Ertrael looked back at the burning ruins. Slowly, he stepped forward. There was a strange silence in the air that made every little sound more real; more dreadful. Wood cracked and popped as it burned. Somebody coughed. A fragment of wall crumbled and glass broke. There was an arm laying on the street. He saw a smoldering shoe, covered in dust, laying upon a cracked slab of stone among some broken stained glass. He took a few more steps toward the rubble. He bent down and picked something black up from beneath a pile of shattered bricks. It was a star-metal axe. It was one of Saint Asteroth’s.
Behind him, Ertrael now heard the shouts of men, barking dogs and clomping boots. He turned around to see Blake with some thirty knights racing toward him. A handful of the knights were led by slender, rawboned quick-hounds that tugged at their leashes, hollering their high-pitched cries.
“Quickly!” he heard Blake shout. “There could be survivors!” Then Blake’s eyes caught Ertrael’s and he came running up to him. “Where’s Rook?! Have you seen Rook?!”
Ertrael didn’t answer. He looked at the axe he held in his hand. It fell from his grip and hit the road with a tremendous impact. The loudness shook him from his daze and he looked at Blake. “Rook was here?”
“He came here with another Saint. Adonael, I think his name was. Did you see him?”
Ertrael opened and closed his mouth, but he couldn’t get any words to come out. Adonael? Adonael had come here? Saint Adonael had been his mentor, back in his days in Jerusa. He looked back down at the star-metal axe that lay upon the street. The church was gone. Adonael had come here with Rook; Asteroth and the others were staying here, and it was gone.
Blake turned to the knights. “Get the dogs into the debris!” he ordered. “There could be survivors!” Blake knocked Ertrael on the shoulder. “Come on, we need you!” he shouted, and then he and his men ran off, scattering into the ruins, the knights being tugged this way and that by their quick-hounds.
Ertrael shook his head, trying to get his wits back. He didn’t know why this destruction phased him so much. He had seen cities slaughtered; witnessed roads running red with blood. He had seen fellow Saints fall to a well-placed shot from a bolt-thrower. Death and destruction were not new to him, and yet standing here among the devastation—wondering if Rook had been inside the church; wondering if the other Saints, and maybe even his old mentor, were inside—was tearing his mind down; threatening to topple him. He saw a blackened hand sticking from the rubble like a charred branch and he shook his head again, refusing to fall back into a daze.
“Rook! Rook!” he cried. He jumped up onto a pile of rubble and began tossing huge chunks of debris. “Rook! Hadraniel!” Frantic, Ertrael began calling out any of the Saints’ names that came to mind. He groaned as he heaved up a burning timber and tossed it aside. He turned his head away. Blackened, smoking bodies lay scattered beneath bricks, glass and broken pews. Their identities, Ertrael knew, would never be known.
Then a cry pierced the silence that surrounded Ertrael. “We found something!” He turned and saw Blake clambering across the remnants of a fallen wall to where two knights stood. At their feet a quick-hound was barking and scratching at the debris.
Even from where Ertrael stood he could see a faint glow coming from the cracks between fallen fragments of stone, lighting up a broken pane of stained glass. It was not the glow of fire, but rather of pure light, soft but brilliantly white. It was Caliber light.
Ertrael bounded over to Blake and his men and immediately heaved away a giant section of toppled wall. Beneath it lay Saint Hadraniel, a shell of fading Caliber light enveloping his limp body.
“Hadraniel!” Ertrael scooped away more debris and pulled Hadraniel from where he lay. “Hadraniel!” He gently slapped the Saint’s face as the last of the Caliber shell faded out. “Hadraniel!”
Blake knelt down beside them, his hand going to the Saint’s neck. He looked up at Ertrael. “His heart still beats. He lives.”
“Blake, over here!” cried a knight. A short distance away a number of men were waving him over.
Blake stood up and pointed back to where Hadraniel had been found. “The others might be there, close by.” He gave Ertrael a grim but hopeful smile and then he and his men tromped away across the rubble.
