Nuriel could feel her mind flopping over and over, as if her thoughts couldn’t quite turn into anything cohesive. A second later she felt an impact on her cheek but there was no pain, just a dull, muted thud in her head. She felt herself topple over and knew she was now laying on her side upon the metal floor, but she just couldn’t get her mind focused enough to even stand up or do anything but lay there.
She could hear Umbrial and the others yelling and growling at her. She knew all the words they were saying—calling her an idiot, calling her stupid, telling her that now she had really done it—but somehow just couldn’t focus enough attention to respond or do anything.
As she lay there a shadow fell across her. Her eyes looked up, more of their own accord than by her own will, and she saw Tarquin standing above her. The other Saints where there too. “You are a feisty little one.” he said. “Quite an impressive show, I will admit.”
“She ain’t so tough,” spat Tia, wiping blood from her nose.
“She’s tougher than I gave her credit for,” said Umbrial.
Tia kicked Nuriel, the tip of her star-metal boot driving forcefully into her stomach, but Nuriel felt no pain, though she was aware that her stomach had turned from the force and a moan escaped her mouth. Tia knelt down and Nuriel was aware of her star-metal blade upon her throat and thought it funny she could still feel its coldness. “I’m going to cut you up you stupid little bitch.”
“No,” said Lord Tarquin, staying Tia’s hand. “Seems I’ve come to possess a spirited little Saint and I fully intend to break her.”
Nuriel could feel her limbs and was actively trying to move them, but nothing seemed to happen. She was aware of her fingers flinching, and her arms and legs made concessional twitches when she tried to move them, but she just couldn’t seem to do anything. She was vaguely aware of Tia over her, as well as the other Saints. She could feel her heart racing as the people around her spoke. Some part of her mind was computing their words, even if her immediate consciousness was subdued and clouded.
Lord Tarquin looked at Tia with a sinister smile. “Are Saints pure?”
Tia smirked. Then looked down at Nuriel with a sneer. “Some more than others. Is that the way you break your beasts?”
“Not my beasts,” said Tarquin with a salacious smile.
Nuriel could hear the laughter of Umbrial, Gamalael and Arric. A sudden panic rose in Nuriel, and somehow she got her Caliber to flare around her, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone. She heard laughter and her mind screamed at her to get up. Nuriel moved her arms but became aware that nothing had actually moved.
“Let’s say we break this one then,” said Tia, and Nuriel was vaguely aware of being kicked by her foot and turned around onto her back. “You guys can all take your turns. I’ll go last. I plan to get a little rough.”
“Not too rough,” said Tarquin. “I can’t work with damaged goods.”
Nuriel saw Tia hovering over her and felt the star-metal skirt around her waist loosen and then fall off. Arric and Gamalael’s giggling was suddenly more real in her mind and her stomach was abuzz with panic. She felt her star-metal boots slipping off her legs and feet one by one. Then the armor on her arms came off. The leather bodysuit that attached to the bottom of her breastplate was unlatched and she felt Tia harshly peeling the tight-fitting suit down her abdomen, waist and legs. Nuriel was aware of the coldness of the silver floor upon her nakedness, of eyes groping her. She looked up at her reflection in the ceiling above. She tried to scream, her jaw fluttering but nothing coming out, though a definite tear dripped off the corner of her eye.
“That’ll have to do, Lord Tarquin,” said Tia. “The breastplates don’t come off.”
“That’s a crying shame,” said Tarquin.
“Yeah, so I’ve been told before.” said Tia. She kicked Nuriel’s legs open. “So which one of you boys wants to go first?” she asked. Nuriel could hear Arric and Gamalael slap hands and laugh.
“I’m not going,” said Umbrial. “This ain’t really my thing.”
“You’ll find that as your Captain I don’t mind sharing my plunder,” said Tarquin. “But I do take the first cut.”
Nuriel heard Gamalael and Arric laughing. Her thoughts were becoming more coherent, her surroundings more real, but as she tried to shake her body she realized it was just as paralyzed as ever. She tried to scream, but only a pathetic howl floated from her trembling mouth. A hand fell upon her bare knee, its warmth terrible as it crept up her thigh. Nuriel felt her ribs beneath her breastplate palpitate as she tried to scream and cry, but all she was able to do was clench her eyes shut, pinching the stinging tears from them.
