The Record of the Saints Caliber (14 page)

“Don’t look so glum, Nuriel,” chirped Celacia. “You’ll like Duroton, I think. Besides, it’s not really a gift exchange. It’s more like a mutual scratching of backs. We can both use old Felvurn here, and they have something I desperately need. And who knows, if they really can find a way to forge star-metal into something more wearable by their own soldiers, maybe I can get a suit. Or at least some star-metal gloves.”

Celacia paused and gave Isley and Nuriel a curious look. “What? You really think I like killing everything I touch? It’s made it really hard to have any sort of empathy for people. Plus, I seem to remember being able to suppress it better. I seem to remember walking through the meadows with my love, without leaving a trail of dead grass and flowers in my wake.” She waved a hand dismissively and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe that was all just a dream. Anyway, that brings me to my next task. Follow me.”

Celacia waved a hand for them to follow as she began walking out of the cavern. Nuriel and Isley followed her, trudging through the fallen Dimethican knights who lay in a macabre sea of rusty armor and mummified flesh. Toward the entrance there were a number of Dimethican knights gathered, but they all moved aside as Celacia approached. Not one of them dared raise a weapon against her, and they looked upon her with terror and awe. Upon the plateau were some three-hundred knights, the remaining forces of the army. They stood there, most with weapons drawn, but none so far willing to risk life and limb to be the first to attack Celacia.

“You there,” said Celacia, pointing to one of the knights. “How many of your men retreated?”

The knight looked around at his comrades before taking a gulp and looking at Celacia. “N-n-none, milady.”

“Good,” said Celacia. “No witnesses.” She tilted her head back and whispered to Nuriel and Isley out of the side of her mouth, “You might want to stand back for this.”

No sooner had Isley and Nuriel stepped back then a tremendous wave of purple-black energy washed forth over the land. Like a ripple upon the ocean it spread out before her, leaving in its wake dead earth and nothing more. In the blink of an eye, some three-hundred soldiers and their horses were gone. Ashes of rust, earth, stone and flesh swirled in the wind and an eerie silence loomed over the land.

Nuriel gasped, her right hand going to her mouth and her left hand finding Isley’s. She felt Isley’s hand squeeze hers, and she looked to him.

“It’s all for the greatest good, Nuriel.” he said with those sincere, silver eyes of his. “You must believe me, Nuriel. It is all for the greatest good.”

Celacia stood there for a long moment, not moving or saying anything, just looking out at the death that had washed over the land. She turned toward Nuriel and Isley, her face no longer displaying her patent, chipper severity. She yawned and rubbed her emerald eyes. “I hope I don’t have to do that again for a while,” she said in a soft, weary voice. She exhaled deeply and rubbed her heavy eyes again. She yawned and stood there silent for a moment, looking at the ground. She bent over and picked up a handful of the crumbled earth near her feet and it rotted to dust between her fingers as she stood back up.

“The sun has set for everyone and everything I have ever known but me.” she said in a somber, dreamy, trance as her emerald eyes looked out at nothing.

“Celacia?” said Isley, looking at her with some concern.

“Where is the one who walked beside me?” she whispered to herself. She rubbed her fingers together and the last vestiges of the dirt disintegrated away. “Where is the one who undid all this for me? Were you real, or were you just a shadow of a dream within my long sleep?” She stood there silently for many moments, her heavy eyes seemed to look more inward than outward. Slowly her head craned up and she looked dreamily upon the sun. “When will you set for me?” she whispered.

Nuriel bit her lip and found herself feeling slightly perplexed by Celacia. The woman no longer seemed disassociated from the terrible things she had done. For the first time Nuriel felt something of emotion coming from the woman, though admittedly it was a step removed from reality and seemed to be occurring within a waking dream. She looked out at the sea of death and found herself wondering if Celacia was truly the embodiment of Death, and if so, was she absolved of her actions? Would the sleeping Goddess grant her forgiveness? Would Aeoria’s love find even this women?

