The Record of the Saints Caliber (64 page)

The old man looked upon Rook. “I suppose for some it can be too late. But even the very evil have done good at some point in their life, perhaps no more than made their mother smile when they were but a babe. There is no man who has not at some point made another laugh or smile at least once. And there, in the kindnesses that they have done, lies a foothold for good to once again take hold, if only they wish to find it.” The man smiled down at Rook. “The Good that men do can never be undone. The touch of love is never forgotten. Evil unravels quickly once it is brought to light. It is finding the man who dares to hold the torch and bring it to light that is hard to find. Evil makes itself ugly on purpose so that none would dare openly view it, or dare to cast light upon it.” The man looked at the bible Rook held. “There used to be a lesson in that book: When you look upon evil, you must not blink.”

Rook looked at the bible. “But, nobody can even read this? How do we know what’s right?”

The man looked at Rook thoughtfully and hobbled over to him, and Rook felt a strange but pleasing sensation wash over him. “That’s the beautiful thing about good. You don’t need books or Gods to know what’s right.” He tapped Rook on the chest. “She put it all right there for you, and you can feel it as certainly as you can feel sunlight on your face.”

Where the man had tapped him, Rook felt a fever-warmth; a kindness and gentleness he had never felt before. He looked up at the man, the red blot upon his chest larger now and not so easily concealed by his beard or by holding his hands upon his cane near his chest. Despite the blood that soaked through his white gown, there was something about the man that made it somehow not scary or gory. “Who are you?”

“Just a friend.” said the old man with a smile.

“Are you from here?” asked Rook. “I…I don’t ever recall seeing you before.” There were very few townsfolk who lived to be so old, and none Rook had ever seen to be so old as to have white hair and beard.

“I traveled very far to come here.” said the man. “To come here and see you.”

Rook’s brow furled. “To see me? But…why?”

The man looked over at Ursula who lay sleeping in the nest of warm blankets. He smiled. Then he looked back down at Rook. “Because you have been given the chance to do great good or great evil.” said the man.

“And you want me to do good?” asked Rook.

The man smiled warmly. “Cycles always turn.” he said. “I cannot tell you what to do, or what you should do. I cannot tell you what path you should take. But,
you
will always know.” He tapped Rook’s chest. “You will always know what you should do and what path you should walk. And where upon that path you find yourself will be the answer to whether you have done right or done wrong.”

Rook’s brow furled as he mulled the man’s words over. “But…can you stay? Can you come with me?”

The man placed a pale hand on Rook’s shoulder and he felt a pleasing, warm, tickle there. “My travel here was by way of great pain and I am very tired. My time is very nearly up.” he said, looking down at his chest. His gown was nearly soaked through with blood. For the first time, Rook noticed that the fabric, heavy with crimson, clung to something beneath it. It was a sword hilt, Rook was sure of it. The man had a sword buried in his chest.

“Let me get you help,” said Rook.

The man smiled. “I told you, this wound cannot kill. Do not fear for me.” He looked over toward a window and pointed. “They are here, I believe.” He looked back at Rook. “Just remember, Good only needs a man who is not afraid to hold a light to Evil. When you look at evil, you must not blink.”

Just then there was shouting from outside. “Saints!” came a cry. “Saints are coming!”

Rook’s heart leapt and he looked to the window for a brief second. The guards who were dozing about the church suddenly sprang to life and dashed for the door. Outside, Rook could see people running. He turned around. “What’s your…” But the old man was no longer there.

— 18 —

THE COVENANT OF BULIFER

Nuriel had seen a couple scouts in the woods as they approached the city but she hadn’t mentioned anything to the other three. She probably should have, since she knew her future likely depended on how well she could sell herself on this battle. Without Isley, without Umbrial, Tia, Gamalael or Arric, there was nobody who could attest to her loyalty. Just the opposite, in fact, it made her look rather suspicious that they were all gone and she the lone survivor. Nuriel knew that the Oracles would be questioning Adonael, Hadraniel and Ovid about how she performed today. If she hesitated here—couldn’t bring herself to kill a woman or child—they’d tell Sanctuary about it. It would make her look even more suspicious. On the other hand, if she could just get this job done quickly and efficiently, it would all be over with and they’d certainly tell the Oracles that she performed admirably. At least a certain amount of suspicion would vanish.

