Marisal shook her head frantically. “No. No. Just, you must come with me. Hurry.”
Rook looked back at the cottage where his family was. He thought he ought to tell them where he was going, but Marisal took him by the hand.
“Quickly,” she urged. “You must come with me.”
Rook’s mind was too busy thinking of what he was going to say to her and how he was going to say it to protest. He swam in these grim thoughts until they were well within the city, and even then he was only vaguely aware of the cheers he was receiving. Bellus was full of people and already things were getting back to normal. Shops were open and children played in the streets as others rebuilt damaged buildings. If Rook weren’t so preoccupied with his thoughts, he would have even noticed the much lighter tone of everything. There were knights by the thousands and all the city guard, but they were not patrolling the streets or keeping order. They were here, among their fellow citizens, as fellow citizens.
It was only when they came upon the warehouses did Rook notice his surroundings, and only then because something seemed off. They were not headed toward Marisal’s home near the river, but rather they were in the storage district closer to the main docks. “Where are we going?” asked Rook.
“Here,” said Marisal, leading him toward a large warehouse in the center of an alley. She opened the wooden door and ushered Rook inside. It was a spacious building with crates and barrels stacked along the far walls. There were some dusty, high windows that let in some bleak light, but it was otherwise dark and seemingly empty. Rook’s eyes were drawn to the floor beneath him. Blood stained the wood, as if somebody had been terribly injured here. Marisal locked the door behind them.
“Marisal, why are we—”
“My children!” she cried, running past Rook toward the far end of the room where high stacks of crates cast the area in darkness. “I’ve done what you said, now give me my children!”
“Hello Rook.” spoke a deep, menacing, familiar voice. Rook froze. From the shadows stepped Saint Ovid.
Rook drew Starbreaker from its sheath and activated it in a single motion. The golden blade’s hum reverberated eerily in the large, silent chamber.
“My children!” cried Marisal, falling to her knees before Ovid. “Give me my children! I’ve brought him here like you said. Please, give me my children! You promised!”
Ovid spoke to her, but his black eyes were on Rook. “Now, now. I never said I would give them back. I only said I would let them live.” He smiled wickedly at Rook. “And I think I’ve let them live long enough.”
“Ovid,” warned Rook. His sword buzzed as he flourished it. “Your fight is with me. Leave her and her children out of it.”
Ovid shined his Caliber, encompassing his body in a soft, golden glow. Rook could see the grotesque, pink scar at the base of Ovid’s neck where he had plunged his dagger all those years ago and left the Saint for dead. Behind Ovid, tied to a post near the far wall, sat her three young sons. Jocab was twelve and was the eldest of them, followed by Tomas and finally Galen who was only five. Dirty cloths bound their mouths, wrists and feet. Nearby were Saints Asteroth, Sodiel and Raziel. They laid lifelessly upon the wooden floor, foamy, white saliva at their mouths. Rook couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead, but he assumed if their bodies were there that they must be alive.
Ovid knelt before Marisal, keeping his black eyes on Rook. “If you sink this dagger into Rook’s neck, I’ll give you your sons back.” He pressed a wood-handled dagger into her hand.
“Ovid…” growled Rook. He took a step forward.
“Ah-ah.” said Ovid. “Not if you want your friends here to live.”
Rook hesitated.
“Now,” said Ovid, looking at Marisal. “Take that dagger and sink it into his neck.”
Marisal shook her head. “I-I can’t! I could never!”
Ovid sighed. He stood up and drew his star-metal broadsword. “Then I guess the time is up for your children. Who’s first? Little Galen?”
The kids began to wail and cry against their bindings.
“No!” cried Marisal, clinging to his leg. “No! Please! Anything but that!”
Ovid looked down at her and chuckled. “All you have to do is kill Rook. It’s that simple. Your children, or him? No matter what you do, somebody dies. I’m giving you the choice on who that is.”
Marisal stood slowly, clutching the dagger. She turned to Rook, a wild, savage look in her wet eyes.
“Marisal, it’s a trick.” said Rook. “He’ll kill them anyway. Run and let me handle this.”
“Come now, Rook.” said Ovid. “You know that I’m a man of my word.”
“Ovid, this is between me and you.” said Rook, taking up a more defensive stance.
