The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  “Don’t worry,” said Arnos, looking down at Rook with cold detachment. “Only women and girls lose their noses. Count yourself lucky, you just get a slave’s brand. Girls have to endure both.” He turned to Garrot. “I’ll take him. Have him branded and sent to me. But make sure they use my brand. I don’t want the generic brand on him. I’ll lose my reputation if my clients think my boys and girls have been passed on from house to house.”

  “Very good.” said Garrot. “Thank you, Mister Arnos.”

  Rook’s heart raced. Fear boiled in his stomach. The Golothic in his pocket felt almost cold now, like it was mocking him. Garrot’s fat hand patted him on the shoulder. He was vaguely aware of him laughing. Garrot said something derisive and cruel, but Rook’s mind couldn’t focus. He felt dizzy. All he could hear was his own heart throbbing in his chest. He was going to be sold as a sex slave. The first night with Garrot played out in his mind. It would be played out nightly now, for the rest of his life, the only thing changing would be the face. It wouldn’t just be Garrot’s anymore.

  Rook turned his head, his eyes scanning for the short man with the plaited beard, and the Golothic in his pocket warmed up again. Rook saw him, catching fleeting glimpses of him between the milling crowd that packed the stage. The man was inspecting another boy. Rook was about to call out to him; to yell out that he could fight, that he would fight, and that his father had been a blacksmith. The Golothic burned in his pocket, prodding him, as Rook’s mouth opened.

  And then a warm hand fell on Rook’s shoulder. The touch was soft and made his entire arm tingle and buzz. He felt a breath as comforting as summer wind in his ear, and it smelled of forest, sea and sky. “Never blink,” said an ancient, rich, voice.

  Rook’s head turned behind him. An old man in an opalescent white gown, walking with a cane sprouted with green buds, hobbled away and was lost into the crowd. “Wait!” cried Rook. “Wait!”

  But then Rook felt the cold shackles come off his ankles. “No waiting.” Garrot pushed Rook’s shoulder. “Come on. Time for your burn. It’s going to hurt a lot, but when you get to Arnos’s pleasure house, that’s when your real pain will start. Serves you right, brat.”

  Rook tried to struggle free, but Garrot had him by the wrist and his grip was like a vice. He kept looking over his shoulder, trying to find the old man in the white gown, but he was gone. Rook was hardly aware of being marched across the stage and down the steps. The world was spinning, and it wasn’t until the pained scream of one of the boys shook him that Rook realized he was standing near the firepit. There was one little boy and an older girl in the line ahead of him, both trembling on their feet. The girl had a blood-soaked veil on her face and clutched at her nose, bawling as heavy patters of blood fell. Rook could hear a ghastly wheezing and bubbling from beneath her veil with every breath she took. Ahead of them the guards held an older boy upon the post and he wailed as the hot iron scorched the side of his neck. The guards threw him off the post and brought the girl over. They slammed her against the post.

  “Standard slave brand?” asked one of the guards as he loomed over Rook, speaking with Garrot.

  “Arnos’s brand.” said Garrot.

  The guard nodded just as the girl screamed out. Rook could hear flesh sizzle.

  “Almost your turn, brat.” said Garrot, pushing Rook’s shoulder.

  “Next!” yelled the guard as he threw the girl off the post.

  Rook heard the patter of water and looked up. Urine rained down from the little boy’s pants. He couldn’t be more than five years old.

  “Come on!” growled the guard and he stormed over and grabbed the little boy by the arm. The boy started crying but nobody cared. They pushed him up against the post.

  Then a voice from the stage called out, causing all heads to turn that direction. “Excuse me, sir! Is this one yours?” cried a voice. “Yoo-hoo! Is this one yours?”

  Rook turned around. The noble named Bartholomew and his Saint were on the stage next to one of the younger boys. He was waving at Garrot.

  “Is he yours?” cried the noble again.

  “He’s mine.” said Garrot. He walked over to the stage, leaving Rook in the care of the guards.

  Rook turned back around. The little boy started writhing and kicking and screaming. Despite his small size, he was giving the guards quite a problem. Finally one of them slapped the boy across the face and then slammed his cheek against the post. “Come on, hurry!” yelled the guard, gripping the boy’s face so tightly that his lips were turning purple.

  Rook looked over to the firepit. There were a number of different branding irons sticking out of it. He looked up as he heard the boy scream. Flesh seared. They tossed him away. “Next!”

