The Record of the Saints Caliber (53 page)

Nuriel stood over his body, her breath frantic, icy jets as she panted. Her face turned up in an ugly, blood-splattered snarl and she let loose a terrible roar. She looked around. The world seemed to be spinning. She saw Durotonian soldiers watching her with shocked horror from a distance. She looked at them and roared out again. Her eyes flashed and she was about to dash toward them when she stopped dead and spun, raising her sword just in time to clash with Lord Tarquin’s.

Tarquin snarled at her. His armor was a little worse for wear than when they had left the ship, and from his side stuck the shafts of two arrows. The gray spirals painted up his arms were chipped. Blood stained his face and hands. He moved his sword for another strike and Nuriel moved with him but then stumbled forward as he disappeared. She could sense him directly behind her and she fell to the ground and rolled, leaping back to her feet just in time block his strike. Again he moved his sword and disappeared. In the blink of an eye Nuriel spun, again narrowly parrying a strike from behind.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” spat Tarquin. He dashed in, his strikes coming quick, precise, determined.

Nuriel kept his pace, blocking each strike in turn, and then seizing a quick opening, flung her blade outward, but Tarquin vanished before it could bite into him. Nuriel tumbled forward and spun on the ground, kicking back to her feet just as Tarquin reappeared and swung. Nuriel’s blade knocked his away and opened up a gash in his breastplate. Tarquin stumbled back, shock widening his eyes. He clutched at his chest and then looked at his hand. There was some blood for sure, but Nuriel could see it was not a fatal wound.

Tarquin looked at her, his dark eyes narrowing. “This isn’t over, Saint.” he snarled. “Look at everything you’ve done…everything you’ve
wasted!
You have nothing anymore! You’ll get yours. I promise you that! Wait until Celacia finds out what you’ve done!”

Nuriel moved in, but with a wave of his sword he was gone and Nuriel could no longer sense his presence. The soldiers must have detected that he had fled as well. They began to retreat, fleeing back down the icefield toward the ocean. Nuriel stood there for a moment, panting. She screamed with frustration, rage and confusion. She wiped at her eyes and her hand was coated in blood. She looked down at herself. Her armor, her white bodysuit…everything was coated in blood. Nuriel looked around, the world spinning. Her eyes turned up to the gray skies that were quickly darkening with the onset of night. All at once everything seemed to become real to her. She screamed out again and fell to her knees.

All around her lay bodies. Death and blood and snow and the darkness of coming night. There were many Icelanders still alive. They all kept their distance, looking at her. Staring. She saw one man. He was large and the pelt he wore was red with blood. He looked at her strangely, as if trying to gauge if she was friend or foe. He began to approach her but Nuriel’s eyes burned into him and she roared out and he backed off. They all backed off. Ahead of her she saw the fire crackling, and in its light, the empty armors of Gamalael, Arric and Tia. Their bodies had been consumed by their armor, and only the blood and gore left in the snow gave any hint to the outlines of the bodies that once inhabited them.

Nuriel broke down and cried. Now she had really done it. If things had been bad before, they were a hundred times worse now. She had killed Saints. She had killed fellow Saints. There was no life left for her. Now she could never go back to Sanctuary and she could never go back to Duroton. She could never again see Holy Father Admael; never again see Karinael. She didn’t even have Celacia anymore. Loneliness struck her hard. She was alone, she realized. Truly alone in this world, with nowhere and no one to run to. Nuriel looked up at the skies and screamed out again in pain and agony, rage and confusion. She had nothing. She had nobody. Her mind whirled as lucidity crept back to her. The warmth of the Ev seemed so distant now. Her eyes caught the fire again and the mother’s body, half in the flames, crackled and popped. Nuriel collapsed on the snow, crying, screaming.

She clutched at her head, her fingers scraping through her hair as tears and snot dripped from her bloody face. From her knees she looked up at the dark heavens. “Aeoria!” she screamed. “Aeoria help me!”

But there was no answer. There would be no answer. Aeoria was the sleeping goddess and there would be no reply. Nuriel’s mind churned for a reason—a reason for her life, a reason for her to exist, a reason for
anything
—but just like her calls to Aeoria, there was no reply forthcoming. There was no more reason for her to be. Tarquin was right. She had wasted everything.

Nuriel took her sword in her hand. She looked at her wrists. She could do it. She could end it all now. She placed the sword between her legs so that the ever-sharp star-metal blade faced up. Trembling, she placed her wrist to it. She pressed down slightly and felt the cold blade dig in on her soft skin. She tried to will herself to slide her arm down, but couldn’t. She turned her head up to the heavens and tried to call out to Aeoria again, but her body was a spasm of tears and sobs.

The fire caught her eyes again. Fire. She would burn for her sins. Apollyon take her, she would burn for her sins. A part of her mind told her that maybe that was it, that fire was her one escape. She was, for all intents and purposes, a Fallen Saint. The only thing she hadn’t done was offer her soul to a demon. She thought a moment. She could do that. She had nobody else. She had nothing else. If she offered herself to a demon she could be free of everything. The demon could take the stellaglyph from her neck and she’d be free, her Sanguinastrum would no longer have sway over her. What else was there for her? Or she could wait for Celacia to find out what she did. Celacia would surely break her Sanguinastrum and she’d be recalled, consumed by the very armor she wore. Consumed
alive
. Nuriel shuddered at that terrible thought.

Nuriel clutched at her head. She began panting, almost hyperventilating. Her head buzzed and spiraled. She closed her eyes and tried to reach down into her body and find any last remnants of the Ev she had taken. She desperately sought for its warmth. She lied to herself and supposed it might bring her clarity, like how it had during the battle. Then, more truthfully, she admitted to herself that at least with the Ev she could postpone all her thoughts; postpone her pain until she might be able to deal with it again.

