The Record of the Saints Caliber (27 page)

“Can we get back to the Icelanders before the council convenes?” asked Dagrir, hopefully.

Brandrir groaned and plopped himself back down into the chair, his crimson plate armor clanking loudly. He looked out the window that overlooked the royal gardens and began wishing he were out there in the open air and sunshine. He looked back down at the parchment.

“They have not been paid for two years,” prompted Dagrir.

“Well why not?” snapped Brandrir. He scooped up the paper again but was still in too much of a hurry to bother reading it.

“Because we can’t afford it,” said Dagrir. “The Ageless Accord guarantees them restitution for the life of Duroton. I know, it’s ridiculous. A hundred thousand phoenix a year over the last ninety-four years and you’d think it’d be paid in full by now.” Dagrir sighed. “All for some rocky islands that aren’t even worth the stones they’re made of.”

Brandrir tossed the paper to the table. “So just pay them already.”

“Where shall I pull the money from, sire?” asked an ancient voice from across the room. Brandrir started, having completely forgotten about Councilman Parvailes. The old man was dressed in fine red robes and surrounded by a number of abacuses and ledgers at the far end of the table. He looked at Brandrir through thin-framed glasses and his gray eyes were almost accusing.

“Your constant battles up north cost a lot.” said Dagrir. “Many of our cities need new infrastructure. Snowbearing has been without gas for light and heat since that small earthquake knocked out their gasline four months ago, and the people are starting to get upset.”

“So fix the gasline!” snapped Brandrir.

“We’ve been trying,” said Dagrir. “It’s cost us a small fortune already. It takes a lot of effort to dig through frozen earth.”

“They need another ten-thousand phoenix to finish,” said the old man. “We have eighty-six thousand left in our construction coffers but you mentioned we might need to divert those funds for more weapons and armor for the Grimwatch.”

Brandrir could feel the old man’s accusing stare. He shook his head but that window was distracting him now. He couldn’t take it anymore. He exhaled deeply and shot up from his chair and walked over to the window and turned the small crank to open it. From outside the perfume of many red flowers, both common and exotic, filled the cold northern air and their blossoms lay like a crimson sea upon the grounds far below.

Brandrir stuck his head out the window, letting the cool breeze caress his face and muss his long, auburn hair. He looked down at the cobblestone path that cut through the gardens. To either side of it grew rows of ancient trees, their green canopy casting pleasant shadows upon the trail in the late morning sun. It was a private place, surrounded on all sides by the castle’s ancient and towering walls. The castle’s walls were made of gray, hewn stone of varying sizes and shapes, but in many areas repairs were obvious and new mortar and stone were ugly blights upon the venerable old wall. One section in particular stood near an ancient grove of gnarly trees who themselves had quite obviously been damaged at some earlier time. Brandrir remembered well the night the walls fell. His brother’s neck and his own arm were constant reminders.

Brandrir breathed deeply, pushing the memories from his mind. He liked the gardens and spent most of his time there when he was home. He hated the politicking that went on within the castle’s chambers and wished he were out there instead of cooped up in the council room signing papers. He had no doubt that very soon this room would be swarming with the rest of the castle’s council members, all campaigning him for favors or looking to assuage him of some plight somewhere within the kingdom. He dreaded the thought of being bound to the throne to mull over contracts and budgets.

Beneath the Duroton sky I say that shall not be my fate
, thought Brandrir to himself. He sighed and looked up through the glass ceiling, taking note how the sun had already moved across it, ticking away the hours until tomorrow’s ceremony.

Brandrir was determined to bring Duroton back to its ancient roots of liberty where people looked to its King only as a symbol of their own strength. He wanted Duroton to again be a kingdom whose cities took pride in their own abilities; a country whose people unwaveringly upheld the pacts of old. He wanted the old Duroton from the books and legends, where people sung of their duty and its King upheld the mighty Mard Grander against the Kald.

