“We don’t kill people unless we have to.” said Rook. “And we especially don’t burn them alive.”
“Don’t tell me how to win a war.” said Grandon. “I spent my youth training with the Knights of Narbereth. I want this city, boy, and if you want it too, you best get your head straight. In battle, you win or you die. There is no in-between. What we’ve been facing ain’t the half of it. That army is on its way. More Saints, more knights, maybe even an Exalted or two.”
“And many of them will join us too.” said Rook. “They’ll see what we’re doing here and what we’re fighting for, and they will come to our side, just like everybody else has.”
“Boy, I served under the Ophidian. You can’t tell me a man like that will turn to our side. He likes to watch what his poisons do to people. Like’s to watch the women and children suffer his venoms for days in howling agony. Men like that Exalted will be coming. Men like that won’t turn.”
“Maybe not the Exalteds,” agreed Rook, “But those knights; those city guards who still fight against us, I’m willing to bet they’d rather die for what we stand for than what the King stands for.”
“I don’t take wagers from a slave.” said Grandon. He pushed Rook on the shoulder. “And let’s just get something straight between me and you. I might be following your lead right now, but it’s only because your little speech earned you more respect than you deserve. But don’t think for one moment that I take your orders. I’ll never take orders from a slave, and that’s still what you are.” Grandon flicked the slave brand on Rook’s neck with his finger. “We got near two-thousand people fighting for us, and soon enough they’ll be wanting a real leader, not a slave who can just talk like one.”
Rook’s dark eyes smoldered. Before he could say anything Kierza came up from the basement and sheepishly knocked on the door, even though it was already open. “Grandon,” she said. “I-I thought I heard your voice.”
“What do you want, girl?” asked Grandon. “I got work to do.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and struck a match off the table.
Kierza took a couple cautious steps into the room. “Have you seen my brother, Chazod?”
Grandon puffed on his cigar until it was fully lit, filling the shop with pungent smoke. “Take down that hood.” said Grandon. “Can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
Kierza took down her hood, revealing her face. She had a black veil over her nose and mouth now, but the pink scars that striped her cheeks and forehead weren’t so easily hidden. “Have you seen my brother?”
“I ain’t seen him.” said Grandon. “Ain’t seen him since the day the King and his daughters arrived. Probably took off running when the fighting started.” He stared at Kierza. “Those scars have ruined your face. You ain’t worth half you were before I lost you to the Venzis. You may as well grab a sword and join the men out in the streets.”
Rook pushed Grandon hard on the chest. “Don’t you ever talk to her like that again!”
“Boy,” said Grandon, straightening. Somehow the man seemed to make himself look even more imposing. “Touch me again and I’ll—”
There was shouting outside. “Saints!” Diotus’s voice creaked and groaned like ancient steel as he yelled from somewhere out in the streets.
Rook ran out of the shop, Grandon Faust and Kierza on his heels. All around the city black smoke rose in pillars to the blue skies. He could hear distant shouts and sporadic bolt-thrower fire. Diotus in his black robes came barreling down the avenue, his own bolt-thrower over his back and his green lenses sparkling in the sun. “Saints!” he cried. “More Saints come!”
Rook ran up to him, the sun beating down on his black, leather armor. At his side Starbreaker hung in its scabbard.
“Rook,” panted Diotus. “We need reinforcements. Five Saints are coming toward the north-east wall. If they breach us there…”
Rook looked at Kierza. “Get Ertrael. Tell him to meet me at the wall. We have to take them out quickly.” Rook turned his head up to the rooftops where men with bolt-throwers hid. “All of you, with me!”
Rook and Diotus scrambled through the alleys and streets, Grandon Faust and sixteen city guards with full armor and bolt-throwers behind them. Within moments they were at the wall. The major avenues that surrounded it were all blocked by mountains of debris. The wall here was taller than other sections of the city and had plenty of stone crenelations. Before the fighting broke out, this part of the wall was rarely guarded by more than a couple archers. It was built right against the wide and fast-moving Caelestia River with no way across the river and no way over the wall. As such, Rook hadn’t bothered stationing more than a handful of men with swords and other hand-weapons here as there was little chance the King would send his soldiers this way. However, Saints could leap great distances and it would be little trouble for them to get over the wall. As Rook came running, the men on the wall turned to him, fear in their eyes.
Rook shot up the stone staircase to the top of the wall and threw himself behind one of the crenelations. Grandon Faust ducked behind him, and Diotus took up a position a few feet away. The sixteen soldiers came filing up the staircase behind him.
“Five Saints,” said one of the men. “Look.”
Cautiously, Rook poked his head out. Sure enough, there were five Saints upon the opposite side of the river. They seemed to be conversing with themselves.
“What do we do?” asked the man.
