As they walked the dirt road, the city around them seemed to slowly wake up. Women and men dressed in threadbare rags began poking their heads from broken windows and doorways, their lifeless eyes dull even in the sun. From some of the doorways little children began to appear. Their skin was dirty, and their skeletal arms hung limply from their raggedy clothes. Their hair was thin and their large eyes peered at them from sunken pits.
Hadraniel had been stationed in Jerusa for more than ten years. When he was taking Evanescence regularly it had helped numb him to the sight of starving people, and the terrible things he had done to them. Without the Ev flowing through his blood the faces of these children were too much to bear, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. Without the Ev, there was no numbing this; no deadening the heartbreak; no denying that for years he had helped precipitate their suffering. Karinael had forgiven him his past deeds. She had helped him confront his past and shown him that not all roads led to the same future. He hoped that one day he might forgive himself as well, and hoped that when the time came, the Goddess, Aeoria, would forgive him too.
The children began to whisper to each other, speculating among themselves if they were truly in the presence of Saints Karinael and Hadraniel, the Saints of the Generous Hand. Their faces began to light up at the notion. But it was not a pleasing light. It was the light of a distant hope; a hope that even if were real, would be too faint and fleeting to matter. Hadraniel found the tragedy in how their skeletal faces could never truly emote any joy. He chewed his bottom lip as he watched the children and their parents cautiously make their way into the street.
He and Karin had both unofficially earned the honorific of Generous Hand throughout the kingdom of Jerusa. Although Karinael was quite taken by the honor, Hadraniel didn’t like it one bit. Already some of the other Saints Caliber within Jerusa had taken notice of it, and it did not bode well. Gatima’s Saints were supposed to be pressing his brand of law and order, and that absolutely did not include any part of a generous hand.
Upon both Karinael’s and Hadraniel’s left hip hung their star-metal swords in scabbards as black as their armor. However, on their right, they both carried large, leather sacks. Karinael drew the string and opened hers and immediately the children swarmed forward like zombies, too weak to run, followed by the parents, who moved even more slowly.
Hadraniel put a hand on Karin’s shoulder and whispered into the back of her ear as he watched the people approach them. “Do you think it’s a good idea to do this here?” He chanced a glance back at the wall, where the two high towers stood like cruel sentinels.
“Sure, why not?” said Karinael, pulling out a loaf of bread. She smiled at the children. Their bare feet scuffed the dirt road as they piled forward, their lips trembling at the idea of food. Few, if any of them, had ever seen a whole loaf of bread before. The entire thing might be more than any of them had eaten in an entire week.
“Bless you!” cried a woman, tears streaking her face with dirt. “Aeoria knows mercy! Aeoria bless you! Aeoria bless the Saints of the Generous Hand!”
Hands, both old and young, reached to Karinael, but none of the people had the energy or strength to do it with any excitement. Karin began breaking chunks and handing them out and the children stuffed them into their mouths as quickly as it came to their hands. Hadraniel opened his sack and pulled out a handful of dried fruits and meats and passed them around as well. From down the road Hadraniel began to notice more and more people stepping from their homes. His lips pursed into a frown. He and Karin just didn’t have enough to go around. Not even enough to save a single family. He hoped what they brought was at least enough to give some of them hope, but deep down feared the paltry sum might only breed contempt.
As Hadraniel and Karinael passed the last of their rations the people began to scatter like mice who sensed the unheard footfalls of an approaching cat. Hadraniel looked down the road as the people broke away and ducked back into their hovels. The unmistakable blackness of star-metal gleamed in the sunlight. Hadraniel nudged Karinael and she looked up. Coming down the road was Saint Ovid of the Nine Days.
Hadraniel knew Saint Ovid all too well. He had fought by his side many times prior to his teaming up with Karinael. He had even fought beside him the day he watched Nuriel single-handedly take out Behemoth Kraken. Ovid had suffered some dreadful wounds that day, and at the base of his neck he still bore a terrible scar from where a young boy’s dagger pierced him. Ovid’s hair and eyes were both the color of obsidian pulled from the depths of the ocean, and his voice was just as deep and cold. A child who clutched a handful of dried fruits tried to slink past him but Ovid’s gauntleted hand grabbed the boy by the wrist. The child whimpered as Ovid dragged him along as he approached Karinael and Hadraniel.
