The Record of the Saints Caliber (66 page)

The wounded Saint frowned. His arm seemed better now, though he still cringed each time it moved. “I’m going to start back by the wall and pick off any stragglers. If you see Nuriel and Hadraniel tell them to mop up quickly.”

The black-haired Saint nodded and then strode off toward the church, his wickedly tapered sword in his hand. The other took off down the road. Rook looked at the church and then his eyes clenched shut, squeezing tears from them. Ursula was there. He had left Ursula with Misses Camellia and the other women and children, and they were all in the church.

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Ovid entered the church cathedral, his star-metal boots clomping loudly on the hardwood floor. He looked around at the stained glass depictions of ancient Saints, and at the mural of Aeoria and the entwined dragons. He mused about how old these must be. He hadn’t seen a picture of Aeoria with dragons in nearly fifteen years, and that was back in Dimethica in an ancient, forgotten church he had stumbled upon. Such pictures were usually forbidden. Ovid chuckled to himself. “Greedy old Gatima won’t even spare new glass for the Oracles. Very interesting.”

He took a few paces down the aisles of pews. His deep voice resonated through the church as he said, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. The Goddess sent me to give you her blessings.” His wicked laughter filled the cathedral. He clomped loudly toward the back of the church to where a door led down into the darkness of a basement.

He went down the stone stairs, step by step. “Now let’s see,” he said, entering the darkness, his own Caliber light illuminating the rows of shelves stacked with food and sundries. He depressed a brass button on the side of the wall, and after a few pops the gas lanterns of the basement came to life with their soft, yellow-green glow. He clomped over toward the back of the room where barrels of wine were stacked upon a pair of tall racks. As he went, he held his sword out, slicing open a row of burlap sacks, the flour and grains they held spilling out onto the floor. He stopped right before the racks of barrels.

“Are you hiding behind here?” He thrust his sword into a barrel and ripped it out, letting the crimson wine spill out onto the floor. With his bracer he smashed another barrel, shattering it and the rack. With a terrible thunder a number of barrels came crashing down, breaking upon the floor with sharp cracks. The room was engulfed by the smell of wine, but behind the barrels was nothing but brick wall.

Ovid turned, tapping his star-metal boot on the stone floor, splashing the spilled wine. His black eyes scanned the room. “I know you’re in here. You’ve all been very, very naughty.” He clomped forward, scraping the tip of his sword upon the brick floor as he went. “To the first one to shout out and give up the rest, I shall let you live.” Ovid waited a moment in silence. “No takers?” He chuckled.

“I’ll bet if I’m very, very quiet I can hear your babes weeping.” He stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. Silence reigned for a few long moments, but then he caught the brief, muffled sound of a baby’s wailings. “Ah, there it is. You can’t keep them pressed to your chests for too long, can you? It’s a shame really. Perhaps for the price of a few babes the rest of you might have lived.”

Ovid reached out to the row of shelves before him and tore them from the wall, throwing them violently aside. They toppled with a terrible crash, spilling their mason jars of preserved fruits and vegetables all over the floor, revealing an alcove beyond. There were four women there, all of them clutching bawling babies to their chests, and about two dozen young children who all began screaming. Ovid chuckled. They all pressed themselves into the back of the chamber, Ovid’s own Caliber light illuminating their terrified faces, wet with tears.

“Please, Aeoria have mercy!” pleaded one of the women, getting down on her knees. She clutched a screaming infant to her bosom as she shuffled on her knees toward him. “Please, have mercy on us!”

“Shh.” Ovid pushed a finger to the woman’s lips and sheathed his sword. He gestured for the woman to hand him the baby, and she reluctantly complied. It was a baby girl with dark hair and blue-black eyes.

“Please, oh please!” she begged at his feet. “Please! I couldn’t bear it! Please! Charity! Charity and mercy! Certainly Aeoria would forgive one so young and innocent!”

Ovid unwrapped the babe and tossed the blanket aside. It was naked but for a cloth diaper. He held it around the skull with one hand, dangling it above the woman. It screamed and wailed so terribly that it choked for breath. “Is this the one that I heard? Is this the one that led me here?”

“Mercy! Mercy!” begged the woman, clutching at Ovid’s ankles.