Nuriel struggled to her feet, wiping tears and snot and blood from her face. She tucked her hair behind her ear and stumbled over to Gamalael’s empty armor. On the ground, beside the skirt of star-metal plates that had once hung upon his hips, was a leather pouch. She knelt down and frantically undid the drawstring that kept it closed, her fingers trembling. Inside was the leather folio. She grabbed it up and opened it. Inside was the injector and two vials of Ev. She took it. She moved to Tia’s fallen armor and found her vials of Ev as well. She placed them into the leather folio with the rest and ran off into the icy night.

— 14 —

ISLEY’S CAUSE

The bright, blue sky and yellow sun filled the domed glass ceiling of the Council room, though the gaslamps upon the walls were still lit and flickered needlessly. Isley stood at Egret’s side, just to the left of the table’s head. Like Egret, he wore a black shroud over his Star-Armor, a custom of the Dark Star Knights that Egret said he would also like Isley to observe. The seven Councilmen sat at their usual places along the table’s length, though admittedly Isley still struggled to remember their names and titles. Neither Dagrir nor the King were present. Isley had observed that when it was just the Council, they tended to discuss things in more detail, on smaller scales. When the King or his son were present, things were painted with much broader strokes. Politics were new to Isley. He still didn’t grasp what all these endless talks and discussions would ever amount to. All he could do was bide his time. As the Councilmen all made small talk and settled in their seats, Isley mentally went down the line, naming each of them.

Balin Yagdril was Council of Nobles. He was the finely dressed man with the sharp beard and smile who always liked to take center stage and have the last word at any given meeting. Unless Dagrir or the King himself were present, he always sat at the table’s head. To his right sat Jord Sigrund, Council of Collections and Taxes. Jord was easy to remember because he was the fattest of the bunch and always wore the gaudy silver coif and copper shirt and tunic. At Balin’s left was Gefjon Jolori, Council of Jurisprudence. Gefjon was a large, bearded fellow, not quite as rotund as Jord. Baldir Bjort was the most plainly dressed of the bunch and also the most plainly spoken. He was Council of Agriculture. Then there was Aldur Ilmarinen, Council of Foreign Affairs and Hymnar Ragnir, Council of Domestic Affairs…or was it the other way around? Isley silently cursed himself and vowed to remember exactly who was who next time. Finally, at the opposite end of the table sat Coinmaster Parvailes. Rankin Parvailes was the old man who always wore the red robe and surrounded himself with ledgers and abacuses at all the meetings. He was also Council of Records, if Isley remembered correctly.

Isley breathed out his nose, satisfied that he was finally starting to remember all their names and respective titles. Life in Duroton these last eight days was worlds different than his previous life in Jerusa. Under Gatima’s command he never sat in on any meetings with the King or his council. No Saint ever did. Isley had once been assigned to King Erol in Penatallia and there it was the same: the King’s business was the King’s business and the Saints were just soldiers. As far as Isley knew, it was the same in all the kingdoms. The life of a Saint was out in the field, out in the cities and towns, or out in the wilds looking for enemies of the church or kingdom. A Saint’s duties were purely physical: fighting, killing, quelling dissent, pressing law and order. Here in Duroton, however, things were much different for him.

Isley puffed and looked down at the table. All the Councilmen had books and papers before them. Unlike the southern kingdoms, it seemed that here in Duroton everybody could read and write and use numbers. Egret had told him that almost all of the country’s citizens could read and write as well. Isley still didn’t really understand the need for it. Growing up in Sanctuary he had always been taught that written words could carry the messages of Apollyon; that they could be used to cast the evil magic of the Jinn; that they were the runes used to summon demons and devils and unbind the specters of Hell. People like Kings and nobles and the clergy and priests spent years and years of their lives learning to read and write, learning how to gain knowledge from words rather than fall to the evil of Apollyon like so many people had in the past. A past, Isley mused, that had led to Aeoria’s fall.

Everything Isley had ever learned was from the mouth of teachers. Through spoken word one could gauge the truth in a man’s voice, the edge of a lie. But in writing, things could be hidden; lies and evils passed. Evil operated in darkness and silence, just like words. Good operated in the light of day, out in the open for all to see, or in the case of speech, to be heard by all. Not even the names of their stars needed the written word, for words were of low creation and the stars were represented by their stellaglyphs instead. Unpronounceable, unable to be marred by the voice or words of Apollyon, and therefore always pure.

Isley found himself severely torn. On the one hand, he was slowly coming to enjoy Duroton. His duties as Egret’s lieutenant were not as severe as they had been in Jerusa under Gatima’s command, or even in Penatallia under King Erol’s command. Truth be told, he had never felt as good as he did now. Killing and bloodshed were the unfortunate but necessary duties of a Saint in the southern kingdoms. Here in Duroton, however, his duties seemed far more political. And it was in this way that he was torn. He found that he actually enjoyed not having to be out in the field, but on the other hand he found that playing the game of politics was far more complicated than he wanted anything to do with. He was beginning to understand why Kings and nobles and clergy had to spend years learning to read and write and deal with all the complexities that simple books, ledgers, scrolls and documents brought. These men poured over their documents constantly, mulled incessantly over numbers. In these documents were penned the futures of entire cities, and these pens inked away at the fate of the country. Isley had observed many times how these documents were left to interpretations. Gefjon Jolori, the Councilman of Jurisprudence, was especially good at interpreting documents in ways favorable to him and the Council. Isley wondered many times if they were interpreting things for good or evil, and mused that the spoken word of a man left little to be interpreted, especially with him standing right before you.