A skeletal woman in a gown of filthy rags stumbled from her home and up to Ovid. Stringy, red-brown hair draped down her balding scalp. “Please,” she begged, tears forming in the sunken pits of her dull, brown eyes. “Please. Have mercy on my child. He’s just hungry. Mercy!” She clutched at Ovid but did not have the strength to pursue him with any speed.
Her husband came forward as well, brandishing a stone in his hand. Like the woman, he was no older than thirty but starvation had withered and aged his body into a macabre form as dilapidated as his home. “Let him go, damn you! Let him go!” He extended a bony finger toward Karinael and Hadraniel. “You’re the ones of the Generous Hands! Please, I beg you, bring us back our son!”
Ovid’s black eyes looked upon Hadraniel and he was certain he saw Ovid’s lips curl into a cruel smile. “Saint Hadraniel,” said Ovid as he came up to him, giving a slight bow of his head. His dark eyes focused past him to Karinael. “Saint Karinael.”
“Let the kid go.” said Karinael.
Ovid looked down at the whimpering bag of bones he held by the wrist. The child still clutched the fruits to his chest. Ovid shook him like a rag doll. “Looks to me like he’s stealing from his King.” He looked up briefly toward the high walls surrounding the city that buzzed with clouds of flies. Then his eyes found Karinael’s. “Don’t you know there is a food shortage?” He smiled.
“Ovid, let him go. He’s just a little boy.” said Karinael.
Ovid ripped the fruits from the boy’s hands and shoved him away. He popped a few in his mouth. “I heard you two were summoned before the King.”
Hadraniel could see Karin’s amber eyes burning into Ovid’s. He watched as the mother hobbled up and grabbed her child and took him away. The father still stormed forward with all the energy his frail body could muster. He clutched the stone in his hand and raised it at Ovid.
Like a lightning strike Saint Ovid drew the star-metal broadsword from his side, flourished it, and then returned it to his scabbard. The man’s hand, still gripping the stone, flew across the road, leaving a trail of crimson beads. The man fell to his knees, clutching the bloody stump to his chest. Ovid reached down and grabbed a handful of the man’s scraggly hair. Then he brought his star-armored knee up into the man’s face and tossed him aside. The man lay upon his back in the middle of the road, his face a hideous, ruined mask of flesh, bone and blood.
Karinael strode forward but Hadraniel grabbed her around the shoulders. “Not here,” he hissed into her ear. Then more quietly said, “You can’t help anybody if you’re dead.”
She cast Ovid a fiery gaze, her lips furled in disgust at him.
Ovid smiled at her and popped another one of the fruits into his mouth. “Sorry, but it’s King Gatima’s orders.” He chewed and then swallowed the fruit. Behind him, the man’s wife screamed, but Ovid was unfazed. Something in his face even seemed to delight in it. “Theft is punishable by death. So is raising a weapon to a Saint.”
“You’re a monster.” Karinael’s voice was oozing with disgust.
Now Ovid’s pale face took on a more serious cast as he looked her in her eyes. “We of the Saints Caliber
are out here in the field to serve the will of Sanctuary and Holy Father. And that will is that we serve the King to whom we’re assigned.” Ovid’s eyes narrowed as they pierced into Karinael’s. “But it seems to me you two haven’t been very concerned about serving the will of your King these days.” He walked forward slowly, his star-metal boots clomping loudly on the dirt road. Karinael’s eyes traced him as he walked around her. His cold finger, armored in star-metal, lifted her long, amber hair and grazed the back of her neck where her stellaglyph was permanently scarred in silver ink. “I wonder why that is…”
Karinael tore herself from Hadraniel’s grasp and confronted Ovid. “Why do you have to be so cruel? Why can’t you just leave people alone?”
Ovid stood his ground before her, his cold, abyssal eyes never wavering. “We’re Saints Caliber. We do as our King tells us. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps you should try delighting in your service.” He looked down at his boots. The dirt road was turning to mud beneath him, as if water were trickling up from the surface.
Hadraniel looked away.
