The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  Rook bolted past the last few children and the woman behind them. She called out to him and tried to grab his arm as he flew past her, but Rook was out the door before she could even consider giving chase. He ran down the steps of the church, and just as he passed the fountain, a group of men with bolt-throwers over their shoulders came scrambling down one of the streets, nearly bowling him over. Rook heard one of them shout at him to get out of there, but Rook kept on going. He crossed the brick-paved square and just made it to the first of the dilapidated houses when a streak of white light upon the rooftops caught his eye. He stood and watched as a pair of men came charging down the road, one of them screaming something about “They’re coming!”

  Then, from behind them, Rook saw the golden-haired Saint drop down from the roofs, her aura trailing light behind her. She dashed into the group of running men, her black sword twirled and blood shot from the first man’s neck as his head went flying. The second man turned his bolt-thrower toward her, but before he could pull the trigger his arms fell off at the elbows and his head went tumbling away.

  Rook gasped, his mind reeling at the terrible sight. More men ran up but the Saint was on them before they could get a shot off or a sword up. She disappeared behind some houses, the screams of men following her down the unseen alleys. Rook heard more bolt-thrower fire from his left, and then a handful of men came running his direction. A couple of them screamed as another Saint—this one a man with hair and eyes like polished silver—leapt down from a rooftop, his shining aura following him. As he landed amidst them, his sword whirled and they fell dead before him. But then there was the loud clank of a bolt-thrower and the Saint stumbled back as a bolt exploded upon his obsidian breastplate.

  The Saint was stunned but unharmed as he turned his attention to the man. He was about ten-yards off, taking aim at him near the fountain. The Saint dashed forward just as the man pulled back on the trigger. JINK-JINK-JINK came the roar of his gun. The Saint was a blaze of yellow light as his sword flourished, blocking the shots in midair and then cutting the man down. And then the Saint was gone, leaping up and bounding along the rooftops.

  Rook ducked into the house he was standing in front of and crouched behind the old, rotting door, keeping it cracked just enough so that he could see outside. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breathing loud and heavy within his own ears. His mind was spinning with blood and screams. Something deep within him was beginning to resolve that what he had just witnessed were not Saints here to protect them, but rather Saints sent to kill all of them. He felt a warm tear fall from his eye and he wiped at it just as a large number of townsmen ran into the square near the fountain. They all began kneeling, their bolt-throwers aimed his direction. Mister Brumal and Estival were with them, and they took up a position right behind the fountain. Upon the mens’ faces was terror and Rook could see some of them trembling. Mister Brumal began yelling at them to take aim and suddenly all their guns roared to life.

  Rook ducked and pressed himself flat on the floor. A few errant bolts impacted the house he was hiding in and he felt the walls tremble and splinters rained down on him. Then a pair of glowing streaks dashed into the townsmen, one of them leaping up and coming down in an arc like a lightning strike. There were two Saints, one with hair and eyes as black as his armor, and another whose were as red as rubies. The townsmen all turned in to face them, but the Saints were amongst them and they couldn’t fire without risking hitting their own. Rook could hear the terrible thuds as limbs and heads fell; he could hear the choking screams of death. Some men ran, others stayed and tried to fight, but it was futile. Within seconds the town square was a sea of bodies and blood and men screaming their last. The still forms of Mister Brumal and his son, Estival, amongst them. Rook clenched a hand over his own mouth to stifle his cry.

  Just then there was a loud JINK! Rook looked up as the Saint with red hair fell to the ground, screaming and holding his arm. His sword fell upon the stones of the square with a heavy clank that shattered the bricks beneath it. Hidden in one of the alleys, a man with a bolt-thrower came running up toward the fallen Saint. Rook wanted to scream to the man, to warn him, but before he could get anything out, the black haired Saint dashed in and the man fell to the ground in two separate halves.

  “Adonael, you ok?” asked the black-haired Saint as he strode up to his fallen companion. Rook thought his voice was like a forgotten cave, deep and cold.

  The ruby-haired Saint rolled on the ground, clutching his arm, groaning in pain. Rook hardly dared breathe as he lay still and silent in the doorway. He could see blood all over the injured Saint’s elbow where he clutched at it.

