The Record of the Saints Caliber (15 page)

Brandrir pushed himself to his feet, his chest expanding with every feverish gulp of air. Blood and spit bubbled at the corner of his mouth and his eyes were focused and penetrating. Upon the floor his mother screamed and cried as the Kald tore at her gown, exposing her breasts, groping her flesh and searing it with their icy fingers. Upon the bed two beasts hunched over his brother with their disgusting lips furled as they pawed at his throat, scarring it with frostbite. Brandrir saw Dagrir reach toward him with hands spread as wide as his eyes, but demonic fingers wrapped around his neck and choked his wail into an horrific, pinched scream.

In less than a second Brandrir was upon them. He jumped on the nearest creature, clinging to its back with his legs wrapped around its frozen armor. His hands clenched into small maces and he flailed and pounded at the demon, forcing it to release its grip on Dagrir. The sharp, frozen steel of the creature’s armor tore his fists and left frosty red marks upon it with every blow. The creature stood, but still Brandrir clung to it, seeing and hearing nothing but his fists upon the beast’s back and head, blow after blow.

The Kald turned and hissed, and in that second Brandrir noticed the thing’s blade at its side. His hand reached down as the creature tore him from its chest, and the wicked blade slid from its sheath as Brandrir was thrown to the floor. He landed hard on his back, but the weapon was in his left hand. In a flash Brandrir rolled himself up from the floor to face the beast.

The Kald lurched forward with an icy hiss and Brandrir drove the sword forward, the curved blade finding a gap in the steel bands of the demon’s armor. Immediately blood like liquid nitrogen poured out and clung to his arm in a heavy sheet of red slush. Brandrir’s scream drowned even that of the beast’s as the terrible cold seared its way to the very bone. He tried to tear his hand free of the blade, but his hand and arm up to the elbow were frozen and immobile.

The demon looked down upon him and bared its terrible teeth. With a roar it brought its fist down upon Brandrir’s frozen arm, shattering it like glass. Shock, pain, terror and confusion flooded Brandrir’s mind and he fell to his knees, screaming as he clutched at the frozen, mangled stump.

A thin sheet of ice spread out upon the stone and stung his knees. Above him loomed the blue beast, the sword still sticking gruesomely from its belly. Its wings were spread wide. It’s cruel eyes pierced him. Its terrible mouth of needle-like teeth opened and a frosty hiss was released as it tore the weapon from its belly, slushy blood spattering on the floor. It raised its wicked blade, ready to strike him down. Brandrir clutched at his left arm where the mangled, ruined flesh was now warm enough to ooze blood. He looked the Kald in its yellow eyes and furled his lips, ready to meet his doom.

There was a sudden twang and a whipping sound. A silver flash of steel—it was an arrow. There was another, and another. The demon looked away from him for a second. The pain in Brandrir’s arm was searing and ceaseless. He felt unconsciousness starting to take hold. There were voices. It was the Royal Guard. “There! Save him! Grab the child!” Then there was a different voice, “What about the young one?” The first voice replied, “Forget it, only the first born succeeds the king!”

There was a hiss. Brandrir’s eyes cracked open. The maw of a demon was bearing down on him. There was a
thwack
of an arrow. A flash burst through the creature’s skull, destroying it. Brandrir gasped and the icy spray of black-red demon blood slapped him in the face, searing his cheek with its iciness.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Brandrir shot up in bed, his chest heaving as the nightmare dashed from his mind. He threw off the blankets and spun around, resting his feet on the cold stone and he buried his sweaty face in his right palm. He was eight years old that terrible night, and for many months after it he had relived it nightly in his dreams. In latter years it would plague him only once or twice a month. Now, at twenty-five years old, the dream came only a few times a year. But something was wrong. This was now the fifth time this week he had woken from this same dream. He knew why, too. The Kald were coming. He could sense it; he could feel the cold and the fear in his very bones. His father, the king, was dying and the demons would strike again soon.

