The Record of the Saints Caliber (23 page)

“Get up!” shouted one of the soldiers, his voice harsh, cruel and metallic through the grated steel mask of his helmet. “Get up now!”

Rook slowly stood, clutching his screaming sister to his chest. Another guard was still shouting towards his dead mother, ordering her to stand or be shot. “She’s dead,” croaked Rook, his throat dry and sore from crying.

The guards all exchanged glances and one of them stormed over, bolt-thrower raised and ready, and unceremoniously kicked his mother’s corpse over. Rook cried out in horror at this, but was immediately seized around the collar by another guard and nearly thrown across the room toward his mother’s corpse, which now leaned in a stiff and gruesome manner upon the floor.

Rook stood petrified upon his feet, trembling and convulsively sobbing as he clutched his little sister to his chest. The guards looked at him with cold eyes and all of them had the massive barrels of their bolt-throwers trained on him. Tears rolled off his cheeks and at this point Rook only hoped that they would kill him and his sister together. Above all else, he couldn’t bear the thought that they might kill him and just leave little Ursula to starve and die alone on the cold floor.

“Where’s your father? Is he Brumal? Are you Brumal’s son?” demanded one of the guards, urging Rook to answer by wagging the barrel of his bolt-thrower at him.

Rook’s mind was racing as he tried to sort through the questions. He tried to speak but his throat clenched and he convulsively sobbed.

“Is your father Brumal Gatimarian?”
yelled the guard, sounding more annoyed than previously.

“N-n-no,” sobbed Rook. Ursula wailed and he pressed her up to his chest.

“Where is he? Where is your father?” demanded the guard.

“He…he died earlier this year,” croaked Rook, his voice choking on his sobs. Tears and snot streamed down his face.

“When’d your mother die?” demanded another guard.

It took Rook a moment before his voice would work, but he managed to get out a, “Just now.”

“Where’s Brumal?” demanded the same guard.

Rook’s lip was trembling as he tried to hold back more sobs. His mind flipped and flopped for an answer. Did they want to know where he lived, or if he had seen him at the church?

“He don’t know,” spat one of the guards, lowering his massive gun. “And now we got to take these fucking brats to the orphanage.”

“Not if we just shoot ‘em,” mentioned another guard. The other two looked at him. “Just say the mother came at us and we opened fire. Nobody’s gonna give a rat’s ass.”

“Really?” asked the third guard who had been quiet up until now. “We could do that?”

“I’ve done it before,” said the other guard. “Ain’t nobody gonna care. Easier than marching them all the way up to the orphanage. Besides, I ain’t got time to give a full report on this kind of thing. They’ll just be left to starve there anyway. Shit, we’ll be doin’ these two brats a favor by giving ‘em a quick death. Let’s just shoot ‘em and be done with it.” The guard raised his weapon and trained the barrel right at Rook’s head.

“We could sell them.” suggested the other soldier. “We could sell them to Garrot and Karver. I hear they buy most of the kids from the orphanage anyway. Takes them over to Valdasia and sells ‘em. They pay good for young kids over there. Especially the baby. They’re in town right now, too.”

“Wait, what’s that?” asked the third guard, wagging his weapon barrel at the floor.

Rook’s eyes darted and saw the copper ingot on the floor near all the tools. Rook knew now that any chance he had of them changing their mind and letting them live had just ended. They’d surely kill him for something as valuable as solid copper.

The lead guard walked over and kicked it. “I…I think it’s gold!”

“That ain’t gold,” said one of the other guards. “Looks like copper. Pick it up.”

The guard knelt, laying his heavy gun on the floor, and picked up the three ingots. He stood up, puzzling over them.

“Well, what are they?” asked the other guard.

“Looks like some metal bars or something. And a bunch of old tools.”

“This one’s got writing on it,” said the guard, flipping the steel ingot around. “And a picture of a dragon or something.”

“Words?” asked one of the guards. “You mean like in the bible that Tarask reads in the church?”

