The Record of the Saints Caliber (47 page)

Brandrir shot the guards another fiery glare. “Give him his sword. Now!”

The guard nodded. “Yes, your Grace.” He moved past the doors where a vault was built into the wall. He fumbled with some keys for a moment before swinging the heavy door open, producing Etheil’s sword, Firebrand. It’s red crystal sparkled even in the dim light of the hall. Cautiously, the guard handed it to Etheil.

“Let’s go.” said Brandrir, hardly even looking at his old friend. He turned to leave, keeping his sword and shield ignited and at the ready. Somehow, the hum and buzz of his sword and shield felt comforting right now. He felt the soft head of Solastron nudge his hand, but Brandrir wasn’t quite in the mood for warm hellos and didn’t have the time for them even if he was. The realization that he had accidentally killed one of the Royal Guards was now also starting to sink in, and while he knew his father probably wouldn’t charge him with a crime, it was still more fuel for the fire that was likely sweeping through the castle and all the nobility this very moment. “We’ve got to go.” he said again, and strode out of the chamber and down the hall, the hurried footsteps of Etheil and the silent padding of Solastron right behind him.

“Your Grace,” said Etheil through excited breaths, nearly jogging to keep up with Brandrir’s strides. “What’s happened?”

“We have to leave. Immediately.” said Brandrir as he flew up a flight of stairs and led them down a wider passageway that would take them up toward the castle proper. A second later he felt Etheil’s hand firmly grasp his shoulder, holding him back. Brandrir stopped in the middle of a long corridor and spun around to meet his old friend.

“Brandrir,” said Etheil, his voice soft with sincere care as his blue-gray eyes looked into Brandrir’s own. “Please. What’s happened?”

Brandrir pursed his lips, his eyes diverting from Etheil’s. A rush of warm humiliation stirred in his face and chest and he found his tongue having a hard time deciding on what to say. He was aware of men and women down the hall, trying their best to watch discreetly from the doors and staircases, and he could hear their harsh whispers. He drew a long breath, and still unable to look at Etheil or his wolf, said with a turned head, “The phoenix failed to rise. I’ve been denounced by the Lands.”

Brandrir couldn’t see it, but he could feel the grim face of Etheil on him. Solastron nudged his head across his thigh. Etheil grabbed him by each shoulder and forced him to look at him. “Brandrir,” he said. “There is no shame in this. Perhaps the Lands know your place is north, at the Watch.”

Brandrir jerked himself away from Etheil. “Not now. I just can’t deal with anything right now.” His attention was suddenly diverted up the hall. People were casting wary glances that way and shrinking back up staircases or into closed doors. Solastron let loose a low growl. Brandrir was certain Egret was coming. “Hurry. We have to go.”

Brandrir raced down the hall and took the first branching corridor he came to, shoving aside the two nobles standing in the entryway. He took another offshoot corridor and then another, hoping to weave his way around Egret or the Royal Guard or whoever else his father was sending after him. A thought occurred to him that it might not even be his father sending them after him. It could very well be the Council. He grimaced at the notion and bolted up a small case of stairs with Etheil and Solastron hot on his heels. Then a new thought occurred to him: he didn’t even need to go back to his room, he could just make for the stables. No sense going back for any clothing. The armor on his back and the sword in his hand were all he needed. The rest he could obtain on the way back to the Grimwatch.

Brandrir stopped abruptly and spun around, Etheil and Solastron practically bowling into him. “To the stables.” he said, pushing past Etheil and the wolf.

“Brandrir,” cried Etheil. “Please, let us talk for a moment.”

“Not now,” said Brandrir, shooting down a small corridor and racing down a flight of stairs. Ahead there was a large, open chamber and some laborers standing about. Upon seeing Brandrir they cast their eyes down and began moving aside. The scent of night air mixed with the reek of livestock loomed here. There was an open portcullis that led out into a back courtyard where the soft, warm firelight of torches blazed along the castle walls and a brick barn stood amongst stacks of baled hay.