Rook motioned for the sixteen guards who all had bolt-throwers. “Take up positions,” whispered Rook. “You three, take the female. You three take the one with red hair. You three take the one with silve
r hair. You three the one with brown hair. And you last four all take that big one with the golden hair. All of you aim for their heads, but don’t shoot unless I say.”
As the men began positioning themselves among the crenelations, Grandon grabbed Rook by the collar. “You crazy, boy?” he hissed. “We got to shoot them now while we have the chance.” He pushed Rook away. “Take aim!”
“No!” said Rook. “Wait for Ertrael. They might be friendly.”
“Fire on my mark!” said Grandon.
Most of the men looked over their shoulders, their faces torn between the mixed orders. Five of the men, however, poked the barrels of their bolt-throwers through the crenelations and began taking aim. “Put your weapons down you damn fools!” croaked Diotus.
“On three,” ordered Grandon. “One…”
“Hell below, I said don’t shoot!” yelled Rook. He tried to stand but Grandon grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down. The men all began putting their fingers to their triggers.
“Two…”
“Wait!” yelled Ertrael. He came running down the avenue and leapt up to the wall. “Wait!” The men all froze as Ertrael ducked beneath one of the crenelations and peered out.
“Shoot them!” barked Grandon in a loud whisper.
“No!” yelled Ertrael, loudly enough that the five Saints across the river heard him. “I know them!” Ertrael stood up. Startled, the Saints across the river all drew their weapons, their bodies lighting up with Caliber energy.
“What are you doing!” growled Grandon Faust as he drew a pair of swords from his back. “They’ll kill us all!” His steel eyes fell on Rook. “He means to betray us!” he hissed.
Rook could see that Grandon meant to sink his swords through Ertrael’s belly as the Saint looked out over the wall. He quickly tackled Grandon. “No!”
“Karinael!” cried Ertrael. “Karinael of the Generous Hand!”
Grandon pushed Rook off of him. Rook shot him an angry glare before peeking out through one of the crenelations. He watched as the female Saint of the group took a few steps closer to the river. “Saint Ertrael,” she cried. “Given the choice, what banner would you fly?”
“Erygion’s, of course!” yelled Ertrael.
The five Saints all whispered among themselves for a moment. Finally, the female yelled out, “May we come over?”
“No!” barked Grandon. “Fire on them already!”
“Shut your fool mouth!” snapped Diotus. He looked at the soldiers. “Weapons down!”
The men all lowered their bolt-throwers. Grandon hissed a string of expletives under his breath.
“Come over!” yelled Ertrael.
Within moments the five Saints had bounded over the wall, landing in the street below. Ertrael jumped down to meet them and Rook ran down the stairs. Behind him Grandon Faust hissed into his ear, “How can we be sure they’re here to help us? What if this is a trick!”
Rook scanned the five Saints warily. One was a female with long, spiraling locks of amber hair. The others were all males, one with silver hair draping his face, trying to conceal terrible scars. Unlike the others, he also wore gloves, Rook noted.
Ertrael walked up to the female Saint and wrapped her in an embrace. He shook hands with the others, as if he knew them all well. Then all the Saints’ eyes became aware of Diotus and the number of men with bolt-throwers and an uneasy tension began to mount.
“It’s all right.” said Ertrael. “This is Diotus. He is a Jinn, yes, but he is also a friend. So are these men. They fight against King Dahnzeg.”
Rook ordered all weapons down, and with some hesitation his men began slinging their guns over their backs.
Ertrael cleared his throat. “Karinael,” he said, leading her to Rook. “This is Rook. Rook Gatimarian.”
The female Saint gazed at Rook, something like wonder sparkling in her honey-colored eyes. “The Rook?”
“It’s a trick, boy.” hissed Grandon from behind, grabbing Rook by the shoulder. “We should have them shot while we can.”
Rook tore himself from Grandon’s clutch. “I am Rook Gatimarian.” he said, stepping up to her. “You are Karinael of the Generous Hand?”
She smiled brightly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She wrapped her arms around him. As she did, she whispered into his ear, “You’re a hero, in more ways than you’ll ever know. You’ve touched so many lives for the better, including mine.” She pulled away from him, smiling, leaving him suddenly awash with emotion.
The Saint with silver hair and burn scars came up to shake his hand. “I am Saint Hadraniel,” he said, but Rook was only half aware. His mind was still trying to work its way through the emotions that flooded him. It was setting in that he really had been making a difference all these years. It was one thing to hear it from his family or from Diotus. Hearing it from Gabidar had given him hope. When Ertrael had told him, it had made his whole life feel worthwhile. But now, for what reason Rook did not know, hearing it from Karinael made everything come together as one. Pride and hope tangled his heart and a flood of raw emotion threatened to release itself from his eyes. “We have never met,” continued Hadraniel, “but long have we helped you in Jerusa. This is Saint Raziel and this is Saint Sodiel.”
