All at once Lustille and her Exalteds shed their forms. The Viragos’ armor seemed to become part of their bodies, the feathers all oily and matted with grime. Their faces took on a jaundiced cast, making them more fiendish. Their noses became long and curled. Their wrists and hands, ankles and feet had a more yellow tone to them, the flesh course and dry. Their fingers and toes became the talons of vultures, with dull, black nails. They stood hunched and menacing, greasy wings folded up on their backs. Harpies, the both of them.
Lustille’s figure remained beautiful, but her flesh paled until it was nearly as white as snow. Her eyes were dark, hollow sockets and her gown was a tattered, wispy shroud that waved as if stirred by winds. When she spoke, her voice was a sad and haunting song; as alluring and chilling as a grieving maiden’s cries before throwing herself from an ocean’s cliff. “There is descent in my kingdom. My husband and daughters slain by the very Saints sworn to protect them. And yet, Sanctuary does nothing!”
“YET THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE. MY SAINTS FLEE. MY SAINTS DECEIVE. WHAT’S TO BE DONE? WHAT IS TO BE DONE?”
“Holy Father Admael is well aware of the situation and has sent me to ensure you both that all will be rectified.” said the Oracle. “Holy Father personally sends his apologies and he promises that amends shall be made. You shall each have first choice of any new Saints Caliber in the coming weeks.”
“NOT ENOUGH. NOT ENOUGH.” Gatima’s huge head wagged slowly. “SO MUCH DECEIT. WHY DO MY SAINTS LEAVE? THEY ARE MINE. ALL MINE.”
“King Gatima,” said the Oracle. “Sanctuary understands your frustration and promises—”
“Indeed it is not enough!” cried Lustille as the Virago harpies hissed at the Oracle. “My King is dead! My daughters murdered! And it is because Sanctuary sits idle!”
The Oracle began to say something, but Gatima’s voice filled the room. “THERE MUST BE MORE. MUCH MORE. IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE. I WANT IT. IT IS MINE.”
The Oracle looked up at Gatima. “I’m sorry, King Gatima. But I don’t quite underst—”
“SO MUCH SHOULD BE MINE. ALL THE SAINTS SHOULD BE MINE.”
“Then what of me!” Lustille’s voice became shrill and terrible and the councilmen gave brief pause in their feasting when a handful of their glass pitchers and platters shattered from her voice. “Not all is for you, Gatima!”
“Most Exalted King Gatima,” began the Oracle. As he spoke, a titanic shadow crept from around Gatima’s throne. “Sanctuary has long had an understanding with you and the other Kings that—”
Thunder shook the entire chamber as a gargantuan mallet, whose head was the very log of some prehistoric tree, came down upon the Oracle. Huge, meaty hands with blocky knuckles tanned by dirt gripped the handle.
Titan Mammoth stood to his full height, almost reaching to the top of Gatima’s mountainous bulk. But for all his height he looked wide and squat with a musculature that seemed built from the foundation stones of a fortress. He was a living monolith; a wall both impassable and impenetrable. He was covered in armor cut from the largest of trees, bark and moss still clinging to it. His face was masked by a helmet built from felled logs in the form of a mammoth’s head, with great, wooden shields for ears and long, yellowed tusks protruding from the cheeks. An iron trunk, spiked with barbs, draped from the center of his face, reddened by rust from each rivet that held its many segments together. From behind the mask stared dull, brown eyes. They were devoid of any emotion; of any spark of benevolence or even intellect.
Titan Mammoth lifted his hammer. The Oracle’s robe was flattened in a puddle of offal, its bones and mirror-mask all pulverized to dust. Blood dripped from the mallet as Titan Mammoth hoisted it up upon his shoulder.
Lustille shrunk back. Her Exalteds, hissed and screeched.
“BUT THERE IS MORE. MUCH MORE. IT MUST ALL BE MINE. ALL THE KINGDOMS SHOULD BE MINE.”
From around the other side of Gatima’s throne came another terrible being. Goliath Minotaur was not quite as large as Titan Mammoth, but was every bit as imposing. His body of flesh was clothed in fur boots and a loincloth, his chest crossed by leather straps. His head, however, was that of some nightmarish, black bull and it looked too large even for his titanic body. Atop his head were long horns, banded in gold and jewels. From his wet, black nose hot breath billowed like smoke, and he fixed Lustille and her Exalteds with eyes as red as blood.
