by B A Vonsik
“Remove his bindings,” the sakal ordered the two Tusaa’Ner guardsmen. The Za’s daughter looked very angry. The guardsmen both looked questioning at each other before complying.
Relief from the pain was all Aren thought about for moments after his bindings were removed. A green glowing symbol spun and sped across his vision. Aren worked his shoulders to relieve the stiffness before stepping toward the inner chamber. The sakal’s hand pressed on his chest stopping him.
“Harm her and I will cut you down.” Dajil’s voice was both low and serious. Her eyes told him the Za’s daughter meant it.
“I told you she wouldn’t believe,” Aren returned the sakal’s gaze. Aren sniffed the air searching for her “scent of sway” that he fell to earlier. The room was absent of it. “I will not fall prey to your sway, again, enchantress.”
A fist struck Aren’s mouth, sending him staggering backward. Stinging pain pulsed through Aren’s lips and chin for a moment before symbols of all colors and patterns spun wildly about him. He stood gazing at a constellation of glowing cyphers while rubbing his jaw. Those in the room no longer held any meaning to him. He knew they were there but were of no importance. Shapes formed out of the spinning symbols. Shapes like and unlike any before. Aren recognized a few of the patterns and managed to stop several of the symbols from spinning before fitting them together. The shapes formed by the collective of moving symbols changed again, becoming more organized, more predictable. Yes! Aren congratulated himself.
“You are so strange,” Dajil described Aren with exasperation as she pushed past him. “Remember my words, Evendiir.”
“How can I forget?” Aren sardonically replied to Dajil as he rubbed his jaw once more. This wasn’t the first time the Za’s daughter struck him. “You keep reminding me.”
“Guards,” the sakal’s irritating, high-pitched tone returned as she walked out of the room into the hallway with her hand gripping tightly the sheathed long knife at her side. Aren listened to her distancing footsteps while she uttered more orders for the guardsmen, he presumed. “Remain in the outer chamber. Let nothing happen to the Za.”
“Evendiir!” the familiar voice called out for Aren. She wanted his attention, and he cringed at what was to follow after he entered the room.
Aren put on his best mask of indifference before meekly walking into Za Irzal’s office chambers. To his surprise, the room and Irzal were nothing as he expected. The room was in chaos with law parchments spread all over her desk and chairs with more in snapjaw hide pouch-carriers sitting about on the floor. Instructions issued by the Za to her aides were fast and many. Her aides were struggling to keep up with the Za, a young Baraan woman with dark hair who recently joined the staff and a Baraan male, neither, of whom, Aren was very familiar. They were placing parchments the Za read and chose into the organized hide carriers. Aren’s skin prickled at the sight of Ganzer, Irzal’s male Baraan male aide. Ganzer was one of two to be wary of in Aren’s conclusion. Months of living and serving close to Ganzer and his aide, Lucufaar, a true mystery with what he observed of him, allowed Aren to understand Ganzer better than even Ganzer knew himself. The short and pudgy Baraan that sported a double chin, controlling and feeding information to the Za and pulling Irzal’s cords about which way to vote and decree. It wasn’t incompetence on the part of Irzal; to the contrary, Aren considered her strong and ambitious and vicious at times. It was that Ganzer knew and used various means that she was vulnerable to, and it seemed Ganzer’s “scent of sway” was particularly effective on her.
Aren took notice of Irzal’s clothing. Strange attire for her, leaving Aren confused and curious about what was going on. Usually, she dressed in sheer, see-through dresses and gowns, and then moved in ways that flirted with those that had eyes on her. Aren came to understand it was all part of the tools she used to influence those near, that and her own powerful “scent of sway” that her daughter seems to have inherited. I must be careful and keep distance from both of them and their practiced sways, Aren warned himself.
“There you are . . .” Irzal finally recognized Aren. Today, she wore a brown, split hide dress with tanned hide walking boots, as if she planned to travel. Sweeping her left arm around the room, she said, “All of you collect these pouch-carriers and follow Ganzer.”
