“Just a friend.” said the old man with a smile.
“Are you from here?” asked Rook. “I…I don’t ever recall seeing you before.” There were very few townsfolk who lived to be so old, and none Rook had ever seen to be so old as to have white hair and beard.
“I traveled very far to come here.” said the man. “To come here and see you.”
Rook’s brow furled. “To see me? But…why?”
The man looked over at Ursula who lay sleeping in the nest of warm blankets. He smiled. Then he looked back down at Rook. “Because you have been given the chance to do great good or great evil.” said the man.
“And you want me to do good?” asked Rook.
The man smiled warmly. “Cycles always turn.” he said. “I cannot tell you what to do, or what you should do. I cannot tell you what path you should take. But, you will always know.” He tapped Rook’s chest. “You will always know what you should do and what path you should walk. And where upon that path you find yourself will be the answer to whether you have done right or done wrong.”
Rook’s brow furled as he mulled the man’s words over. “But…can you stay? Can you come with me?”
The man placed a pale hand on Rook’s shoulder and he felt a pleasing, warm, tickle there. “My travel here was by way of great pain and I am very tired. My time is very nearly up.” he said, looking down at his chest. His gown was nearly soaked through with blood. For the first time, Rook noticed that the fabric, heavy with crimson, clung to something beneath it. It was a sword hilt, Rook was sure of it. The man had a sword buried in his chest.
“Let me get you help,” said Rook.
The man smiled. “I told you, this wound cannot kill. Do not fear for me.” He looked over toward a window and pointed. “They are here, I believe.” He looked back at Rook. “Just remember, Good only needs a man who is not afraid to hold a light to Evil. When you look at evil, you must not blink.”
Just then there was shouting from outside. “Saints!” came a cry. “Saints are coming!”
Rook’s heart leapt and he looked to the window for a brief second. The guards who were dozing about the church suddenly sprang to life and dashed for the door. Outside, Rook could see people running. He turned around. “What’s your…” But the old man was no longer there.
— 18 —
THE COVENANT OF BULIFER
Nuriel had seen a couple scouts in the woods as they approached the city but she hadn’t mentioned anything to the other three. She probably should have, since she knew her future likely depended on how well she could sell herself on this battle. Without Isley, without Umbrial, Tia, Gamalael or Arric, there was nobody who could attest to her loyalty. Just the opposite, in fact, it made her look rather suspicious that they were all gone and she the lone survivor. Nuriel knew that the Oracles would be questioning Adonael, Hadraniel and Ovid about how she performed today. If she hesitated here—couldn’t bring herself to kill a woman or child—they’d tell Sanctuary about it. It would make her look even more suspicious. On the other hand, if she could just get this job done quickly and efficiently, it would all be over with and they’d certainly tell the Oracles that she performed admirably. At least a certain amount of suspicion would vanish.
But then again, she already failed to mention the scouts she had seen. The city would already be expecting them.
Nuriel exhaled loudly. “Hold up.” she said.
The other three stopped and watched as Nuriel opened the small leather pouch on her side and took out her injector. “Good idea,” said Adonael. “The caer should be just ahead, past that line of trees.” He and Hadraniel began pulling out their own injectors.
Nuriel sniffled and plunged her injector into a vial of Ev and took up a slightly larger dose than what she had come to consider ‘adequate’. She glanced up at Ovid. The black-eyed Saint stood there silently, watching. “Want some?”
“Don’t need any.” said Ovid. “We’re doing what I like to do best.”
Nuriel tucked her golden hair behind her ear and handed her injector to Ovid. “Then here, do me.” She tilted her head to the side, exposing the soft flesh of her neck and the artery there.
Nuriel gritted her teeth at the sting as he gently sank the needle into her neck. She could feel the warmth of the Ev push out, rushing through her body. Ecstasy collected in her chest and groin; a collage of images swirled briefly in her mind, spiraling up a pillar of flame as she looked to the sky. She dared not look down just yet, for in her mind’s eye the mother with her little boy and baby would be there. If she paid them any heed they would take her to places hard to come back from. She was learning to control the influence of the Ev within her and she exhaled slowly, feeling the care and emotion wash out of her. It was only then that her mind was free to focus on the present without fear of chasing visions. Nuriel breathed deeply and sighed contentedly as she took her injector back.