Although that powerful hammer of the gods had been broken during the age of the Great Falling and could not be wielded, Brandrir still armored himself like the kings of old, much to his father’s and brother’s chagrin. Brandrir always wore plate armor finished with a rich, glossy red known throughout the Lands as Duroton Red. It was the national color and its deep, rich shade had once flown proudly upon all banners. The armor covered Brandrir from neck to feet, save for his left arm whose metallic components whirred softly as he leaned back from the window. At his side, in a red scabbard embellished with golden highlights in the form of a rising phoenix, hung a mighty broadsword. Upon his back, concealing the tank that powered his left arm, was draped a white cape bearing the phoenix of Duroton.

With a sigh Brandrir turned around. The old man, Coinmaster Rankin Parvailes, still sat at his corner of the table looking up at him, still awaiting answers. Dagrir stood at the head of the table near that daunting stack of papers, smirking at him. Brandrir grimaced, more over his brother’s appearance than of the stack of papers this time. Dagrir, like most of the Northern Guard and even his father the King, wore black armor that in recent generations had come to replace the red of Duroton.

“The Council convenes in fifteen minutes and this stack will only get larger,” Dagrir said. Brandrir could tell his brother was taking great delight in torturing him with all the politics of the castle. “You may look more political than I in that red armor and fancy cape of yours, but I can assure you the Council isn’t flattered by appearances.”

Brandrir found it impossible to be angry with his brother, and seeing him with that ridiculous smirk on his face only made him chuckle. Brandrir smiled and shook his head. “You might want to try wearing the red of old,” said Brandrir. He smiled slyly. “When I am King, it will again be required.”

Black armor replacing Duroton Red had started with their great-great-grandfather, Hemodar of the Blackwall, who ruled during the years of the great famines. After four years of bad harvests brought on by exceptionally cold summers, much of the kingdom was desperate for food. Hemodar sought to secure aid from the neighboring kingdom of Narbereth. It had been a thousand years since Duroton had ever conversed with another kingdom, and seeking a chance to meet with the King of the North and holder of the broken Mard Grander—an artifact that none outside Duroton had seen in nearly a thousand years—the Narberethan King agreed to have the historic conference with Duroton.

Unfortunately, Sanctuary got involved before the meeting could happen. By the laws and pacts governing the rest of the world, unless Duroton would embrace Sanctuary, a meeting with Narbereth or any other kingdom was strictly forbidden. To this Hemodar also conceded. Hemodar had felt it was time for Duroton to join with the rest of the world.

Unfortunately for Hemodar, the choice was not entirely his. Though he was King, Duroton was also ruled by a congress of delegates representing all of the largest cities in the kingdom. By a narrow margin the vote was against embracing Sanctuary. The people had seemingly spoken, and they wanted to uphold the ways of old rather than bow to the corruption that had engulfed the rest of the world. They wanted to uphold all that the Mard Grander—as broken as that hammer was—stood for.

Hemodar was outraged by this and warned the congress that they had made a grave mistake and that thousands would die due to their stubborn adherence to the pacts of old. As far as Hemodar was concerned, the Mard Grander was a broken and useless symbol of a bygone age that only brought Duroton suffering. Legends said that the mighty hammer had been gifted to the people of Duroton by the Great Gods as a symbol of their righteousness. It was a symbol that Duroton stood apart from the rest of the world; that they had been entrusted as the stewards of freedom and liberty.

But the hammer was broken long ago, during the Age of the Great Falling when King Tharick wielded it against Apollyon. And to Hemodar, the broken hammer only stood for Duroton’s continued plight against the Kald. Legends said that the Mard Grander was the only weapon powerful enough to break the chains that bound the terrible beast known as the Kaldenthrax to the Abyss. For a thousand years the Kald sought a way to take the Mard Grander for themselves and unleash their terrifying god upon the world, and for a thousand years Duroton protected the weapon.