  The black-haired Saint looked down at him. “You took a nasty bolt to your elbow.” He knelt down next to him. “Let me see.”

  Slowly, the red-haired Saint took his hand away from his elbow and blood flowed out freely. At the joint where his bracer met the armor of his upper arm Rook could see mangled flesh and bone. Blood poured out of the wound, trickling down his black armor and staining his white bodysuit with horrific patterns.

  “You’re lucky that shot didn’t take your arm clean off.” said the black-haired Saint. “It’ll heal.” He placed the Saint’s own hand back over the wound and then helped him up to his feet.

  The red-haired Saint rubbed at the wound, and Rook could see that his hand and elbow shown with golden light. “Apollyon below that hurts.” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  The black-haired Saint looked around the empty square. The sound of bolt throwers was further back now, the screams becoming fewer and fewer. “We’re almost done here, I think.” he said in that cold, deep voice.

  “Nuriel and Hadraniel can take out the rest.” said the wounded Saint, still clutching his arm. He began bending his elbow, and to Rook’s surprise it looked as if the wound was healing. The Saint bent down and picked his sword up, revealing the cracked stones beneath it. “Let’s start clean up.”

  The black-haired Saint motioned with his head over to the church. “I’ll take the church. There’s always women and children hiding out there. Not sure why they always think to hide in the church.”

  The wounded Saint frowned. His arm seemed better now, though he still cringed each time it moved. “I’m going to start back by the wall and pick off any stragglers. If you see Nuriel and Hadraniel tell them to mop up quickly.”

  The black-haired Saint nodded and then strode off toward the church, his wickedly tapered sword in his hand. The other took off down the road. Rook looked at the church and then his eyes clenched shut, squeezing tears from them. Ursula was there. He had left Ursula with Misses Camellia and the other women and children, and they were all in the church.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Ovid entered the church cathedral, his star-metal boots clomping loudly on the hardwood floor. He looked around at the stained glass depictions of ancient Saints, and at the mural of Aeoria and the entwined dragons. He mused about how old these must be. He hadn’t seen a picture of Aeoria with dragons in nearly fifteen years, and that was back in Dimethica in an ancient, forgotten church he had stumbled upon. Such pictures were usually forbidden. Ovid chuckled to himself. “Greedy old Gatima won’t even spare new glass for the Oracles. Very interesting.”

  He took a few paces down the aisles of pews. His deep voice resonated through the church as he said, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. The Goddess sent me to give you her blessings.” His wicked laughter filled the cathedral. He clomped loudly toward the back of the church to where a door led down into the darkness of a basement.

  He went down the stone stairs, step by step. “Now let’s see,” he said, entering the darkness, his own Caliber light illuminating the rows of shelves stacked with food and sundries. He depressed a brass button on the side of the wall, and after a few pops the gas lanterns of the basement came to life with their soft, yellow-green glow. He clomped over toward the back of the room where barrels of wine were stacked upon a pair of tal
l racks. As he went, he held his sword out, slicing open a row of burlap sacks, the flour and grains they held spilling out onto the floor. He stopped right before the racks of barrels.

  “Are you hiding behind here?” He thrust his sword into a barrel and ripped it out, letting the crimson wine spill out onto the floor. With his bracer he smashed another barrel, shattering it and the rack. With a terrible thunder a number of barrels came crashing down, breaking upon the floor with sharp cracks. The room was engulfed by the smell of wine, but behind the barrels was nothing but brick wall.

  Ovid turned, tapping his star-metal boot on the stone floor, splashing the spilled wine. His black eyes scanned the room. “I know you’re in here. You’ve all been very, very naughty.” He clomped forward, scraping the tip of his sword upon the brick floor as he went. “To the first one to shout out and give up the rest, I shall let you live.” Ovid waited a moment in silence. “No takers?” He chuckled.

  “I’ll bet if I’m very, very quiet I can hear your babes weeping.” He stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. Silence reigned for a few long moments, but then he caught the brief, muffled sound of a baby’s wailings. “Ah, there it is. You can’t keep them pressed to your chests for too long, can you? It’s a shame really. Perhaps for the price of a few babes the rest of you might have lived.”