His mind buzzing, Rook absentmindedly shook their hands. But then his eyes fell upon the largest of the Saints who had golden hair and eyes. Rook’s gaze traced up the man’s Star-Armor. It was intricately sculpted with horns, and Rook was certain he had seen it before in pictures and stained glass windows when he was a child. Awe set in. His jaw almost dropped. “Are… are you Saint Bryant of the Horn?”
“I am Saint Asteroth of the Lights.” spoke the Saint. “But yes, this is the armor of the legendary Saint Bryant of the Horn. The same Saint Bryant who slew the Cerberus of Apollyon. Saint Bryant of the Horn, who brought gifts of plenty to the people of Aeoria during the great wars.”
Rook’s hand went to his mouth. A tear tried to escape his eye. The legends of Saint Bryant had not been lies. As a boy, Rook had spent his days of starvation and despair clinging to the hope that one day the Saints Caliber would come and make everything better. The stained glass window in the church that depicted Saint Bryant of the Horn had filled his mind with dreams that one day things would be set right; that heroes did exist. But the demon, Bulifer, had taken those dreams from him. Bulifer had tricked him into gambling his future away on his adoration of the Saints Caliber. The day he first saw one of the Saints Caliber he thought he was living in a waking dream. That golden-haired Saint was so beautiful, and her Caliber bright and glowing. But she had not come to save him or his people. She had come to slaughter them all. And as she and the other Saints cut down everybody he knew, every dream from his young, little world was shattered. The demon had won. Bulifer had been right. The Saints Caliber were evil, and all his hopes crumbled like dust in his tiny hand. He had come to believe that Saint Bryant of the Horn was no more than a fairytale to give children hope where none existed.
But now the sight of Saint Bryant’s armor before him was like a great wind through his heart and mind that swept away everything once shattered. All those days, as a little boy, when he had sat in the church staring at Saint Bryant’s picture, hoping and dreaming of a better day, those dreams had not been built on lies after all. Saint Bryant was not a myth. Such a great Saint did walk this earth long ago. There had always been hope. Rook’s heart couldn’t take anymore. He had to turn away lest the tears start to fall.
“Karinael,” said Ertrael. “There is much I want to discuss, but I fear my time is very short.”
Karinael walked up to him and took his hands into hers. “Your sanguinastrum is safe.” She smiled.
Ertrael’s ruby eyes seemed to light up at that. “It is? But, how?”
“Erygion took them all.” said Karinael. “He took every last one of them from Sanctuary. You can’t be rec
alled. None of the Saints out in the field can be recalled. We’re all free.”
“Is Erygion with you?”
Karinael’s face sank. “We both have a lot to discuss.”
“We’re here for Ovid.” said Saint Raziel, as if the statement had been eating at him for an eternity and the very name was a release for his anger and hatred. “He’s here, and he’s going to answer to our swords.”
At Ovid’s name Rook started. His heart pounded.
Ertrael looked at Raziel. “Ovid is here?”
“He is.” said Asteroth. “My lights tracked him here. He has much to atone for and only by death will his debt to us be settled.”
“Is there a safe place to talk?” asked Karinael. She looked at Rook. “For all of us. I have much to tell you as well.”
Rook looked at her and nodded. “Come with me.”
Rook quickly led the group back to Diotus’s shop. From every rooftop and alley the eyes of people gazed in awe at the sight of so many Saints. At first the looks were cautious and wary, the people uncertain if the Saints should be considered friend or foe. But as more and more curious children came from their houses Karinael stopped to offer friendly smiles or pats on the head, and the wary looks softened until there were outright cheers from the people.
Rook watched all this with some interest, taking note in the way these new Saints seemed a slightly disparate bunch. Karinael, more than any of them, delighted in the children. She was not shy with her greetings, and her smiles were genuine when she spoke; her laughter heartfelt when the children would ask her odd questions or stroke their hands down her Star-Armor. Hadraniel was much like Ertrael, shy at first but quickly warming to the attention. Both took pleasure in speaking with the townspeople and their children, and both had a warmness to their character. Rook noted that the one named Sodiel—the one with the bo-staff—also seemed to warm to the crowds. Although he was more reserved than Karinael and Hadraniel, he didn’t seem bothered to be amongst the people of Bellus. Asteroth and Raziel, on the other hand, did not seem comfortable at all. Both held themselves aloof of the crowds, but where Asteroth was quiet and withdrawn, Raziel was cold and indignant. More than once Asteroth urged Karinael to move on, and did his best to ignore the people and children around him. Raziel, however, flinched and snapped at the children who got too close to him, and in short order he was largely being left alone.
Here Shines the Sun Page 45
