THE APOSTATE SAINT

As the exquisite food filled his belly and the wine drowned the remainder of his feelings of failure, Fridok allowed himself to celebrate. Perhaps he had been too hard on himself, thinking that the only acceptable place was first place. The end result was the same as if he had won everything, after all. He would still get to prove his worth to his new lord. He still would be counted as one of the best swordsmen in the City. Most importantly, he would would finally have a chance to crawl out of the hole he had known all of his life. Mother, if you could see me now.

Fridok hardly ever partook in the consumption of wine or any of the other kinds of swill more accessible to his class, for that matter. Because of this, he actively felt the effects of it flushing his cheeks, tingling his skin and making him sweat. It felt good to have an actual reason to celebrate for once in his life, and he found that the more cups he drank, the more he was able to ignore the social barriers separating him from the others sitting at the table. More so than the others, Fridok felt a budding kinship growing with Alaric even though he knew very little about the young man, aside from his skill with the sword, something about which he now possessed firsthand knowledge. Perhaps he would get another chance to prove himself against Alaric in combat in the future, but for now, going cup for cup with him was enough. Fridok was girthier; surely he could beat a teenage boy at this kind of competition.

Even though Fridok sat a mere two seats away from the Gifted Man, it might as well have been a mile away. He couldn’t make out any discernable tidbits of conversation from this distance, likely because the rest of the crowd was just as well-imbibed and rambunctious as he was becoming. It didn’t matter, for Fridok had no idea what to say to a man of his stature. He was a living legend, a relic from an age long-gone, yet here he was in the flesh. He had just raised six men up from the dead, an impossible feat. How was Fridok supposed to connect with such an individual, when he was nervous and felt out of place just being around Primisians? It was with this consideration that Fridok willingly accepted Alaric's invitation to go mingle with his new peers.

“This here is Bulgar Alcamora,” said Alaric, trying to enunciate as best he could through his inebriation. “And here is his cousin Yurk – Euric, sorry. These are the best archers in the world, and there’s no question about that. At all. Truly. You should have seen their contest – they gave quite the show.” Alaric leaned up against Fridok to steady himself. Fridok bowed to them, probably too exaggerated because of his drinks, which almost caused Alaric to lose his balance. The cousins didn’t seem to mind.

“You think that was a show?” said Euric. “Did you see this guy take on that gang of thugs all by himself?” Euric hit Fridok with a friendly fist to the shoulder. “Unfortunately, no,” said Alaric. “I was a little busy with my own ordeal to focus on someone else’s.” Alaric took another sip.

“It was absolutely exquisite,” Euric said, enthusiastically. “You should have seen him, weaving in and out with every swing. He played every one of them like a fool. I knew right away that he was the one to watch.”

Fridok happened to catch the annoyed reaction of Geilamir right at that time. It felt incredible to actually have someone praise him for his skill in combat. A Primisian, even, of all people. Fridok was among the Great Band.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the quieter Alcamora cousin Bulgar asked. Fridok shrugged his shoulders, trying not to let his head get too big. Everyone’s attention was on him, and he was very certain that it was a tentative interest at best, like he was a street performer with a new trick to show off. He didn’t know how to handle it very well and he felt rather exposed.

“I taught myself,” said Fridok. Both of the cousins reacted with surprise, though Euric’s was far more animated than Bulgar’s. “During the day, I smash things with a big hammer and carry heavy stones around. During the night, I train with my sword.”

It still stung to mention his broken sword, though all of the other benevolent feelings still trumped his anger.

“And you had no trainer whatsoever?” said Euric, loudly. Fridok shook his head, and Euric laughed belligerently. He turned to the other side and put his hand on the back of Ervig Lacertian’s shoulder. “You hear that?” Euric said to them. “This guy didn’t have any formal training at all and he still almost won the competition. What do you think about that?”

The middle-aged gentleman just gave a nod to Fridok and lifted his cup to him and then his mouth. He must not have known what to say about that, but he certainly played it off as cool as he could. Fridok noticed Alaric hanging around nearby, listening to the conversation but not really adding anything to it. Fridok felt like it was worth telling more of the story, so as to spread around the good feelings he felt, and perhaps to shift the focus away from him.

“Truth be told, I learned a lot just by watching the games in the training grounds. This one, in particular, has a lot to show anyone willing to watch him.” He pointed at Alaric with the elbow on the arm of his cupped hand. “Silly, but I found myself sparring with him in my imagination every day, convincing myself that if I ever got the chance to fight him, I would be able to beat him. So much for that.”

Alaric gave a smile at the compliment, drinking another sip of his wine, perhaps to conceal his reaction.