  Ovid reached out to the row of shelves before him and tore them from the wall, throwing them violently aside. They toppled with a terrible crash, spilling their mason jars of preserved fruits and vegetables all over the floor, revealing an alcove beyond. There were four women there, all of them clutching bawling babies to their chests, and about two dozen young children who all began screaming. Ovid chuckled. They all pressed themselves into the back of the chamber, Ovid’s own Caliber light illuminating their terrified faces, wet with tears.

  “Please, Aeoria have mercy!” pleaded one of the women, getting down on her knees. She clutched a screaming infant to her bosom as she shuffled on her knees toward him. “Please, have mercy on us!”

  “Shh.” Ovid pushed a finger to the woman’s lips and sheathed his sword. He gestured for the woman to hand him the baby, and she reluctantly complied. It was a baby girl with dark hair and blue-black eyes.

  “Please, oh please!” she begged at his feet. “Please! I couldn’t bear it! Please! Charity! Charity and mercy! Certainly Aeoria would forgive one so young and innocent!”

  Ovid unwrapped the babe and tossed the blanket aside. It was naked but for a cloth diaper. He held it around the skull with one hand, dangling it above the woman. It screamed and wailed so terribly that it choked for breath. “Is this the one that I heard? Is this the one that led me here?”

  “Mercy! Mercy!” begged the woman, clutching at Ovid’s ankles.

  “Mercy?” asked Ovid. “I gave you a chance for mercy. You should have taken me up on my offer.”

  “Please, Saint! What is your name?!” she wailed at his feet, looking up at him with tearful, pleading eyes.

  Ovid cast his black eyes down on her. He held up his left fist, revealing the stellaglyph painted in red upon his black gauntlet. It was a crooked, twisted looking star. “I am Saint Ovid of the Nine Days,” he said coldly.

  “Ovid of the Nine Days, have mercy!” bawled the woman. “I beg you, Saint Ovid, have mercy! Mercy and charity for one so young!”

  Ovid’s eyes and mouth curled into a wicked smile and he let out a slow, deep-throated chuckle. “I earned my honorific in the lands of Penatallia, working for King Erol. He wanted me to cleanse his city of heretics. It took his soldiers nine days to haul away the bodies of those I killed in his name.” He paused and shook the screaming baby that he dangled. “Children and babes amongst them.”

  The woman wailed and clutched his ankles. “Aeoria, have mercy!”

  “Aeoria might.” he said. “But not King Gatima. And not I.” He dangled the babe by its head, wiggling it over the woman, it’s screams horrific. “How do you want this? I can burn you all together, or I can cut your throats one by one.” His cruel chuckle filled the alcove. “Who wants to live longer? I’ll let you watch the rest die.” He dangled the screaming babe over the woman’s head and began to laugh when a terrible, burning sting erupted in the back of his knee, and he dropped the child and fell.

  Rook managed to grab Ursula just before she hit the floor. He clutched her and his dagger, now dripping with the Saint’s blood, to his chest.

  Ovid growled as he turned on his knee, clutching the bleeding wound. His black eyes flashed like lightning in the eerie glow of his Caliber, and they fixed on Rook. He snarled and struggled back to his feet, keeping his hateful eyes locked on Rook. Ursula screamed out from Rook’s arms and he backed away from the Saint slowly.

  Ovid’s lips turned up in a snarl as he stepped out of the alcove toward Rook. “Come here!” he barked.

  Rook felt his heart pounding in his chest. His shoes sloshed into a puddle of wine as he stepped back. He held Ursula in his left arm, and in a feeble gesture of defense, held the dagger out with his right hand.

  With uncanny speed Ovid drew his sword and shot forward, his Caliber flaring brilliantly. Rook reflexively tried to move, but his feet slipped on the wet floor and he fell on his butt as Ovid’s sword narrowly missed his neck. With Ursula in one arm and the dagger in his other hand, Rook scrambled on the wine-soaked floor, desperately trying to scoot away, but his back hit a row of shelves, blocking him; trapping him.

