The Record of the Saints Caliber (76 page)

Rook was vaguely aware that the younger kids, all of them bound in shackles, were coming up into the wagon now. But his mind was clouded with rage and all he could do was snarl and curse Bulifer and his treachery. He kicked and spat.
“You promised!”

“He’s delirious or something,” said Sky. “He got hit in the head pretty hard. Just leave him alone.”

“Come on, hold still!” said Lobo.

Rook bit down on one of the hands that held him, growling and snarling as he tore himself free. He dashed across the wagon to the railing. “Ursula!” he screamed. He could see Rennic’s wagon with the women and babies starting to roll away. The boys grabbed him by the shoulders and held him in place. “Ursula!!”

— 21 —

THE LONG HOURS

The domed glass ceiling of the council room was filled with a spectacular show of fiery purples as the last vestiges of the evening sun set upon Duroton. Dagrir sat reclined at the head of the table, looking up into the twilight heavens, chewing his thoughts over as the rest of the Councilmen took their seats. Due to the lateness of the meeting it was a much more relaxed climate, and rather than his armor, or even regal robes, Dagrir wore a much more comfortable ensemble of black and red clothing. The rest of the council were in their typical garments and chattered quietly amongst themselves.

It was then that the door to the council room swung open and Lord Tarquin entered. He wore a slightly tattered shroud over his armor—the black plate with gray spirals painted up each arm—and he looked a little dinged up despite the quick freshen-up he had obviously just undergone. At his side hung his sword, Whisper. In his hands he held an iron box that possessed something of an ominous quality.

“Ah, there he is,” said Balin, smiling brightly. “The man of the hour! Fresh from the battlefields of the Icelands!” Balin stood up and took his place at Dagrir’s right to act as the Council’s Standing Speaker. He quickly called order and went through the formalities of unnecessary introductions, honoring Lord Tarquin as the Standing Guest of the meeting.

Dagrir quietly and begrudgingly sat up to a more formal position, rubbing the thick growth of beard he had let take over his face. “Report.” he said in a more demanding tone than was usual for him, but he wanted to get right into the point of things before Balin or one of the others could start off on some unending tangent of business that could wait until tomorrow. Dagrir wasn’t much in the mood this evening for politicking and wanted to get back to his father’s chambers as quickly as possible. His father, King Garidrir, had fallen catatonic this morning, and during the evening had begun breathing erratically. The Jinn were tending to him now, but the general consensus seemed to be he would not last the night.

“The battle is won in your name, my Liege.” said Tarquin. The title of ‘Liege’ was reserved strictly for the King, and its use was not lost on Dagrir. Word that Garidrir would not last the night must have already spread through the castle.

Tarquin stepped forward and placed the iron box upon the table before Dagrir. “As is customary,” said the Dark Star Knight. “I bring you the head of your conquered enemy’s kingdom, and present you with their lands.”

Dagrir scowled at the box. He hadn’t wanted the Icelanders to be his enemy, and he really had no use for their lands. But he had to consider that they brought this upon themselves. Dagrir puffed out a long breath. Tarquin and the Saints Alliance had gone to them in good faith and were repaid with death. All of the Saints had been killed, and Tarquin narrowly escaped. At least, that’s what they had told him. Whether or not that was true, Dagrir had no way of knowing. He supposed there was a good chance that he didn’t know the entire truth. After all, the Council had sent Tarquin and the Saints without his knowledge, and that was still something of a sore spot with him.

If there was one thing Dagrir was going to end once he took the crown, it was going to be the secret meetings and secret dealings. Prior to his brother’s failed Rising of the Phoenix ceremony, secrets were one thing Dagrir had to expect. He wasn’t, after all, heir to the throne. And truth be told, nothing had been his business unless his father or Brandrir made it his business. He had only been part of the Council and Duroton’s politics due to his brother’s negligence of duties. But now that he would be King, the secrets would end. He, Dagrir, was the Regent King now. There was no reason for any more secrets.

Dagrir puffed as he looked down at the box, not really wanting to open it. Those stupid Icelanders. If only Brandrir had kept his mouth shut. If only Brandrir had listened to him and the Council about paying the reparations, none of this would have happened. He’d have to chalk this up to cleaning up yet another one of his brother’s messes; messes that would hopefully be coming to an end now that Brandrir had been denied the crown and gone off to the Grimwatch. At least, he hoped the messes would now come to an end.

Dagrir exhaled deeply and opened the box. Inside was the bloody head of the Icelanders’ King resting atop their flag and some dirt of their kingdom. Dagrir closed the lid. “Well done, Lord Tarquin.”

“I assume you left no survivors?” pressed Balin, and the rest of the Council looked at the Knight expectantly.

“No survivors.” said Tarquin. His lips betrayed a subtle smile. “They have been eradicated.”

“Very good,” said Balin, and Dagrir could sense an almost palpable relief wash over the council room. “I do not suppose you have seen Celacia strolling about, have you?”

“I have not.” said Tarquin, and the Councilmen all let out a collective sigh.

Dagrir pursed his lips into a frown as he thought. Celacia had not been seen since she dropped the dragon skull off in Graystone. She was supposed to help see it to its home in the Yotun Mines, but reportedly commandeered a ship and went across the sea to the Icelands. That was about a day after the failed meeting to pay the Icelander’s their reparations, and all the Saints were killed in the ensuing battle. The Council originally speculated that she had gone to attend the battle or to exact revenge for her Saints, but she had not. She simply seemed to have taken off on some course of personal action. What business Celacia had in the Icelands, other than her own Saints, nobody knew. Not even Isley. Celacia was something of an enigma to Dagrir, but it was an enigma he had no desire to learn any more about. Dagrir sighed. “Was the Star-Armor of the fallen Saints still there?”