Nuriel placed a hand on Celacia’s shoulder, her palm and fingers throbbing, her knuckles stung and tightened. “Celacia?” she said, giving her a gentle shake.

Celacia jumped slightly at the touch and then turned around slowly. Her sleepy eyes looked at Nuriel and she smiled. “You’re a good girl, Nuriel.” she said softly. She rubbed her eyes, shook her head, but remained standing there silent and absent. After a moment she rubbed her eyes again and looked up. “Isley,” she said sleepily. “You two go back to Jerusa. Gather Saints Umbrial, Tia, Gamalael and Arric.” Celacia’s voice trailed off into incoherent mumbles. She hung her head low and she trudged past them and headed for the cavern. She yawned again and without turning around said, “Take them all to Duroton. You know what to do.” Her voice was scarcely audible as she disappeared into the darkness of the cavern.

Nuriel looked up to her mentor. “Isley,” she began. “What is in Duroton?”

“Death,” spoke Isley. He turned and looked down to Nuriel. Those tender, silver eyes of his were quickly filling with fervor. He placed his hands upon her shoulders and smiled as he gently shook her. “The death of the world as we know it, Nuriel!”

— 3 —

THE KALD

“Hold the wall! Hold the wall!” Frantic cries, faint and ubiquitous like the silvery glow of the moon on this overcast night, drifted through the stone walls of the castle and filled every darkened corridor with their ghostly presence. Brandrir heard thunder outside, but it was not storming. The very foundation of the castle shook. From the inky abyss of the ceiling dust floated down in curtains around the bed. The queen held her son tightly in her soft arms, and Brandrir felt her tears trickling through his scalp. He squeezed the hand of his little brother, Dagrir, and pulled the blankets around them. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered.

Across the room the curtains fluttered in the cold night air. Shards of glass lay upon the floor like a puddle of silvery tears in the moonlight. The curtains flapped and fluttered and Brandrir sensed something in that darkest breeze; something more than the screams of men, the whipping of arrows, or the clashing of swords that was carried upon it. Dagrir saddled closer to him and Brandrir felt the arms of his mother clench him tighter. Brandrir’s eyes—the same color as storm clouds against the full moon—were transfixed on the window. Black forms danced beyond the dark curtains, though Brandrir could not be sure it wasn’t a trick of the shadows.

Another thunderclap rocked the castle and the sound of crumbled stone and splintered rock could be heard raining down from the distant walls that encircled the castle. Now the sound of timbers bursting pierced the night, and the queen’s wails were drowned out by a tempestuous downfall of stone that sundered the ground it fell upon. Did the walls of Durtania really fall? Brandrir had to dash that impossible thought from his mind. He darted out of bed, ripping himself from his mother’s grip and Dagrir’s clenching hands. Bare feet upon the cold, stone floor and dressed in his red pajamas, Brandrir made his way toward the fluttering curtains where black shadows danced in the nebulous moonlight.

Dagrir cried out for his brother, empty hands outstretched for him, tears reddening his eyes and nose and drenching the top of his nightshirt. The queen gasped. Sliding from the bed in her ethereal nightgown, she ran to snatch her firstborn son back into her arms. “Brandrir!” her voice was weak, frantic, failing.

But Brandrir had to know. Did the walls of Durtania fall? What foe would dare stand before his father? What evil danced beyond the windows of the bedchamber? Brandrir’s feet now felt the broken glass of the window; sharp, cold and stinging. His small hand reached for the fluttering curtain. Then a darkness overtook the casement and a coldness as deep and overriding as primordial fear engulfed him. He stumbled back, falling into the arms of his mother. From the bed, Dagrir shrieked.

