The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 34

  Brandrir was vaguely aware of the contingent of soldiers following him, and vaguely aware of Egret trying to speak to him. All Brandrir could focus on, however, were his own thoughts and he wasn’t even consciously directing his pace through the castle’s lower corridors, his feet taking him more or less toward the Black Cells by sheer autonomy. As he strode, he punched the wall again, his gauntlet sparking on the stone and sheering off the lacquer and paint. In his mind’s eye he could see his father—and probably his brother too—conspiring with the Council to do away with Etheil. Probably to do away with the Grimwatch even. He could see them signing papers and documents to recall the soldiers; to grant his own lieutenants—Syrus, Braken, Aries and the rest—to newly exalted nobles.

  Brandrir’s mind suddenly flashed with a new resurgence of anger and his thoughts changed. He could hear Balin glibly telling his father how the prophecy had come to pass. He could see the smug grin on Balin’s face as the phoenix was consumed by the flames; could hear him laughing with Jord and Hymnar and Gefjon and the rest. Brandrir stopped dead in his tracks and punched the wall over and over again. Some part of his mind that was still conscious past the rage could feel the steel of his gauntlet denting and was aware of warm blood trickling from his knuckles.

  “Brandrir!” called Egret, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Without thinking, Brandrir spun around, his sword making a brief hum as he swung it at Egret’s face. Egret quickly raised his own arm, blocking Brandrir’s forearm and tossing the strike away. But then Brandrir quickly struck out with his shield, throwing his entire shoulder and force of his body into the blow. With violent success the shield struck sparks upon Egret’s chest, throwing him backward, stumbling down the hall. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw some of the Royal Guard move toward him, and without thinking, he spun out his right arm. When ignited, Raze cut so cleanly and easily it was hard to tell if it had made contact. Such was it this time that he didn’t realize it had cut the knight in half until he looked down. There, he saw the white armor cleanly separated at the base of the chest, and the two horrific halves of the man bleeding out all over the floor.

  Brandrir looked up, but the shocked and stunned faces of the Royal Guard only set his temper off even more. “Get out of here!” he roared at them. He swung Raze out and they all backed up. “Get out of here! All of you!” His shield buzzed as his mechanical left arm grabbed the nearest knight around the collar of his breastplate. His fist tightened, crumpling the steel, and he threw him into the rest with such force that they all nearly toppled in the hallway. “Get out!”

  Brandrir turned and strode down the hall. He heard Egret order the Royal Guardsmen to hold back. His mind was flashing with raw emotion and thoughts both dark and despairing. He felt like everything was unraveling; everything was coming undone. He was the King’s firstborn son, heir to the Crown of Duroton. For a thousand years a phoenix had never failed to rise for the Thorodin bloodline, yet here he was today, first of his name to be denounced by the lands. He was an outcast now. He wasn’t sure of his title or position any longer. Was he anything to Duroton now?

  Brandrir grit his teeth and bashed sparks against the wall with his shield as he strode. He began to curse Etheil for having talked him into accepting the crown in the first place. He cursed his brother for having talked him into staying. He cursed his father and the Council and Egret and the Jinn. He cursed the phoenix, that malformed club-footed bird that was too crippled and weak to rise. He bared his teeth and released a terrifyingly angry roar as he scraped his shield and sword across either wall of the narrow corridor as he walked, leaving a trail of sparks and broken stones in his wake.

  He came now upon some more spacious halls and chambers. Here there were guards and castle hands and maids. All of them looked upon him as if he were some freak; like he was that phoenix who failed to rise. He paid them no heed as he strode, but in the back of his mind he thought the Lands be damned should one of them get in his way. All he wanted to do was get back to the familiarity of the Grimwatch where he and his lieutenants shared ale and stories of battle; Back to the Grimwatch where fires crackled in the snowy nights; Back to the Grimwatch where the eyes of Kald gleamed like ice beneath the moon; Back to the Grimwatch where battle tested the mettle of men and the honor of their words.