“Do me too,” said Adonael, handing his injector to Ovid.
Hadraniel removed his star-metal gauntlet and bracer from his left arm and began rolling up his sleeve. “I only do myself.” he said. “You sure you don’t want any, Ovid?”
“I requested to come here, to Jerusa, you know.” said Ovid as he injected Adonael. He handed the man back his injector and looked at Hadraniel, his black eyes emotionless, cold.
“Most of us request to get out of Jerusa,” said Hadraniel, and he slowly sunk the tip of his needle into his arm. “This country is an impoverished dump. Not a single ass or chest worth looking at, unless you’re into skeletons, I guess. And here you are specifically requesting to come here?”
“Why?” asked Nuriel, packing away her Ev.
“Like I said, we’re doing what I like to do best.” said Ovid. “There’s a lot more of it here than anywhere else. Except maybe Penatallia, but the people there aren’t half as fun to deal with as they are here. The people here are cutoff from the world. They’re still innocent and a little naïve, and that leaves them hope that there can be a better day. They’re not quite as beaten down yet. Makes the job more fun.”
Nuriel frowned.
Ovid placed a hand on Nuriel’s shoulder and his cold, obsidian eyes gazed into hers. “If you want to keep your hands clean, you ask for Narbereth. If you want to be on your own, you ask for the Woes. But if you want to have fun, you ask for here or Penatallia.”
“What’s in the Woes?” asked Nuriel.
“Nothing.” said Ovid. “It’s the southernmost portion of Valdasia. Mostly swamps. Some Unbound, I’ve heard. Not much else. No big cities, nothing of interest to King Verami. Saints down there don’t have much to do and they’re mostly Eremitics.”
“Sounds like my kind of life,” said Hadraniel, rolling his sleeve down. “So long as there are plenty of pretty ladies, that is.”
“Good luck with that.” said Adonael. “Any Saint who’s been doing their job long enough wants to be assigned to the Woes and granted Erimiticy. You gotta really earn a spot like that. Sanctuary won’t just hand it out.” He pointed ahead. “We best be quiet from here on in. Caer’s just beyond that line of trees.”
Adonael lead them about a hundred yards through the sparse woods until the trees abruptly ended. He motioned for them to all take up positions behind the trees. Ahead, there was a freshly planted field being pecked at by some crows, and beyond that, the wall of the city. The caer’s walls were simple stone construction, no more than six or seven feet high. There was a single gate but it had been barricaded off with heaps of rubble and debris. At the top of the wall Nuriel could see a few helmets protruding as sentries stood on the other side, keeping watch for them, no doubt. Hanging from the walls in numerous places were the bodies of clergy and some town officials. Upon a pike near the front gate was a head that had been burned beyond recognition. Next to it was another pike, the silver mirror-mask was charred but unmistakable.
“Looks like the rumors were right.” said Adonael. “They’ve killed the Oracle, and I’ll bet the other head is
Father Tarask. That means we have to assume they’re all armed with bolt-throwers too. It’s just us four, but we can probably take them all if we’re careful. Or we could hang back and wait for backup.”
“Backup?” asked Nuriel.
“Behemoth Kraken and his Saint, Rathaniel of the Grieving Hand.” muttered Hadraniel.
“Who is Behemoth Kraken?” asked Nuriel.
“King Gatima does not like to appoint nobles or Exalteds, but when he does, he sure knows how to pick ‘em.” said Adonael. “Isley never mentioned him to you?”
Nuriel shrugged.
Ovid chuckled coldly. “He’s my kind of Exalted.”
Adonael frowned. He looked at Nuriel. “Trust me, if you see him, steer clear. And believe me, you’ll know him when you see him. The less you have to do with him, the better. Rathaniel is missing his left arm because he pissed him off one day.”
“And that’s exactly why we’re not waiting for backup.” said Hadraniel. “Let’s get this over with and get out of here before he shows up. The last thing I want is to have to accompany him back to Gatimaria…or have him decide to take one of us for his own.” He seemed to shiver at that last thought.