At first a silver sliver penetrated the curtain, as if the very moon were entering the chamber. But in a moment it grew to reveal a serpentine blade, curved and wicked and covered with white frost. A clawed hand—slender blue fingers stained with slushy clumps of dark blood—gripped the sword’s handle and that too had a thick, opaque layer of rime. A scaly arm of cobalt blue, flecked with white frost forced its way between the curtains, and finally the body of a terrible demon stepped through the portal. It was one of the Kald, the ancient and demonic creatures of the far north.

Brandrir had only heard of them in tale, or depicted as slain monstrosities in tapestries throughout the castle. Until now they had been mere phantoms of the imagination; he had slain them in the woods as he played with Dagrir and the other noble children. But now, face to face, the thing was a terrible reality. Its body was sleek and slender, serpentine even, and covered with cobalt scales that shone like lacquered steel dusted with white frost. And nothing in the stories or tapestries—nothing even from the deranged depths of his imagination—could prepare him for the true atrocity of its eyes and face. It was an abomination. It was a tormented union of serpent, beast and man with a broad, blunt maw of needle-like teeth. Its eyes were piercing, frigid and glowed like a cat’s but with an unnatural yellow light.

Its maw opened in a hiss of pleasure, its icy breath smoking. Those chilling eyes fell upon Brandrir and his mother. It spread its bat-like wings wide and arched its back and released yet another terrible hiss, sending a spray of frigid smoke out into the room. The creature wore black, plated armor to which clung misanthropic frost, much of it stained red with fresh blood that had coagulated in icy clumps.

Brandrir was lifted to his feet by his mother, but he planted himself firmly where he stood. His storm cloud eyes were fixated upon his nemesis, his auburn hair tarnishing but not diminishing in the beast’s murky, glacial aura. The queen tugged with feeble strength at Brandrir’s arm as her cries, “no…no…no…” faded into frantic sobbing.

Like locusts, more Kald flitted through the window until there were at least six of them. Where their frosty steel boots hit the floor icy cobwebs spread out, tinkling like breaking glass. Still Brandrir stood his ground like a lion before its den. He felt his mother’s grip fade from his hand. Behind him, Dagrir wailed again. Brandrir felt unbidden tears stream down his cheeks. He was weaponless. He had no armor. He was too young; too little; too weak. He planted his feet firmly on the floor, his little hands balling into fists. A couple convulsive sobs wracked his body, then he bared his teeth and released all of his anger, despair and frustration into something of a scream, something of a roar.

The demon’s blade hit him cold and ruthless in the side of his face. White stars fired on and off within his eyes and the room spiraled as he toppled to the stone floor. Brandrir peeled his body from the frozen stones. His elbows and hands were torn raw by the clinging frost, making the effort agonizing. Brandrir looked up, his eyes flitting from side to side as he struggled to lift himself from the floor. Shadowy images of the demons bobbed in and out of focus above him. The coppery taste of blood stung his tongue and fell in heavy drops to the floor. Sadistic, bestial laughter echoed in his skull. A demon’s foot, searing in its coldness, drove his body back into the stone and Brandrir’s arms had not the strength to resist.

His mother’s hands tore at his back, fighting to grab his shirt, yet he could feel no warmth from her touch. Her screams were frantic but hollow in his wavering mind; reality seemed distant and faint. Darkness and shadows, mired with blood and frost, spiraled around him.

It was Dagrir’s shrieking that pierced Brandrir’s mind like lightning. It was not muted or distant. It was not subdued by unconsciousness. It was real and tangible, filling his ears and crackling in his mind. Dagrir screamed for mama, its piercing crescendo could have shattered glass. He screamed out for help, his cries more bloodcurdling than any Kald’s yell.

As Brandrir lay upon the cold, hard floor, he began to feel the icy touch of the demons melt away, replaced now by waves of fiery anger that coursed through his throbbing head. His scraped hands and knees, his bleeding mouth, all seemed to throb with this uncontrolled energy and they burned just as sure as if they had been touched by flames. Dagrir cried out again, his wailing for mama piercing and terrible in its fear.