  Brandrir felt the wet warmth of an unbidden tear stream down his cheek. He suddenly felt homesick; suddenly out of place in this castle. More than ever, he realized he did not belong here. But it was more than that. He felt he was no longer welcome here. Brandrir raised his sword hand and wiped the tears from his cheek with the edge of his armored bicep. He wanted to ride to the Grimwatch with Etheil and Solastron at his side, across the great plains and snowy woods, through the Blue Wilds and to that great stone wall that had ever stood sentinel in the far north. He should never have come here. He should never have considered touching that accursed crown. He should never have sought to replace the hunk of steel in his hand for one upon his head. He punched the wall again as he strode.

  Brandrir had not been to the Black Cells or the deep roots of the castle in ages, but through his anger and sadness his legs seemed to move on instinct and before long he found himself beyond the dungeons and in the forgotten bowels of the castle. He was now aware of the black bricks of the corridor. Very few gaslamps lent their light here, and as he loped down the hall two shrouded figures came running up from a side corridor. Brandrir knew they were Knights of the Dark Stars, though he couldn’t immediately place their names.

  “Sorry, your Grace,” said one of them. “We did not mean to abandon our post, but…” The man’s voice trailed off under the fiery glare of Brandrir’s eyes.

  At the end of the hall the narrow corridor opened into a large, circular chamber lined by a number of black, steel doors, each bearing a strange rune that glowed eerily in the darkness. “Etheil!” roared Brandrir.

  A moment later and he heard a couple raps upon the far right door. “Here!” he could hear the muffled voice of Etheil and the loud bark of Solastron.

  With all his attention on that door, Brandrir strode over to it and with a roar thrust the tip of Raze into the steel. To his surprise the blade did not sink in and was deflected away. He tried to sink his blade into the brick around the door, to cut away the brick, but the black stones too seemed impervious to his weapon. Brandrir’s eyes flashed like stormy skies as he turned to one of the two shrouded guards. “Unlock this door!”

  The two Dark Star Knights exchanged puzzled glances. Then one said, “I’m sorry, your Grace, but the King’s own words—”

  Brandrir shoved the man in the chest and placed his sword to the others’ neck. “Open that door!”

  The two guards exchanged doubtful glances but then the one who Brandrir had pushed just shook his head and said, “Yes, your Grace. Right away.”

  The man walked over to the door and took a black scepter from his side that was crowned with a glowing, white crystal. He waved the scepter over the door and the rune upon it stopped glowing. There was a loud clank and the door fell open.

  Etheil pushed the door the rest of the way and he stood there in his black shroud, Solastron at his side, smiling brightly. Etheil looked at Brandrir, and his bright smile quickly faded. “Your Grace?”

  Brandrir shot the guards another fiery glare. “Give him his sword. Now!”

  The guard nodded. “Yes, your Grace.” He moved past the doors where a vault was built into the wall. He fumbled with some keys for a moment before swinging the heavy door open, producing Etheil’s sword, Firebrand. It’s red crystal sparkled even in the dim light of the hall. Cautiously, the guard handed it to Etheil.

  “Let’s go.” said Brandrir, hardly even looking at his old friend. He turned to leave, keeping his sword and shield ignited and at the ready. Somehow, the hum and buzz of his sword and shield felt comforting right now. He felt the soft head of Solastron nudge his hand, but Brandrir wasn’t quite in the mood for warm hellos and didn’t ha
ve the time for them even if he was. The realization that he had accidentally killed one of the Royal Guards was now also starting to sink in, and while he knew his father probably wouldn’t charge him with a crime, it was still more fuel for the fire that was likely sweeping through the castle and all the nobility this very moment. “We’ve got to go.” he said again, and strode out of the chamber and down the hall, the hurried footsteps of Etheil and the silent padding of Solastron right behind him.

  “Your Grace,” said Etheil through excited breaths, nearly jogging to keep up with Brandrir’s strides. “What’s happened?”

  “We have to leave. Immediately.” said Brandrir as he flew up a flight of stairs and led them down a wider passageway that would take them up toward the castle proper. A second later he felt Etheil’s hand firmly grasp his shoulder, holding him back. Brandrir stopped in the middle of a long corridor and spun around to meet his old friend.

  “Brandrir,” said Etheil, his voice soft with sincere care as his blue-gray eyes looked into Brandrir’s own. “Please. What’s happened?”