Aren nodded in compliance despite his prickling skin. It was his “duty” as a servant to do as told, forced upon him by those he was given over to by the gal as an alternative sentence instead of being placed in a jailing cell . . . or worse. That is . . . until my sentence is complete, or I find a way to escape these idiots, Aren declared to himself. Then . . . It’ll be my turn, he promised himself.
Aren did as instructed, grabbing up two hand-fulls of carriers, all filled with parchments. He slung them over his head and shoulders, leaving him appearing as some strange, fat Evendiir with all the pouch-carriers hanging from him layered on top of each other.
“Follow,” Ganzer ordered Aren before saying something to the young, dark-haired woman. Aren didn’t hear what he spoke to the woman because of shouting from the hallway. Ganzer looked to the Za. “There is not much time.”
Not much time . . . Aren took notice of the words. What’s happening with all this running about?
Ganzer tossed a foul glare at Aren, then motioned with his kept wavy, black-haired head and contempt-filled eyes, telling Aren to fall in line behind him. A silver-harnessed ruby gemstone dangled with a sparkle from Ganzer’s right ear. Aren couldn’t recall ever seeing the Baraan without it.
Out the chambers they went, past the two Tusaa’Ner and into the hallway. Ganzer almost ran, more of a scurry to Aren’s long strides as he led the way down the granite block hallways of the old temple. Feelings of loathing and anger again rose within Aren as he looked upon the tapestries, furniture, and all that made this temple a place of worship to these foolish mortals and their governings, instead of who they should truly be worshipping. What are these feelings? Aren asked himself. Symbols, glowing and spinning, returned, dominating his vision. Not now! The symbols were more organized than he remembered. And the usual pain that accompanied them now felt intensified, significantly. Distracted away from the hallway and Ganzer, Aren tripped and would have hit the floor if not for a wood table he caught himself on. Cursing himself as he suffered Ganzer’s disdainful gaze, Aren regained his feet, then continued following the aide. Wanting not to look the fool, Aren did his best to peer past the symbols, instead, focusing on the dark blue hide jacket and kilt Ganzer wore as he fell in step behind him.
Ganzer led Aren out the southeastern doors of the temple where a troupe of blue-uniformed Tusaa’Ner guardsmen stood in formation before several wagons with spears high. Each of the wagons had a single, midsized kyda harnessed at their fronts and a driver directing what was being loaded and where.
“What did I miss?” Aren asked rhetorically, though spoke aloud without realizing he did.
“Nothing, servant,” Ganzer answered with more contempt thick on his words. “Your eyes see too much as it is. It is best for you to remain unaware.”
All the symbols halted their motions as anger filled Aren, from sandaled toes to his top hairs. What did I miss? Aren asked himself again. Was I so occupied with these cursed symbols that I missed all this under my nose? It was now clear Ganzer and the rest were preparing for travel, but to where? Aren searched his memories, around the symbols that continued to distract him, finding bits and pieces of what he sought. What is out of the ordinary? The Anubda’Ner arriving in Farratum, or at least a small contingent of the Mighty Guardians. They belonged to the Nation of Shuruppak and took their orders from Zas far removed from Farratum. But they spent time with Irzal and her aides, behind closed doors that Aren wasn’t permitted beyond. Their stay was only for a short time before departing east . . . to Padusan, Aren recalled overhearing. What else?
A gathering of supplies stored in wood crates had stood all about the temple. Looking around, Aren realized the crates were now gone, bot
h inside and outside the misused granite monument to the Ancients. Irzal, Ganzer, and Lucufaar also seemed to be holding more “planning” meetings than usual. And then he and many of the other servants assigned to Za Irzal, just yesterday, were ordered to hand in all but one set of their clothes for washing. Not of normal activities as usually one or more of the servants would be assigned washing duties . . . and the timing of the washing was off by days.
“Hand me the carriers,” Ganzer ordered with an outstretched hand as he sat where the driver of the lead wagon would usually be. He let out a grunt as Aren’s eyes slowly focused on him. “Now, Evendiir.”