“I’ll tell you what, Marisal,” said Ovid. “I’ll make your decision a little easier. Did you know your husband, Gabidar, is dead?”
Marisal turned to him. “What?” she gasped.
Ovid chuckled. “Rook, have you been told the story?”
Rook scowled. He didn’t answer.
“Oh, it’s a good story.” said Ovid. “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Rook who lived in Jerusa. Now, Jerusa was a bad place and there was a great famine and the people of a small village decided to have an uprising. The King sent out his Saints to bring order back, and during the fighting little Rook crossed paths with one of these Saints. Rook thought he might be a hero and confronted the Saint and even managed to sink a dagger into the Saint’s neck.” Ovid wiped his fingers over the scar. “The Saint became very angry, but little Rook escaped and came to live in a city named Bellus, far from Jerusa. He grew up and met a man named Gabidar, and he sent Gabidar out to Jerusa to deliver food for him. But the Saint who this boy stabbed never forgot about that day and searched high and low for him. One day, Gabidar happened to be in Jerusa running a little errand for Rook. But poor Gabidar, he ran into the Saint. Now, all this Saint wanted to know was where to find Rook. But Gabidar was a man of honor and wouldn’t speak, so the Saint—”
“Enough!” yelled Rook. “Marisal, it’s true. Gabidar is dead. I am sorry.”
“And he should be.” said Ovid. “You see, your husband would still be alive if not for Rook.”
Marisal turned to Rook, her face sinking.
“I’m sorry,” said Rook. “Please, go. Run. Don’t listen to anything he says.”
“Kill him.” said Ovid. “Sink that dagger into his neck and I’ll give you your children back.”
Marisal’s face twisted in anger and fury. She ran at Rook, holding the dagger over her head. Rook side-stepped her as she came and she overran him. He turned to her. “Marisal, please! Run!”
She spun and growled like a rabid animal, swiping at him with the dagger. Rook bent his stomach in and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blade. She came at him again. Rook deactivated his sword and grabbed her wrist. She struggled against him, growling and screaming as she desperately sought to stab him. Rook stepped into her and with his foot, swept her legs out from under her.
Ovid chuckled from across the room as Rook toppled on Marisal, wrestling her to the ground. She squirmed and thrashed against him. “Before you interrupted me, Rook, I was going to say that before I killed him, Gabidar told me about your sister.”
Rook felt his limbs go numb. He grabbed up his sword and jumped off Marisal. He turned to Ovid.
Ovid laughed. “That’s right, Rook. Gabidar lied to you. He’s known for some time where your sister is.”
Rook turned and saw Marisal back on her feet. She clutched the dagger tightly, her eyes frantic and wild and wet with tears. Yet, behind that desperate mask Rook caught the look of knowing. “You… you knew?”
“I’m sorry, Rook,” despite her words, her voice was savage. She held the dagger up and looked as if she were ready to strike at any moment.
�
��Now, let’s make this more interesting, shall we?” said Ovid. “I’ll tell you what, Rook. You kill Marisal, and I’ll tell you where your sister is.”
Rook’s grip tightened on Starbreaker. Marisal lunged at him. Rook easily knocked her dagger aside with his sword as he stepped into her with his left arm raised, catching her across the throat. He pushed forward and jammed her up against a wooden support post, holding her across the neck with his left arm, while his sword kept her dagger-arm pressed down at her side. “Marisal, where is my sister!”
“I’m sorry!” she wailed, her eyes wild as she struggled to free her dagger-arm.
“Mommy! Mommy!” screamed a young voice.
Rook turned his head. Ovid had cut Galen free and was holding him close.
“Ah, poor little Galen.” said Ovid. He knelt beside the boy. “If only your mommy were a little stronger, maybe you could live.”
The young boy trembled as Ovid laid him upon the ground. Ovid took off his bracer.
“Ovid, no!” roared Rook.
Marisal screamed and pushed against Rook. Rook stepped back from her, and then she came at him with the knife. Rook ducked one swipe and then leapt aside from another.
“I’ll kill him!” her voice was a frantic, desperate roar. “Leave my baby alone! I’ll kill him!” She screamed as she lunged for Rook, stabbing down with the blade. Rook used his sword and parried it aside, and then dodged away from her.