  Ovid turned and stormed forward and angrily grabbed one of the shelves near him and tore it down, throwing it at Rook. It was all Rook could do to curl up into a ball on the floor, clutching Ursula tightly into his chest as the racks and shelves crashed down around him, mason jars shattering all around.

  Rook could hear the Saint’s star-metal boots clomping on the stone toward him. He opened his eyes to find himself caged by fallen and broken shelves. Their heavy timbers leaned in around him at eerie angles, panels of wood lay above him and crumpled shelves before him. Through gaps of broken wood he could see the terrifying Saint approaching him and he tried to stand, but couldn’t. His legs began to kick and his heart raced. Ursula screamed in his arms. He was trapped. The fallen shelves were his cage and there was nowhere for him to run. He looked up as the Saint loomed over him, his dark, cold eyes fixed on him. Ursula screamed and he clutched her to his chest.

  Ovid chuckled as he pointed the sword through one of the gaps in the shelves, right at Rook’s face. “Trapped like a rat.” He shook his head and looked down at his knee. Rook could see the white bodysuit beneath the armor was smeared with blood, but the wound seemed to already be healed. Ovid returned his glare. “That was not smart of you.”

  Just then Rook saw Misses Camellia run out of the alcove where the others still huddled in fear. “Rook!” she cried. Ovid turned just as she fell down at his feet, begging and pleading. “Please! Please have mercy! Please, he is but a boy and his sister but a babe! Please, I beg you, have mercy on the children!”

  Ovid returned his black eyes down to Rook. “A boy and his sister. How sweet.”

  “Please!” wailed Camellia, clutching at his ankles. Her voice was getting more desperate. “His name is Rook! His sister is Ursula! Please, have mercy! They are children! They are good children who know Aeoria! He meant no harm! He meant no harm! He just wanted his sister back! Please! Please!”

  Ovid looked down at her, his pale face and black eyes showing no trace of care.

  Camellia’s voice trembled now as she looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Here, take me,” she said. Her desperate, trembling fingers began unbuttoning her shirt. “Take me! Leave them and take me!” She exposed her breasts. She looked up at him, licking her lips. Her hands slid up the cold, black star-metal that covered his thighs. “Please, let them go and have me. I can please you.”

  Ovid’s glare was unmoved.

  “I will!” she said, her words soft, desperate, failing. “I’ll please you! I’ll please you! Let them go!” her hands fum
bled at his crotch where black star-metal plates hung upon his waist, and something of a star-metal codpiece was upon his front. She pressed her mouth to his crotch, her hot breath fogging his armor. “Let them go. Have me and let them go!”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Ovid, sliding the black blade of his star-metal sword over her breasts. “I’ll kill him last so he can watch the rest of you die.”

  At that moment Camellia’s eyes went wide and she choked for breath. Rook’s view was blessedly hampered by the fallen shelves that surrounded him, and it took him a moment to realize that the Saint had pushed his sword through the center of her chest. He gasped. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. Fear and shock froze him.

  Ovid ripped the sword from her body and turned to Rook as Camellia fell with a gentle splash into the wine on the floor. He whipped his sword to the side, and Rook felt the warm blood of Misses Camellia slap him across the face. Ursula bawled in his arms. Ovid looked down at Rook. “I’m going to kill them all one by one so you can hear each one of their screams. And when I’m done with them, I’ll come back for you two.” He crouched down and looked directly through a gap in the shelves, his black eyes fixed upon Rook’s own eyes. “If you kill your sister by the time I come back, I’ll let you go free.” He winked at him and then stood and turned his attention to the alcove. The women and children began to scream as he clomped toward them.

  Panic took Rook. In his head there was a blur of screams from the women, children and Ursula. All around him the toppled shelves leaned in and he began to feel dizzy. The coldness of the floor and the wetness of the wine and all that had spilled from the mason jars soaked his pants. The smell of wine and blood and pickled vegetables assaulted him in a nauseating cloud. He tried to stand, tried to move the shelves, but the heavy, oaken timbers would not budge for him. Ursula wailed in his arms.