Brandrir looked down at the ruined stump of his left arm. It was healed now, no longer searing with pain and oozing blood like it was in his dream. But it would never be whole. Not in life, and not even in his fondest dreams. The Jinn had to cut off his elbow to save what they could of the arm. The demon blood had frozen his arm solid, and when the wounds finally thawed, the flesh was black with rot and frostbite from the elbow down.

Brandrir stood and walked naked toward the heavy door of his bedchamber where a pair of lanterns were built into the stone walls. He pressed the small brass button on the wall and there were a couple of pops and then the lanterns slowly came to life, including those on the far wall and those to either side of the curtained window, bathing the room in yellow gaslight. From the red fabric of the drawn curtains a diffuse light came through, but Brandrir was not ready to be greeted by the morning sun.

He padded his way over to his dresser where a large mirror occupied the wall. His body was lean and incredibly muscular; it was a warrior’s body. His auburn hair was long and straight and draped down to his shoulders and he had to push it back behind his ear. His reflection looked grim, even to himself. A light growth of hair covered his face and concealed the pink scars left where the demon blood had once splattered his cheeks and neck. His blue-gray eyes seemed darker than usual, but the nightmares hadn’t let him sleep all week. He exhaled deeply as he looked himself over and frowned. The Kald—the abominable demons of the north—were coming. He knew it. And these would not be small skirmishes like he had been dealing with at the Grimwatch his whole life. This would be all out war.

Hanging beside the dresser was a metallic backpack of sorts fitted with a small bronze tank connected by copper pipes and outfitted with a handful of mechanical dials and meters. He took the thing from the wall, his right bicep becoming a sinewy ball from the heavy thing, and slung the contraption over his back. It had taken him many years to perfect fastening the leather straps and buckles to his chest and waist with one hand, but he was a pro at it now.

On the opposite side of the dresser hung his mechanical arm, and with his right hand he hoisted it down and fitted the gold-plated thing over what remained of his left arm where a leather strap fastened around his shoulder and connected to the backpack. It hung limply now, the polished metal gleaming eerily in the gaslight, the metal hand open and flaccid at his thigh. With some effort Brandrir twisted to the left in an awkward position that allowed the backpack to rest upon the top of his dresser so that he could reach his right arm under his mechanical left and grab the banded, copper tube that hung limply from the tank on his back. With a couple swings of his hip he was able to grab the flexible metal tube in his hand. It screwed in at the back of the shoulder of the mechanical arm. A few twists of the wrist and the tube was connected.

Brandrir now reached his right hand over his head where behind the bronze tank was a small metal switch. He clicked it to the open position and the backpack made a few clicking sounds followed by a long, sharp hiss. He felt the familiar warmth upon his back as the metal tank began to heat up and in a moment he could already feel the cold, bronze arm coming to life. He flexed his elbow a few times, the arm making hydraulic hissing sounds as he did so. There was a soft, mechanical purr as he wiggled his fingers and they chimed and clanked as they rubbed against each other. A few shoulder lifts and Brandrir felt his arm all warmed up and ready for the day.

Brandrir had always found it hard to trust them, but he appreciated the work of the Jinn at the Stellarium. That reclusive bunch of mages and alchemists dabbled in powers and sciences Brandrir felt best left alone, but he could not denounce their handiwork when it came to his arm. There were no other men in Duroton—or even the kingdoms of the south—that could make such a device as his arm with all the intricacies of fine gears, cogs and small hydraulic pistons demanded by the fingers and hand. Much of it, including the internal components, were made of tempered steel plated in gold to resist tarnishing and rusting. In all his years of wearing the mechanical thing, not once had it ever malfunctioned on him. Sure he had them occasionally replaced with larger models as he aged, and he did lose one in battle when the frozen axe of a Kald warrior lopped off the wrist, but never had one ever malfunctioned on him. The perfect functioning of the arm with all its complexities was a testament to the Jinns’ ability to merge science and magic.

