The Record of the Saints Caliber (37 page)

Etheil nodded his head softly. “You asked me to leave Duroton.”

“I asked you to forget about my son,” said the King. “I offered you gold, jewels, titles…whatever you wanted to leave these Lands and never return. If Brandrir is to become King tomorrow, it cannot be with a Freydir at his side.”

“My Liege,” said Balin, almost pleading. “We have already discussed this matter in private. It was agreed—”

King Garidrir’s face went red and he threw his cup at Balin. “Silence! Enough!” he began coughing but quickly composed himself. “Lord Etheil Freydir, I will ask you one last time. Leave the side of my son forever, and the Lands of Duroton.”

Etheil glanced at Egret and Gregin who still stood silently in the shadows. He could feel their gaze ever more grave. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and then looked at King Garidrir. “My Liege,” he said. “I will answer you one last time. Before I am sworn to King or Council, before I am a Knight of the Dark Star, I am a son of Duroton and my allegiance to the Lands is unwavering. What you ask me to do is impossible.”

The King scowled and wheezed in a deep breath. “Then I ask you to leave my son. Go back to the Wilds with that beast of yours and rid this castle of your presence. Take gold and titles and whatever else you want, but leave this castle and never return and let not my sons know where you go.”

Etheil bit his lip and frowned. He thought a moment and then said, “I have sworn my allegiance to Brandrir, both as a son of Duroton and a Knight of the Dark Star. As his Captain, I have sworn myself to his command. If ever he calls, I will be at his side.”

The King glowered for a moment. “So be it.” he croaked. “Etheil Freydir, I charge you with high treason against the Lands and Sons of Duroton. Beneath the Duroton sky I name you an enemy of the Lands.”

No sooner had the King finished his words than Egret and Gregin had their shrouds off and their swords drawn, sending the Councilmen into something of a panic as they gathered around the King’s bed, shrinking against the wall.

“Lord Etheil, you are under arrest.” said Egret with great authority as he strode forward, his black boots clanking heavily upon the floor. The lightning painted upon the arms of his armor seemed to almost glow in the gaslight. Etheil knew the broadsword Egret held in his hand well. It had a yellow gem in its pommel and its name was Thundercracker.

Gregin moved out to the side, his face stern and severe. The waves of turbulent water painted up the arms of his armor matched the blue gem in the pommel of his broadsword. Etheil was not as familiar with Lord Gregin’s weapon, but he believed it was called Tempest.

Etheil knew the likelihood of Egret or Gregin unleashing the fury of their weapons in this room was slim. They would have to repress the power of their weapons, just as they were repressing their Dark Star energy. There would just be too much risk to the lives of the King and the Council, and even to the castle. For this reason alone Etheil knew he had the edge. They would not risk harm to Garidrir. In fact, Etheil thought they were probably far more concerned on the inside about what might happen if he should choose to stand and fight than they were showing.

Etheil threw off his shroud, revealing his armor and the flames painted up his arms. His own broadsword had a red gemstone in the pommel and its name was Firebrand. He could see the look of concern now betray both Egret’s and Gregin’s faces. He felt their powers take hold of him and nearby some of the furniture and items on the ground began to hover just off the stone floor.

“Lord Etheil,” said Egret very gravely. “If you truly call yourself a Son of Duroton, you shall not raise your sword against us in the presence of the King and Council.”

Gregin took a small step forward and looked at Etheil with his piercing brown eyes and shook his head slowly.

Etheil drew out Firebrand and Egret looked at him anxiously.

“Not here,” warned Egret.

Just then there was a terrible crash from the back of the room. A few of the Councilmen screamed and Egret and Gregin turned around like a flash of lightning. Even before the shattered glass and torn curtain had time to hit the floor, the giant blue wolf with amethyst stripes was inside. His great blue maw was raised in a snarl, revealing his rows of pearly fangs. His growl seemed to reverberate through the very floor of the castle as he padded forward.

Egret flourished his sword. “I’ll take Etheil. You take the wolf.” he said to Gregin.

“No, Solastron,” said Etheil loudly. The wolf cast its frosty sapphire eyes upon him for a moment but stood his ground, snarling.

“Lord Egret!” called Etheil. As soon as Egret turned around he tossed Firebrand to him. Egret looked rather stunned by this. “I will not fight you here.” said Etheil.

Solastron barked loudly and growled as Gregin moved in.

“Call off your mutt or it dies.” warned Gregin.

“Solastron, come.” ordered Etheil. With a wary last glance at Egret and Gregin, the wolf turned and bounded to Etheil in one giant leap that put the entire Council on edge. “Good boy,” said Etheil, rubbing the wolf’s big head and ears.

“You give yourself up, just like that?” croaked the King. “Not even an ounce of fight? I expected more, even out of you.”

“You are the King of Duroton as the Lands have ordained,” said Etheil. “I would never raise arms against you, my Liege.”

The King huffed. “Take him to the Black Cells.”

“Full guard,” added Gefjon. “Double the watch on them.”

Egret and Gregin approached cautiously.

“My Liege,” said Etheil, looking at the King. “Thank you for letting Brandrir take the throne tomorrow. He shall make a fine King.”

Garidrir scowled. “Nobody is to know of his arrest.” he croaked. “Neither of my sons are to know of this.”

“My Liege,” said Etheil. “Swear to me beneath the Duroton sky that no harm shall come to Solastron and I shall swear beneath the same sky to await my fate peacefully.”

The King scowled and waved his hand at Egret. “Take them both to the Black Cells.” he spat. “They can await their fates together.”

