The Record of the Saints Caliber (51 page)

“We don’t have time for this,” barked Tarquin. He pointed to the towers where the flickering tips of flaming arrows had all come to life. Atop the wall, between every spike of every log, more dots of flame came to life and were pointed in their direction. “I’ll bring everything down. You five move quickly through their ranks. Take them all out as quickly as possible.”

Tarquin jogged forward, Umbrial, Tia, Gamalael and Arric all in tow. Nuriel moved forward slowly, looking at the toothy maw of the fortress, the awe of having seen the skull rising from the volcanic pit bubbling in her memories. She could see the tracks of her companions ahead of her, but in her mind they became the decayed footsteps of Celacia. Nuriel smiled brightly and jogged forward.

Around Tarquin snow and ice began to swirl up into a disc that stretched out at least twenty feet. A volley of flaming arrows came forward in an arc. Tarquin spread his arms wide as he ran and the fiery onslaught was gathered into his gravitational field and they all went flying out harmlessly in strange directions. Before the next volley could be loosed, Tarquin waved his sword and suddenly he was gone, reappearing that same moment directly beneath the two towers. The timbers of the walls and the great logs that made up the towers instantly cracked and split. The entire outpost toppled as if its very feet had been swept out from beneath it.

Tarquin stood with his arms wide, the disc of snow and ice whirling about him, catching up the timbers of the wall and towers, sending them swirling and flying, causing ever more destruction. Now, for the first time, the Icelanders could be seen. They were tall and built more like bears than men. They all wore white pelts of polar bears and seal skin boots and gloves. They held spears or bows or axes in their hands, and they all had long, scraggly hair and beards, mostly brown or black. They roared and barked in a strange tongue. Some lobbed spears or shot arrows toward Tarquin but the weapons were caught up in his swirling disc and tossed aside. After a moment, however, the spiraling disc of giant timbers and debris began to fall. It was apparent that Tarquin could not sustain such a powerful force. With a terrible crash that tore up sprays of snow and ice the entire disc fell upon the ground, timbers tumbling and rolling, churning up even more debris.

Crimson now streaked the white snow and bloodied, battered bodies lay everywhere among the debris. Some scattered, dazed Icelanders still stood or were running away, but now Umbrial and the others were in the fray. They glowed in their auras of Caliber power, and like errant lightning they struck down survivor after survivor, leaping from one man to the next, sprays of blood not even hitting the snow before they were upon their next victim.

Nuriel now came up behind, suddenly aware her own body was glowing with Caliber power and warmth. She shined her Caliber brighter and her mind cleared for a moment. In that brief lucidity the carnage around her became real. Amongst the broken timbers that were strewn everywhere, blood stained the snow. There were bodies everywhere she looked. Some had been broken and mangled when Tarquin brought the fortress down, others were missing heads or cut down in horrific fashion, leaving pools of blood so large the snow was having a difficult time absorbing it all.

And then as quickly as that lucidity came, it was gone, replaced once again with the pleasant warmth of the Ev coursing through her. She looked down where an Icelander lay crumpled beneath a broken timber. Her mind flopped about for meaning to this but she began to laugh as she realized there was no meaning. She found herself oddly excited. He was dead! He was dead and gone from this world!

And she.

Didn’t.

Care.

Her belly burned with anticipation as she looked around for more bodies. There were plenty, and they were all dead. Some were still alive and that brought a new sensation of enthusiasm to her. She smiled brightly and looked up, the yellow flashes of light as Tia, Umbrial, Gamalael and Arric dashed and leapt from victim to victim, leaving trails of Caliber light in their wake. Nuriel dashed forward, her claymore slicing through the bitter cold air. She felt the satisfying give her blade only made when cleanly slicing through thick bone. She was vaguely aware of the thud of limbs behind her, but she was already upon the next man, her star-metal sword a black whirl as his head came off and the most beautiful red she had ever seen splattered into the snow, making pink dots everywhere.