Jocab and Tomas screamed. Rook glanced to the side and saw Ovid lay his bracer atop Galen. The little boy coughed, choked and wheezed as he struggled and fought to lift the bracer off, but Rook knew it was impossible. The boy would be crushed to death in a matter of moments. “Marisal, stop!”
She came at him again. Rook rolled away, coming back up to his feet.
“Marisal!” he parried her next stab and backed away, but she came at him again and again, each time more frantic, more desperate. Rook looked past her. “Ovid, you son of a bitch!” He grabbed Marisal by the wrist and tossed her aside. He activated Starbreaker and dashed forward.
“That’s more like it!” said Ovid, pouncing. And then their blades struck together. Immediately Rook saw that the impact took the Saint off guard. The force of Starbreaker nearly knocked the sword from Ovid’s hand and he had to tumble with the blow. Ovid rolled back up to his feet, surprise betraying his stone-cold eyes. “Interesting.”
Rook flipped his sword, holding the handle upright. He danced in at Ovid, his blade a thrumming whirlwind. Ovid met him, his sword clashing against Starbreaker. Rook spun, bringing his sword up high, deflecting Ovid’s attack, but before he could sweep it around for a counter-strike he saw a burst of white light from Ovid’s hand and felt a powerful impact. He was tossed backward. It felt like he had been kicked by a horse. Rook landed hard on his back and used the momentum to roll back up to his feet. He shook his head. His entire body ached.
“There’s only one way to survive this.” said Ovid. “Give me the Golothic. Tell me how you called a demon.”
Rook glanced to the side and then immediately dodged left just as Marisal’s dagger came down. She screamed as she turned, the dagger flailing around wildly as she came for him. Rook brought his sword up, knocking the blade aside and then pushed into her as he grabbed her shoulder and threw her away. She scrambled back to her feet, panting and wild-eyed.
“Tell me before it’s too late.” said Ovid. He looked over at Galen. The boy was turning blue in the face, his struggles against the bracer coming to an end. “Tell me now and you might yet save the boy. Or don’t. I’m happy to kill them all, one by one.”
Rook felt the Golothic burning in his pocket now. His eyes engaged Ovid’s. An anger swelled inside of him and he was certain he could see fiery embers drifting around him. “It doesn’t work that way!” roared Rook. “The Golothic is mine, it will do nothing for you! If you take it, it will destroy you in its quest to return to me!”
Marisal screamed as she came at Rook, the dagger held high. Rook glanced at her. He spun in on her, and with his left arm, hit her hard across the chest with the metal disc of his forearm. The crackling energy shield burst to life, throwing her back some ten-feet. He faced Ovid again.
“Give it to me.” said Ovid. “Tell me how you called a demon.”
Behind him, Rook felt an intense heat. He heard the guttural laugh of Bulifer. “Ah Rook, here we are again.” He could feel the beast’s hulking form over him; feel its heat washing over him. He knew Bulifer well and knew the demon made its presence known only to him.
“No demon will ever come to you!” growled Rook.
“I felt your hatred reach out to me. Such a rare event for you.” Bulifer’s chuckle was sinister, guttural. Charred flesh, swept by infernal winds that seemed to come from below, spiraled around Rook. “You wanted to face Ovid, and I made it so. And now you’ve come to lie in the fire with me once again.”
“Tell me how you called one.” said Ovid. “Give me the Golothic.”
“Don’t you get it? You do the work of Apollyon willingly.” said Rook. “No matter how loudly you call, no demon will come to you. Even in Hell souls are weighed by deeds of kindness.”
Behind Rook the demon laughed again. “I’ve taught you too well, boy.”
“Excuses won’t buy poor Galen any time.” said Ovid. “Or maybe you don’t care about the boy and would prefer to learn more about your sister?”
Rook looked past Ovid to Galen’s body on the floor. The boy’s eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling, but his form was still, his hands resting atop the bracer on his chest. His brothers struggled against their bindings, screaming and crying. Behind Rook, Bulifer hissed in pleasure. “I can feel your hatred, Rook. It feeds me. You want so badly to exact revenge. You want so badly to taste the blood of this Saint. Such selfishness.” The demon laughed. “Had you not called to me, perhaps Karinael would still be alive. Ah, if only you hadn’t asked the others to stay behind.”
