THE APOSTATE SAINT

Nineteen years before the betrayal

The hardy young Solumian laborer Fridok wiped sweat from his brow and drank more of the cloudy water from the banged-up, dingy tin canteen which he had stolen from the refuse heap in the Primisian part of the City. He tried and failed to tune out the foreman squawking insults at the other stone workers. Those kids wouldn’t cut it in this kind of vocation; they would have to find something else to do for their wages. Pity. Stone work was decent pay for someone of Fridok’s station, if one could call any kind of pay "decent" for people like him. It would never elevate his status in the City, but it would at least keep his belly full and his hands busy. He couldn’t hope for more than that.

The Walls of the City kept the demons outside at bay, but did nothing to address the forces that choked those marginalized by society. Being noble-born in an enclosed city with finite space with which to live meant that the rich owned not only the best buildings to live in, but also every other sliver of real estate in the City. The cost of living in the insulae apartments only continued to rise over time as the Houses squeezed what pittances remained in the pockets of the dredges. Fridok, at least, managed to keep an apartment roof over his head through the virtue of his Namer-granted strength. He could haul more stones farther than any of the other workers, and because of this he was able to negotiate a more palatable pay. It still wasn’t enough to enjoy anything in life, but it was all he could ask. Thus was the lot of all Solumians, the second-class citizens of the City.

What else could he do? He was twenty-three years old and already resigned to the reality that this was all there was for a nameless man like him. Fridok’s father had worked himself to death working on the repairs for the aqueduct system when Fridok was only twelve years old. His mother would have starved to death trying to make ends meet, but turned to prostitution in the name of keeping Fridok’s hungry mouth full. Fridok took up hard labor shortly after his father had died in the hopes that he would be able to save his mother from the shame of that retched life, but she died still the same. Fridok never learned who it was that killed her, or how they could so carelessly discard his mother’s naked body in the alleyway near the necropolis, but Fridok knew there was no way to find out who it was who did it. As far as he was concerned, they all did it - everyone who perpetuated this hell in the prison they called the City.

It wasn’t enough to simply exercise to give himself some needed control in his life; Fridok trained incessantly with a sword every day after his shift was over. He had saved up his wages by skipping meals every day for two years before he could afford it, but when it was finally his, the sword became the only thing that mattered in his life. He would learn how to counter every blow, every movement, every twist of a wrist in any direction, despite the fact that he was not allowed to train with the higher class sportsmen. Fridok was poor, and poor people didn’t get to enjoy participating in the recreation of swordplay. The amphitheater had been closed to the masses ever since the Senate abolished gladiatorial exhibition rather than reinvesting in the building's upkeep.

Only young men from wealthy families were allowed to use the amphitheater. They trained there, but only on a recreational basis. Sword fighting was simply a recreational hobby for most of them. There were a few nobles, typically the second-born from their family, who would train to be part of the Consul Guard as a means of making up for the fact that they were not the primary inheritors of their father's wealth. Being on that course didn't make the duty-driven noble boys any better than the firstborn, however.

Fridok always watched the wealthy sparring through the closed amphitheater gates every chance he could. Although he would never be allowed to participate, he would spend the whole next workday digesting the techniques he learned from watching them. Then, the next day he would train by himself at night against a crude practice dummy he had erected from a sack of straw. He knew the swordsmen all by name, though he had never spoken a word to any of them. All he could do was watch from the barrier like the handful of others who longed for the day when the gates would reopen and that entertainment would once again be a part of their otherwise meager existences. Fridok hoped for the gates to reopen not simple so he could watch the exhibitions, but rather, so he could himself gain glory from the gladiatorial combat. He kept that hope alive even though no work had been done whatsoever to repair the structure of the building in Fridok's lifetime.

The swordsman that interested Fridok the most was a boy called Alaric. He was by far the most talented swordsman there, even though he was only sixteen or seventeen by Fridok's estimation. He had long, well-maintained blond hair and always kept a dainty appearance, but he fought more skillfully than any of the others Fridok liked to watch. Most of the others who had been sparring there had very predictable styles that Fridok had already beaten a hundred times each in his imagination, but Alaricus always was able to adapt himself to any situation to pull out ahead.

What made Alaric so entertaining to watch was that he would fight the same opponent three times on three different days and his fighting style would vary each and every time. Even when Alaric would start combat in a familiar way, he would always add a subtle twist that would change the entire direction of the fight with no warning. He had a pristine win record, but he broke every rule that Fridok had come to understand about swordsmanship. Even in his imagination, Fridok doubted that he could get the better of this young man, given the chance to face him. Alaric was the other reason why Fridok trained as hard as he did - he wanted to be better than the best the Primisian nobility had to offer.

