The Record of the Saints Caliber (49 page)

Brandrir sighed. He looked back at Dagrir. “Brother…”

“Just get out of here!” roared Dagrir, tears in his eyes. He rushed Brandrir and drove his hands into his chest. “You want to leave? You want to run away like you always do! Run! Run! Get out of here!” Dagrir kept yelling at him and pushing him and shoving him.

Brandrir drove his fist into Dagrir’s face, cutting his lip wide open. Dagrir fell to the ground, his face a smear of blood and tears.

“Go! Leave!”
Dagrir roared with such anger that even the Royal Guard all stepped back.

Brandrir pursed his lips and turned from his brother. He looked at Etheil. “Let’s go.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Dagrir wiped the blood from his cheek as he watched Stormwild kick up a cloud of dust and rear up on his hind legs with a long, baleful whinny. Brandrir’s crimson armor, as dinged up as it was, shone like the very fire of the torches that bathed him. He urged his horse down, and they tore off up the path. A moment later, Etheil upon his own horse tore out of the stables after him with Solastron on his heels.

“Your Grace, shall we pursue?” asked Lord Dactys, one of the Dark Star Knights.

Dagrir turned. Lord Dactys and the other two Dark Star Knights stood before him, their weapons at the ready.

Dagrir pursed his lips and wiped at his bleeding mouth. He looked back up the road but his brother, Etheil and Solastron were gone. He shook his head and then looked at Lord Dactys. “No.” he said. He removed his hand from his mouth and wiped away more blood and tears from his face.

“He killed one of our brothers in arms!” protested one of the Royal Guardsmen. “He killed one of our brothers! We won’t let this go!”

“If my father or the Council give the order to pursue, then so be it.” said Dagrir. He no longer felt angry, just tired and defeated. “That order will not come from me. Not this night, anyway.”

There was a long moment of silence and Dagrir felt himself awash in disapproving glares from the Royal Guard. The sound of rusty steel finally broke the silence and Dagrir looked up. From a torch-lit portcullis upon the castle’s far wall came seven figures of men. He could not yet see their faces, but knew their forms nonetheless. Their jeweled rings and precious buttons gleamed in the torches. Dagrir restrained his scowl. He watched as the Councilmen made their way up the path toward him. He exhaled loudly through his nose and it bubbled with blood. He shook his head and then turned to the knights around him. “Dismissed.”

“Your Grace,” said one of the Royal Guardsmen. “We would like to ask the Council for—”

Dagrir’s eyes flashed.
“Dismissed!”
he hissed in a tone that left no room for protest.

“Yes your Grace. Sorry, your Grace.” said the knight with a bow. The rest of the knights and the three Dark Star Knights all bowed in unison. Lord Dactys led the procession down the path, leaving a small berth for the Councilmen to move past them. Dagrir closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“Your Grace,” said Balin Yagdril as he led the procession of Councilmen to a halt before Dagrir. They all bowed slightly. Although Balin had his typical sharp-bearded smirk, the rest of the group all wore much more serious countenances. “Seems your brother’s made all types of messes this evening.”

Dagrir shot him a fiery look.

Without skipping a beat Balin said, “Your father, the King still, is calling to order the King’s Council. Your presence is required.”

Dagrir made a show of wiping the still oozing blood from his split lip and bloodied mouth. “I believe the King’s Council should be postponed until tomorrow when cooler heads might prevail.”

“A very noble idea,” said Balin. “However, this Council will not be to discuss your brother or your succession to the throne.”

“And might I add congratulations are due, your Grace.” interjected the immensely rotund Jord Sigrund.

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Baldir and Gefjon and the rest followed suit, their expressions all softening to smiles. Dagrir felt a few friendly slaps on the back, though he was in no mood for such offerings.

Dagrir held up a hand and began shaking his head. “I am in no mood right now to sit in on Council. If I must go before my father and tell him to stay the Council until the morning, so be it, but I just can’t deal with any more of this tonight.”

“I wish it were that simple,” said Balin, grinning. “First, let me officially congratulate you. Your father has already sworn to this Council beneath the Duroton sky that you shall receive the crown. It will only be a short matter of time before we call you our Liege.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed the group.

Dagrir wiped a hand down his face and sucked his bleeding lip.

“But, the real matter of business this evening is in regards to a delivery.” continued Balin.

Dagrir shook his head, annoyed, and exhaled his displeasure loudly. “We have to convene over a delivery?”

Balin exchanged a brief look with the old man, Parvailes, who stood at his side and then smiled at Dagrir. “It’s a very unique delivery,” he said, and more slyly added, “being brought to us by a very unique woman.”

Dagrir scowled at Balin. “I’m in no mood for dancing. Get to the point.”

“Oh ho!” laughed Balin. “And you’d likely be less in the mood for dancing with this woman.”

There were some casual chuckles from the rest of the Council but Dagrir was not impressed and his eyes burned into Balin’s own.

Balin sighed and clucked his tongue. “Come, Dagrir. There are some things that have been set in motion that your father wished to remain secret from you and your brother until one of you took the crown.” Dagrir was about to levy a protest but Balin spoke over him. “Secret because even your father believed that the Jinn’s prophecy would come to pass. Believe me, your brother’s attitude to the crown has always pained this Council, and most of all your father. None of us ever truly believed he could wear the crown, and evidently the Lands concurred.”

Dagrir’s eyes flashed. He began to speak but once again Balin raised his voice and spoke over him.

“If your father’s health were not so grave, even I would say the news you must hear tonight could wait.” said Balin, giving Dagrir no quarter. “However, you are to be the next King, and this Council staunchly believes you must hear this news from your father’s own lips.”