Ertrael gently laid Hadraniel down and began tossing away more pieces of wall and broken glass, desperately searching for the others. He called out Adonael’s name as he heaved a slab of roof away; called out for Asteroth as he threw aside a giant stone.
And then he heard her scream—loud and shrill and anguished—and he froze. The pain of her cry cut him deeply, and a sudden realization struck him. It was Kierza and her family. They were why this devastation was hard to confront. He didn’t want them to feel pain. He didn’t want Rook to be in this wreckage. He wanted to be with them all, at their house on the hill. He wanted to hear Callad’s laughter in the evening as they ate dinner. He wanted Sierla’s honey bread in the mornings and her soft kisses at night. He wanted Sierla’s reprimanding when he stayed out too late, and Callad’s pat on the shoulder when he was proud of him. He wanted little Galen’s raspberries when he tried to give him his medicine, and to hear him and his brothers arguing and laughing and playing games at the house. But most of all, he realized, he wanted Kierza’s smile when she was happy. He wanted her to ask him to sing again, or to heal her if she were hurting. He wanted to see those green eyes of her’s light up whenever Rook came home. He realized he wanted to be happy, and that happiness was being with the Venzis and being in this city with its people; people who looked to Rook for guidance.
His lips pursed and he looked down, taking in a big breath to steel himself. Then he turned around.
“Stars above, what happened?” Kierza was standing in the road with her hands to her mouth, looking as though her knees might give out at any moment. Callad and Sierla were both at her side, their faces pale, not understanding—or perhaps, not wanting to understand.
Ertrael rushed over to them. “You should go back to the house. It’s not safe here.”
Kierza looked at him, her eyes frantic, lost; full of both knowing and denial. When she spoke, her voice was a pained whisper, “What happened?”
Ertrael shook his head. “A bomb or something. Please, go back to the house.”
Callad grabbed Ertrael by the shoulder. “Was Rook here? Do you know if Rook was here?”
Ertrael didn’t have the heart to tell them what Blake had said. “I… I don’t know…”
“We got something!” yelled one of the knights.
Ertrael, Kierza, Sierla and Callad all turned their heads. The quick-hounds barked and barked as one of the knights pulled something from under the debris. Ertrael couldn’t see exactly what it was, but Blake took one look at it and fell to his knees.
Kierza rushed toward them, clambering across fallen bricks and broken windows, Callad and Sierla close behind. Ertrael came at her side, wanting to hold her back but knowing that he must let her go. And then she stopped. Ertrael grabbed her by the arm before she could fall. Laying half-buried by stone and broken glass was Ralf, his corpse badly burned and mangled. In Blake’s hand was Rook’s sword, Starbreaker.
“No!” screamed Kierza. She struggled out of Ertrael’s grasp and over to Blake.
Blake turned around and caught her. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Rook!” screamed Kierza. “Rook!” She fought off Blake and slipped past him and then fell to her knees, screaming hysterically.
Ertrael bit his lip and came up. Kierza was knelt before three blackened bodies that smoldered near Ralf, limbs and faces hidden beneath fragments of brick and glass and burning shingles.
“No! No!” wailed Kierza.
Callad and Sierla came up too. They stopped when they saw what Kierza had already seen. Sierla fell to her knees. “Not my boy! Not my boy!”
Then warm wetness struck them
all across the face, startling them and immediately silencing everyone. The knight beside Blake fell to his knees, clutching at what little remained of his chest.
JINK! The head of another knight was torn open, throwing gore in all directions as his body spun and fell upon the rubble. JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK!
Ertrael grabbed Kierza and dove on top of her. He felt a hard impact upon the back of his breastplate and it knocked the breath from him. Rubble exploded all around. He heard men scream. More bolt-thrower fire.
Without hesitating he got back to his feet. Kierza yelped as he yanked her hard by the arm and dove with her behind a large fragment of wall. Kierza screamed something but the blast of bolt-thrower fire drowned out her words. Ertrael peeked around the wall and saw Blake and the other soldiers scrambling for cover, sporadically blasting at the rooftops across the street. Ertrael’s eyes flicked upward and he saw the distinct glow of a cigar ember. Then, in the flashes of bolt-thrower fire, he caught the shadows of four sword handles upon the back of a haughty figure. There were dozens of Grandon’s men on the rooftops. They had them all pinned down.