But then again, she already failed to mention the scouts she had seen. The city would already be expecting them.

Nuriel exhaled loudly. “Hold up.” she said.

The other three stopped and watched as Nuriel opened the small leather pouch on her side and took out her injector. “Good idea,” said Adonael. “The caer should be just ahead, past that line of trees.” He and Hadraniel began pulling out their own injectors.

Nuriel sniffled and plunged her injector into a vial of Ev and took up a slightly larger dose than what she had come to consider ‘adequate’. She glanced up at Ovid. The black-eyed Saint stood there silently, watching. “Want some?”

“Don’t need any.” said Ovid. “We’re doing what I like to do best.”

Nuriel tucked her golden hair behind her ear and handed her injector to Ovid. “Then here, do me.” She tilted her head to the side, exposing the soft flesh of her neck and the artery there.

Nuriel gritted her teeth at the sting as he gently sank the needle into her neck. She could feel the warmth of the Ev push out, rushing through her body. Ecstasy collected in her chest and groin; a collage of images swirled briefly in her mind, spiraling up a pillar of flame as she looked to the sky. She dared not look down just yet, for in her mind’s eye the mother with her little boy and baby would be there. If she paid them any heed they would take her to places hard to come back from. She was learning to control the influence of the Ev within her and she exhaled slowly, feeling the care and emotion wash out of her. It was only then that her mind was free to focus on the present without fear of chasing visions. Nuriel breathed deeply and sighed contentedly as she took her injector back.

“Do me too,” said Adonael, handing his injector to Ovid.

Hadraniel removed his star-metal gauntlet and bracer from his left arm and began rolling up his sleeve. “I only do myself.” he said. “You sure you don’t want any, Ovid?”

“I requested to come here, to Jerusa, you know.” said Ovid as he injected Adonael. He handed the man back his injector and looked at Hadraniel, his black eyes emotionless, cold.

“Most of us request to get
out
of Jerusa,” said Hadraniel, and he slowly sunk the tip of his needle into his arm. “This country is an impoverished dump. Not a single ass or chest worth looking at, unless you’re into skeletons, I guess. And here you are specifically requesting to come here?”

“Why?” asked Nuriel, packing away her Ev.

“Like I said, we’re doing what I like to do best.” said Ovid. “There’s a lot more of it here than anywhere else. Except maybe Penatallia, but the people there aren’t half as fun to deal with as they are here. The people here are cutoff from the world. They’re still innocent and a little naïve, and that leaves them hope that there can be a better day. They’re not quite as beaten down yet. Makes the job more fun.”

Nuriel frowned.

Ovid placed a hand on Nuriel’s shoulder and his cold, obsidian eyes gazed into hers. “If you want to keep your hands clean, you ask for Narbereth. If you want to be on your own, you ask for the Woes. But if you want to have fun, you ask for here or Penatallia.”

“What’s in the Woes?” asked Nuriel.

“Nothing.” said Ovid. “It’s the southernmost portion of Valdasia. Mostly swamps. Some Unbound, I’ve heard. Not much else. No big cities, nothing of interest to King Verami. Saints down there don’t have much to do and they’re mostly Eremitics.”

“Sounds like my kind of life,” said Hadraniel, rolling his sleeve down. “So long as there are plenty of pretty ladies, that is.”

“Good luck with that.” said Adonael. “Any Saint who’s been doing their job long enough wants to be assigned to the Woes and granted Erimiticy. You gotta really earn a spot like that. Sanctuary won’t just hand it out.” He pointed ahead. “We best be quiet from here on in. Caer’s just beyond that line of trees.”

