by B A Vonsik
“What have we here?” That familiar voice with its even, calm cadence sent unpleasant chills down, then back up, Aren’s spine. “Gifts, son of Larcan?”
Aren froze for a long moment, not knowing what to do. He’s at my back. How stupid of me! Aren chastised himself while wishing he’d been more careful than to back into a room with Ganzer’s aide, Lucufaar, within. The Baraan just seemed to know too many things he shouldn’t and always seemed steps ahead of Aren. Lucufaar unnerved him, though Aren found it difficult to admit that to himself. Act normal . . . Ganzer ordered the parchments taken here.
“Ganzer wanted these parchments placed in here,” Aren spoke with more nervousness than he wanted.
“Put them in the aft part of the cabin,” Lucufaar directed with that calm cadence in his voice.
Aft? Aren didn’t know the meaning. He stood there in the cabin doorway trying to decide which way to step, left or right, knowing if he went the wrong way, he would never be allowed to forget it. I can’t just stand here looking like an idiot, he warned himself, though his pride kept him from asking for help. Left, I’ll go left, he finally decided. Just then, Aren noticed the Baraan bearer on the other side of the crate of parchments nodding his head in the other direction. Aren was uncertain if the Baraan intended to make a fool of him. After considering the odds in that, he stepped backward into the cabin, then to his right around a small table Lucufaar was using. They found a spot to set the crate down in the small cabin, placing it snuggly into a corner between two-fold down bunk heads. The Baraan worker disappeared before Aren turned from pushing the crate into the corner, leaving him alone in the cabin with Ganzer’s aide. A wave of panic rippled through Aren as he looked upon the standing Lucufaar, a light brown-haired Baraan of slender build and middle years, checking and arranging objects in a medium-sized wood chest atop a small table. Without looking at Aren, Lucufaar lifted a hide-wrapped object from the chest with his left hand, then pulled back its red and black folds revealing the ax-and-flame Agni gemstone that brought Aren all his recent troubles.
“What do you sense . . . feel?” Lucufaar asked quietly, just loud enough for Aren to hear.
When Aren simply stared back at him with a questioning look indicating he felt nothing, Lucufaar raised his right hand to the gemstone. Aren caught sight of what he thought were tiny arcs of lightning dancing in between Ganzer’s aide’s fingers and the master crafted gemstone. Then, they were gone. Alarmed, Aren stared at the gemstone. Did I really see lightning in Lucufaar’s hand? What is he? Suddenly, Aren’s heart felt as if it stopped, and his chest became like stone, unable to move or take breath. Symbols, bright and complex, painfully whirled madly about in his mind, causing him to become unsettled and dizzy. Aren felt light-headed and about to topple over before finding the wall of the cabin to support him.
“Interesting . . .” Lucufaar mused. “It sleeps unlike any I have known, and yet still, has hold of you.”
“What’s happening to me?” Just barely able to breathe, Aren asked in a rough cough. He hoped, for once, Ganzer’s aide would help him instead of seeming to enjoy his suffering.
“You, young Evendiir, are bonded to this Agni in some manner.” Lucufaar offered the explanation freely. Unusual. He kept his unsympathetic eyes on Aren watching his every twitch. Aren understood from his experiences with this Baraan and from the aide’s reputation around the workers that he stood apart from the others in Za’s staff as strange, if not highly so. Aren’s chest loosened, allowing him to breathe a little.
“What does this mean for me . . . bonded?” Aren asked Lucufaar since he seemed to be in a talkative mood.
“For you?” Lucufaar asked as he kept that uncomfortable stare on Aren. All Aren wanted was an honest answer, what had him in this “bond,” and if he would survive it.
“Yes,” Aren answered with a ragged breath.
“It tells of opportunity . . .” Lucufaar returned to his cryptic self as he placed the gemstone back into the chest just before Aren heard footfalls in the hallway beyond the cabin door.
Frustration filled Aren, both from his struggles to breathe and from Lucufaar’s elusiveness. What in all of Kur does he mean? Before Aren could make at protesting Lucufaar’s non-answer, Ganzer, in his blue jacket, kilt, and sandaled feet, stepped into the doorway with a clicking of his sandals on the wood decking.
“I do not know why I indulge you so,” Ganzer spoke as if bored with his aide’s requests. Ganzer half-yawned as he scrubbed a hand through his dark, wavy hair before realizing that he did so. He then quickly produced a bone comb and made his tuft of hair more presentable, all the while Lucufaar stood with an impatient look. “The prisoners are on the dock. Tell me again why we need them?”
“They have needed knowledge,” Lucufaar answered as if it were explanation enough.
“Where do you learn of these things?” Ganzer rhetorically questioned his aide with a shake of his head and a frustrated disbelief in his voice. “Or do you make stories to irritate me?”
Aren watched Lucufaar struggle to keep control of his emotions and facial expressions. It looked to him that Lucufaar almost lost the battle before the aide put on a smile and answered his superior with a practiced voice, “I have useful eyes and ears in the right spaces.”
“It is a good thing for you Irzal likes what you bring her with those eyes and ears,” Ganzer made it a point to Lucufaar his value to the Za had limits and that he remained of value only if he continued to produce. “. . . or I would have none of this. Traveling the Blood Lands has been forbidden since the Time of the Ancients, for good reasons.”