Aren stood next to the lead wagon with symbols again swirling about his vision. Without questioning or his usual attitude on display for the aide, Aren stripped the carriers from his shoulders one by one, handing each to Ganzer, who then placed them in a crate just behind the driver’s seat.
“Get in,” ordered Ganzer.
“Where are we off to?” Aren asked, still a bit disoriented.
“To become of those who rule this world,” answered Ganzer with a disdainful irritation.
Aren didn’t find Ganzer’s answer much of a help as those glowing symbols started spinning and moving wildly, but his words spoke of enormous and dangerous ambitions.
Chapter 8
Journey’s Beginning
The kyda’s muscles rippled as it worked hard under the whipping stick of the driver willing on the wagon through the semi-crowded streets of Farratum. Aren sat in the middle of the cargo wagon’s bench with an intense and irritated Ganzer to his left and an unpleasant smelling Baraan driver to his right. Symbols continued their wild spinning and arcing paths in his vision as the morning crowds parted for the mounted Tusaa’Ner escorts leading on their sarigs in front of their wagon. Aren noted many in the crowds unhappy at the intrusion of the caravan passing through the midst of their morning activities on this main street circling the arena. The Circle of Justice. Aren grunted at the mockery in the street’s naming. Justice was not given to me in that place, he angrily reflected. Symbols slowed. The four Tusaa’Ner, leading on their sarigs, kept a brisk pace passing business after merchant stands and crowds after throngs filling the outer left side of the cobblestone street. They followed the road in a sweeping arc to the right around to the southeast side of the looming arena before turning south onto Dock Street. The cobblestone street here was less crowded in these morning hours with two-story, brick-built taverns lining the eastern side of the street and timbered log row-type dwellings on the right side. Ahead, a portcullis, large enough for two wagons to pass through together, sat open in the large block stone wall surrounding the city. A large contingent of blue-armored Tusaa’Ner in and surrounding the gate appeared to be checking everyone and everything passing through to the wharf beyond. To Aren’s curiosity, their wagon caravan showed no intent at slowing as the mounted Tusaa’Ner ahead of the wagon closed on the gate. A horn sounded, causing the crowd at the gate to part just before their caravan passed through the portcullis.
The wagons veered left as soon as their wheels rolled onto the flagstones used to surface the wharf. The stink of fish and decay filled Aren’s nose, causing him to wrinkle it, hoping to block the smell. Aren, never seeing the wharf before now, looked about with wide eyes. The width of the wharf’s flagstones varied, though averaged some forty strides wide running from a wedge-shaped tower to the northeast, that the sun was now trying to peek over, all the way around the south side of the city to its southwest ending. Having seen maps of Farratum on Za Irzal’s tables, Aren knew the stone-surfaced wharf continued to the west, then turned north surrounding all Farratum’s waterfront. Timber-constructed dock walkways projected out from the flagstones offering ships both small and grand places to moor and harbor from the currents of the Ner River. Aren was genuinely surprised at the hustle and bustle of the wharf. Peoples were actively moving cargo, crates, and wares everywhere. Ships less than ten strides’ length moored behind him to the west on the numerous timber docks provided to ensure Farratum was well capable of being a place of significant commerce along the Ner and Ur rivers.
The driver next to Aren pulled up on the reigns, halting their kyda and wagon at the first of two docks on the wharf’s eastern extreme. Extending into the Ner were wide timber docks of significant lengths able to accommodate three large moored, triple-mast ships with well-kept wooden hulls, if Aren saw them correctly. Small carts pulled by Baraan bearers quickly crowded around their wagons. Workers immediately started transferring cargo and crates from the wagons to their carts before making off to the dock of the three-mast, tall-hulled ship moored there, the Khaaron. Aren also made note of the names, the Erebuus and the Nyx, the other two large ships moored beyond at the second dock now with Baraans crawling about them like biters on carcasses, dismembering them; instead, they were filling them with supplies. All three ships were almost identical and large, some fifty-plus strides in length and more than fifteen in width with sails resembling folded fans a lady might use in public or at a ceremonial gathering.