“Agreed.” said Adonael. He poked his head around the tree. “Ovid, you take the north end. Nuriel, you and me are taking center. Hadraniel, you take the south. We all dash forward, jump the wall, and just unleash on ‘em all.” He looked at the group. “Gatima was very clear: no survivors. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s somebody taking his stuff, and as far as he’s concerned, these people just took his city.” He looked directly at Nuriel and said, “And believe me, if Behemoth Kraken comes here and finds so much as a single baby alive, he’s going to count this as a failure on our part, and I have no desire to end up like Rathaniel.” He breathed deep and puffed out his breath. He looked back at the group. “We ready?”
Nuriel and the others nodded.
“Good.” said Adonael. “Watch your backs and keep moving. Don’t let them have time to aim their bolt-throwers at you. Weapons out.”
The Saints all drew forth their swords.
“On my count, we dash,” said Adonael. “One…two…three!”
In a blinding flare of Caliber energy the four sped from the edge of the trees, splitting off into their assigned directions. Halfway across the field Nuriel heard a few shouts of “Saints!”, but by the time she saw the barrels of any bolt-throwers she was already over the wall. Before the first shot could be fired, her sword had already cut down four sentries, their blood upon her face far cooler than the warmth the Ev provided her.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Rook wrapped Ursula up in a blanket as she stirred from her nap and began fussing. He tried cooing to her but his soft voice was drowned by the sudden rush of bolt-thrower fire that echoed through the streets. He looked around, wondering where the old man had gone, but had no time to ponder the mystery right now. He looked to the stained glass windows where shadows of men with bolt-throwers flicked by. He could hear them shouting; could hear men and women screaming. JINK-JINK-JINK went the bolt-throwers. Rook bit his lip. Part of him knew he should seek safety, that he should run and find a place to hide himself and Ursula. But there was another part of him that longed to see a Saint, that longed to believe the stories and legends were true. He had to know. He had to see for himself.
Rook pressed Ursula tightly to his chest as he slipped out the church and into the cool air and bright light of the springtime afternoon. He stood upon the church’s steps and saw men running toward the city’s wall. Amongst the streets of dilapidated houses that stood just beyond the church’s perimeter he could hear the hammering of bolt-throwers and the cries of men. Ursula began bawling and Rook held her tight as he scampered down the steps and away from the church. He tried to keep to the narrower, darker streets as he went, slipping between leaning houses or cutting through the alleys made of older, crumbled buildings. As best he could he avoided the townsmen who ran in all directions, trying to make his way toward the shouts and clamor of battle. He could feel his heart pounding; could hear an echo of a voice in his head telling him to just find a place to hide. But right now his entire body buzzed with excitement and his longing to see a Saint was a pull greater than the fear he felt.
He came upon the back of a home with a large hole of rotten wood and plaster and slipped inside, cutting across the barren, dirt-floor of the main room and out the front entryway. Outside that house, a major roadway of dirt opened up, giving a clear view of the city’s wall. And it was there, amidst the pounding of bolt-throwers and the screams of men that he saw for the first time a Saint.
Rook’s mouth opened and closed. She was beautiful, encompassed in a soft, white glow. Her hair was like spun gold, and her eyes of the same metal, but molten. She stood before the stone wall of the city, a large claymore of black star-metal in her hands. She wore a white bodysuit, and upon her chest, arms and legs were the same metal of absolute black.
Ursula’s crying shook Rook from his awe just as he saw a pair of townsmen run up and fall to a knee, taking aim with their bolt-throwers. Rook wanted to scream at them, to tell them not to shoot, but his eyes fixed again on the Saint. Her beauty and surreal presence stunned him and he couldn’t get any words to escape his lips.
But then the Saint’s face twisted into a snarl. The men unleashed their bolt-throwers—JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK—and the Saint bounded into action. She moved like a shooting star, the radiant aura of her Caliber trailing behind her as she kicked herself off the wall just as it exploded into fragments from the bolt-throwers. She dashed across the road, throwing herself upon the wall of a house and bounding off of it, moving too quick for the men to shoot. The ground behind her exploded as shots missed her; the wall of the house sending a shower of broken fragments down. She shot up upon a rooftop and disappeared from Rook’s sight, the men with bolt-throwers scrambling down the road after her.