Adonael lead them about a hundred yards through the sparse woods until the trees abruptly ended. He motioned for them to all take up positions behind the trees. Ahead, there was a freshly planted field being pecked at by some crows, and beyond that, the wall of the city. The caer’s walls were simple stone construction, no more than six or seven feet high. There was a single gate but it had been barricaded off with heaps of rubble and debris. At the top of the wall Nuriel could see a few helmets protruding as sentries stood on the other side, keeping watch for them, no doubt. Hanging from the walls in numerous places were the bodies of clergy and some town officials. Upon a pike near the front gate was a head that had been burned beyond recognition. Next to it was another pike, the silver mirror-mask was charred but unmistakable.

“Looks like the rumors were right.” said Adonael. “They’ve killed the Oracle, and I’ll bet the other head is Father Tarask. That means we have to assume they’re all armed with bolt-throwers too. It’s just us four, but we can probably take them all if we’re careful. Or we could hang back and wait for backup.”

“Backup?” asked Nuriel.

“Behemoth Kraken and his Saint, Rathaniel of the Grieving Hand.” muttered Hadraniel.

“Who is Behemoth Kraken?” asked Nuriel.

“King Gatima does not like to appoint nobles or Exalteds, but when he does, he sure knows how to pick ‘em.” said Adonael. “Isley never mentioned him to you?”

Nuriel shrugged.

Ovid chuckled coldly. “He’s my kind of Exalted.”

Adonael frowned. He looked at Nuriel. “Trust me, if you see him, steer clear. And believe me, you’ll know him when you see him. The less you have to do with him, the better. Rathaniel is missing his left arm because he pissed him off one day.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re not waiting for backup.” said Hadraniel. “Let’s get this over with and get out of here before he shows up. The last thing I want is to have to accompany him back to Gatimaria…or have him decide to take one of us for his own.” He seemed to shiver at that last thought.

“Agreed.” said Adonael. He poked his head around the tree. “Ovid, you take the north end. Nuriel, you and me are taking center. Hadraniel, you take the south. We all dash forward, jump the wall, and just unleash on ‘em all.” He looked at the group. “Gatima was very clear: no survivors. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s somebody taking his stuff, and as far as he’s concerned, these people just took his city.” He looked directly at Nuriel and said, “And believe me, if Behemoth Kraken comes here and finds so much as a single baby alive, he’s going to count this as a failure on our part, and I have no desire to end up like Rathaniel.” He breathed deep and puffed out his breath. He looked back at the group. “We ready?”

Nuriel and the others nodded.

“Good.” said Adonael. “Watch your backs and keep moving. Don’t let them have time to aim their bolt-throwers at you. Weapons out.”

The Saints all drew forth their swords.

“On my count, we dash,” said Adonael. “One…two…
three!
”

In a blinding flare of Caliber energy the four sped from the edge of the trees, splitting off into their assigned directions. Halfway across the field Nuriel heard a few shouts of “Saints!”, but by the time she saw the barrels of any bolt-throwers she was already over the wall. Before the first shot could be fired, her sword had already cut down four sentries, their blood upon her face far cooler than the warmth the Ev provided her.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rook wrapped Ursula up in a blanket as she stirred from her nap and began fussing. He tried cooing to her but his soft voice was drowned by the sudden rush of bolt-thrower fire that echoed through the streets. He looked around, wondering where the old man had gone, but had no time to ponder the mystery right now. He looked to the stained glass windows where shadows of men with bolt-throwers flicked by. He could hear them shouting; could hear men and women screaming.
JINK-JINK-JINK
went the bolt-throwers. Rook bit his lip. Part of him knew he should seek safety, that he should run and find a place to hide himself and Ursula. But there was another part of him that longed to see a Saint, that longed to believe the stories and legends were true. He
had
to know. He
had
to see for himself.