“Wait,” said Umbrial. “Give her some Evanescence at least.”
“What for?” spat Tia. “After what she just did I’m not wasting my Ev on her. Make her endure it. Besides, it sounds like she had better come to enjoy it.”
“She’s still a Saint,” said Umbrial. “If you’re going to do this, at least make it bearable. Gamalael, I know you and Arric use that stuff. Give her some.”
“Yeah, I got some Ev,” said Gamalael.
“She’s probably never used it before,” said Tia. “Don’t give her too much. I’d hate for you to put her out of her misery.”
Tarquin huffed a laugh. “We’ve heard of Evanescence. A drug from the south.”
“Takes the edge off the job sometimes,” said Arric. “It’s a blessing from the goddess. We all use it eventually.”
Nuriel’s eyes were clenched shut, her neck straining as she tried to release her tears of anger and frustration. She felt Gamalael grab her arm, her hand resting limply upon his cold, star-metal breastplate. She smelled Gamalael’s breath and felt its warmth by her ear as he told her to just relax. She felt a needle jab through the tough leather of the upper half of her bodysuit that still covered her arms. There was a sharp sting just below her bicep and a sudden rush of pleasing warmth engulfed her arm, traveling down to her fingertips and up through her shoulder. Her heart tingled pleasantly and the warmth spread across her chest and to her right arm, down her breasts still covered by her unremovable breastplate, and taking away the butterflies that had engulfed her naked belly. The pleasing warmth gathered in her crotch and traveled down each leg and to each toe.
Gamalael dropped her arm and Nuriel lay there upon the cold, silver floor half naked. Her eyes were open now, but had rolled up to show only the whites. Her head limply fell to one side, a strange moan escaped her lips and she seemed to almost smile.
Nuriel heard the others around her—something about having given her too much—but what they said no longer mattered. She was back in the village, the first village where she had helped burn the dissenters. The homes didn’t seem so ramshackle anymore and they danced with flames of bright and strange hues. She walked the dirt road, looking upon the townspeople to either side of her. They were clasping their hands to their chests, looking to the bright blue heavens above and thanking the goddess.
Nuriel became aware that her legs were being spread and that there was a strange warmth upon her nakedness, but she didn’t care. The sensation wasn’t enough to disrupt her reverie, and she continued to walk the dirt road. At the end of it was a pillar of flames that rose all the way to the white clouds in the heavens. There were skeletal hands protruding from that blazing column, reaching out toward her. All around the villagers clasped hands and fell to their knees in praise of the goddess and Nuriel walked on, smiling, toward that roaring pillar of fire.
There was a sensation between her legs—a hand maybe?—but Nuriel was now standing before the raging pillar of fire where the skeletal hands waved and grasped for her. A pain tore apart her crotch and for a moment her reverie wavered as a disgusting warmth entered her. She felt a panic rise in her belly, but she looked into the bright flames and saw charred, skeletal faces. They were of the mother with the baby, and her young son. The baby was crying, but when its charred eye sockets caught her, it stopped and began to laugh and
kick excitedly.
The mother’s skull looked softly at Nuriel. “Come,” she said. “It’s your turn to hold him.”
Nuriel felt a tug at her hand and she looked down. It was the young boy, his skeletal features twisted and melting in the flames. “You’ve come to be with us,” he said, taking her hand. “You’re one of us now.”
Nuriel felt herself urged into the fire by the rhythmic pushing that was wracking her body. She smiled and stepped into the column and felt her body buzzing with a soothing, pleasing warmth. Nuriel suddenly felt at ease; she felt a great weight lifting from her shoulders and being carried off into the very tops of the fiery column. She laughed. She was free at last! Through the fires she heard the townspeople cheer. The mother smiled brightly at her and Nuriel noticed she was whole now, no longer a charred skeleton. So too was her young son. But the baby in her arms was still skeletal.