The Virago harpies screeched and rushed forward, flapping up into the air. From his back Goliath Minotaur took down the most frightening axe that had ever been made. It was an enormous, iron thing, red with rust and blood. The harpies flailed their cat-o-nine-tails and the flesh flayed from Goliath Minotaur’s chest and shoulders. But the giant creature did not so much as flinch. With a single swing of his axe, both the Viragos fell in pieces at his feet.
Lustille backed away. Red and orange light began to play upon the back of her ghostly robe, and the ends began to quiver as scorching hot air filled the room. Slowly, Lustille turned around. She started to shriek, but her voice was cut short as two giant hands covered in leathery, red scales tore her in half. The vertical pupils of Colossus Dragon’s golden eyes narrowed. He turned his head to Gatima. When he spoke, smoke and fire billowed out from rows of white fangs. His voice was like the wrath of a volcano and it shook the roots of the castle. “What is thy bidding, Master?”
“IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE. IT MUST ALL BE MINE. MAKE IT SO. TAKE NARBERETH NOW AND THEN THE REST. IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE.”
— 34 —
Bar Fight
Small, pink flowers drifted down like snow from a sky of gray nothingness. That same nothingness surrounded Hadraniel like a fog as he sat upon the cold bricks of an empty street, cradling Karinael in his arms. Her eyes were closed and there was a peaceful look upon her face. Tears fell from Hadraniel’s eyes, splashing like the rains of Leviathan Hydra into her black, star-metal breastplate. He didn’t dare look up from her, because the shadowy form of Nuriel stood in the fog, her golden eyes burning like candlelights in the mist.
“We should have run, Karinael. We should have run.” sobbed Hadraniel.
“You have to let me go now.” whispered Karinael, though her eyes remained closed and her body limp.
Hadraniel closed his eyes, squeezing hot tears from them as he shook his head.
“If you don’t, you’ll be consumed.”
“No.” sobbed Hadraniel. He slipped his hand into Karinael’s. He felt the warmth of the Ev within his body as if it were Karinael’s Caliber. “I want to stay here with you, where I can feel your Caliber.”
“It’s not real.” she whispered. “You must go. Only when you go away from here will you feel me again.”
Hadraniel looked up. He could see the street leading away into infinite fog toward Duroton. But blocking the path was Nuriel, her umbral form haunting him. Her chest heaved with each breath of furious rage. The pink flowers that fell around her turned red, and then became droplets of blood that floated down as delicately as petals.
“She’s mine!” roared Hadraniel, staring into those burning, golden eyes. “She’s mine!” Hadraniel hugged Karinael closer, desperately seeking the warmth of the Ev as if it were her Caliber.
“We have to go.” whispered Karinael.
“I won’t leave you!” cried Hadraniel, but he could feel the Ev slipping away from him, just as her Caliber had done. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You can’t go. You can’t go.”
“You have to go.” said Karinael.
Hadraniel opened his eyes, and in his arms he held only empty armor. “No!”
“We have to go! Get up!” Hadraniel felt a sting upon his cheek. He shook his head and felt consciousness hitting him like cold hailstones. He looked up to see Asteroth’s golden eyes staring down at him. Asteroth smacked him across the face. “We have to go!” he yelled.
Hadraniel sat up on the cold, ston
e floor of the church’s inner chamber. He was in a dark corner, and behind Asteroth he could see Sodiel, Cabiel, Loganiel and Raziel standing and staring. “W-What time is it?”
“You need to lay off the Ev.” said Asteroth. “Get up. It’s time to go.”
Hadraniel rubbed at his arm. He looked down and saw his leather pack. Inside of it was his injector and a couple vials of Evanescence. He wanted to take more and be with Karinael again.
“Come.” said Sodiel, extending an arm. “Let’s go and get this over with.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“Glad you all could come.” said Grandon Faust. The dying, evening sun fell on his oiled, black leather armor and sparkled off the four polished scabbards on his back. He threw open the oaken doors of the inn and held them for the Saints.
