The Record of the Saints Caliber (65 page)

Rook pressed Ursula tightly to his chest as he slipped out the church and into the cool air and bright light of the springtime afternoon. He stood upon the church’s steps and saw men running toward the city’s wall. Amongst the streets of dilapidated houses that stood just beyond the church’s perimeter he could hear the hammering of bolt-throwers and the cries of men. Ursula began bawling and Rook held her tight as he scampered down the steps and away from the church. He tried to keep to the narrower, darker streets as he went, slipping between leaning houses or cutting through the alleys made of older, crumbled buildings. As best he could he avoided the townsmen who ran in all directions, trying to make his way toward the shouts and clamor of battle. He could feel his heart pounding; could hear an echo of a voice in his head telling him to just find a place to hide. But right now his entire body buzzed with excitement and his longing to see a Saint was a pull greater than the fear he felt.

He came upon the back of a home with a large hole of rotten wood and plaster and slipped inside, cutting across the barren, dirt-floor of the main room and out the front entryway. Outside that house, a major roadway of dirt opened up, giving a clear view of the city’s wall. And it was there, amidst the pounding of bolt-throwers and the screams of men that he saw for the first time a Saint.

Rook’s mouth opened and closed. She was beautiful, encompassed in a soft, white glow. Her hair was like spun gold, and her eyes of the same metal, but molten. She stood before the stone wall of the city, a large claymore of black star-metal in her hands. She wore a white bodysuit, and upon her chest, arms and legs were the same metal of absolute black.

Ursula’s crying shook Rook from his awe just as he saw a pair of townsmen run up and fall to a knee, taking aim with their bolt-throwers. Rook wanted to scream at them, to tell them not to shoot, but his eyes fixed again on the Saint. Her beauty and surreal presence stunned him and he couldn’t get any words to escape his lips.

But then the Saint’s face twisted into a snarl. The men unleashed their bolt-throwers—
JINK-JINK-JINK-JINK
—and the Saint bounded into action. She moved like a shooting star, the radiant aura of her Caliber trailing behind her as she kicked herself off the wall just as it exploded into fragments from the bolt-throwers. She dashed across the road, throwing herself upon the wall of a house and bounding off of it, moving too quick for the men to shoot. The ground behind her exploded as shots missed her; the wall of the house sending a shower of broken fragments down. She shot up upon a rooftop and disappeared from Rook’s sight, the men with bolt-throwers scrambling down the road after her.

Rook stood there in stunned awe, Ursula pressed to his chest, crying. In all directions he could hear screaming; could hear the roar of gun fire. But all he could think was that he had seen one of the Saints Caliber.
He had seen a Saint.
And she was beautiful, radiant, unnatural even. She glowed with the powers of her Caliber, just as he had always heard. She had been wearing Star-Armor, that impossibly heavy metal he had actually touched back in Karver’s room of treasures. She was a Saint, one of the Saints Caliber.
And he had seen her.
His mind ticked through a dozen irreconcilable ideas about why the people were shooting at her—at the Saints—if the Saints had actually come to help them.

“Rook! Rook!” shouted Mister Brumal, startling Rook from his wonder. “What are you doing here, boy?”

Rook shook his head. Ursula’s wet tears had soaked his shoulder. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He blinked a few times and noticed that Mister Brumal was standing before him, holding his bolt-thrower. A handful of other men with anxious looks were with him, as was his eldest son, Estival.

“Rook, look at me boy!” barked Mister Brumal.

Rook looked at him.

“Rook, get back to the church now, you understand?”

“Was…was that a Saint?” asked Rook.

Mister Brumal grabbed him around the shoulders and knelt down before him. “Rook, boy, you listen to me and you listen well: You get back to that church with your sister, right now. My wife, Camellia, is there with my little boy, Willow. She’s rounding up as many children as she can. Hide there with them, you understand?”

Rook nodded.

“Good,” said Mister Brumal. “Now go, boy. Hurry.”