  Brandrir pursed his lips, his eyes diverting from Etheil’s. A rush of warm humiliation stirred in his face and chest and he found his tongue having a hard time deciding on what to say. He was aware of men and women down the hall, trying their best to watch discreetly from the doors and staircases, and he could hear their harsh whispers. He drew a long breath, and still unable to look at Etheil or his wolf, said with a turned head, “The phoenix failed to rise. I’ve been denounced by the Lands.”

  Brandrir couldn’t see it, but he could feel the grim face of Etheil on him. Solastron nudged his head across his thigh. Etheil grabbed him by each shoulder and forced him to look at him. “Brandrir,” he said. “There is no shame in this. Perhaps the Lands know your place is north, at the Watch.”

  Brandrir jerked himself away from Etheil. “Not now. I just can’t deal with anything right now.” His attention was suddenly diverted up the hall. People were casting wary glances that way and shrinking back up staircases or into closed doors. Solastron let loose a low growl. Brandrir was certain Egret was coming. “Hurry. We have to go.”

  Brandrir raced down the hall and took the first branching corridor he came to, shoving aside the two nobles standing in the entryway. He took another offshoot corridor and then another, hoping to weave his way around Egret or the Royal Guard or whoever else his father was sending after him. A thought occurred to him that it might not even be his father sending them after him. It could very well be the Council. He grimaced at the notion and bolted up a small case of stairs with Etheil and Solastron hot on his heels. Then a new thought occurred to him: he didn’t even need to go back to his room, he could just make for the stables. No sense going back for any clothing. The armor on his back and the sword in his hand were all he needed. The rest he could obtain on the way back to the Grimwatch.

  Brandrir stopped abruptly and spun around, Etheil and Solastron practically bowling into him. “To the stables.” he said, pushing past Etheil and the wolf.

  “Brandrir,” cried Etheil. “Please, let us talk for a moment.”

  “Not now,” said Brandrir, shooting down a small corridor and racing down a flight of stairs. Ahead there was a large, open chamber and some laborers standing about. Upon seeing Brandrir they cast their eyes down and began moving aside. The scent of night air mixed with the reek of livestock loomed here. There was an open portcullis that led out into a back courtyard where the soft, warm firelight of torches blazed along the castle walls and a brick barn stood amongst stacks of baled hay.

  Once outside, there was a dusty path that led out and around one of the castle’s walls. Beyond that, about a hundred yards in the distance, Brandrir could see the royal stables. Here and there, either upon the castle’s outer walls or suspended high upon poles set into the earth, torches cast the yard in flickering shadows and ruddy light. There were some stablehands milling about, their forms visible only in the sparse torchlight near the stable, but they seemed to be spooked by something and started bolting off in different directions. Brandrir knew who was coming, even before the unshrouded form of Egret came into view.

  Brandrir slowed his pace. Dark Star Knights never removed their shroud unless they planned for battle, and Egret stood there in his black armor, the lighting painted up either sleeve almost glowing in the light of the torches. In his hand he held his sword, Thundercracker, though it was not ignited. He began walking down the path toward Brandrir, and it was at that point that Brandrir realized he brought Lord Gregin in tow with him. The shorter, stockier Gregin also walked without his shroud, and the tidal-wave patterns painted up his arms were clearly visible. He flourished his sword, Tempest, as he stared right through Brandrir, his ruddy eyes clearly locked on Etheil and Solastron.

  “Your Grace,” called Egret, coming down the path. “Etheil has been named an enemy of Duroton, and therefore I cannot let him pass.”

  “Me and you, dog-boy.” spat Gregin, pointing a finger right at Etheil. He began moving out and away from Egret. Brandrir knew he meant to take them from behind as Egret came at them from the front.

  Solastron let out a low, rumbling growl that seemed to rattle the ground.

  “I hereby absolve him,” said Brandrir, stopping upon the path.

  “Only the King can absolve one charged as an enemy of Duroton, and you are not King.” said Egret, not slowing his pace. Gregin had moved out wide and was coming out upon Brandrir’s left.

  Brandrir scowled and flourished his weapon, the blurred steel humming in the night air. He felt Etheil’s hand upon the back of his shoulder and heard him whisper, “Don’t do it.” into his ear, but there was no way Brandrir was going to let this assault go unchallenged. “Then beneath the Duroton sky I name you my enemy and that charge shall not be satisfied except upon death.”