Hadraniel looked around the room warily as Asteroth, Loganiel, Raziel, Sodiel and Cabiel all filed in behind him. Then the short and stocky Grandon led them past empty tables toward the bar at the far end. It was a large building with two higher levels above whose terraces overlooked the spacious tavern. Women wearing little more than silk veils over their faces stood before their bedroom doorways and looked down from the brass railings, their seductive eyes following Hadraniel and his fellow Saints. There didn’t seem to be anybody besides the women here, but Hadraniel wasn’t naive enough to believe a man like Grandon wouldn’t have soldiers in hiding somewhere close. A man like Grandon couldn’t be trusted. And a man like Grandon wasn’t somebody Karinael would have approved of.
That’s how Hadraniel measured everything these days, by what Karinael would do. At least, that’s how he tried to measure everything during the interludes of lucidity when the Evanescence wore thin. He tried to make those interludes stretch out, but eventually that unbearable numbness would come; that emptiness that Karinael once filled. He wanted to reach for her and feel her Caliber, and the warm call of Evanescence would answer. But right now was one of those terrible interludes of lucidity, and Hadraniel knew Karinael wouldn’t have come here at Grandon’s invitation. He hadn’t wanted to, but Grandon’s soldiers had showed up at the church yesterday requesting they meet with him. Hadraniel had voted not to come, because that was what Karinael would have done. Neither Asteroth nor Sodiel had wanted to come either, but Raziel, Loganiel and Cabiel wanted to hear what the man had to say.
Hadraniel could still feel the eyes of the prostitutes on him as Grandon led them up to the bar. He could feel their eyes raking over the ruined flesh of his face and he hung his head low, letting his chrome hair fall over his cheeks. He rubbed at his arm. The Ev he had last taken had worn off, and try as he might to milk more from the injection site, the warmth was gone. He wished he had taken more before leaving, but Karinael wouldn’t approve of him taking Ev. Karinael would never stand for it. Karinael wouldn’t be here. Karinael would have left for Duroton by now. Karinael would not want him to—
Hadraniel felt Sodiel place a hand on his shoulder. He shook his head of his thoughts and rubbed at his arm more vigorously, then composed himself.
“Have a seat, men.” said Grandon, motioning at the high-backed stools in front of the bar. It was a large, circular thing that took up a good portion of the tavern’s rear. It was made of a marbled wood that was stained to a rich, red color. Grandon went around to the other side of the bar and pulled down some copper-banded drinking horns. Behind him were a number of stacked barrels tapped with brass spouts and he began filling the horns with an ale from the highest barrel. “I figure you Saints must be tired of the church’s wine.” He set one of the horns before Hadraniel and began filling another. “This is the best ale in all of Narbereth.”
“Why are we here?” asked Asteroth as Grandon set a filled horn before him.
“You tell me.” said Grandon. He pointed across the room to the women who stood in sultry poses high above. “I’ve got women, good ale, and if you’re really bored, I’ve got a couple unruly slaves downstairs you can use as playthings.”
Hadraniel stared at the creamy, golden liquid in his horn and swished it around, making a little vortex in it. He wondered how far down Gadrial had been dragged. He wondered if her and Karinael were together in the beyond. He shook the thought from his head and began rubbing his arm again. “I thought there were no slaves in Free Narbereth?”
Grandon huffed. “Says who? That boy? He don’t run this city.”
Hadraniel looked at him. “Do you?”
Grandon’s lips curled in a smile. “I will. Believe me, I will.”
Raziel drank down his ale and pushed the empty horn to Grandon.
“There you go.” laughed Grandon. “Told you it was the best.” He refilled the horn and gave it back to the Saint.
“I’ve had better.” said Sodiel after a sip. He set his horn down and pushed it away. He looked at Hadraniel with his tourmaline eyes. They flicked up toward the prostitutes.
Hadraniel nodded slightly, taking into his own Caliber what Sodiel’s had sensed. He knew Asteroth and Raziel felt it too, though with Raziel there was a detachment, as if he didn’t care. Despite Karinael’s passing, their Calibers were still linked, although it was to a much lesser degree. They couldn’t link with Cabiel or Loganiel, but on occasion they touched upon dim points of Caliber that were far off; the Calibers of the Saints from the Serpent constellation they had formed with Karinael. However, none of them could fully link like they had been able to with Karinael. They were connected; they could sense each others’ thoughts; they could coordinate without speaking a word. But that seemed to be the extent of it.