Rook turned and cut back through the house, scrambling down narrow alleys, making his way back to the church as quickly as he could. As he crossed the square where the dried up old fountain stood, he could see Misses Camellia with Willow and two other women ushering a number of children up the steps of the church. Camellia clutched two infants in her arms as the other women opened the doors and began filing the children inside. Rook hugged Ursula to his chest as he ran and her bawling attracted the attention of Misses Camellia as he came.

“Rook! Rook!” she called, waving frantically at him. “Hurry, lad!”

Rook scampered up the steps, nearly tripping. All around the city he could hear the pounding of bolt-throwers and shouts of men. And they were coming steadily closer. They entered into the main cathedral, the rows of pews spread out before them, and at the front of the church was the glass coffin altar filled with roses and the podium from where Rook had taken the bible earlier. Behind it, framed by the towering brass pipes of the organ, Rook could clearly see the mural of glass tiles depicting Aeoria, surrounded by the black and white coils of two dragons. Rook had never really paid much attention to the emerald eyes of the black dragon or the sapphire eyes of the white before, but now something familiar struck him. Something about the crystalline blue of the white dragon’s eyes, and its mane of snow-white fur. He stood there, transfixed, as he had never been before by that mural. “The old man…” mouthed Rook.

“Rook! Come, boy, there is no time!” Camellia’s urgent voice shook Rook from his reverie. From outside he could hear shouts and bolt-throwers from all directions.

One of the other women ran up and grabbed Ursula from his arms. She took Rook by the hand. “Come on, boy. They’re coming.” she said as she led them across the cathedral, toward the back.

Rook knew where they were going. At the back of the church was a small stairwell that led into the church’s basement and its larder. Over the last few days Camellia and some of the older boys had worked on creating something of a hidden room down there, a secret alcove hidden behind some shelving. It was where the children were supposed to go in case of trouble.

But Rook couldn’t go. Some part of him still wasn’t satisfied. Some part of him still clung to the hope that the Saints were good, and were here to help them. He didn’t know what he thought he might see, but he knew he had to go back outside. He had to see that Saint again. He had to see her golden hair and eyes; see that armor, blacker than the starless night sky; see the glow of her Caliber as she shot by like a star falling from the sky. Rook gently slipped his hand out of the woman’s and quietly fell back from the crowd of other children. He took one last look at Ursula. She was screaming and crying upon the woman’s shoulder. He blew her a kiss and softly whispered, “I’ll be back.”

Rook bolted past the last few children and the woman behind them. She called out to him and tried to grab his arm as he flew past her, but Rook was out the door before she could even consider giving chase. He ran down the steps of the church, and just as he passed the fountain, a group of men with bolt-throwers over their shoulders came scrambling down one of the streets, nearly bowling him over. Rook heard one of them shout at him to get out of there, but Rook kept on going. He crossed the brick-paved square and just made it to the first of the dilapidated houses when a streak of white light upon the rooftops caught his eye. He stood and watched as a pair of men came charging down the road, one of them screaming something about “They’re coming!”

Then, from behind them, Rook saw the golden-haired Saint drop down from the roofs, her aura trailing light behind her. She dashed into the group of running men, her black sword twirled and blood shot from the first man’s neck as his head went flying. The second man turned his bolt-thrower toward her, but before he could pull the trigger his arms fell off at the elbows and his head went tumbling away.

Rook gasped, his mind reeling at the terrible sight. More men ran up but the Saint was on them before they could get a shot off or a sword up. She disappeared behind some houses, the screams of men following her down the unseen alleys. Rook heard more bolt-thrower fire from his left, and then a handful of men came running his direction. A couple of them screamed as another Saint—this one a man with hair and eyes like polished silver—leapt down from a rooftop, his shining aura following him. As he landed amidst them, his sword whirled and they fell dead before him. But then there was the loud clank of a bolt-thrower and the Saint stumbled back as a bolt exploded upon his obsidian breastplate.