The backpack that powered the arm was a different story. It didn’t have the intricate internal mechanisms that the arm possessed. Instead, it was purely utilitarian, made of heavy-gauge steel and brass to withstand the energies of the runic crystals that powered it, and the pressures of the steam and hydraulic fluids that it pumped into the arm. It was a cumbersome thing to say the least, and Brandrir’s back and shoulders had permanent scars from bearing its burden for the last 17-years.

Runic crystals, such as what powered his arm, were artifacts made by the Jinn. The Jinn had been creating the magical crystals since the end of the Great Falling, when Duroton claimed the Stellarium from Sanctuary many centuries ago. There were many types of runic crystals. Some were used to produce fire; others could heal; some could create light. Some crystals could power devices like Brandrir’s arm, while others could power devastating weapons like bolt-throwers, a relatively new type of mechanical spike-shooting gun now favored by many knights throughout the world.

It was always a sore spot with Duroton that over the centuries some of the Jinn, seeking power and riches, defected to the southern kingdoms. In countries like Jerusa, Narbereth and Dimethica they sold powerful rune magic and technologies to any who could afford them. Brandrir’s father had always felt that the other kingdoms acquiring bolt-throwers was a slap in the face. Under his father’s rule, Duroton kept a closer tab on the Jinn and the Stellarium than the kings of previous generations.

Brandrir opened the large drawers of his dresser and put on his black pants and red shirt emblazoned with the golden phoenix crest of Duroton. He sat down upon his bed fastening his black leather boots when there was a knock on the door.

“Your Grace,” came a soft-spoken voice from beyond the door. “May I request a word?”

Brandrir knew the voice of Etheil well and could detect a hint of urgency in it. Brandrir stood up. “Come in, Etheil.”

The door opened slowly and a figure shrouded in a black cloak seemed to float in, his black, armored boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. At the figure’s side was a sheathed sword, its handle wrapped in black leather, the pommel gleaming with a red runic crystal that bore the seal of fire. The figure took down its hood, revealing the young but care-worn face of Etheil with his golden locks draping over his shoulders. His blue-gray eyes seemed to smile at the sight of Brandrir. He bent to a knee, placing his black, gauntleted palms facing up upon the stone floor.

Brandrir rolled his eyes. He looked down at Etheil and grinned. “Alright, enough of that now.”

Etheil remained on his knee, head bent down with the back of his hands plastered to the floor. “You have to say ‘Rise!’” came his muffled voice.

Brandrir smiled and turned his eyes up. “Rise!”

Etheil stood, smiling at Brandrir. “You better get used to that,” he said.

Brandrir laughed. “I’ll never get used to that. And it’s completely unnecessary.”

“It is kind of silly,” said Etheil. “It surely makes the Kings of old turn in their graves.” He approached Brandrir and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye with a sort of playful seriousness. “But after the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony in a couple days,
everybody
will be doing that to you. And they’ll be addressing you as ‘Liege’.”

“Until I do away with it,” said Brandrir. He turned and walked over to the curtains and spread them wide, allowing the sunlight to fill the room. Outside the sky was bright and milky with diffuse clouds, giving a clear view of the Graystone Mountains that loomed upon the entire southern horizon. With such clear skies even the snowy top of Mount Cloudborn gave an incredibly rare view of itself and the star-metal dome of the Stellarium sparkled like a star upon its white peak.

“Taking to knee has kind of been tradition ever since King Palendar,” said Etheil. “The Council probably won’t approve of you doing away with it. Nor will your brother, or father for that matter.”

Brandrir turned and faced Etheil. His most trusted Captain always looked so thin and lithe with the shroud concealing his armored form. “There will be a lot of things the Council won’t like, but I intend to keep my word and restore Duroton to the ways of old.”

“May I ask you a blunt favor?” asked Etheil.

“I believe I know what that is, but go ahead.” said Brandrir.

“Wait for your father to pass,” said Etheil. “You know I stand by you and commend what you intend to do. Just be patient. You’re introducing a lot of change to those in power.”

“Those in power should be the people of Duroton,” said Brandrir. “They’ve waited and endured long enough. And you know I’m not good with patience.”

“I do know,” said Etheil. He chuckled. “That’s why I’m here to remind you.”