“You hear that?” said Euric, once more to egg on Ervig. “Alaric’s been training champions without even insulting them or threatening them with any inhumane punishment. Did you even know that was possible?”

Ervig gave Euric a deadpan stare, unimpressed with the antagonization. A slight smirk came across Isidore Maritium’s face, but he turned away to avoid getting involved with the conversation at all. Ervig muttered something to Isidore, but Fridok couldn’t catch a word of it. Fridok got the feeling that the two of these men probably felt like avoiding fraternization altogether.

Just as Euric was starting to say something else, Fridok noticed that the Gifted Man had gotten up from his chair and had approached the group of champions. Bulgar jerked Euric’s shoulder to redirect his attention. All of them turned to give their benefactor their attention.

“I pray that you all have eaten well,” the Gifted Man said. “If you do not mind, I would ask that all of you join me in a quieter place that we may discuss some business.”

Everyone who was sitting stood up, and the seven men followed their new commander several blocks away to the entrance of the hospital, of all places. It was significantly quieter and more ominous there than the garden where the feast was taking place; it was just a very odd choice for the man to take them. Euric shot a confused look to Bulgar as they entered, while the others all just followed along patiently waiting for some answers. Fridok pretended not to be bothered by the location, but the memories came back to him of when he was a child and his mother was sick. It was an instantly sobering thought, despite the volume of alcohol he had consumed.

“Why are we here?” Fridok found himself asking as they entered the first room, not meaning to reveal his nervousness. His heart pounded as they neared the curtained entrance to the main hall. All of the bad memories from that time came flooding back to him, the fear and desperation that he felt as soon as he found out his mother was going to die. He remembered vividly the agonized sounds of the doomed patients and the death-rattles of the elderly as he prayed for a vindication which never came for his mother. He couldn’t get the memory of the stenches of that time out of his mind, and he now came face-to-face with them once more. What joy he had collected in the last hour was now in jeopardy as he was confronted by the trauma of a past that he could never escape.

As they approached the doorway, Fridok stopped dead in his tracks while the others continued on toward the hospital's rotunda. They all stopped at the door as their leader turned to face them. He took notice of Fridok's sullen expression and aloofness immediately, and, with a look that said “I see your pain,” he calmly motioned for Fridok to come closer to the group. There was no reason for Fridok to distrust this man – after all, he was the supposed son of the First Man, and therefore the heir to the City. If there was anyone in the world he could trust, then this man was probably it. Still, Fridok hesitated.

Alaric took notice of Fridok’s reluctance, then turned back to face the front. Fridok sensed that Alaric, too, had seen a glimpse into his soul. He wanted to go up there with them before he caused any of the others to see the pain in his soul, but he didn’t really know these people and he certainly wasn't one of them. They seemed like a decent crew, but they hadn't earned his trust yet. Alaric turned around once more, concern in his eyes. He must have sensed that Fridok needed a savior, because he came, once again, to his rescue.

“Why are we here?” Alaric asked the one who had led them there, just as the others' attention was starting to meander. The Son took his eyes off of Fridok which gave him some relief.

“I thought that it would be best if we went someplace quiet,” said the Son, his hand finding the edge of the curtain that blocked the doorway. Fridok’s nervousness was elevated as soon as he saw what was about to be exposed. In a flash, the veil was torn away, exposing… an entirely vacant room.

Fridok had never seen the room so devoid of suffering before. Instead of the agonized moaning and the sobbing and the other things that accompanied the damned, there were simply empty cots. He exhaled, the expectation of terror taken from his fragile mind. He almost expected to see her again, and was relieved when she wasn't there.

Alaric looked back at Fridok, waving him forward with a small motion of his hand and a nod of his head while the others looked on. Fridok approached his new companion with tentative courage and joined the rest.

“You’ve healed them all?” said Euric, in amazement and disbelief. “Even the terminal and chronic patients?” Euric turned to Bulgar, who shared an understanding with him. “Where are they?” asked Bulgar, stunned. The Gifted Man smiled at Bulgar, and comforted him. “Their ailments have been lifted from them. This is no longer their place.”

Bulgar looked as if he was about to cry, but fought it. Euric placed his hand on his cousin's shoulder. Apparently, everyone understood what had happened except for Fridok.

“It’s Bulgar’s sister,” said Alaric to Fridok, quietly. “She was dying, there was nothing the doctors could do for her. A festering malignancy that had robbed her of all of her strength. After she died, Bulgar kept coming here to keep the others company. It was his sister's dying wish.”

Despite all of the attention going to Bulgar, Fridok still felt the man’s eyes upon him. Fridok kept his eyes focused on anything else he could, to avoid him spotting the intrusive thoughts he was feeling.