Once outside, there was a dusty path that led out and around one of the castle’s walls. Beyond that, about a hundred yards in the distance, Brandrir could see the royal stables. Here and there, either upon the castle’s outer walls or suspended high upon poles set into the earth, torches cast the yard in flickering shadows and ruddy light. There were some stablehands milling about, their forms visible only in the sparse torchlight near the stable, but they seemed to be spooked by something and started bolting off in different directions. Brandrir knew who was coming, even before the unshrouded form of Egret came into view.

Brandrir slowed his pace. Dark Star Knights never removed their shroud unless they planned for battle, and Egret stood there in his black armor, the lighting painted up either sleeve almost glowing in the light of the torches. In his hand he held his sword, Thundercracker, though it was not ignited. He began walking down the path toward Brandrir, and it was at that point that Brandrir realized he brought Lord Gregin in tow with him. The shorter, stockier Gregin also walked without his shroud, and the tidal-wave patterns painted up his arms were clearly visible. He flourished his sword, Tempest, as he stared right through Brandrir, his ruddy eyes clearly locked on Etheil and Solastron.

“Your Grace,” called Egret, coming down the path. “Etheil has been named an enemy of Duroton, and therefore I cannot let him pass.”

“Me and you, dog-boy.” spat Gregin, pointing a finger right at Etheil. He began moving out and away from Egret. Brandrir knew he meant to take them from behind as Egret came at them from the front.

Solastron let out a low, rumbling growl that seemed to rattle the ground.

“I hereby absolve him,” said Brandrir, stopping upon the path.

“Only the King can absolve one charged as an enemy of Duroton, and you are not King.” said Egret, not slowing his pace. Gregin had moved out wide and was coming out upon Brandrir’s left.

Brandrir scowled and flourished his weapon, the blurred steel humming in the night air. He felt Etheil’s hand upon the back of his shoulder and heard him whisper,
“Don’t do it.”
into his ear, but there was no way Brandrir was going to let this assault go unchallenged. “Then beneath the Duroton sky I name you my enemy and that charge shall not be satisfied except upon death.”

“So be it.” said Egret, igniting his sword. Instantly Thundercracker came alive with crackling white and blue lightning dancing upon its blade or leaping from its sharpened tip. From his left, Brandrir could hear a hiss, like that of flowing water, and he knew that Gregin had ignited Tempest. In the firelight of a high torch Gregin’s blade now shown like rushing, white water spraying mist in all directions.

From behind Brandrir heard Etheil sigh. “You know, you could have left it as ‘enemies’ and foregone the ‘until death’ part.”

Brandrir found it impossible not to smile as he simultaneously watched Egret and Gregin approach. “You know I’m never in for a penny if I can afford a phoenix.”

Brandrir heard the breath of fire ignite behind him and found himself cast in the warmth and fiery glow of Firebrand. Etheil sighed again. “You might want to try living in poverty for once.”

“Trust me old friend,” said Brandrir. “After this night, I believe the Duroton sky shall be my new roof. But until such a day as I’m penniless, I say go for the gold.”

“You’re the boss.”

“You and Solastron take Gregin,” said Brandrir, now far more serious in tone. “Leave Egret to me.”

“Fire and water, huh?” said Etheil.

Brandrir nodded. “If you can make it out, do it. But hold nothing back. They certainly won’t.”

“Yes, your Grace.” said Etheil, and he moved out to Brandrir’s left, Solastron at his heels.

Brandrir moved forward, flourishing his humming sword, Lord Egret dead in his sights. The Commander of the Durotonian Guard looked upon him with a grave face, his icy blue eyes fixed on Brandrir as they came within striking distance. Brandrir could feel the crushing aura from Egret, the same aura that all Dark Star Knights exuded when ready to do battle, although admittedly, Egret’s was far more powerful. Egret was not Commander of the Durotonian Guard for no reason, and Brandrir had heard the stories of battlefields laid to waste by his aura alone.

“I shall forgive you the oath you spoke beneath the Duroton sky if you lay your sword down now.” promised Egret. “Etheil is the only one I mean to stop. What happened tonight between you and the Lands is not my concern and is for you and the King to sort out.”

“Etheil is my Captain of the Grimwatch.” said Brandrir. “An assault on him is the same as an assault on me. I will kill you if I must.”

Egret pursed his lips. “So be it, Brandrir Thorodin, but know you are not my enemy, only in the way of my duty to the King.”