“Yeah, words,” said the guard, bouncing the steel ingot in his hand. “This thing weighs like five pounds.” He looked down at the two copper ones. “I bet these are solid copper.”

The other guards rushed over and huddled around, each trying to get a good look at the ingots.

“What the fuck are they for?” asked one of the guards. He and the third guard slung their weapons over their shoulders now, all three of them pawing at the things and marveling at the bars of shiny metal.

“What do you think it says?” asked one of the guards, pawing at the steel bar. He traced his fingers over the letters molded into it.

“Who knows,” said the guard holding the copper bars. “But can you imagine having to learn how to read that crap? How the fuck does somebody remember what every one of those things means?”

“How you think the kid got this stuff? You think maybe he can read it?” asked one of the guards.

“How the fuck should I know?” replied the other.

The guard turned around. “Hey kid, how the fuck…” his voice trailed off.

Rook was sobbing and shaking violently as he held the bolt-thrower in his hands. Ursula, wrapped up in her rags, was on the floor behind him crying, but Rook’s attention was on the heft of the weapon he now held and trying to steady the barrel at the guards. The thing weighed a million pounds and he had to rest the handlegrip on his hip and use his other arm to point the barrel. His right hand was around the handle, his little finger pressed on the cold steel of the trigger. He could barely see from the stinging tears in his eyes but thought he might have the gun pointed at the nearest guard’s chest. He wondered how hard he had to squeeze the trigger to make it work, and wondered what would happen if he did manage to make it work.

The guards quickly glanced at each other and then laughed. “Come on kid,” said the guard who Rook had stolen the gun off the floor from. “Give it to me.” He held out his hand and wagged it expectantly.

Something of a cry, something of a scream emanated from Rook’s mouth and he used all his strength to hoist the barrel higher.

The guard laughed. “You can’t even lift that thing. You know what’s gonna happen if you pull that trigger?” The guard took a step toward Rook and held out his hand. “Give me my fucking gun and maybe I won’t—”

The trigger required surprisingly less force than Rook had thought, and truth be told he hadn’t thought he really pulled it. The gun came to life with a deafening and metallic sounding
“JINK!”
and the muzzle exploded with a fiery blast as it released its terrible bullet. In that same moment the guard’s entire left hip exploded, sending shards of mangled armor and chunks of horrific meat in all directions.

Rook shook his head and sat up from the floor. The force of the blast had thrown him back with the gun landing on top of him. He vaguely heard the two guards shouting and cursing over the terrible screams of their comrade. He got his wits back just in time to see the two guards training their weapons in his direction. Without thought, Rook rocked backward on his butt, using the floor as a lever to raise the bolt-thrower as best he could and squeezed the trigger with all his might. The gun roared to life and Rook felt himself being tossed and turned on the floor as the barrel released a volley of six successive shots:
JINK! – JINK! – JINK! – JINK! – JINK! – JINK!

The walls and ceiling around him exploded into showers of ruined plaster and wood. Rook clenched his eyes shut, dropping the weapon from his hand and rolling over on top of Ursula to protect her just as the floor beside him burst apart with a terrible explosion.

Rook didn’t know how long he laid on the floor screaming and sobbing before he realized the gunfire was over. Slowly he got up, half blind from the tears and snot on his face and picked the screaming Ursula up in his arms. He brushed the dust and plaster from her face and held her close, both of them screaming and crying for many long minutes before he became aware that people were slowly peeking in through their broken door.

Rook finally had the wits about him to look around. The three guards were all dead. The first one that he had shot was on the floor in a wide pool of blood, his entire hip and left side a gruesome mess. The second guard lay nearby, his body split into two distinct pieces at the chest, his armor twisted and mangled. The last guard was on the floor convulsing violently. A shot had hit his right side, tearing an horrific chunk from his armor and ribs and removing his entire arm. Rook glanced behind him. The floor near where he had fallen had a crater of splintered wood. One of the guards, or perhaps even a rogue shot from his own weapon, must have hit the area. Rook could only imagine what his own body would look like had that hit him.