“It’s important to hear it from your father directly.” said Gefjon Jolori. “We want no talk after your father’s passing of conspiracy.”

Dagrir sighed. Whatever these secret things his father had kept hidden from him, they were things of grave nature. The fact that the Councilman of Jurisprudence gave forethought to the idea that there would be accusations of conspiracy if he didn’t hear it directly from his father was proof of the gravity of whatever needed to be discussed so urgently.

“Come, Dagrir,” said Balin. “Your father awaits us in the Council room.”

— 13 —

NURIEL’S BATTLE

Nuriel hated what they were being sent to do, but at this point hated being inside the steel boat even more. She hated sitting next to Gamalael and Arric. She hated the leering eyes of Tarquin. She hated Umbrial’s constant
“Chin up, Nuriel’s”
. And worst of all, Tia’s voice seemed all the more shrill, brassy and annoying in the damp, rusty tank they sat in. Nuriel looked down at her star-metal boots and breathed in deeply through her nose, the scent of seawater and rusty metal thick in the air. She blew it out, puffing it up to muss her bangs and get the golden hair from her eyes.

“Hey Nuriel, why don’t you come sit a little closer?” snickered Gamalael at her left. His arm slithered its way across her shoulders, tugging her toward him. She heard Arric giggle beside him.

Nuriel looked at him with a fierce scowl and threw his arm off. She tried not to let it bother her too much, but inside it was eating away at her that they still had not given her her weapon back. She knew it was somewhere on the ship, but Tarquin had told her he wasn’t yet convinced of her loyalty. Nuriel bit her lip and looked away from him.

She wished Isley were with her. She hadn’t seen her mentor since they arrived at the Stellarium and she never thought she’d miss him so much. He was always kind to her. Always calm, sincere and patient. The exact opposite of this lot. And she hadn’t forgotten what they had done to her, no matter how hard she tried. How could she forget? Nuriel exhaled loudly. She sniffled and held her forehead in her hand. She desperately wished she could forget, but the thought now occurred to her that they might all do it again.

Arric began laughing and from across the way even Tarquin chuckled wickedly. Umbrial smiled and huffed. She heard Tia screech something, but couldn’t make out what the witch said over the engines that roared from someplace behind the tank they sat in.

“What, not in the mood? Maybe later then.” said Gamalael with a wink.

Nuriel rolled her eyes and looked away from him as he and Arric giggled.

The ship crested another large wave and came down hard with a thunderous
boom
that resonated throughout the dank, iron box they had called home for more than a day now. Nuriel felt herself driven hard into the grated-steel bench she shared with the idiot twins and her hands wrapped tightly around the iron bar before her. The gaslights on the walls flickered briefly and Nuriel felt a few heavy drops of water patter upon her head and drip through to her scalp. She scowled and let out a deep breath.

“Chin up, Nuriel.” Umbrial’s deep voice echoed in the large, iron tank and Nuriel cringed from having heard that phrase a thousand times out of him already. She rolled her eyes but didn’t look at him. He sat across the way from her, eying her. “We’ll be there soon enough, Nuriel.” he said, speaking loudly over the metallic tumult of the ship’s engine. It was a terrible sound without end that resonated through the very steel walls and rattled anything that was loose.

When they had first boarded the ship yesterday in the predawn night, Tarquin had given them a tour of the engine room. It was a mechanical beast twice as tall as Nuriel with gigantic gears as toothy as a serpent. It was powered by the same types of energy crystals that so many things in Duroton seemed to depend on, but in this case they brought a loud and angry beast to life that powered through the chill and churning northern ocean.

Nuriel felt the ship’s bow rise high again and she braced for impact. Her stomach tumbled as the ship came down hard. The very walls shuddered as if struck by thunder and fresh curtains of icy water rained down through the ceiling, soaking Nuriel’s hair and getting down under her breastplate and into her boots. Nuriel frowned and wished she could just go back to her cramped cabin, which was literally a shelf no wider or longer than she was when laying down on it. It wasn’t comfortable and hadn’t provided a good night’s sleep, but at least it was dry. She looked up and couldn’t help but feel pleased that Tia seemed to have gotten a much larger curtain of water down her back. She was cursing as she picked a piece of green seaweed from her ghost-white hair.

“It’s going to be getting choppier now. We’re just a few miles out from the shore.” yelled Tarquin. He sat next to Umbrial and Tia, toward the front of the tank where the forward wall sloped steeply up into the ceiling and dripped constantly with sheets of water. Even a few strands of green seaweed clung to its ridged surface. How this bucket hadn’t filled with water and sank to the ocean floor was something of a mystery to Nuriel, but she figured the rusty, grated floor panels likely let all the sea water into some sort of chamber where it was pumped out. Still, that didn’t spare Tarquin, and his black shroud was heavy with seawater from sitting so close to the front.

Tarquin said that when they land the forward wall would drop forward into a ramp and they could quickly exit the ship. Apparently this type of craft was called an Iron-Hull and they were made for transporting soldiers to beach landings. They weren’t terribly comfortable, but were, however, perfectly designed to haul large numbers of soldiers across the ocean quickly. This was the smallest ship in the fleet of ten they brought. The others were far larger and their tanks held more than a hundred men each. Nuriel figured it was at least lucky she only had to share quarters with these few.

“We’ll be making our landing in Orün, just north-west of the Crashingstone Isles,” yelled Tarquin over the engines. They seemed to be laboring as the ship began to crest more and more waves. His voice jostled as he continued, “Orün is something of the Icelanders’ capitol. They have many small settlements throughout the Icelands, all independent. Orün, however, is home to about ten-thousand. It’s ruled by a
Koren
—a king, I supposed you’d say. They call him
Koren Arcten Baern
, the Ice Bear King in their tongue.”