  “So be it.” said Egret, igniting his sword. Instantly Thundercracker came alive with crackling white and blue lightning dancing upon its blade or leaping from its sharpened tip. From his left, Brandrir could hear a hiss, like that of flowing water, and he knew that Gregin had ignited Tempest. In the firelight of a high torch Gregin’s blade now shown like rushing, white water spraying mist in all directions.

  From behind Brandrir heard Etheil sigh. “You know, you could have left it as ‘enemies’ and foregone the ‘until death’ part.”

  Brandrir found it impossible not to smile as he simultaneously watched Egret and Gregin approach. “You know I’m never in for a penny if I can afford a phoenix.”

  Brandrir heard the breath of fire ignite behind him and found himself cast in the warmth and fiery glow of Firebrand. Etheil sighed again. “You might want to try living in poverty for once.”

  “Trust me old friend,” said Brandrir. “After this night, I believe the Duroton sky shall be my new roof. But until such a day as I’m penniless, I say go for the gold.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “You and Solastron take Gregin,” said Brandrir, now far more serious in tone. “Leave Egret to me.”

  “Fire and water, huh?” said Etheil.

  Brandrir nodded. “If you can make it out, do it. But hold nothing back. They certainly won’t.”

  “Yes, your Grace.” said Etheil, and he moved out to Brandrir’s left, Solastron at his heels.

  Brandrir moved forward, flourishing his humming sword, Lord Egret dead in his sights. The Commander of the Durotonian Guard looked upon him with a grave face, his icy blue eyes fixed on Brandrir as they came within striking distance. Brandrir could feel the crushing aura from Egret, the same aura that all Dark Star Knights exuded when ready to do battle, although admittedly, Egret’s was far more powerful. Egret was not Commander of the Durotonian Guard for no reason, and Brandrir had heard the stories of battlefields laid to waste by his aura alone.

  “I shall forgive you the oath you spoke beneath the Duroton sky if you lay your sword down now.” promised Egret. “Etheil is the only one I mean to stop. What happened tonight betwe
en you and the Lands is not my concern and is for you and the King to sort out.”

  “Etheil is my Captain of the Grimwatch.” said Brandrir. “An assault on him is the same as an assault on me. I will kill you if I must.”

  Egret pursed his lips. “So be it, Brandrir Thorodin, but know you are not my enemy, only in the way of my duty to the King.”

  “I told Etheil to hold nothing back,” said Brandrir. “I tell you the same.”

  Egret frowned with pursed lips and nodded his head. “So be it, your Grace.”

  Two cats could not have struck faster than Brandrir and Egret. Brandrir was not a Dark Star Knight, but he had trained with them all his life—knew their every secret and every trick—and unlike many men, was able to counter their aura. It was a gift few men possessed. It was said that Saints could shine their Caliber brightly enough to overcome the aura of a Dark Star Knight, but Brandrir had never seen a Saint. All he knew was his own ability, and though he felt Egret’s presence like the weight of the very castle upon his shoulders, he was able to withstand it. By what means he did not know. Some said he was blessed by the Lands of Duroton, though Brandrir thought that tonight proved that blessing false. Others said that it was the Thorodin bloodline, though Brandrir knew that his brother didn’t possess the ability. More likely, Brandrir thought it was his own will; his own steadfast belief in his righteous sword that allowed him to counter the aura and not be crushed or consumed by it. He was not the only mortal man who could pull this off, but he had never met another man besides his father who could.

  Thundercracker flashed and cracked in Egret’s hand as he brought the blade sweeping up and around, only to clash against Brandrir’s shield in an amazing display of exploding lights. Although Brandrir remained surefooted against the impact, he could hear the mechanics of his left arm groan. He felt the shock course through the metal and right up through to his flesh-and-bone shoulder in a painful explosion of its own. With a roar, Brandrir thrust out his shield, causing Egret to bound backward a foot, and then brought Raze down in his right hand. Egret quickly threw the strike away, parrying it with Thundercracker, and the two weapons made a terrible cacophony of buzzing steel and ear-splitting lightning.