The mother looked at Nuriel and smiled softly, then handed her the charred skeleton of the baby. Nuriel took the bones into her arms and looked down. The baby was whole now, looking up at her with beaming, bright eyes. Nuriel smiled at him and he giggled and laughed. Nuriel felt tears stream down her cheeks, but she was not sad. They were tears of joy. This was her baby. She was its mother now.
“We’re all together now as we should be,” said the mother, wrapping an arm around Nuriel’s shoulder. “We all burn for our sins.”
The little boy was at her side too. He looked up at Nuriel and said, “You’ll come here now, won’t you? To this place you sent us. You’ll come to take care of my baby brother?”
Nuriel smiled at the boy and squeezed the baby to her chest. She looked up through the flames where she could see the bright blue sky and a star twinkling. She laughed and cried and fell to her knees, thanking the goddess Aeoria for cleansing her of her sins.
— 5 —
DISSENT
There was screaming. It was faint and distant, but unmistakable. Rook clutched Ursula to his chest just as he heard the metallic pounding of bolt-throwers. It came from numerous guns, each in short bursts. Rook shuddered, remembering the one man he had seen torn to shredded meat by one of those guns, and wondered if any of those had been kill shots or just warning shots. The screaming seemed to intensify and Rook had a sudden and terrible inclination that what he had heard were not warning shots. Ursula wailed.
“Shh,” Rook pressed Ursula to his chest, trying to comfort his little sister, but he himself could not quell the tears streaming from his own eyes. He tried not to look at his mother’s pale form. In death she looked no more than a skeleton wrapped in rags, her body limp against the wall.
More thunder from a bolt-thrower, closer this time. There were people running outside. Rook bundled Ursula in his arms as he tried to get his and his sister’s tears under control. His mind was racing with a million questions and worries. What would become of him and his sister? Who does he tell about momma? Does he dare go outside and seek help now? Utterly defeated by panic and despair, Rook threw himself into a shadowy corner and sobbed as he held his sister close.
Outside there was more commotion, more running. He could hear the muffled voices of men and women arguing about what to do or where to go. A man yelled “they’re coming!” and there were some sobs of babies and children. Then he heard the marching. It came in heavy, metallic footfalls. At first they were distant but grew louder with each passing moment. A commanding voice over a bullhorn was ordering people back to their homes. Rook wanted to look out the window to see what was going on, but he dared not get up from the darkened corner. His mother’s body was near the window anyway, and that was just not something he could face right now. He rocked Ursula in his lap as he choked on his own tears, trying to get his sobbing under control.
His mind wandered and raced as screams and shots came and went. Sometimes they were near, other times far and muted. During moments of silence he would doze off, but at the first pounding of a bolt-thrower or scream of a man or women he would jolt back up in the corner. After a while there was a long span of stillness and Ursula fell asleep in his lap. He must have dozed off as well, for when next he was jolted awake—either by a real scream or a trick of his mind he was not sure—the sun was setting and the house was darkened.
A chill seemed to be in the house, something reminiscent of a grave, and Rook dared not look toward the slumped body beneath the darkening window. Baby Ursula was sleeping in his lap, her pouty face somber and discontent, her eyelids red from tears. Rook stroked the thick pad of dark hair on her head and tightened the raggedy scarf around her. Rook’s back hurt from being crammed into the corner, but still he didn’t dare move. Outside he could hear the angry voice of a soldier barking orders, and across the room, obscured by shadows, was the stiff form of his mother against the wall. He felt frozen to the corner, unable to do anything.
Then there was a terrible pounding on the door. Heavy fists, banging. “City guard!” yelled a voice between bangs. “Open the door!”
Rook gasped and pressed Ursula to his chest. He froze in his corner, his breath coming in shallow gulps. What did they want with him? Did they know his mother had died and they had come to take him and his sister away to some orphanage? He had heard about the orphanages. They were little more than slave houses. He would certainly be separated from Ursula and would likely never see her again.
More banging. “Open up! We’re looking for Brumal! Brumal Gatimarian!”