Rook flourished his sword, his grip tightening. Tears welled in his eyes, sparkling with the beast’s fire.
“Take my hand, boy.” said Bulifer. “Let’s finish this.”
“I’ll give you nothing!” growled Rook.
“That’s really too bad for poor, little Galen.” said Ovid, and he shot in at Rook.
Starbreaker rang out as Ovid’s sword was tossed aside. Rook spun, but Ovid ducked and swept his foot out. Rook turned, narrowly avoiding tripping, as he brought his sword up high. Purple sparks erupted as Ovid’s blade knocked Rook’s down. Rook spun the opposite direction, but before he could bring Starbreaker around, Ovid’s blade cut across his back. In that second he could feel his leather armor split; felt the burn as icy-cold star-metal sliced across his flesh. Rook’s back arched from the pain, and then Ovid’s book struck the wound, kicking him away. Rook tumbled, his wound leaving patches of blood upon the floor as he rolled, like a painter’s sponge dabbing at the wood.
As Rook got back to his feet and turned to face Ovid the demon spoke into his ear. “You know that Ovid is a foe beyond your skill. Take my hand. Lie in the fires with me. Taste my wrath. You asked for this. Don’t let Karinael’s death be in vain.”
“No!” growled Rook. In his pocket the Golothic burned.
“Take my hand. You’ve done it before, to save your love.”
“No!” Rook swept his sword up as Ovid came at him. He felt the impact of Ovid’s blade being tossed aside. He spun in, his own sword cracking against the Saint’s breastplate. Ovid kicked out, but Rook twisted away and brought his sword around. Ovid narrowly ducked it and spun the opposite direction. Rook tumbled sideways to avoid Ovid’s strike, then dashed up at Ovid with his sword extended.
Ovid spun, knocking Rook’s sword aside and Rook swooped his blade around just in time to parry the Saint’s counter-strike. Rook flipped backward before the Saint’s sword came back around, slicing at his n
eck.
With the extra distance between them now, Rook danced in, his sword a dizzying array of thrumming gold. But Ovid was quick. As their swords impacted against each other, Ovid extended a hand glowing with Caliber light and Rook felt the breath blasted from his lungs as he was thrown back with tremendous force.
Rook rolled back to his feet and took up a defensive stance, panting to catch his breath.
“I have to admit,” said Ovid, “You’re giving me a harder time than I expected. Tell me, what magic is in that sword of yours?”
“Piss off.” said Rook.
“Come now,” said Ovid, smiling wickedly. “No reason we can’t be cordial. Though, I suppose poor, little, helpless Galen doesn’t have time for idle chat. This would all go much quicker for him if you’d just tell me what I want to know.”
Rook glanced to the side. Galen was ghost white; his eyes and mouth open, hands limp upon the floor. In the shadows he saw the hulking demon. Its body was charred and cracked by veins of fire. Its ember eyes looked to him past curled horns as it knelt beside Galen. “Do you know why I’m here, Rook?” The demon brushed its long, clawed fingers over Galen’s face, closing his eyes.
“I don’t care. You’ll get nothing from me.” Rook dashed in at Ovid, his blade whirling.
“Have it your way.” said Ovid. “You spoil all the fun. I was really hoping I could tell you about your sister.” He leapt at Rook.
As their sword strikes came swift and powerful, Rook heard the demon speaking to him. “Do you know why the Sisters called you their prince?” asked Bulifer. Rook ducked a swing of Ovid’s sword and whirled in, swinging his left arm, trying to hit him with the energy disc. But Ovid was too fast and dodged it, then spun in with a kick. Rook sailed across the room and landed on the floor, rolling back up to his feet. “It is because you’re marked by me.” said the demon. “You’re Apollyon’s child. You call to me when there is no hope.”
Rook felt the heat of the beast behind him now. Charred embers swirled around Rook as he focused on Ovid. The Saint pounced at him and Rook danced in with Starbreaker twirling. Their sword strikes came fast and furiously, but in the end Rook felt Ovid’s boot catch him in the stomach, and once again he was cast to the floor. He struggled up to his feet, blood dripping from the side of his mouth.
Here Shines the Sun Page 53