For a few moments, Aren stood in awe of their size and of the craftsmanship required to envision and build such things. Then, his cheeks heated as he realized he stood with his jaws agape and looking like a fool. Immediately, he put back on his impassive, unimpressed demeanor for all to see and know that he is an Evendiir of the world. With another wrinkle of his nose, Aren still found the place smelling of decay and dead fish.
“Grab that crate of parchments and follow me,” Ganzer ordered. Aren looked around for others he must have been giving the commands to as he estimated the crate too heavy for him to lift or drag alone. When he found nobody around listening to the aide, Aren looked up at the now-standing Ganzer with an unbelieving gaze. A cluster of entwined symbols flew across Aren’s vision, distracting him as he winced at the pain that came with them. Ganzer wrinkled his nose in a contempt-filled snarl. “Get a bearer to help you.”
Aren immediately found a strong, dark-haired Baraan atop the wagon handing crates and sacks to other scurrying bearers tending to carts. “You! Assist me with this crate.”
The worker displayed an exasperated attitude while looking about and finding Ganzer before grunting and making to help Aren. The Baraan pulled the crate to the edge of the wagon gate before waiting for Aren to assist him placing it into a small cart. In truth, Aren was of little help to the Baraan but made a show of it. I’m not built for such toils, Aren complained to himself as the Baraan grabbed one of the two carry-poles at the front of the cart. Aren reluctantly picked up the other pole, with an effort, then panted hard to keep up with the Baraan as they pulled the cart onto the wide dock following Ganzer. Aren noted the aide now carried a small backpack over his right shoulder and a carry pouch in his left hand.
Ganzer led them to the end of the dock where they climbed a ramp pulling the cart behind them. Aren struggled mightily, pulling the cart up to the second elevated timber platform where they were level with the quarter deck of the Khaaron. That unpleasant feeling of sweat pouring from him made Aren unsettled as he pulled his clinging light gray tunic, now darkened from being wet from him in places. Suddenly and surprisingly, Aren realized the symbols no longer tormented him. They were gone. None of his mental efforts were needed to keep the cursed things away.
“What just changed?” Aren asked of no one while standing, panting. A hopeful spark lit within him as the Baraan worker gave him a mixed look of confusion and annoyance. Aren worked at calming his breathing enough to allow himself to enter the meditative state needed to confirm the symbols were not hiding as they sometimes did. A few moments later he entered into his mediation while standing next to the cart. He felt a smile growing on his face with only the empty void found when he closed his eyes. They’re not here . . . and my head-pains have left me, Aren told himself, making it official. Why?
“Evendiir,” Ganzer’s voice punched through Aren’s moment of joy and serenity, “get those parchments on the ship. We have little tim
e to waste.”
Aren bit back an ill-mannered remark at Ganzer’s disrespectful ways, thinking better of it. I’ll get my retribution on Ganzer . . . and them all, he promised himself as he got moving. The wood walkway across to the ship, being too narrow for the cart, found Aren struggling to carry his end of the crate as the Baraan helping him easily held up his side. Once across, Ganzer directed them to the rear of the ship with a pointed finger toward a raised section with steps to either side a central set of doors going up to a railed platform where a large lever center of the ship stood. The double doors below the steering lever lay open, allowing them entrance. Aren shuffled his feet into the opening with the heavy load of the crate, causing him to pour more sweat. I’ll get my day, he grumbled to himself. The double door entry led to a short, low-ceilinged hallway where three cabin doors all were open, one to either side and another set of double doors at the end. The smell of wood in the cramped hallway overtook the odor of decay and fish and was a welcoming reprieve to Aren’s nose.
“To the right,” Ganzer called out from somewhere outside.
Aren rolled his eyes in annoyance and silent protest as he backed into the cabin on the right. The widening eyes of the Baraan on the other side of the crate they carried sent a chill rippling up through Aren.