— 10 —

THE GOLOTHIC

Rook sat quietly at the table with Ursula bundled up in his arms, sucking peacefully at a bottle of warm milk. He tried not to be too conspicuous as he watched the far door. It had been left open just a crack and through it he saw flashes of movement as a small group of people were herded into the room and then down into the basement. Chains scraped across the wooden floor as they went and clinked and clanked upon their wrists. He could hear the frightened whispers of children and the sobs of a mother as she pleaded with her captor. Then Rook heard an abrupt smack and the woman fell silent. He heard Garrot grumble something and the freakish giggling of Rennic.

“Mind your business, boy.” said Karver.

Rook looked up at the man who sat across the table from him. Karver’s dark eyes were focussed on him. “Yes sir,” said Rook quietly and turned his eyes down to Ursula, though he could still feel the man’s harsh glare upon him. From outside the sound of distant, hammering bolt-throwers drifted in the wind. Shouting voices could be heard as well, too distant to be distinguished or understood. They were sounds becoming more and more frequent and familiar.

“Eat.” commanded Karver.

Rook looked at his plate. Over the last couple days he had been given all the food he wanted and bottles of milk for Ursula were in no short supply. Karver often complained that the meat and potatoes that his brother Garrot roasted in the cast iron stove in the kitchen were crude and poorly seasoned. Karver liked to mock Garrot, telling him that they were lucky to be slavers, because his food wasn’t fit to feed anybody but slaves and dogs. To Rook, however, they were a taste sensation. Granted, the meat was often tough, but as far as Rook was concerned, longer chewing meant longer savoring. And despite the boredom of being confined to the dining room, kitchen and his upstairs bedroom with nothing to do but eat and listen to the disturbing sounds from the basement, Rook felt better than he ever had. He felt stronger and had more energy. Even Ursula was looking brighter and happier.

Rook looked at the chunk of meat and the potato and carrot on his plate and his belly made some sort of painful, rolling complaint he had never felt before. Rook bit his lip. He never thought he would say the words that escaped his lips. “I…I’m too full.”

Karver grumbled something under his breath about having Garrot take it to the others.

Rook inhaled deeply and it was quite the effort. His belly felt round, full and ready to split at the seams. He smiled at Ursula. Her eyes were closed and she was sleeping now, occasionally sucking at the bottle, as if to make sure nobody had stolen away with it. Wrapped up in the nice wool blanket Karver had given her, she looked more contented and happy than Rook had ever seen her. He couldn’t help but smile too and realized that he was also feeling happy and contented. It was a stark contrast to the terror he had been living with since being taken here two days ago. The memories of that first day flooded him and suddenly his happy contentment felt oddly gruesome. Rook swallowed hard and tried to push the memories and feelings away as he looked around the room.

The dining room, like the rest of the house that he had seen, had a gloomy, rustic look to it. It was dimly lit by gaslamps upon the naked brick walls. Thick curtains of dark green or red were always drawn shut over barred windows, and the dark wood floors left the entire house in quiet bleakness, even during the day. Very little art hung upon the walls of the other rooms Rook had seen, but here in the dining room there were a handful of oil paintings and he found himself gazing upon them now.

“You know who that is, boy?” asked Karver as he chewed a hunk of beef. He waved his sharp knife towards the largest of the paintings. It occupied much of the wall above the dining room’s unlit fireplace. The bronze frame had to be at least five-feet tall and seven-feet wide, cast in a gaudy swirl of organic flourishes. The painting housed within was done in dark, rich colors and was of a man so enormous even the frame’s sheer size could barely contain him.

He was grotesque. Fat beyond words. He was draped in layers of royal robes of red, green and gold, trimmed with exotic furs and laces. The gowns were all embellished with gems and buttons and baubles. They blanketed him like snow might a mountain, but they were hideous in their excess and extravagance. His hands were like hams, each finger a sausage. His right lazily gripped a golden scepter so fanciful and elaborate that any beauty it might hope to have was lost and tangled in absurd exorbitance. His left hand rested where a normal man’s lap might be, but the sheer bulk of his belly and thighs and legs all draped beneath garish gowns made the placement ambiguous at best. His face sagged beneath the sheer weight of his own jowls and chins, his dark eyes large, round and looked out from the painting with lazy arrogance. His hair was dark and curly, and upon his head was a gleaming golden crown that in itself seemed as engorged and bloated as the man who wore it. It was festooned with gems and jewels of many colors and it had thick spires all around that were so overly exaggerated and intricate that the entire thing was monstrous and hideous.

“That’s your King, boy.” said Karver, chewing his meat. He spit a glob of fat onto his plate. “That’s King Gatima. Everything you have in this world, you owe him.” Karver paused and huffed a laugh as he chewed. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. No matter, because he’s the King.” Karver finished chewing and swallowed. He stabbed another wad of meat onto his fork and then pointed with it across to the other wall. “That there is my cousin. One of Gatima’s Exalted Nobles. Behemoth Kraken.”

Rook looked upon the painting. It was only slightly smaller than the one of Gatima, and the man depicted in it only slightly more contained within its frame. He was an enormous man so round and rotund that the gleaming silver armor he wore made him look like a steel ball. The armor itself was ornate, almost too much to take in. The giant pauldrons that adorned his shoulders were sculpted in the form of serpent heads. Upon his chest the armor was embellished with a sculpted, golden kraken whose many tentacles trailed down his thighs and legs and up and over and through each arm. Upon his head he wore a tall, maskless helmet that was crested with the form of a great serpent. At his chest the man rested his large hands upon the pommel of a giant sword and he seemed to look out from the painting with smug aloofness. His dark eyes and hair, his facial features were all very similar to Karver’s and Garrot’s, but his black beard was long and draped down past his hands on the painting.