Back at the church Asteroth wanted them all to practice, but Hadraniel didn’t like the practice sessions. Raziel didn’t either and often refused to participate. Hadraniel supposed it was for the same reasons he had. During the practice sessions he could almost feel Karinael there. It was like her Caliber was just out of reach; as if his fingers were just an inch too short to touch her. It was a cruel trick thinking that he might touch Karinael’s Caliber again, only to remember that she was gone. It was too much to bear, and like Raziel, he had been refusing to participate. The Ev, at least, gave him a taste of what had been.
“Why are we here?” asked Asteroth again. His drinking horn remained untouched on the bar.
“Like I said, take your pick.” Grandon pointed up toward a woman in nothing more than a thin, green sarong and a veil on her face. She had long, straight, strawberry hair and she curled it around her finger as she wagged her breasts toward them with a wink. “That one there will do things to you that even Apollyon himself would condemn.” He chuckled.
Raziel drank down his second horn and slammed it on the bar. “You got one with blue hair?”
Cabiel turned his eyes up. “You’re not going to find one that looks like Gadrial.” he said. He took a drink of his ale. “Take some Ev and forget her already.”
Raziel’s crimson eyes flashed like blood in the gaslight of the bar. “What did you just say?”
Grandon laughed and pushed another filled horn into Raziel’s hand. “You want blue, I’ll die the whore’s hair myself. And if you want blood, well, that’s what slaves and whores are for. Take one for your plaything. I’ll eat the cost of the first if you get too rough, but after that you got to pay.”
“Settle yourself, Raziel.” said Asteroth. He turned his golden eyes to Grandon. “Enough small talk. What do you want with us?”
Grandon drank down his horn and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he struck a match and lit up a cigar. “How long before Sanctuary sends its Saints to deal with this city?” He puffed at the cigar, filling the air around him with an earthy-smelling cloud of smoke. “How long before an Exalted comes with a full army in tow?”
“Get to your point.” said Asteroth.
Grandon set his cigar down on the bar and leaned into the big Saint. “That Rook boy, he ain’t a leader. He’s just a slave who’s got a
way with words. He sways the weak-minded to him, nothing more. That red-haired Saint that stays with him—Ertrael, I think his name is—he’s weak-minded. But the six of you, you’re strong. That’s why you keep to yourselves. And the strong, they follow me. Make no mistake, this is my city. Rook ain’t got the backing he thinks.”
“We’re not here to play sides.” said Hadraniel, still looking into his ale.
“Then what are you here for?” asked Grandon.
Hadraniel frowned. He didn’t even know anymore. With the failing practice sessions also failed the desires to go to Duroton. Asteroth, who had once been adamant that they leave as soon as they could perfect what lingering abilities their linked Calibers had, was now content to remain silent on the subject. Cabiel and Loganiel had no desire to go to Duroton, and Raziel was satisfied to stay here and see how everything played out. Sodiel still wanted to go, and often urged Hadraniel and the others to leave. But Hadraniel wondered if he wasn’t content to stay here as well; to stay in the place where Karinael’s Star-Armor rested. Leaving for Duroton felt like leaving her behind. Every step that he took away from this place would be another step further from her. Hadraniel swished his drink around, wishing he had taken more Ev.
Grandon chuckled. “You don’t even know why you’re here.” He picked up his cigar and began puffing on it. He walked over toward Hadraniel and leaned up against the bar across from him. “You looking for power? A leader? Somebody who will utilize you for what you’re meant?”
Hadraniel turned his silver eyes to the man. “And what is it that we are meant for?”
Grandon chuckled and tapped the ashes off his cigar. “You Saints are attack dogs, no? Collared by Sanctuary with your leashes held by the Kings you serve. But as I understand it, you’re all lost dogs right now, broke off your collars. Now, I ain’t asking to put any collars back on any of you. All I want to do is hold your leashes. I’m going to be King of this city, make no mistake. And when I am, you’ll have a life of comfort. You’ll get whores, your own room at my castle. You’ll be the cock of the walk. Fight for me, not that boy. You’ll be glad you did.”
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