  Rook was pushed on his shoulder. “Your turn.” said the guard.

  “What brand does—“

  A wailing girl came running across the yard toward them, being chased by another guard. The guard next to Rook—the one who had asked Garrot what brand to give him—took off toward her. Rook looked over at the post, his heart racing as he strode over to it.

  “What brand does he get?” asked the guard tending the firepit.

  The other guard walked Rook over to the post and put him up against it. He shrugged. “I don’t know? Didn’t they tell you?”

  “J-J-Just the standard.” said Rook. He pointed over toward the stage at Garrot, who was talking to the noble. Rook’s finger was trembling. “I heard him say I get the standard one.”

  “Thanks, kid.” said one of the guards.

  Rook felt their hands tighten around his arms and one of them held his cheek firmly against the post. His eyes pinched shut and his teeth gritted against a pain like his body had never felt before. He could hear the flesh of his neck crackling, his nose was assaulted by a terrible odor. Tears began to fall from his eyes. And then release.

  He stumbled forward, his hand reflexively going to the right side of his neck. He felt hot skin, and the mere touch of his hand made it scream with unbearable pain. Rook stumbled a few more feet and then fell to his knees. He choked in a few breaths. His neck throbbed with unrelenting agony. He kept wanting to hold it, but each time his hand touched it the pain intensified a hundred times over.

  Then Rook felt a rough hand grab his arm and pull him to his feet. “Time to go now.” said Garrot. “You—” Garrot stopped and clenched Rook’s cheeks in his hand, forcing his head to the side. “What’s this?! What is this!” he growled and threw Rook away. He stormed over and grabbed one of the guards by the arm and spun him around. “I told you Arnos’s brand! You ruined him!”

  The guard pushed Garrot away. “Then you shouldn’t have taken off!” shot the guard. “You get what you got. Nothing I can do about it. I can brand the other side if you want.”

  Garrot stomped and cursed. “It won’t do! It won’t do! Arnos won’t pay now!” He stopped and fixed his hateful eyes on Rook. He stormed over to him and Rook fell to the ground and curled into a ball. Garrot grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet, practically tossing him across the yard. “Back for sale! Back for sale, you brat!”

  Rook scrambled up onto the platform and bumped head first into what he at first thought was a solid object. He bounced off it and fell backwards onto his butt. Rook looked up. Standing before him was a mountain of a man. He was tall and imposing with sinewy arms covered with coarse hair. He had a head full of thick, brown hair streaked with soot, and a light coating of beard covered his face. He wore a red flannel shirt from which his chest hair sprouted at the top where it couldn’t quite stretch across his chest or thick neck. His blue pants were streaked with soot and his shirt bore handprints of black grime. He smelled of oil, coal smoke and burnt metal.

  “Ho! What’s this now?” he said in a voice as big and rich as a forest. He extended a meaty hand down to Rook.

  Rook took the man’s hand, his own feeling quite small and weak within it. It was rough and calloused and looked permanently stained with soot and the silvery dust o
f metal. The man lifted him up to his feet and Rook got another whiff of that wonderful coal smoke and metal. His young mind flopped, and then he placed it. The man smelled like the tools and anvil that his mother had shown him before she died.

  At the burly man’s side was a lithe woman with a tawny complexion and long, black hair. She wore a dress of emerald green with golden edges. She looked out from behind her veil with large, almond eyes of fiery brown. She was shorter than the man by a great many inches and she stood up on her tiptoes as he bent down so that she could lean into his ear. Rook saw her lift her veil slightly as she whispered to him, and he caught a brief but awful glimpse of her noseless face.

  The large man kept his dark eyes on Rook as she whispered to him. He stood back to his full height then smiled and nodded. The woman also turned her almond eyes back to Rook. “Lad, what’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sorry if he caused you problems,” said Garrot, lumbering up the steps of the platform. “This one, he is trouble.” He grabbed Rook’s shoulders and pushed him forward. “Back in line, brat. I oughta buy you myself. Keep you for my entertainment.” He pushed Rook forward again.

  “My name is Rook,” he said loudly. He turned and pushed past Garrot. “Rook.”

  The man tilted his head and looked down at him. “How old are you, Rook?”

  “Ten…almost eleven.” he said. “Are…are you a blacksmith?”