“Mercy?” asked Ovid. “I gave you a chance for mercy. You should have taken me up on my offer.”

“Please, Saint! What is your name?!” she wailed at his feet, looking up at him with tearful, pleading eyes.

Ovid cast his black eyes down on her. He held up his left fist, revealing the stellaglyph painted in red upon his black gauntlet. It was a crooked, twisted looking star. “I am Saint Ovid of the Nine Days,” he said coldly.

“Ovid of the Nine Days, have mercy!” bawled the woman. “I beg you, Saint Ovid, have mercy! Mercy and charity for one so young!”

Ovid’s eyes and mouth curled into a wicked smile and he let out a slow, deep-throated chuckle. “I earned my honorific in the lands of Penatallia, working for King Erol. He wanted me to cleanse his city of heretics. It took his soldiers nine days to haul away the bodies of those I killed in his name.” He paused and shook the screaming baby that he dangled. “Children and babes amongst them.”

The woman wailed and clutched his ankles. “Aeoria, have mercy!”

“Aeoria might.” he said. “But not King Gatima. And not I.” He dangled the babe by its head, wiggling it over the woman, it’s screams horrific. “How do you want this? I can burn you all together, or I can cut your throats one by one.” His cruel chuckle filled the alcove. “Who wants to live longer? I’ll let you watch the rest die.” He dangled the screaming babe over the woman’s head and began to laugh when a terrible, burning sting erupted in the back of his knee, and he dropped the child and fell.

Rook managed to grab Ursula just before she hit the floor. He clutched her and his dagger, now dripping with the Saint’s blood, to his chest.

Ovid growled as he turned on his knee, clutching the bleeding wound. His black eyes flashed like lightning in the eerie glow of his Caliber, and they fixed on Rook. He snarled and struggled back to his feet, keeping his hateful eyes locked on Rook. Ursula screamed out from Rook’s arms and he backed away from the Saint slowly.

Ovid’s lips turned up in a snarl as he stepped out of the alcove toward Rook. “Come here!” he barked.

Rook felt his heart pounding in his chest. His shoes sloshed into a puddle of wine as he stepped back. He held Ursula in his left arm, and in a feeble gesture of defense, held the dagger out with his right hand.

With uncanny speed Ovid drew his sword and shot forward, his Caliber flaring brilliantly. Rook reflexively tried to move, but his feet slipped on the wet floor and he fell on his butt as Ovid’s sword narrowly missed his neck. With Ursula in one arm and the dagger in his other hand, Rook scrambled on the wine-soaked floor, desperately trying to scoot away, but his back hit a row of shelves, blocking him; trapping him.

Ovid turned and stormed forward and angrily grabbed one of the shelves near him and tore it down, throwing it at Rook. It was all Rook could do to curl up into a ball on the floor, clutching Ursula tightly into his chest as the racks and shelves crashed down around him, mason jars shattering all around.

Rook could hear the Saint’s star-metal boots clomping on the stone toward him. He opened his eyes to find himself caged by fallen and broken shelves. Their heavy timbers leaned in around him at eerie angles, panels of wood lay above him and crumpled shelves before him. Through gaps of broken wood he could see the terrifying Saint approaching him and he tried to stand, but couldn’t. His legs began to kick and his heart raced. Ursula screamed in his arms. He was trapped. The fallen shelves were his cage and there was nowhere for him to run. He looked up as the Saint loomed over him, his dark, cold eyes fixed on him. Ursula screamed and he clutched her to his chest.

Ovid chuckled as he pointed the sword through one of the gaps in the shelves, right at Rook’s face. “Trapped like a rat.” He shook his head and looked down at his knee. Rook could see the white bodysuit beneath the armor was smeared with blood, but the wound seemed to already be healed. Ovid returned his glare. “That was not smart of you.”

Just then Rook saw Misses Camellia run out of the alcove where the others still huddled in fear. “Rook!” she cried. Ovid turned just as she fell down at his feet, begging and pleading. “Please! Please have mercy! Please, he is but a boy and his sister but a babe! Please, I beg you, have mercy on the children!”

Ovid returned his black eyes down to Rook. “A boy and his sister. How sweet.”