Rook held Ursula tight, not daring to open the door. If they were looking for Mister Brumal—likely, Rook knew, because he had stood up and spoken out in church—they hadn’t come for him and his sister. Still, if they came in and found them they would certainly be taken away. Rook tried to sink further into the shadows of the corner, but when he shifted, Ursula woke and she began to cry. “Shh,” whispered Rook. “Shh.” But it was no use, Ursula began to bawl.
From outside he could hear some soldiers talking. One of them said to break down the door. A second later and the door was violently kicked in. Immediately three armored guards stormed in, their bulky bolt-thrower guns raised as they quickly surveyed the small room. It took only a second before all three gun barrels were trained on Rook or his mother’s corpse across the room.
Rook knew these men were King Gatima’s soldiers. They all wore the steel plate armor and helmets reminiscent of what the Clerical Guard wore. Upon their chests was painted the crest of Jerusa, a charging bull. These were the soldiers that came to confiscate items whenever King Gatima declared a shortage. These were the soldiers that came to quell dissent or hunt down criminals. The soldiers all lived beyond the church, in the political district, and were well fed. They didn’t make a habit of conversing with anybody but the clergy and nobles. Sometimes they patrolled the streets, but usually they only showed up to stir up trouble. Soldiers weren’t known for their friendly benevolence.
“Get up!” shouted one of the soldiers, his voice harsh, cruel and metallic through the grated steel mask of his helmet. “Get up now!”
Rook slowly stood, clutching his screaming sister to his chest. Another guard was still shouting towards his dead mother, ordering her to stand or be shot. “She’s dead,” croaked Rook, his throat dry and sore from crying.
The guards all exchanged glances and one of them stormed over, bolt-thrower raised and ready, and unceremoniously kicked his mother’s corpse over. Rook cried out in horror at this, but was immediately seized around the collar by another guard and nearly thrown across the room toward his mother’s corpse, which now leaned in a stiff and gruesome manner upon the floor.
Rook stood petrified upon his feet, trembling and convulsively sobbing as he clutched his little sister to his chest. The guards looked at him with cold eyes and all of them had the massive barrels of their bolt-throwers trained on him. Tears rolled off his cheeks and at this point Rook only hoped that they would kill him and his sister together. Above all else, he couldn’t bear the thought that they might kill him and just leave little Ursula to starve
and die alone on the cold floor.
“Where’s your father? Is he Brumal? Are you Brumal’s son?” demanded one of the guards, urging Rook to answer by wagging the barrel of his bolt-thrower at him.
Rook’s mind was racing as he tried to sort through the questions. He tried to speak but his throat clenched and he convulsively sobbed.
“Is your father Brumal Gatimarian?” yelled the guard, sounding more annoyed than previously.
“N-n-no,” sobbed Rook. Ursula wailed and he pressed her up to his chest.
“Where is he? Where is your father?” demanded the guard.
“He…he died earlier this year,” croaked Rook, his voice choking on his sobs. Tears and snot streamed down his face.
“When’d your mother die?” demanded another guard.
It took Rook a moment before his voice would work, but he managed to get out a, “Just now.”
“Where’s Brumal?” demanded the same guard.
Rook’s lip was trembling as he tried to hold back more sobs. His mind flipped and flopped for an answer. Did they want to know where he lived, or if he had seen him at the church?
“He don’t know,” spat one of the guards, lowering his massive gun. “And now we got to take these fucking brats to the orphanage.”
“Not if we just shoot ‘em,” mentioned another guard. The other two looked at him. “Just say the mother came at us and we opened fire. Nobody’s gonna give a rat’s ass.”
“Really?” asked the third guard who had been quiet up until now. “We could do that?”
“I’ve done it before,” said the other guard. “Ain’t nobody gonna care. Easier than marching them all the way up to the orphanage. Besides, I ain’t got time to give a full report on this kind of thing. They’ll just be left to starve there anyway. Shit, we’ll be doin’ these two brats a favor by giving ‘em a quick death. Let’s just shoot ‘em and be done with it.” The guard raised his weapon and trained the barrel right at Rook’s head.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 16