THE APOSTATE SAINT

The splitting headache that accompanied Alaric’s return to consciousness was overwhelming. The weakness he felt in his joints and muscles added to his discomfort. The last time he felt anything near this level of pain, he had spent the night cavorting with actors, singers, and artists in Pravus Alley. His father had figured out where he had been and woke him before dawn for an extra training session. As horrible as that hangover was, this morning was significantly worse.

Luckily for Alaric, he wasn’t alone in his misery. His companions shared his suffering, and a dedicated physician watched over them.

“Alaric is awake,” said Calix to Gailavira, who was busy portioning out something from a flask into smaller vials. She looked determined, holding her duty to the company’s well-being sacred, regardless of her own exhaustion. Years of running a hospital had prepared her for this work.

Gailavira handed Calix a small vial and returned to her task. He took it and knelt by Alaric, lifting his head gently. The contents of the vial were bitter and cold, almost causing Alaric to wretch. The liquid was thick, lingering in his mouth and throat. His whole body ached, he was parched, and his stomach gurgled loudly with hunger.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Calix told him. “It should only take a few minutes.” Alaric surveyed the camp. Euric, sitting against a log, waved at Alaric and pantomimed a disgusted reaction, indicating he had also experienced Gailavira’s potion. Alaric saw that both Geilamir and Fridok were still asleep, while Isidore stood looking out into the distance, seemingly unaffected by the same effects. Considering Isidore had almost died in the battle, it was surprising he had recovered so quickly. Alaric was happy to see him alive and well.

Among the others, one was conspicuously absent. The Son still lay motionless on his bedroll, setting off alarm bells in Alaric’s head.

He is supposed to be nearly a god. Why, then, is he not getting up?

“Oh, Namer, I’m dying,” Geilamir groaned as he woke. “Correction – I’m already dead. I can’t move. Which one of the horses fell on me while I slept?”

“You think that’s bad,” Alaric responded. “Wait until you get a drink of your morning libation. You’ll wish you were dead.”

Calix scurried back to Gailavira to get a vial for Geilamir. As Geilamir’s moaning crescendoed, Alaric realized his own body had begun to hurt less. Even his splitting headache subsided. With the pain waning, he focused on his unquenched thirst and insatiable hunger.

“Psst, Geil…” Alaric said, unable to take it anymore. “Let me have some of that ham.”

Geilamir’s eyes widened in anger. The ham was supposed to be a secret, but Alaric was too hungry to care.

“What ham?” Euric said, turning his attention to Geilamir. “Are you holding out on us, Aurumantian?” Geilamir’s eyes burned with rage at Alaric, realizing the secret was out. Alaric mouthed an apology, and Geilamir shook his aching head in reply.

“Oh, hell!” Bulgar chimed in, awakening and immediately joining the chorus of misery. “What kind of sick joke is this? Ooh, dear mercy, I’ve come undone…” Bulgar tried to pick himself up but collapsed back onto his bedroll.

“It gets worse,” Geilamir said, his face contorting in disgust from the potion’s aftertaste. “God, that’s rank.”

Calix chimed in. “You’re all a bunch of ninnies, aren’t you? Some warriors you are, crying about the taste of a potion. Nobody said it would be sweet like nectar.”

“Why don’t you take a sip, then?” Geilamir retorted. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem because you’re so tough, right?” Alaric could tell Calix was actually considering it, but he ultimately chickened out.

“Every muscle has turned to mush,” Bulgar added.

“I can’t waste a drop of it, can I? That would be quite irresponsible of me!” Calix rushed back to Gailavira to get Bulgar’s tincture as Geilamir scoffed.

“Geil,” Alaric said, quieter but still driven by extreme hunger. “Please. The ham.”

“Oh, God name it,” Geilamir relented, tossing the pack with the ham weakly. Alaric scurried over and scooped it up. At that point, he realized Fridok was awake, simply lying there staring at him.

“You’ve had plenty,” Alaric whispered. “I’m so hungry I can’t stand it.” Fridok continued staring, then closed his eyes in apparent exhaustion.

“Fridok’s awake too!” Alaric shouted, calling Calix over.

No more waiting. It was time to eat.