The Saint was stunned but unharmed as he turned his attention to the man. He was about ten-yards off, taking aim at him near the fountain. The Saint dashed forward just as the man pulled back on the trigger.
JINK-JINK-JINK
came the roar of his gun. The Saint was a blaze of yellow light as his sword flourished, blocking the shots in midair and then cutting the man down. And then the Saint was gone, leaping up and bounding along the rooftops.

Rook ducked into the house he was standing in front of and crouched behind the old, rotting door, keeping it cracked just enough so that he could see outside. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breathing loud and heavy within his own ears. His mind was spinning with blood and screams. Something deep within him was beginning to resolve that what he had just witnessed were not Saints here to protect them, but rather Saints sent to kill all of them. He felt a warm tear fall from his eye and he wiped at it just as a large number of townsmen ran into the square near the fountain. They all began kneeling, their bolt-throwers aimed his direction. Mister Brumal and Estival were with them, and they took up a position right behind the fountain. Upon the mens’ faces was terror and Rook could see some of them trembling. Mister Brumal began yelling at them to take aim and suddenly all their guns roared to life.

Rook ducked and pressed himself flat on the floor. A few errant bolts impacted the house he was hiding in and he felt the walls tremble and splinters rained down on him. Then a pair of glowing streaks dashed into the townsmen, one of them leaping up and coming down in an arc like a lightning strike. There were two Saints, one with hair and eyes as black as his armor, and another whose were as red as rubies. The townsmen all turned in to face them, but the Saints were amongst them and they couldn’t fire without risking hitting their own. Rook could hear the terrible thuds as limbs and heads fell; he could hear the choking screams of death. Some men ran, others stayed and tried to fight, but it was futile. Within seconds the town square was a sea of bodies and blood and men screaming their last. The still forms of Mister Brumal and his son, Estival, amongst them. Rook clenched a hand over his own mouth to stifle his cry.

Just then there was a loud
JINK!
Rook looked up as the Saint with red hair fell to the ground, screaming and holding his arm. His sword fell upon the stones of the square with a heavy clank that shattered the bricks beneath it. Hidden in one of the alleys, a man with a bolt-thrower came running up toward the fallen Saint. Rook wanted to scream to the man, to warn him, but before he could get anything out, the black haired Saint dashed in and the man fell to the ground in two separate halves.

“Adonael, you ok?” asked the black-haired Saint as he strode up to his fallen companion. Rook thought his voice was like a forgotten cave, deep and cold.

The ruby-haired Saint rolled on the ground, clutching his arm, groaning in pain. Rook hardly dared breathe as he lay still and silent in the doorway. He could see blood all over the injured Saint’s elbow where he clutched at it.

The black-haired Saint looked down at him. “You took a nasty bolt to your elbow.” He knelt down next to him. “Let me see.”

Slowly, the red-haired Saint took his hand away from his elbow and blood flowed out freely. At the joint where his bracer met the armor of his upper arm Rook could see mangled flesh and bone. Blood poured out of the wound, trickling down his black armor and staining his white bodysuit with horrific patterns.

“You’re lucky that shot didn’t take your arm clean off.” said the black-haired Saint. “It’ll heal.” He placed the Saint’s own hand back over the wound and then helped him up to his feet.

The red-haired Saint rubbed at the wound, and Rook could see that his hand and elbow shown with golden light.
“Apollyon below that hurts.”
he hissed through clenched teeth.

The black-haired Saint looked around the empty square. The sound of bolt throwers was further back now, the screams becoming fewer and fewer. “We’re almost done here, I think.” he said in that cold, deep voice.

“Nuriel and Hadraniel can take out the rest.” said the wounded Saint, still clutching his arm. He began bending his elbow, and to Rook’s surprise it looked as if the wound was healing. The Saint bent down and picked his sword up, revealing the cracked stones beneath it. “Let’s start clean up.”

The black-haired Saint motioned with his head over to the church. “I’ll take the church. There’s always women and children hiding out there. Not sure why they always think to hide in the church.”