The Record of the Saints Caliber (41 page)

The demon waved its hand and Karver’s bedroom door opened with a click. The demon pointed a long, clawed finger into the room.

Rook stood for a moment and swallowed hard. Then, with a breath, he steeled himself and padded over to the door. Karver’s room was much larger than Rook’s own. The walls were lined with dressers and he had a large mirror upon one wall and a writing desk at another. A pair of windows whose curtains were drawn let in just enough moonlight for Rook to see the fat man sleeping upon his large bed. He was naked but for a red sheet thrown over his waist and his closed eyes looked up upon the ceiling, his mouth opened and wet with drool. The nostrils on his pudgy nose flared as he sucked in a ragged breath and wheezed it out. Upon a chair next to his bed were thrown the clothes he had been wearing that day, and upon the floor in various areas were strewn other dirty laundry. The room reeked of sour body odor and flatulence.

Rook looked up at the demon and it smiled wickedly down at him. It pointed into the room and said in a low, quiet voice, “You must kill him.”

Rook’s eyes went wide. His stomach dropped and his heart began to pound painfully in his chest.
What?

“The knife. Slit his throat.”

Rook looked at the demon and then into the room. Karver stirred momentarily as he shifted his bulk, causing the entire bed to rock and squeak. He snorted and grumbled something, then resumed his rhythmic, ragged, breathing. The dagger, as light as it was, suddenly felt like a million pounds in Rook’s hand. He began to tremble. “I…I…I can’t.” he whispered.

“Garrot has just finished his pleasures with the boy.” said the demon. “He and Rennic plan to pull the old woman’s teeth from her skull. Garrot figures they’re worth more than she would bring as a slave. Then they’ll be finished for the night.”

“I…I can’t kill somebody,” said Rook quietly. He looked up at the demon. His arms and legs felt weak. “I…I
can’t.
”

The demon chuckled quietly. “Then you’ll have to find a way to pick the lock of the artifact room before morning and sneak the knife back. If morning comes and things are not as they should be, you know what that man will do to you. Take his life, before he takes yours. And your sister’s.” The demon’s eyes burned into Rook. “Ursula is counting on you.”

“C-C-Can’t you kill him?” asked Rook, hopeful.

“My deal was that I would help you escape,” said the demon. “And help you I am. But you must do the deed yourself. Do it, Rook. If not for you, for your sister.”

Rook looked into the room and at the sleeping Karver, but he could not bring himself to move.

“Do you know that Garrot once placed a baby in a sack and smashed it against the wall just because he couldn’t deal with its crying any longer?” said the demon. “I wonder what he will do to Ursula once you aren’t around. Maybe she’ll be lucky enough to meet Behemoth Kraken.” Then the demon’s voice changed into the exact likeness of Karver’s own, “I’ve seen him take babes too. Says they like to suck and ain’t got no teeth to worry about.”

From down below there was an horrific scream.

“There’s the old lady’s teeth.” said the demon. “Tick-tick-tick…”

Rook’s heart was beating out of his chest. His breaths were so loud he swore they would wake Karver up, but he forced himself forward and he padded his way into the room. He approached the bed from the side and stood next to Karver’s round head. His head was tilted the other way and his neck bared its jugular to him. Rook raised the knife, his hand shaking.

“Kill him.” hissed the demon.

Rook stood there shaking, staring at the fat neck that presented itself to him. How hard would he have to push the knife? What if he failed to kill him? What if the man woke up first? Rook knew there was no way he could do the deed. He started to lower the dagger.

“DO IT NOW!” the demon’s voice roared.

Karver’s eyes opened wide at the sound and the next thing Rook knew he had sunk the dagger into the man’s neck. There had been some resistance, and the knife made a sickening, crunchy sound as it bit through tissue and wedged into bone. Karver sat bolt upright in the bed, blood washing down his neck and fat body in sheets. The man’s arms flailed and wet choking sounds erupted from his mouth. Rook backed away in horror as Karver’s eyes met his. They were wide with terror, disbelief, and the sudden realization of mortality. Karver’s hand grabbed the dagger and pulled it from his neck. It fell to the ground with a sharp clamor. Then the fat man’s body hunched over, the sheer weight dragging the rest of his body over and he tumbled to the floor with a disgusting, wet slap. He moved and breathed no more.

Rook’s chest heaved. He felt dizzy. He thought he might black out or faint. He looked at the demon. And the demon looked at him, smiling. “Wh…what’s your name?”

“Bulifer.” said the demon. “My name is Bulifer. It is the name your great-grandfather’s great-grandfather summoned.” The demon pointed to the knife that lay in the bloody pool. “That knife was made by him.” said the demon. “Take it back. It’s yours.”

Rook bent down and grabbed the bloody knife from the floor. His entire body was trembling. He looked at the demon, and it pointed to the dirty clothes left in a heap upon the chair near the bed. “The Golothic. It is in the right pocket of his pants. Take it with you.”

Rook looked at the blood all over the floor, all over the knife he held. He looked at the demon and shook his head. He had never intended to kill somebody. He had never wanted any of this. He just wanted him and Ursula out of this house.

Bulifer laughed. “If you do not take it with you, it will one day bring you to it. Sometimes the circumstances that arise from that are quite unpleasant, as you yourself have come to experience. Remember, it brought you to it now. Imagine what may happen next time. Take it with you and save yourself the pain.”

Rook scrambled over to the chair and rummaged through the stinking pants. He knew when he had found it right away, for it had a pleasant warmth about it. It felt sandy and rough. He grabbed it and placed it in his own pocket.

“Well done Rook. Well done.” said the demon. “Now take your sister and run.”

Rook looked at the demon. Its eyes burned white hot.

“RUN!”