Ovid looked back at Karinael. His lips curled into a wicked smile as the color left her face. “And Leviathan Hydra sees all. Her seven heads are everywhere.” He pushed past Karinael and strode past Hadraniel, leaving a trail of muddy prints. A slick of water followed him, dampening his path. “You two would do best to accompany me back to Castle Gatima. Let’s hope Hydra didn’t see your little display, Karinael of the Generous Hand.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Karinael stayed at Hadraniel’s side as they strode down the lavish but cavernous hall of Castle Gatima, Ovid leading the way. There were many great halls within the castle, but of them all this was the most spectacular. The vaulted ceiling was no less than 75-feet above their heads, hung with enormous chandeliers of solid gold, each blazing with gaslight to illuminate the priceless art and décor that festooned the walls. There was so much to take in that even the most magnificent treasures were lost within the excessive extravagance.
Their star-metal boots clomped loudly upon the opulent marble as they went. Hadraniel could see the fires of contempt still smoldering in Karinael’s eyes as she gazed ahead at the black-haired Saint, but more than that, he could feel her anger within his own Caliber. It was strange, but ever since that first day he had met her, he felt she had become a part of him, and he a part of her. Saints could always feel the emotions of a fellow Saint if close enough, but with Karin it was different. It wasn’t so much that he could feel her emotions from her Caliber, but that he could feel her emotions in his own Caliber. Maybe it was love? Maybe this was the way it was between Saints who loved each other? Hadraniel often wondered.
He also wondered if maybe it was simply a product of how weak her Caliber was. If it ever came to a fight, Karinael wouldn’t stand a chance against Ovid. Karinael wouldn’t stand a chance against any within the Order of the Saints Caliber. Hadraniel only vaguely knew the circumstances surrounding why she was even given her Call to Guard. It had something to do with Nuriel, but exactly what he did not know. Not even Karinael really knew the entire reason for her getting her Call to Guard. Karinael believed it was because Nuriel recommended her, and she was content to believe so. Hadraniel, however, knew there was more to it. Saints like Karin did not possess a strong enough Caliber to become one of the elite Saints Caliber. And more than that, she did not have the correct psychological profile. It was the Saints like Ovid that received their Call to Guard.
On one hand, Hadraniel was thankful for Karin becoming a Saints Caliber. She was kind and sweet, warm and caring. She had shown him that this world did not have to be the dismal place that it was. However, on the other hand, he cursed it. Not because he did not like being her partner—quite the opposite—but because he knew that her safety rested entirely on his shoulders. And he wasn’t exactly the most powerful Saint either. If something were to ever happen to her, he didn’t know if he could bear it. Over the last several years her Caliber had very much become a part of his, and the thought of losing that warmth terrified him. Her warmth had replaced the Evanescence he used to take. He didn’t know if he could go back to his old life, the one before she came along, where he tormented the people of Jerusa and was happy to do so, so long as the Ev flowed freely.
“You don’t have to be so cruel.” said Karinael, and Hadraniel cringed. In this hall where every inch of every wall was hung with ornate tapestries, paintings or set with shelves of vases and other fine art, her voice seemed dangerously loud.
Ovid did not answer. He just led them down the hall.
“There are other ways, you know.” she persisted.
“Karin…” warned Hadraniel into her ear, but she simply walked faster away from him.
“You can help, you know.” she said. “You can help people.”
Ovid stopped in his tracks. He turned to face her, his black eyes cold. He looked down at his feet. A puddle came up from the marble floor, surrounding him. He looked back at her. “We’ll see how helpful you remain when Leviathan Hydra is watching you.” He turned and continued down the hall, leaving wet boot-prints as he went.
Hadraniel saw Karinael’s nose crinkle and he himself almost recoiled as a pungent odor began to assault him. At first it was faint, just playing at his nose, but as they approached the enormous golden doors ahead it began to hang thick in the air. It almost had an atmosphere to it; a tangible substance. Hadraniel had been near pig farms, but those were nothing to this. No matter how many times he had come before Gatima, he could never prepare himself for the odor. It was like a stinking, sweaty corpse left to rot in the sun. It was an oily odor and it clung to everything. He swore he could even see it fogging up the glassy black surface of their Star-Armor. He turned his head and buried his nose and mouth in his shoulder as he walked, but it was a useless gesture. There was no escaping it. Hadraniel thought to breathe through his mouth but then he was certain he could taste it.
Ovid chuckled. “You never get used to it.”