“Mom!” screamed Kierza.
Ertrael looked and saw Sierla slip on some broken glass and fall. Callad ran to her, scooping her up just as a bolt exploded at his feet, sending them both toppling upon the ground. Ertrael dashed from the wall and threw them both up to their feet and pushed them toward the wall where Kierza was. He drew his sword and flourished it, and another bolt exploded off his star-metal blade.
“Aim for the Saint! Aim for the Saint!” he heard Grandon bark.
JINK-JINK-JINK! JINK-JINK-JINK!
Ertrael dove and rolled up to his feet as a string of explosions tore up the ground where he had been standing. Anger suddenly burned within him as he fixed on Grandon Faust. With a roar, he ran forward and leapt.
Grandon drew a sword into each hand just as Ertrael landed on the flat roof beside him. Steel flashed in the night as Ertrael’s broadsword swept around, sparking off one of Grandon’s swords and shearing away the blade of the other.
Grandon let the broken sword fall as he rolled, his good sword whipping around as his other hand reached for another. Ertrael felt steel cut through the leather of his bodysuit and felt the burn of the blade at his side. He turned to face Grandon but now there were six bolt-throwers aimed at him. He shined his Caliber brightly, lighting up the rooftops and the soldiers in black armor before him. His sword worked in quick motions, bolts exploding off the blade, another off his pauldron. He flipped backward as a string of bolt-thrower fire tore up the roof where he had been standing.
The shots paused for just a moment, and Ertrael dashed forward like a burning, white star. He felt his star-metal blade bite through armor and flesh; felt bolt-throwers shear in half as he spun; felt the spray of blood as limbs and heads thumped upon the ground.
And then searing pain erupted in the back of his knee. Ertrael whipped around, his leg not giving out only by the sheer will of his Caliber. A dagger shot from Grandon’s hand and Ertrael’s sword flashed and sparked as the knife tumbled away. Then Grandon came in at him, two swords whirling high and low. Ertrael moved forward, his sword blocking one sword and then another as Grandon passed him. Ertrael spun and ducked a blade at his neck, and then flipped backward before the other sword could come up at his chin.
Grandon pressed forward again, both swords working in a dizzying array. Ertrael spun in and kicked, but the short man was agile and rolled beneath, kicking out his own leg and throwing Ertrael off balance.
Ertrael fell upon the roof and he had to roll as Grandon’s twin swords cracked down where he had been. He got back to his feet and swung out with his sword and Grandon rolled to the side, flinging another dagger. Ertrael got his sword down but not low enough and he felt the blade cut across the back of his hand.
Grandon chuckled as he flourished his swords, backing up. “It’s over.”
Ertrael’s lips furled in anger. “Hardly.”
“Oh but it is.” said Grandon, still backing away, twirling his swords. “It’s over for you and it’s over for your friends.”
Ertrael was about to move in on Grandon when bolt-thrower fire erupted below. It came from every alley; from high and low. An unending thunder that drowned out the screams.
Grandon chuckled. “It’s over.” He turned and ran, and Ertrael thought to go after him, but Kierza’s scream made him think better.
Below, Ertrael saw flashes lighting up the alleys as bolt-throwers roared to life. From the surrounding rooftops came more flashes. Bolts exploded everywhere. Blake’s soldiers were returning fire, but were being pushed back. And then he saw Callad and Blake desperately trying to drag Hadraniel’s limp form away. A barking quick-hound near Callad hardly made a yelp as its body was disintegrated by a blast. A knight at Blake’s side returned fire, but his shoulder exploded and he turned and fell.
“I can’t move him!” boomed Callad. “He’s too heavy in this armor!”
“Dad!” screamed Kierza.
Callad looked up and began to throw his arms up defensively just as Ertrael dropped from the rooftop in front of him, taking a painful bolt square in his breastplate. The blast knocked more than just the wind from him; he felt dizzy all of a sudden. He extended a hand glowing with faltering waves of gold and white, and he grabbed up as much debris as he could within his Caliber. He flung it forward, and the bolt-thrower fire ceased.