Nuriel’s mind flopped through some more thoughts as she cut down yet another man. She realized there was no sensation to it; no emotional sensation to killing. Suddenly her stomach tumbled with the warm pleasure of a great epiphany.
She was absolved of anything that might stay her hand.
She could do whatever she wanted and she’d feel no regret or sympathy; no shame or remorse. She could do whatever she wanted and there was nothing to dissuade her. Nuriel smiled brightly, feeling like a great weight had just been peeled off her shoulders.

Nuriel spun around and zeroed in on her next target. It was a large man charging her with spear in hand. She trembled with zeal as she dashed into him, her blade a blur as his arms and then head fell from his body. She looked down upon the snow, at the crimson gore before her. There was nothing, no sensation of care. A part of her, something deep down, buried and drowning, told her to try to care. An unbidden memory of a ragged old mess of a cat bubbled in her mind. It was a cat she had loved once, but there was a void where care should have been when she had seen it dead, its body a broken and shattered wreck.

Nuriel remembered that scraggly-furred little beast well. She was sixteen and she had found it huddled in a window well near the kitchens one winter. It was scrawny and half starved and meowed incessantly until she brought it inside and snuck it some warm milk. Having a pet or keeping an animal was strictly forbidden at Sanctuary. She hid it away in her room and hadn’t even told Karinael about it. Everyday she bore the great burden of keeping it hidden in her room; keeping it fed and out of sight. It became a burden she gladly bore, because she loved it.

But then one day the stupid thing wouldn’t stop meowing. She was in the hall talking with Adonael and Hamon. The two boys were always trouble, always trying to get her alone in her room. It had become something of a routine one month for her to thwart their advances in the hall, but on that day the stupid cat wouldn’t stop meowing and scratching at her door.

The boys heard it and they broke into her room. She remembered the horror she felt when Hamon grabbed the thing by its tail. They dangled it in front of her, taunting her. She remembered her desperation and terror as more and more of the boys and girls came to see what the commotion was. Like all the rooms, Nuriel’s had a great view amongst the clouds and looked out upon a beautiful courtyard a hundred or more feet down. They held the cat out the window, dangling it by its tail, teasing and taunting her. Nuriel remembered the heartache well, how the terror of what they would do to it tore at her and ripped at her. She remembered the complete helplessness as a dozen or more of them all teased her and kept her at bay, tormenting her with the threat of killing that cat.

And then her anger turned toward the cat. It had brought this upon itself. Why couldn’t it just shut up? Why wouldn’t it just keep quiet? She remembered looking at the cat as it hissed and screamed at the boys who dangled it out the window. She looked around as the others laughed at her and taunted her, and suddenly she didn’t care. Her emotions had given up. It was the cat’s own stupid fault. Why couldn’t it just have been quiet? If it would have just shut up, none of this would ever have happened.

It was in that brief moment that Nuriel was relieved of her terror and agony. She no longer cared if they killed the cat. It was like a great weight lifted from her shoulders. They were going to kill it and there was nothing she could do, and it was the cat’s own fault anyway. It was brief and fleeting, but for a split second she felt exhilarated. The burden of caring for that creature had completely vanished. The burden of loving it was gone. She didn’t hurt for it anymore. She didn’t have to love it anymore. But it was only fleeting. Afterward she had cried for many long hours. For many days afterward she lamented the cat, and they would torment her with tales of how it plunged to the brick path below.

But there was that split second where complete, apathetic exhilaration had taken her; where there was no longer any burden to love the cat. And it had felt great. That was the fleeting moment she lived in as she dealt death right now. Moments of complete detachment that were so delicate, so fleeting that it left her wanting more.

She had to have more.

If she let it get away, the terror and agony might come back, just like it had with the cat. Her belly burned with exhilaration as bone and sinew split upon her sword. She looked around, her eyes wide and bright, burning like molten gold. There had to be more Icelanders. There had to be more living. She saw one, but Gamalael was moving quickly toward him. She dashed forward, her Caliber energy burning ever brighter. She came in whirling the sword close to her body, leaving the man to fall into a few pieces before her blade clashed against Gamalael’s, who had been a split-second away from making the kill himself. As their blades locked in the air with a crack of thunder, he looked at her with sapphire eyes wide.