Ahead, the enormous golden doors stood before them. Hadraniel knew they were not just painted gold, or even iron plated in gold. These monstrosities were pure, solid gold, two-feet thick. Each was no less than fifty-feet tall and nearly as wide. Upon the pair was engraved the crest of Jerusa, a great, raging bull. Its eyes were set with rubies, giving it a terrible, angry demeanor. Trimming the door were geometric patterns of diamonds, emeralds, rubies and other precious gems, each the size of a fist. They all sparkled in the light of an enormous, golden chandelier that radiated with a hundred or more gaslights. They were marvelous and spectacular in the most hideously gaudy way imaginable.
Standing before each door was a Saint in his white bodysuit and black Star-Armor. The one on the left with eyes and hair like magnificent rubies and a rare axe of star-metal upon his back was Saint Savitar of the Pits. Savitar had earned his honorific providing sacrifices to the Womb of the World. Hadraniel had never been there, but it was said that it was a forbidden place; a bottomless pit that reached to the very roots of Apollyon’s Hell. For as long as any could remember, King Gatima had it mined for precious gems, and Saint Savitar had made sure it blessed Gatima with its riches. Savitar was said to have thrown countless men, women and children into its depths as offerings to whatever abominable thing might lurk in its belly.
The Saint on the right with eyes and hair like polished sapphires was Saint Ithuriel of the Violet Fires. Nobody, except maybe King Gatima, knew what his honorific meant. In fact, nobody really knew what Saint Ithuriel did other than guard the doors to Gatima’s throne room. He was said to have once belonged to Saint Mephistasis of the Red Path, the only Saint to ever be Exalted by his King. Mephistasis and Ithuriel were said to have purged Penatallia of all blasphemous Saints. But here in Jerusa, for as long as anybody could remember, Saint Ithuriel stood sentinel before these doors, his two eight-foot pikes of star-metal always in his hands.
Saint Ovid came to a stop before the doors and bowed his head slightly to each, “Saint Savitar of the Pits. Saint Ithuriel of the Violet Fires.”
Hadraniel and Karinael did the same. Hadraniel couldn’t help but notice the way Ithuriel’s sapphire eyes were focused on him and Karinael, and something about that gaze filled him with dread.
Upon each door was a giant, golden rung and in unison Savitar and Ithuriel pulled the doors open. Hadraniel could see their Caliber light shining brightly as they struggled at first to move the titanic doors, though they made very little sound as they opened. Billows of foul air poured forth as the doors spread and Hadraniel coughed and his eyes teared up as the sticky, hot warmth washed over him and Karinael. Ovid chuckled and strode forth into the throne room.
Beyond the doors was the single largest room Hadraniel had ever seen. The chamber’s ceiling was hundreds of feet high, but brightly illuminated by countless chandeliers of gold. The marble walls were hung with enormous tapestries and paintings, as well as plush curtains. Upon the back wall was a single, round window of stained glass at least one-hundred feet in diameter depicting the raging bull of Jerusa. And seated before it, on a raised, golden throne so immense that Hadraniel’s mind failed to hazard a guess at its size, sat King Gatima. Hadraniel and Karinael had to crane their necks up just to see his full stature. There was no man or beast so large as he. Hadraniel had seen the titan known as Behemoth Kraken, a ten-foot tall monstrosity of a man who cracked the stones he stepped on. But even that infernal creature was but a dwarf to Gatima.
He was grotesque. Fat beyond words. Hideous in exorbitance. A mountain of flesh fifty-feet tall. Red and green gowns embellished with gems and baubles blanketed him like snow might a mountain. His face must have been four-feet around and it sagged beneath the weight of his own cheeks and chins. His hair was dark and curly and upon it rested a crown as engorged and bloated as the man who wore it. Its golden spires, each many feet high, were burdened by gems so large that the entire thing looked as if it threatened to sink into the fat of his scalp. His arms—impossible to gauge their size beneath the billowing, draping gowns—sat high upon his sides, dozens of feet apart. His hands were like hams, each finger a sausage heavy with rings of gold half-swallowed by rolls of fat. In his right hand he held a golden scepter so laden with gems that any beauty it might contain was lost in its terrible excess. His dark eyes looked down upon them with lazy arrogance.
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