— 11 —

THE RISING OF THE PHOENIX

Brandrir looked at himself in the mirror one last time and wondered where in the Lands of Duroton Etheil and Solastron could be. He hadn’t seen Etheil since yesterday morning, and Solastron had run off as soon as the pair had arrived in Durtania. Brandrir sighed and moved his face closer to the mirror, inspecting his scraggly growth of beard and wondering if he should have shaved it. Then again, if he shaved it, the pink scars from that terrible night when the Kald blood splattered him would be visible on his face.

He sighed again, this time with more annoyance. Etheil would give him an honest opinion. Brandrir grunted. “Where in Apollyon’s Hell is he?” He looked out the window of his bedroom and the sun was just starting to set and the inky night sky was overtaking the horizon. He sighed yet again. “Well, too late to shave now anyway.”

He stepped back from the mirror and inspected the rest of himself, inwardly promising that this would be the last time. His red armor was lacquered to a glossy sheen. His mechanical left arm was polished and the gold-plated steel gleamed nicely in the gaslight. The white cape bearing the golden phoenix crest of Duroton hung nice and straight from his shoulders. His auburn hair was brushed straight and hung down to his shoulders. His blue-gray eyes looked weary as if he hadn’t slept all night, but he hadn’t, and he figured that was the best they were going to get. The red leather scabbard at his side was oiled and shiny but hung slightly askew so he took a moment and adjusted it. Inside was his broadsword named Raze.

Brandrir unsheathed the sword, admiring the silvery blade. He paced the room flourishing it. Like all Crystallic Swords created by the Jinn, a power crystal within the pommel gave it extraordinary abilities. Raze’s crystal was black and it sparkled dully in the glow of the lamps. In the center of the silver hilt was an engraved runic character. Brandrir’s thumb easily found it as he flourished the blade and he quickly swiped it across, causing the rune to glow black. Immediately the sword began to hum, the blade a smear of resonating, silvery steel. He could feel its powerful vibrations through the black leather that was wound around the handle. He swung it about, the blade buzzing and throbbing through the air.

The power of Raze was that it could cut through just about anything. Brandrir danced about the room flourishing his sword, maneuvering through different combat routines until he ended at the stone wall. He pressed the tip of the blade into the stone and it sunk into it as easily as if dunked into water. He pulled Raze out and then turned around and raised his mechanical left arm. Upon the bottom plate of it was a small runic symbol. He rubbed it over his right forearm and instantly an electrical-yellow disc spread around, creating something of a glowing shield attached to his left arm. He cracked Raze against it a few times, sending sparks popping and flying and filling the room with the smell of ozone. Within his left arm was concealed a yellow power crystal and the shield that it created was one of the few things Raze could not cut. Indeed, it was one of the few things nothing could cut.

The power crystals that were used to make Crystallic Swords were especially powerful and incredibly time consuming and difficult for the Jinn to create. It could take upwards of a year or more to make a power crystal strong enough to fuel a Crystallic Sword. That made the weapons incredibly rare. So rare, in fact, that they were solely reserved for the Knights of the Dark Star. Once ordained, a Dark Star Knight got to choose what type of power crystal he wanted, and the Jinn would fashion him a special sword containing its powers. Of course, select nobles throughout Duroton had these weapons too, but they rarely had the honor of choosing which type of power crystal they wanted. In fact, most had the swords of fallen Dark Star Knights. Usually, nobles lucky enough to have Crystallic Swords were gifted the weapon as a favor or honor by the King.

Power crystals themselves were not incredibly rare in Duroton. The Jinn could produce hundreds of them a year and they were used to power bolt-thrower guns, the ignition switches for the gaslights, and other devices. It was the weapons-grade crystals needed to power the Crystallic Swords that were special and rare.

Brandrir, as the King’s first-born son, was lucky enough to have three of these weapons-grade power crystals. The black crystal that powered Raze was a Sonic Crystal. Sonic Crystals could be used to produce sounds, vibrations and other such effects. Raze used sonic vibrations to devastating consequence, tearing through the very elemental fabric of things. It could melt through steel, stone and flesh with ease.

Energy Crystals were yellow and could contain raw energy. In their simplest and least powerful forms they could power the ignition switches of gaslamps. In slightly more powerful form the Jinn could use them to power bolt-throwers and mechanical things. In their most powerful form they could create electrical barriers such as the shield his arm could generate. Truth be told, Brandrir’s mechanical arm could probably suffice with a standard Power Crystal. Having it powered by a weapons-grade crystal just allowed his arm to do some ridiculous things, and Brandrir kind of liked it that way.

He flourished his humming sword a few more times and then cracked it off his shield for good effect. He caught a glimpse out the window and could see night quickly falling. With a sigh he swiped his thumb over the rune on his sword and it instantly deactivated. He bumped his left forearm on his right wrist and deactivated the shield and then sheathed his sword. With a heavy sigh he went back to the mirror.

He stood back and inspected himself, then suddenly realized he was breaking the promise he had made to himself. “Gah!” He turned away from the mirror and stood tapping his foot on the stone floor, wondering where in the Lands Etheil and Solastron were again.

He screwed his lips up as he pondered the many possibilities of where the two had run off to. Solastron liked to wander alone and had been known to disappear for weeks at a time, so it wouldn’t really surprise Brandrir if the wolf didn’t show up. Besides, a wild, mindless wolf wouldn’t understand the ceremony anyway, thought Brandrir. But Etheil? There was no way he’d miss this. Brandrir pursed his lips and thought. He was probably planning some sort of silly and embarrassing surprise. Brandrir huffed a little laugh to himself. Maybe he was already seated and waiting for the ceremony to start so that he could heckle him from the bleachers.