As far as Hemodar was concerned, the Mard Grander was nothing more than a symbol of their constant battles against the Kald. He thought it was time to abandon the ways of old, and in protest he had torches lit all around the castle walls. He ordered one torch to burn for every man, woman or child who died of starvation due to the congress’s vote. That year famine and plague ravaged the kingdom and thousands of torches burned all around the outside of the castle, day and night. A tapestry still hung in the throne room that depicted a scene of a hundred-thousand and more torches burning like wildfire outside the castle. The smoke from these torches stained the walls and towers of the castle black, and eventually Hemodar became known as Hemodar of the Blackwall. He began wearing black armor rather than red. He ordered all the Northern Guard to paint their red armor black as well, initially to be only for a year of mourning, but the color stuck and to this day black armor replaced the red of old.

The following year the rains returned and slowly prosperity came back to the lands, but neither King Hemodar nor the people of Duroton ever forgot of the countless dead. Hemodar turned all the blame to the congress, and in latter years delegates were elected who were more and more inclined to abandon the ways of old. The congress slowly transformed from delegates of the people, to the council it was today; a council appointed only by the nobles of the lands. More and more there was talk of joining with Sanctuary and the rest of the kingdoms of the world.

Brandrir knew that it was only by the powerful will of the Jinn and the Knights of the Dark Stars that this had not happened already. They hated the Saints and refused any thought of joining with Sanctuary. Even his father, King Garidrir, feared angering the Jinn. For this Brandrir was thankful. Once Brandrir found himself sitting upon the throne he secretly vowed to restore a congress of the people and disband the Council.

“You spent far too much time listening to Etheil’s stories when you were a boy, and far too little time with father and the Council.” said Dagrir, snapping Brandrir from his reverie. “I can assure you that once you are King the color of ones’ armor will be the least of your worries.” Dagrir smiled as he tapped his finger on the large stack of papers.

Brandrir looked at the stack and breathed deep. Maybe Dagrir was right? Maybe he had spent far too much time listening to Etheil and his tales and legends of the ages past. He looked down at the Icelander’s parchment on the table and a single word suddenly stood out to him. There was nothing especially peculiar about the word. It was as sloppily written and misspelled as the rest of the document—perhaps even the most misspelled word on the page—but it was a word that held significance with him. The word was ‘honor’ and he could make it out clearly even in its mangled form. He read the entire line.

By the Akords of Old we entreet you to up held the onhor that you are bownd to.

Brandrir nodded his head silently and chewed his bottom lip. He turned to Coinmaster Parvailes and said, “Send payment to the Icelanders. Last year’s, this year’s, and pay them next year’s as amends for our delays.”

“Brother,” began Dagrir, exhaling deeply. “We simply cannot keep these accords honored any longer. The Icelanders literally swim in our gold. They have no use for the money. They’re barbarians. If we simply explain to them—”

“Were the Accords signed beneath the Duroton sky?” asked Brandrir. He looked at Dagrir. His brother just stood and shook his head slightly. Then he threw up his hands and looked to Parvailes.

“I’m sure they were,” said Rankin Parvailes from across the room. “All treaties must be signed beneath the Duroton sky so that the Lands take witness.”

“Then we pay.” stated Brandrir simply.

“And where exactly are we getting three-hundred thousand phoenix from?” protested Dagrir, suddenly taking on a more indignant tone. “It’s due time that we—”

“Take it from the Grimwatch,” said Brandrir, holding up his mechanical hand to silence Dagrir as he spoke to Parvailes.

“If I may be so bold to object, sire,” said Parvailes. “That account has but eight-hundred thousand phoenix and is already running at a two-hundred thousand coin deficit for the year. This will bring the deficit to half a million phoenix, all of which we’ll have to acquire before the end of the year.”

“That’s fine,” said Brandrir. “I shall explain to my men at the Grimwatch the situation. For the honor of upholding the Ageless Accords that were signed beneath the Duroton sky, I’m certain they will all agree to make sacrifices.”

Dagrir sighed and pinched at his forehead. “Brother,” he said, and then exhaled loudly. “We can’t…you can’t just move money and run deficits…you…we can’t pay three years reparations to the barbarians. It’s…we just…you can’t just do that.” Dagrir looked at Parvailes and said. “Send them last year’s payment and a proclamation. We’re ending the Ageless Accords. To date they have received over nine-million phoenix. They can consider themselves redressed for the Crashingstones.”