He can bring recently deceased back from the dead. He can heal the living sick. What about Mother? Had he shown up years ago, she, too, could have been saved. Why now? Why must he have come during my lifetime but too late to make a difference to me?

A distinguished middle-aged woman stepped out from the back room and approached the group. The Gifted Man turned to her, bowing his head to her. She returned the pleasantry, then took a place facing them, standing next to their leader.

“Champions of the City,” he said. “I have brought you here to discuss the terms of our journey together. Here in these City walls, you have enjoyed life without molestation from the outside world. Each of you has lived your life protected from the dangers of the outside world – the same threat I now ask that you stand and defeat. You have won your right to be part of this expedition, but you are not yet sworn to my cause. Until you have spoken the words to seal the pact, you still have the option to walk away.”

He looked directly at Fridok and paused before he continued.

“The mission must be a success, or I fear not even my father's fortification will be enough to prevent the destruction of our people. Corruption resides here, just under the surface of these hallowed grounds. The balance is lost. Your leaders takes more than what is needed to survive, and the very stones upon which you walk will soon start to give way. Before we can rebuild, we must make safe the lands around us. That is why you are here, to do what you must do to cleanse the world of this evil that has been allowed to thrive for too long.”

“I will do whatever it takes, my Lord!” said Euric, emphatically. Bulgar shifted in place, but ultimately nodded in agreement with his cousin.

“I admire your drive,” said the Gifted Man. “But you are not yet ready to face the things that lie in wait for you out there.”

Euric looked dejected. He must not have expected that response.

“None of you are ready,” the Son continued. “For you have not the tools you need to kill the twisted monstrosities that rule the land.”

“With all due respect,” said Isidore. “Most of us are outfitted with the finest Temple steel. Perhaps much has changed since the days you roamed these grounds, but we trace our heritage of blacksmithing to the First Age, to the time of the Toriad. The same craftsmanship that the First Man's people enjoyed is alive and well today, with us. You saw for yourself in the melee what a well-crafted sword can do.”

Fridok didn’t appreciate the reference at all.

“And I tell you,” the Gifted Man replied. “Even your highest quality weaponry will not be enough to stop the demons.”

All of them looked around, puzzled. Euric interjected. “With all due respect, Lord, you have the Gifts. Surely that and our steel is enough to quickly dispatch any threat. If we sustain injuries, you can heal us, just as you have the people who you have saved today.” The man studied Euric’s face for a time before continuing.

“I can heal your wounds,” said the man. “I can pick you up if you fall. But if I fall, what then?”

“Nonsense,” said Euric. “You can't fall. Not if you are who you say you are.”

“Anyone can fall,” the man shot back with passion in his voice. “Death walks in my footsteps still. It has not forgotten my scent. Everyone who lost their life at the end of Civilization were like me. They all had the Gifts. They all fell. The Gifts are vital for this endeavor, but there is only one thing that can destroy a demon.”

The Gifted Man reached down to grasp the handle of the sword in his sheath and pulled from it a blade which shone like the midday Sun. Fridok had to turn away, as his eyes were adjusted to the darkness of the infirmary.

“This is that thing — This is what is known as a Soul-arm,” he said, with reverence to the weapon he held in his hand. “Each of you will need to acquire one, though you will only be able to do so through personal sacrifice. Three swords, two bows and two lances must you manifest with my guidance. Only then will you be ready.”

Fridok immediately envisioned himself holding a magnificent blade like the one the man held. The blade was no work of a blacksmith, no matter how talented. This was a divine thing, something that Fridok imagined only was accessible to someone with royal blood. This man must truly be who he said he was. He was the Son of the Toriad.

“One last thing,” the Son said. “Wielding a Soul-arm and using the Gifts grant us unnatural strength which is needed for the battles ahead. But these come at a cost. We will need others to accompany us to aid us when the divine power leaves us.” He held his hand out to gesture to the woman standing next to him. “This is Gailavira, the matron of this hospital. She will be coming with us.”

The woman bowed at everyone respectfully. The Son continued his speech, but only after first looking around the group, daring anyone to challenge the wisdom of his choice to bring a woman along.

“The battles we fight will be many. You will go into each one with bravery, but you cannot fight forever. It will be best to bring along two others, to train them to carry on with your work when your fighting days have ended, and to help Lady Gailavira tend to us when we each battle ends. I leave it up to you to choose those worthy to bring along.”

Irvig and Isidore looked at each other and nodded in silent agreement. Fridok met Alaric’s eyes, both of them considering the weight of the Son’s statements.

“Knowing this, I ask each of you seven-” said the Son. “Are you prepared to swear yourself to my cause?”

“You already know the answer to that question!” shouted Geilamir, suddenly breaking his silence. The Son nodded, confirming the truth. "And so I do," He said.