After eating and drinking, Alaric felt ready to take on the day again. Gailavira’s potion had diminished the severe pain and exhaustion to a dull ache. The bitter taste still lingered, but he could manage.

Everyone had recovered enough to move around, except for the one person who knew where they were going. Watching the Son fight the night before, Alaric had wondered why he needed the un-Gifted. The Son’s command over the Gifts, his control in battle, and his ease in dispatching demons had seemed beyond human. Now, Alaric understood why the Son involved them.

Euric, the more enthusiastic of the Alcamora cousins, injected some life into the worrisome situation.

“Did anybody count how many demons they killed last night?”

Bulgar shook his head. Euric looked around but no one else responded.

“Me neither,” Euric said. “By the time I thought we might pull it off, I had already killed too many to count. What shocked me was running out of arrows but still firing at the bastards.”

Alaric looked up. In the mayhem, he hadn’t considered how Euric and Bulgar kept firing without arrows.

“I had 21 arrows in my quiver – that’s my lucky number. I shot them as the Son told me and felt full of energy. I felt like I could shoot farther, more accurately, and with less strain. I noticed that with every arrow, a burst of energy shot out. When I had no arrows left, I pulled back the string and fired. Sure enough, the bow fired bursts of light at the demons. It was the damnedest thing. Can’t get it to fire anything now, though.”

“That’s because you don’t have any energy stored up,” Bulgar said. “Be careful doing that. It might borrow your body’s energy if it thinks you’re desperate. You’d better be aiming at something you can kill.”

Euric regarded his bow, suddenly fearful. He put it down and nudged it away.

“What are you all going to name your weapons?” Xanthus, Ervig’s ward, asked eagerly.

“Breechsoiler,” Geilamir said sarcastically. “The Holy Crapper.” Xanthus looked disappointed. Alaric saw a bit of himself in the boy and took pity on him. He decided to take the question seriously and name his new blade.

“Lightshiter,” Geilamir continued. Euric found this humorous. “What about ‘Ass Swatter’?” Euric added. “Ass Water?” Geilamir said. “What the hell?” Euric burst out laughing. “I said ‘Ass Swatter’, not ‘Ass Water’, but I like that one better.” His laughter was infectious, and the camp joined in. Even Ervig chuckled. Xanthus, however, was red-faced and alone as the target of their jokes.

“I’ve decided on a name for my sword,” Alaric said sincerely. Xanthus looked hopeful.

“Daemonore,” he said proudly. It meant ‘Demons’ fear’ and to Alaric, it was a name worthy of the Heroes of Old. The camp fell silent, realizing their deeds might echo through history. Euric broke the silence.

“Way better than Geil’s,” he said. “Ass Water.”

“That’s not the real name,” Geilamir said defensively. Alaric winked at Xanthus, who smiled widely.

“What will you name your bows?” Alaric asked Euric and Bulgar. Inspired by Alaric, Euric thought for a moment. “Arculux,” Euric said. Geilamir scoffed. “The bow of light? Really?” “If Al can call his sword Daemonore, I can call my bow Arculux. What about you, Bulgar?”

“Alexia,” Bulgar said, with his heart on his sleeve. “She would have liked to be here pinning demons. Now she will be.” Bulgar had never been the same after his sister’s death. “She was as brave as anyone here,” Alaric said.

“Well, now this is cruel,” Geilamir said. “Next, you’re going to tell me Fridok named his sword Magnificus.”

Alaric and Geilamir turned to Fridok, who had been unusually silent. With all eyes on him, he looked desperate to escape.

“It’s a sword, not a baby,” he said dismissively. “It doesn’t talk, it doesn’t get a name.”

Everyone looked deflated.

“Alright, he’s not taking Magnificus, so that one’s mine,” Geilamir said, lightening the mood. Alaric eyed Fridok, trying to discern his mood. It might take a while for Fridok to feel he belonged, and one battle wouldn’t change years of neglect.

“I’m still going to call it Ass Water!” said Euric.

The party camped for the day to recover fully. Their concern grew as the Son still failed to wake up. Their crusade seemed in jeopardy.

Little did they know, the darkest side of the Soularms was about to be revealed back in the City...