Rook stood there in stunned awe, Ursula pressed to his chest, crying. In all directions he could hear screaming; could hear the roar of gun fire. But all he could think was that he had seen one of the Saints Caliber. He had seen a Saint. And she was beautiful, radiant, unnatural even. She glowed with the powers of her Caliber, just as he had always heard. She had been wearing Star-Armor, that impossibly heavy metal he had actually touched back in Karver’s room of treasures. She was a Saint, one of the Saints Caliber. And he had seen her. His mind ticked through a dozen irreconcilable ideas about why the people were shooting at her—at the Saints—if the Saints had actually come to help them.
“Rook! Rook!” shouted Mister Brumal, startling Rook from his wonder. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Rook shook his head. Ursula’s wet tears had soaked his shoulder. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He blinked a few times and noticed that Mister Brumal was standing before him, holding his bolt-thrower. A handful of other men with anxious looks were with him, as was his eldest son, Estival.
“Rook, look at me boy!” barked Mister Brumal.
Rook looked at him.
“Rook, get back to the church now, you understand?”
“Was…was that a Saint?” asked Rook.
Mister Brumal grabbed him around the shoulders and knelt down before him. “Rook, boy, you listen to me and you listen well: You get back to that church with your sister, right now. My wife, Camellia, is there with my little boy, Willow. She’s rounding up as many children as she can. Hide there with them, you understand?”
Rook nodded.
“Good,” said Mister Brumal. “Now go, boy. Hurry.”
Rook turned and cut back through the house, scrambling down narrow alleys, making his way back to the church as quickly as he could. As he crossed the square where the dried up old fountain stood, he could see Misses Camellia with Willow and two other women ushering a number of children up the steps of the church. Camellia clutched two infants in her arms as the other women opened the doors and began filing the children
inside. Rook hugged Ursula to his chest as he ran and her bawling attracted the attention of Misses Camellia as he came.
“Rook! Rook!” she called, waving frantically at him. “Hurry, lad!”
Rook scampered up the steps, nearly tripping. All around the city he could hear the pounding of bolt-throwers and shouts of men. And they were coming steadily closer. They entered into the main cathedral, the rows of pews spread out before them, and at the front of the church was the glass coffin altar filled with roses and the podium from where Rook had taken the bible earlier. Behind it, framed by the towering brass pipes of the organ, Rook could clearly see the mural of glass tiles depicting Aeoria, surrounded by the black and white coils of two dragons. Rook had never really paid much attention to the emerald eyes of the black dragon or the sapphire eyes of the white before, but now something familiar struck him. Something about the crystalline blue of the white dragon’s eyes, and its mane of snow-white fur. He stood there, transfixed, as he had never been before by that mural. “The old man…” mouthed Rook.
“Rook! Come, boy, there is no time!” Camellia’s urgent voice shook Rook from his reverie. From outside he could hear shouts and bolt-throwers from all directions.
One of the other women ran up and grabbed Ursula from his arms. She took Rook by the hand. “Come on, boy. They’re coming.” she said as she led them across the cathedral, toward the back.
Rook knew where they were going. At the back of the church was a small stairwell that led into the church’s basement and its larder. Over the last few days Camellia and some of the older boys had worked on creating something of a hidden room down there, a secret alcove hidden behind some shelving. It was where the children were supposed to go in case of trouble.
But Rook couldn’t go. Some part of him still wasn’t satisfied. Some part of him still clung to the hope that the Saints were good, and were here to help them. He didn’t know what he thought he might see, but he knew he had to go back outside. He had to see that Saint again. He had to see her golden hair and eyes; see that armor, blacker than the starless night sky; see the glow of her Caliber as she shot by like a star falling from the sky. Rook gently slipped his hand out of the woman’s and quietly fell back from the crowd of other children. He took one last look at Ursula. She was screaming and crying upon the woman’s shoulder. He blew her a kiss and softly whispered, “I’ll be back.”
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 47