“Please!” wailed Camellia, clutching at his ankles. Her voice was getting more desperate. “His name is Rook! His sister is Ursula! Please, have mercy! They are children! They are good children who know Aeoria! He meant no harm! He meant no harm! He just wanted his sister back! Please! Please!”

Ovid looked down at her, his pale face and black eyes showing no trace of care.

Camellia’s voice trembled now as she looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Here, take me,” she said. Her desperate, trembling fingers began unbuttoning her shirt. “Take me! Leave them and take me!” She exposed her breasts. She looked up at him, licking her lips. Her hands slid up the cold, black star-metal that covered his thighs. “Please, let them go and have me. I can please you.”

Ovid’s glare was unmoved.

“I will!” she said, her words soft, desperate, failing. “I’ll please you! I’ll please you! Let them go!” her hands fumbled at his crotch where black star-metal plates hung upon his waist, and something of a star-metal codpiece was upon his front. She pressed her mouth to his crotch, her hot breath fogging his armor. “Let them go. Have me and let them go!”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Ovid, sliding the black blade of his star-metal sword over her breasts. “I’ll kill him last so he can watch the rest of you die.”

At that moment Camellia’s eyes went wide and she choked for breath. Rook’s view was blessedly hampered by the fallen shelves that surrounded him, and it took him a moment to realize that the Saint had pushed his sword through the center of her chest. He gasped. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. Fear and shock froze him.

Ovid ripped the sword from her body and turned to Rook as Camellia fell with a gentle splash into the wine on the floor. He whipped his sword to the side, and Rook felt the warm blood of Misses Camellia slap him across the face. Ursula bawled in his arms. Ovid looked down at Rook. “I’m going to kill them all one by one so you can hear each one of their screams. And when I’m done with them, I’ll come back for you two.” He crouched down and looked directly through a gap in the shelves, his black eyes fixed upon Rook’s own eyes. “If you kill your sister by the time I come back, I’ll let you go free.” He winked at him and then stood and turned his attention to the alcove. The women and children began to scream as he clomped toward them.

Panic took Rook. In his head there was a blur of screams from the women, children and Ursula. All around him the toppled shelves leaned in and he began to feel dizzy. The coldness of the floor and the wetness of the wine and all that had spilled from the mason jars soaked his pants. The smell of wine and blood and pickled vegetables assaulted him in a nauseating cloud. He tried to stand, tried to move the shelves, but the heavy, oaken timbers would not budge for him. Ursula wailed in his arms.

And then Rook felt heat wash over him. A warm gust, and upon it was a terrible odor. It was an odor that overpowered everything. He had smelled it one night not very long ago. He turned his head, and in the darkest corner of the basement Rook saw the beast standing there. His hulking, shadowy form was cracked with veins of fiery heat and his eyes glowed white-hot from beyond the massive horns that spiraled around his head. At the demon’s feet Rook noticed a number of eyes. These did not glow with molten fire, but rather gleamed like pale moons. They were desperate eyes; hungry eyes. Eyes that were terrible and haunting.

Bulifer stepped forward from the darkness and the creatures at his feet seemed compelled to follow him. Rook could see that they were lanky, pathetic, charred men and women, grovelling at his feet. Each of them were fettered around their wrists, ankles, necks and waists by heavy chains and weights that seemed to have their origins someplace beneath the stone floor of the basement. Their eyes were a terrible, stark-white within their blackened skulls, and their heads barren of all but a few wisps of hair that seemed agitated by some unfelt, hot wind. Their naked bodies were more starved and skeletal than Rook had even remembered seeing his father, and their skin was peeling and flaking with char.

The children from the alcove screamed and a woman wailed out. Rook’s head snapped in that direction, thinking that they must have seen the demons. But that was not the case. None seemed to take notice of Bulifer and his grovelling slaves. Instead they screamed out at the headless body of a young boy. Rook gasped and nearly choked. It was Camellia and Brumal’s youngest son, Willow. He lay at Ovid’s feet in a pool of spreading blood. The Saint moved in upon another boy and more screams erupted from the alcove. Suddenly, the fettered beings at Bulifer’s feet began clawing at the floor, trying to move toward Ovid and his trapped victims.