“That one was mine,” said Nuriel, her voice frantic but her eyes and lips beaming with delight.

Gamalael’s shocked look melted into a smile and then he laughed. He smacked her on the ass. “There you go, Nuriel! Now we’re talking!”

But Nuriel couldn’t stay put to chat. There had to be more, and the longer she sat idle, the more that exhilaration felt fleeting and she didn’t want it to go. She didn’t want to have to care about that cat again. She didn’t want to have to sit alone and cry about that stupid beast any more. She dashed forward, taking out another two men. She paused for a moment, and with her left hand wiped some blood off her brow. She came to the terrible realization that there was nobody left. She was vaguely aware that Umbrial, Tia, Arric and Lord Tarquin were standing and looking at her, clapping their hands. She heard Arric whistle something at her and the sharp voice of Tia say something in a complimentary tone. But none of that meant anything. She looked around, breathing hard, her breath smoking in the arctic air. She felt something like panic rising in her stomach. That euphoria was fading. There had to be more. Had to be more lives to take.

Gamalael’s arm fell around her shoulders, his armor clanking loudly against her pauldrons. He shook her roughly by the shoulders and said some sort of congratulations as he slapped her on the ass again.

“More,” she said. All around her the blood—the red that saturated everything—was becoming real again. She looked at Gamalael.
“More.”

He looked at her, his brow furling. “I don’t think you need any more Ev—”

Nuriel shoved him aside and looked at Tarquin. “Where’s the city?”

Tarquin’s lips bent upward into a wicked smile. He chuckled but did not answer her immediately. He turned his head and looked out at the ocean where the other nine ships all began to rush up on the shore. “Our mop-up crew is here. They’ll be coming on our backs. They’ll pick off any we leave behind in Orün. Let’s go.”

Tarquin bolted off and the five Saints followed right behind. This time Nuriel did not take the back. She kept pace right behind Tarquin himself, with Umbrial behind her. Over the horizon dozens of pillars of white smoke rose up and leaned against the wind, creating a smear of gray across the stark, darkening sky. Soon, a long drift of snow appeared that stretched for hundreds of yards across the icefield. Nuriel suddenly became aware that it was not a snowdrift, but a wall made of mounded snow and ice that stood a respectable ten or so feet high. Placed in random fashion along the length of the wall were giant boulders. Some were flat and squat, nearly covered with snow; others were tall and round and caked with ice. Nuriel guessed that the smallest weighed a few tons and the largest stood higher than the wall itself. They seemed to provide no practical value to the wall, and in many cases were placed a great distance from it. Even now they were coming up on some of the great stones.

At the wall’s center were a pair of wooden gates and a rush of armed barbarians poured from them. Many were on foot and held spears or bows, but some were atop polar bears. Upon the wall archers began to align themselves and the warriors with clubs and spears formed up ranks before the gates.

As the last of the barbarians formed up, seven final riders upon massive polar bears rode out. The rider in the lead was dressed unlike any of the others. He had a sash of beads draped over his shoulders and a headdress made of a bear skull. His beard was also plaited and studded with beads and he carried a broad axe in his hand. He was flanked on either side by riders whose faces were painted with black stripes. They too carried great axes, and cruel looking clubs dangled at their sides.

“That’s the Koren.” said Tarquin, slowing his pace. “He is known as the Ice Bear King.”

“What are the boulders for?” asked Umbrial.

Tarquin sneered. “They know about the Dark Star Knights and have fought against us in the past. They know that the boulders are too heavy for us to lift and they disrupt our auras. It prevents us from taking the wall down in one fell swoop like I did with their outpost.”

“So then what’s the plan?” asked Umbrial.

Tarquin gripped his sword tight. “They know to expect swords of fire or electricity, but they’ve never seen a sword like Whisper.”