“Rook! Rook!” yelled a familiar voice as firm hands shook him by the shoulders. It was Mister Brumal, and he had his bow slung across his back.

Rook could see a flood of hesitant on-lookers creeping into the room, one of them immediately running to a fallen guard and scooping up his bolt-thrower. Mister Brumal’s eldest son, Estival, had already managed to grab one of the guns for himself and stood near his father with the heavy thing slung around his shoulder. It didn’t take long before another stranger grabbed the third and final bolt-thrower from the floor.

“Rook, what happened?” asked Mister Brumal, shaking Rook by the shoulders again. “Come on boy, tell me what happened.”

It took Rook a moment to get his convulsive sobs under control before he was able to croak out, “They were looking for you.”

Mister Brumal frowned. “Your mother, boy, where is she?”

Rook slowly pointed across the room.

Mister Brumal craned his neck around to see where Rook was pointing. He closed his eyes tightly and nodded softly. He stood up and patted Rook on the shoulder.

“Dad!” hissed Estival, tugging on his father’s raggedy shirt. “Guards are coming!”

There was a sudden commotion in the room as some people fled the house while others ducked or scampered into other rooms. From outside Rook could hear the shouts of guards and their steel boots clanking on the ground as they came running. No doubt the sound of all those bolt-thrower blasts had drawn their attention.

Mister Brumal took the bolt-thrower from his son and handed Estival the bow. The other two men who had snatched up the weapons stood nearby. “I say we stand and fight!” growled Mister Brumal. “Let’s make a stand!”

There was some mutterings and mumblings in the room. The two armed men looked at Mister Brumal and nodded.

The clanking of the guards was getting closer now and the three men with guns crouched by the door and were whispering amongst each other. Estival notched a crude arrow into the bow and sunk into the shadows of a far corner.

Now that silence had fallen upon the house Rook again became aware of Ursula’s bawling. He tried rebundling the scarf about her but at this point she was inconsolable. Rook knew she was hungry and probably wanted momma. Rook chanced a glance back toward the window, dark now that dusk had fallen, and had a final, stupid hope that maybe—just maybe—momma really hadn’t died. But there, stiff and slumped in an awkward position that made her death seem all the more real and terrible was her corpse. Dust and debris from the gunfire now covered her and her dark hair was white with powdered plaster.

“Shut that baby up!” hissed one of the men from the shadows of the doorway. He was scowling at Rook and frantically waving his arm.

Heart racing now, Rook clenched Ursula tight to his chest and ran around the corner into the kitchen. There was a man there and he was riffling through all the kitchen cupboards. All of the drawers had been pulled out, their meager contents dumped unceremoniously upon the dirty floor. As Rook entered, the thief paused his looting and looked at him. His blue eyes were like cold sapphires and his long black hair framed his cadaverous, sunken face. Garbed in tight leather as dark as shadows, the tall man stood like a menacing vampire in the darkened kitchen. His lips, slender and blood red, quivered and then curled into a frightening smile.

Rook froze, Ursula’s bawling dampening in his chest. He knew of this man. His name was Rennic Finn. He was a foreigner, originally from Penatallia was the rumor. He didn’t have the typical last name of Gatimarian that was forced upon all citizens of Jerusa, and his first name wasn’t derived from something found in Jerusa. He was a snitch and a thief. People didn’t speak to him, and spoke less amongst themselves when he was around. He was always creeping in the shadows around town; watching people from afar when they were working the fields. At social gatherings he was always off in the distance, watching with those cold blue eyes and smiling with those red, worm-like lips. Rennic was in good with the Oracles and Sin Eaters and all of the city guard. It showed too, for Rennic’s black outfit was not the tattered rags most people of the city wore, and his body was slender, lean and muscular rather than malnourished.

He looked down at Rook with those cold blue eyes and his lips furled into a perverse smile. He held a few rusty forks and spoons in his pale hands, the only things in the kitchen even remotely worth taking.