  A fat hand gripped Rook’s shoulder painfully. “Stupid brat!” growled Garrot. “I told you back in line!” He spun Rook around and raised his hand in a fist. Rook cringed, but the burly man grabbed Garrot’s wrist.

  “That’ll do.” said the man. “How much for the boy?”

  Garrot’s face jiggled as he looked at the man in disbelief. “For him?” Then Garrot’s face darkened and he looked at Rook. “He’s not for sale no more.”

  “I’m a blacksmith too,” said Rook quickly. “My father was one and his father before him. My whole family were blacksmiths.”

  The man looked down at Rook skeptically. “Is that so?”

  “Not for sale.” Garrot grabbed Rook’s arm. “You come. I’m buying you myself, brat. You cause me too much trouble, and I’ll show you what for.”

  “I’ll pay double.” said the large man. Rook couldn’t help but notice that the woman’s eyes were plastered on him. She looked at him with this strange, dreamy fondness; the way Rook’s own mother used to look at him sometimes.

  Garrot stopped and looked at the man. “Three-hundred crowns.” said Garrot.

  The man started. “Three-hundred crowns?”

  “I’ll work,” shot Rook. “I want to learn. I want to learn how to make weapons. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll stoke fire. I’ll hammer metal.”

  “Three-hundred gold crowns.” said Garrot. “Not a copper less.”

  The woman leaned up into the burly man’s ear again and whispered, all the while keeping those large, almond eyes on Rook. The man folded his arms over his barrel-chest and cast Garrot a hard look. “Sold.” said the man.

  — 23 —

  SANCTUARY

  The road that meandered its way up Mount Empyrean was made of slabs of black star-metal and Nuriel’s boots made a satisfying chime upon it with every step. Though Nuriel was higher up now than she had been back in Duroton when she had gone to the Stellarium, there was no snow and the air was thick, rich, clean and held an enigmatic essence. There was a mild breeze and it was nothing but cool and pleasing. She made her way up a steep incline that wrapped around a huge outcropping of stone and paused on the road. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose. The air was like incense of the very earth, full of forest and mountain, ocean and soil. She stood there a few more moments with her eyes closed, breathing deeply and fully. She couldn’t help but smile.

  Above her, thick, gray clouds lingered and a wide staircase of star-metal that had been carved right into the mountain ascended up into them. To either side of her were the Watchers in Stone, a pair of massive statues carved from the granite. They each stood more than a hundred feet tall, and the gray mist of clouds trapped upon the side of the mountain swirled above their heads. Their lifeless eyes forever looked out upon the vast world, far below. The statue on the right was Saint Rimnon of the Watchmen and the one on the left was Saint Chronobus of the Clocks. They were Saints of an ancient age when Aeoria still walked the earth. Though they were long dead, for a thousand years their stone likenesses had stood watch upon the Angel’s Walk, the only road up Mount Empyrean.

  Nuriel placed a hand upon the stone foot of Saint Rimnon and closed her eyes. She had to stifle a tear. She was home. She was back at Sanctuary. And she felt better than she had in a long time. She even noticed that her nose was no longer running. She took another deep breath of the delightful air. She looked backward, down the Angel’s Walk she had come up. It wound its way down the steep slopes like a shimmering black serpent, often becoming lost amongst the jagged, gray stones of the mountain. Thousands of feet beneath her—beyond the Watchtower of Saint Gabriel and the Citadels of Aeoria’s Guard—the Rock Barrens spread out like a sea, their desolate hills like waves upon an ocean of stone. Nuriel turned around and took one more look up at the Watchers in Stone. Then, with another deep breath, she made her way up the stairs.

  Just above the very heads of the statues the stairs came to an end and a wide plateau spread out, revealing a city amongst the clouds. Ahead of her were the Holy Gates, and beyond them, Sanctuary. It was a city of lofty towers and magnificent structures, all made from a strange, ivory stone only found here on Mount Empyrean. The buildings were all works of art unto themselves with high pillars, sharp spires and domed roofs. They were all tightly lined along a gridwork of star-metal roads. In the distance, set against the very peak of the mountain, Nuriel could see the Holy Palace, its stained glass windows sparkling in the sunlight.