“Quick!” he shouted. “Get to—” his voice cracked and he coughed, forgetting what he was about to say as vomit poured out of his mouth.
Ertrael stood for a moment, his head spinning. He heard shouts all around, but nothing seemed to make sense. Something struck his face and he turned. Callad was yelling at him. Ertrael’s eyes followed the man’s arm down past his pointing finger and he saw Hadraniel laying there. He thought Callad said something about picking him up. Absentmindedly, Ertrael bent over and grabbed Hadraniel and slung him over his shoulder.
He saw Callad and Blake running and followed after them. The debris all around him exploded with bolt-thrower fire. He saw a soldier fall; a knight’s chest explode. The thunder of the bolt-throwers sounded tinny and sharp; oddly distant. His peripheral vision was all dark, and as he ran he followed the tunnel of light that led to Kierza’s out-stretched hand.
He stumbled down to a knee. In his mouth he became aware of a sour taste, and he wondered if he had just thrown up again. He got back up and he felt lighter for some reason. He heard Kierza yelling to him, “Just keep going… Just keep going… Just keep going…” the words droned in his mind until he didn’t know if they were her’s or his own or maybe somebody else’s.
More of that sour taste. There was hot wetness down under his breastplate. He was vaguely aware of the vomit that now oozed out from beneath it. He was still running. He couldn’t see anything. There was just a pinhole of light through which he saw Kierza’s amber hair—or maybe it was Saint Asriel’s hair. “Just keep going… Just keep going… Just keep going…”
— 37 —
Names
Thunder cracked overhead as black clouds overtook the moon. Tiffany’s lantern swayed upon its pole in the night’s winds, its soft glow falling upon King Verami’s tombstone. Agana knelt in the muddy soil of the freshly filled grave, staring at the crooked thing as rain fell in heavy strings all around. Her black hair was matted into dripping cords; her white dress soaked and clinging to her little frame. She wiped at her eyes as Saint Tiffany carried the charred corpse of Loretta to the empty grave beside her husband’s.
Sing to us! Sing to us! Comfort the child! Her name was Ursula! She is all my fault! All the light is gone. Sing us a song! “It is time, Agana.” rasped Tiffany as she held the rigid corpse. The charred skin was slimy with rain water, blackened crusts sliding off in her hands. A sickly sweet odor drifted from it, carried away by the wind.
Agana sniffled and st
ood up. She walked over to Tiffany and took Loretta’s stiff hand into her own. Charcoal flesh cracked to reveal terrible red beneath. Tears and rain poured off Agana’s cheeks as she leaned forward and kissed the Queen on her crumbling lips. “Oh mother! Why did they do this to you!” Her body was broken by sobs and she collapsed into a grassy puddle.
Tiffany gently set the corpse into the grave. “Ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust.” She was ruthless and wicked! She murdered my child! Where are the songs! Stay with the girl! Tiffany grabbed up her shovel and began breathing an elegy.
Agana stared down into the dark hole as soil was thrown into it. Once Loretta’s body could no longer be seen through the dirt she looked up at Tiffany. “Why did the bad men come? Why did mommy and daddy have to die?”
Tiffany stopped her tune and croaked, “The dead want what they want, is all.” She scooped another shovelful of dirt and tossed it into the grave. Sing! Sing! Where are the songs! Tiffany rubbed her throat and began in on her song again.
“Tiffany,” said Agana, staring into the grave. “Is it true what the man said about me?”
Tiffany nodded as she sang.
“But, that means they weren’t my real mommy and daddy.”
Tiffany nodded again as she threw more dirt into the grave.
Agana looked up at Tiffany, tears mingling with the rain in her eyes. “Does that mean they didn’t love me?”
Tiffany stopped singing and set the shovel down. She knelt beside Agana and hugged her tightly. Sing! Sing! There was so much blood. Why do you not sing! “No, no, my dear,” she rasped. “They loved you very much. You were their joy. You were all they loved.”
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