Tarquin nodded. “Yes, my Liege. It took a full day and all my power to lug that stuff onto the ship, piece by piece. We were afraid its weight might sink our ship.”

Dagrir nodded his approval. “Very good, Lord Tarquin. See to it that it is all brought to the Yotun Mines with the skull. Count it as raw material once the Jinn figure out how it might be used for our benefit.”

Tarquin bowed slightly. “Beneath the Duroton sky, it shall be done.” He looked at the Council. “What now of my Saints Alliance?”

“Well, if Celacia ever shows back up, perhaps she can bring us some Saints who might prove themselves more worthy in battle.” said Balin, getting a little chuckle from the rest of the Council, but Tarquin didn’t seem amused. “Perhaps she’s even off acquiring them right now. Perhaps that’s where she’s run off to.”

“It’s a possibility.” said Aldur. “Has that been considered? It would make sense. Where else would she go?”

Jord shook his head. “I thought she was seen sailing north to the Icelands? She’d have been away to the south if she were looking for more Saints.”

“Well,” said Balin. “I guess the only thing that is certain right now is that the Saints Alliance will need more staffing.”

“No.” said Dagrir, and the Council all gave pause and looked at him. “I like the idea of the Skull Forge. I like the idea of being able to craft star-metal for our own uses. I like the idea of trying to make Star-Armor light enough for our own Knights to wear. But this Celacia creature, I do not trust. These Saints, I do not trust. They have both been a bad idea from the start.”

Dagrir paused and looked up at Tarquin. “Lord Tarquin, you stand here today as testament to our superiority over the Saints. Four Saints and a Knight of the Dark Stars go to battle, and only the Dark Star Knight survives.” Dagrir stood up and addressed the entire room. “Duroton does not need a Saints Alliance, and beneath the Duroton sky, I hereby dissolve it.”

There were some murmurs through the Councilmen and Lord Tarquin stepped forward. “My Liege,” he said, eyes flashing. “The title of its Captain was bestowed upon me. And with all due respect, the Icelanders ambushed us. We were taken off guard. I can assure you such a loss shall never befall my command again.”

Dagrir looked at Tarquin. “My apologies, but the Saints Alliance was conceived in dark whispers by this Council. No good can come from such a thing born in secrets.”

Tarquin stepped closer, standing what some might consider a threatening distance to one’s soon-to-be King. “With all due respect,” he said, eyes locking with Dagrir’s. “The Saints Alliance was born by your own father’s will. I should see his full plans come to fruition.”

“You shall do nothing but fall to order.” said Dagrir, his own eyes flashing.

Tarquin scowled. He stepped back and bowed slightly. “My apologies. Liege.”

Dagrir turned to the Council. “I dissolve the Saints Alliance. I am tired of the backroom schemes and deals, none of which I or my brother had ever been party to. Duroton shall remain strong under my rule, and it shall be so not by the might of Saints, but by the same Knights of the Dark Stars who have ever watched over our lands. We shall use this dragon skull to our benefit. We shall find a way to make Star-Armor that our own Knights can wear.” He turned to Lord Tarquin. “And to you, Lord Tarquin, I promise the first of the armor.”

Tarquin nodded but looked no happier.

“I know my father and this Council have all desired to see Duroton herald a new age. And neither am I blind to the few remaining stars in our heavens, nor deaf to the whispers of what their demise portends.” said Dagrir. He paused and looked up through the ceiling, to the barren night sky. “A new age is coming whether this world is ready or not. I swear beneath the Duroton sky that we shall herald that new age. But it shall be an age of our own terms, not those of Celacia and her Saints. I say to this Council that it is
their
age that comes to an end; that it is the end of Sanctuary’s long reign and the corruption it has wrought upon this world. We are at the doorstep of a new age, and it shall be the age of the North. It will be the age of the people of Duroton.”

There were some thoughtful nods and murmurs among the Councilmen. Balin looked at the table and shouted, “Hear! Hear! Perhaps our Liege is correct in this. I cannot imagine Celacia will be pleased that all her Saints are dead anyway. Perhaps this Council should give consideration to the wisdom of our new King.”

“Hear! Hear!” shouted the rest of the Council, many of them still leaning into each others’ ears and nodding approvingly.

Dagrir smiled faintly, feeling his little speech had gone over better than he had thought it would. He hoped it would also give them all something to chew on for the rest of the night so that he might get back to his father. “If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I would take my leave.”

“There is one other matter before we adjourn.” said Balin. “It’s about your brother.”

Dagrir felt himself cringe. This was exactly the type of conversation he wanted to avoid tonight. He frowned. “This can wait for another time.”

“They’re calling him the King of the Grims.” said Hymnar, sounding a bit agitated. “They’ve claimed the Grimwatch and its lands as their own. I hear they even fly their own flag now. As Council of Domestic Affairs, I think this bears immediate discussion.”

“That is high treason.” said Gefjon, wagging a finger at Dagrir. “This act of your brother cannot stand.”

“Yes, I am afraid immediate action needs to be taken.” said Balin. “My Liege, this Council suggests—”

Dagrir held up a hand, calling for silence. He sighed and wiped his hands down his face. So much for his brother’s messes coming to an end. “We’re not dealing with this tonight.”

“High treason.” reminded Gefjon. “Such a thing demands immediate response!”

“Shall we draw up the papers for an army?” asked Balin. “We could march upon him within a week. Perhaps Lord Tarquin can see yet another victory in your name?”

“No.” said Dagrir flatly. He looked right at Balin. “
Nothing
happens right now. I shall deal with my brother in due time. For now, let him have his wall and his tower. We now have all of the Icelands. What need do we have for a frozen wall on the edge of Kald territory anyway? Let him have it, if it makes him happy.”