Fridok stretched his arms and rolled his head around to ease the tension in his shoulders. He took another swig of the murky drink, scowled and placed his canteen back on the ground. In doing so, more dust and grime got into his drink. He had been working already for nine long hours and now not even his nightly swordplay would be able to distract him enough from the exhaustion that had set in. He bent down and outstretched his arms around another foundation stone. Just as soon as he hoisted it, a deep rumble reverberated through the ground and into his body like what happened whenever another building had fallen in on itself in the crumbling City. Fridok looked around with the rest of the confounded crew to try and figure out from which direction the noise might have come. It didn't take long for an excited commotion to begin to envelope the City. Something about the event convinced Fridok that whatever that noise was, it was not just another dilapidated building falling down.

Several people darted by in the street nearby. Even the foreman dropped what he was doing to check it out, telling them to stay put. They, of course, didn’t. A few seconds after the foreman left, they all ran off in the direction of the commotion. Fridok wouldn’t be the only one to be kept in the dark – he dropped his load and cautiously set off to join the rabble. He considered first going home and retrieving his sword, but decided there simply wasn’t enough time for it.

When Fridok met the crowd, he bore witness to something that was supposed to be impossible. The Main Gate of the City, locked by the Toriad Himself at the dawn of the Fall of Man, lie in ruins upon the ground. In its place, a jagged splinter of rock and dirt jutted into the city like an enormous spearhead. For the first time in his life, Fridok could see the world outside of the City. It was verdant green and abundant with overgrown life, not at all the demonic hellscape he had imagined.

The crowd was stupefied, and rightfully so. Fridok was among those who were afraid, but in that fear also was a twinge of excitement.

Was this the work of a demon? Had the end finally come for mankind?

Fridok regretted letting his curiosity tip the scale against his better judgment. If there was a threat to be dealt with, he would need his sword. The effortless way that the impenetrable door had been breached made Fridok realize that there would be no hope to defend himself if they were overrun by the enemy. He couldn't go back now as the crowd was too dense; the only option at this point was to wait to see what doom was about to befall them.

A small number of Guardsmen stood defiantly in the road near the smashed gate. Too few. There had never been a successful breach of the gate since it was sealed, thousands of years ago.

“Archers, ready your arrows! Fire on my command!” A captain had taken his place near the scrambling guardsmen, preparing to counter-attack whatever evil force had come to the City. Fridok eyed the weapons these men held, and thought about how he might be able to take one of them up after they fell. He had been waiting a long time for a chance to prove himself, so perhaps his time had finally come. Fridok inched closer to the street through the tightly packed crowd.

“Aim!”

All the archers pointed their bows at the opening of the gate. Other guardsmen armed with spears stood with weapons tilted.

“Fire!”

The snaps from a handful of bowstrings rang through the air, but were barely audible over the sound of the crowd. In the most bizarre turn of events, a flock of sheep that had poured through the opening and, one by one, they all leaped into the air to catch the arrows with their bodies. They bleated as they fell to the ground, dying. Fridok pushed closer to see the aftermath while others looked on in horror.

“Siste manus!” demanded a foreign-sounding voice from just outside of the City walls. "Hold your fire!" the stranger's voice continued. The archers seemingly obeyed the mysterious man, at least for a moment. Everyone watched with baited breath as the figure of a tall man in filthy, bizarre clothing walked through the gates. In each of his arms he carried a weapon, one enormous sword and an ornate, otherworldly spear that glowed with unnatural light. He approached the sheep that lay dying amongst the rubble. Though they were writhing in pain, the man still took time to lean over them, pulling something out of a small bag attached to his belt . The man then firmly pulled each arrow out of the sheep and held his hand over the wounds. A blinding light emanated from his hand, and then they scurried away, seemingly no worse for the wear.

"He- He healed them!" said a woman next to Fridok. "Namer, he made them better."

Fridok did not know what to make of the man, but he knew that what the man did should not have been possible. If he was capable of commanding the earth and the animals, and could even bring them back from a sure fate, then there was only one possible explanation.

He has the Gifts.

The man arose slowly and looked around. From this distance, Fridok could better estimate the man's appearance. He was half-clad in some kind of expensive cloth, his sleek but muscular chest exposed. His legs were covered in some kind of embossed leather with dark fabric that billowed off of him. His skin was deeply tanned. His black hair,, partially braided, hung halfway down his back. Fridok could also see better the weapons the man wielded. In one hand, his huge curved saber shone bright like the Sun. In the other hand, the pitch black spear also radiated pure energy. The man looked around, studying the faces in the crowd.

In a booming voice, he shouted.

“Redii! Redii! Vocate Patrem – I have returned!”