  The Holy Gates were the name given to the entire wall that circled Sanctuary. It was a high fence made of elegant star-metal bars spaced a couple feet apart, each topped with a decorative spear point. The gates themselves were about twenty-feet high, made of thicker bars spaced more closely together. Nuriel followed the road right up to them where two heavily armored Saints stood. Like all Saints of Aeoria’s Guard, they both wore full suits of armor and they looked like living walls of star-metal in them.

  Nuriel knew the two imposing sentries. They were the twin Saints, Jeduthon and Seraphiel, the Keepers of the Holy Gates. They each held a tall spear of star-metal at their side. In all her years, Nuriel had never known either one to leave their post. It was said that the pair had stood watch at the gates ever since Holy Father Admael was first placed in charge of Sanctuary, shortly after Aeoria’s fall. It was also said that they knew the names and stellaglyphs of every Saint that is or ever was. Both watched Nuriel approach, their onyx eyes tracking her from beyond their star-metal great helms.

  As Nuriel came upon the high gates, the twin Saints both clapped their spears upon the ground before them. “Nuriel of the Saints Caliber,” they said in eerie unison. Nuriel could see that each of them had a star-metal key hanging upon their necks. They turned together as one, and each placed their key into their respective gate, then swung them open in perfect unison. They bowed slightly as Nuriel walked past them, and they closed and locked the gates behind her.

  Nuriel hadn’t noticed before, but as she entered the gates of Sanctuary there was a smiling, happy face waiting for her. It was a face she had dearly missed. Those large, gem-like eyes of deepest amber and long, curly hair of that same honey-brown brilliance caused Nuriel to stop in her tracks. Nuriel’s hand went to her eyes and tears began to fall.

  Karinael ran up and wrapped her arms around Nuriel, her steel breastplate clapping against Nuriel’s star-metal armor. She squeezed, enveloping Nuriel in her warm, loving arms. “I heard you were coming back!” she said, her voice like a rich, autumn birdsong. “As soon as I heard you had passed the Watchtower of Saint Gabriel I came out here to me
et you!”

  Nuriel buried her head into the crook of Karinael’s neck, laughing against her tears. “Oh Karinael, I’ve missed you so much!” Nuriel pulled back to look into those crystalline, amber eyes again. She wiped the tears from her eyes and laughed, squeezing Karinael’s hands in her own. Karinael had been her only real friend growing up here at Sanctuary. She looked just as Nuriel remembered her on that day she left to apprentice with Isley, but for what she wore. And it was a profound change. Karinael was not wearing the flowing white gowns and simple sandals of the Ecclesiastics. She still wore the same old steel breastplate she had always worn, but beneath it, she was wearing a white, leather bodysuit and had a steel broadsword at her side in a white scabbard. Nuriel also noticed that her friend was wearing steel bracers on her arms, as well as steel boots. Karinael was dressed like a Saints Templar.

  Though the unremovable steel breastplate was standard fare for all the Saints at Sanctuary, only the more respected members of the Saints Templar got to wear the leather bodysuit and carry weapons. Everybody else at Sanctuary had to wear the white robes of the Ecclesiastics over their breastplates. Ecclesiastics were the stock and store of Sanctuary and included everybody from the maidservants, cooks and Mothers who worked in the nursery, to the artisans who crafted stained glass and the architects and engineers who built the buildings and roads. All Saints grew up as Ecclesiastics, but only a select few would ever move beyond that to Saints Templar, and fewer still ever moved beyond that to Saints Caliber. Above Caliber stood only Aeoria’s Guard, though not even Nuriel thought to dream of achieving such elite status as that.

  Nuriel herself had been appointed a Templar Novitiate when she turned twelve, a common age for the promotion and for combat training to start. That was the age when the instructors had a good handle on who would make Templars and possible future Saints Caliber, and who would not be moving on. It was kind of a big deal for the children at Sanctuary. For those like Nuriel who had spent their lives dreaming of becoming one of the elite Saints Caliber, getting appointed to the Templar Order was the first step. However, for those like Karinael who wanted to become a Saints Caliber but just didn’t have a strong enough Caliber, being kept as one of the Ecclesiastics could be something of a death sentence. The Ecclesiastics didn’t even typically get honored with being called a Saint. Unless they had achieved something special or were honored for some deed, most of the Ecclesiastics were referred to only as Brothers and Sisters or Mothers and Fathers, as age dictated. Nuriel still remembered the day she was promoted to Templar Novitiate, and how crushed Karinael had been when she was held back as an Ecclesiastic.