“I told Etheil to hold nothing back,” said Brandrir. “I tell you the same.”

Egret frowned with pursed lips and nodded his head. “So be it, your Grace.”

Two cats could not have struck faster than Brandrir and Egret. Brandrir was not a Dark Star Knight, but he had trained with them all his life—knew their every secret and every trick—and unlike many men, was able to counter their aura. It was a gift few men possessed. It was said that Saints could shine their Caliber brightly enough to overcome the aura of a Dark Star Knight, but Brandrir had never seen a Saint. All he knew was his own ability, and though he felt Egret’s presence like the weight of the very castle upon his shoulders, he was able to withstand it. By what means he did not know. Some said he was blessed by the Lands of Duroton, though Brandrir thought that tonight proved that blessing false. Others said that it was the Thorodin bloodline, though Brandrir knew that his brother didn’t possess the ability. More likely, Brandrir thought it was his own will; his own steadfast belief in his righteous sword that allowed him to counter the aura and not be crushed or consumed by it. He was not the only mortal man who could pull this off, but he had never met another man besides his father who could.

Thundercracker flashed and cracked in Egret’s hand as he brought the blade sweeping up and around, only to clash against Brandrir’s shield in an amazing display of exploding lights. Although Brandrir remained surefooted against the impact, he could hear the mechanics of his left arm groan. He felt the shock course through the metal and right up through to his flesh-and-bone shoulder in a painful explosion of its own. With a roar, Brandrir thrust out his shield, causing Egret to bound backward a foot, and then brought Raze down in his right hand. Egret quickly threw the strike away, parrying it with Thundercracker, and the two weapons made a terrible cacophony of buzzing steel and ear-splitting lightning.

Brandrir dodged back as Egret came in at him again, but each blow was countered by the other in quick time. In moments the entire courtyard was filled with the smell of ozone. Brandrir began to feel alive again. His mind was no longer clouded with rage; his thoughts no longer muddied by the night’s events. Despite the hum of his sword and crack of his shield, despite the thunder of Egret’s blade against his own, Brandrir’s mind was silent. His mind was his own. For the first time since he was away from the Grimwatch he felt like himself again.

Sparks rained down as he parried a high blow from Egret and Brandrir found himself musing about how life was like that, like a spark in the night. More sparks erupted from their clashing blades, and Brandrir thought how futile their little lives were, here in a moment and gone forever in the next. The only thing that set them apart—that let you know they had even existed—was their brilliance. Some lingered like ghosts in his vision even after they had departed, but only the brightest did that.

Brandrir’s mind pondered that, how if life were like a spark, the more brightly one glowed, the more one’s life would live on even after death. How many sparks had he made in his lifetime? All the brightest were at the Grimwatch. Even now he could see his lieutenants, Braken and Syrus, with the men of the Watch around a roaring fire, flagons of ale in their hands. He could hear them laughing about the battles they had shared, boasting of the Kald they had killed. He could see the young boys and the novice knights enthralled by the tales, just as he himself had once been enthralled by the tales of the old Captains of the Grimwatch. Yes, life was like a spark. It was short and burned quickly. All that mattered was how bright it glowed, and that glow measured how long it would live on in the eyes of others, even after death.

In that moment Brandrir was once again sure of his place in Duroton. His place was at the Grimwatch where his spark’s light would linger on long after a Kald would rip him from this earth.

Brandrir’s eyes flashed with new life and he moved in on Egret, trying to take the offensive, though he knew his strikes were becoming increasingly erratic. Although he could keep up with Egret, the Dark Star Knight’s blows were more powerful than he could contend with for much longer. Every strike was like trying to block a sledgehammer with a toothpick and the impacts coursed through his muscles and bones with agonizing repetition. Brandrir knew his one saving grace was that they were within the castle yard and there was no way Egret would unleash the full fury of his might. To do so could mean bringing down the very castle. Still, Brandrir was all too aware of the debris—stones, dirt, hay, gravel from the path—all floating in an eerie circular plane around Egret. His own footing felt at once too heavy and also too light in the gravity-field gone awry, and he was beginning to feel like he was balancing on the elevator at the Stellarium in a constant battle of moving up and down.