Blood Lands! Aren felt his regained breath leave him. They have lost all reason! Aren learned of the Blood Lands and other such places of their myths and legends from his father and the books he kept. A dangerous place protected by the mythical Sentii, a bloodthirsty race protecting the places of the long-departed Ancients. I must now leave before they want me to serve them on their journey to death. Aren coughed mildly to clear his throat, then spoke in his attempt at an excuse to get as far from this ship as he could. “I take my leave of you, Masters Ganzer and Lucufaar. I must return to my duties.”
Ganzer seemed startled at Aren’s presence and pronouncement and now silently held him with angry regard and hateful eyes. Lucufaar seemed amused at Ganzer’s obvious display of incompetence, not being aware of another pair of ears in the room able to overhear their banter. Ganzer looked to be working hard at thinking behind his angry and hateful eyes. “You will perform your duties as the law decrees . . . here on this ship, in service to Za Irzal.”
“I have nothing of clothing and need to retrieve my—” Aren attempted to get himself excused from the ship with the intent of never returning.
“You will find your rags below deck where you will sleep,” Ganzer half-scolded, half-informed him. “I had other servants bring your belongings here. Now, finish getting my and Irzal’s possessions from the wagon and bring them here to this cabin and the one directly across the hall. Do not think to run, Evendiir. The Tusaa’Ner on the docks are with orders to cut down any runaways.”
Aren made to protest again but was cut off by dangerous stares from both Ganzer and Lucufaar. Forced to hold his tongue, he swallowed hard as he gritted his teeth. They will pay for this when I have my turn, Aren promised himself as he squeezed past Ganzer on his way back to the wagon on the dock. He made his way to the quarter deck while grumbling to himself at his misfortunes. I’m trapped on a journey to my death! I must escape these idiots and their quest before it’s too late for me.
He stopped at the front rail of the quarter deck where there was a good view below to the main deck and forward elevated deck and the forecastle. People, many in servant rags, were running here, there, and all about. Watching the furious activities for a few moments allowed Aren to breathe, to catch his breath, and start thinking again. How am I to escape this? He looked over the dock to his right. His eyes found too many Tusaa’Ner and more, Sakes, standing at strate
gic locations and choke points. Aren watched those watching with predator-like intensity, all dressed in belt-held light gray tunics and low sandals. They’re watching all who are dressed in servant clothing . . . as I am. I’ll never make ten strides before getting caught. He then turned his attention to the waters to his left between this ship and the next dock where two ships, smaller than his, were moored, offloading cargo. The waters swirled between the wharf and ships with more than a dozen pairs of snouts and eyes just breaking the surface of the Ner. Aren bit his bottom lip. Is it possible?
“I would think thrice before making that swim,” a strong, confident voice stated from somewhere behind and above Aren.
Startled and fearing it was Lucufaar . . . or Ezerus, Aren whirled around so fast he tripped and almost fell were it not for the rail he had a hard grip on. Confidently descending from the deck above the side steps to Aren’s right, he watched a tall Tusaa’Ner dressed in Farratum sky-blue guard armor, a red cape, and with a red feather-plumed helm step to the quarter deck near where he stood. A commander in the Tusaa’Ner, a sakal, and carried himself as a dangerous one not to be trifled with. Aren swallowed hard. The gray-touched goateed guard gave Aren a silent look-over with a steely, confident gaze while casually standing just strides away. Aren held his tongue not knowing if he was to be reprimanded, maybe with an often-used hide strap or reported to Ganzer, who would then have him strapped for putzing.
“The decision is yours to make,” the blue-clad sakal strangely offered Aren a . . . choice, before starting his stroll across the quarter deck toward the dock. “Better ways in other times to gain freedom will come, young Evendiir.”
The sakal crossed over thick plank boards spanning from ship deck to timber dock before strolling toward the wharf with many salutes from blue-uniformed Tusaa’Ner, uncomfortable glances from eye-avoiding dark uniformed Sakes, and the many bearers and servants scurrying out of his path.
“Who in Kur is he?” Aren asked himself. And what was that all about?
“Aren!” Ganzer yelled from the hallway, startling him and causing him to jump. “Get moving. Time is short.”
Chapter 9
Questions . . . Answers . . . Questions
The constant buzzing of biters in Aren’s ears was as annoying as painful, with them drawing blood from him all night long. At some point in the night, he gave up at swatting them away and accepted the stinging from their needlelike mouths. The lower deck of the ship where he lay, dimly lit by sparsely placed lanterns, was crowded with others, all servants and bearers. The air here just didn’t move like the wind to keep the flying biters away, nor did the candles made with scented purple or blue flowers. They’re making me suffer by purpose; I know it, Aren grumbled to himself. I will have them pay for this . . . Tired from doing Ganzer’s bidding into the late night, making him and his aide and the Za comfortable, opening their boxes and bags and placing their things about. “There . . . No, put it there. No, over here . . . Oh, put that back where I first put it.” Aren wanted to scream. Then, there were the Za’s unwanted advances on him in her cabin that he escaped only by Ganzer’s or the ship commander’s unannounced but welcomed interruptions, for Aren’s part. Only after all their comforts were taken care of did they send him away to these condemned conditions on the lower deck, the bottom deck with cargo and scurrying creatures he didn’t know what to name. Snoring from many of the others surrounding him and the “tinkling” and smell of chamber pots completed Aren’s misery throughout the night. One would think at least the smell of everyone’s urine and . . . yuck would keep the biters away. Aren sarcastically made a joke of the horrible odors filling the air around him. At least the ship moved smoothly with little rocking in its passage on the Ner River. I would welcome the tormenting symbols back to take my mind away from all of this, Aren admitted to himself. Strangely, those spinning symbols that had been making him mad of mind for many months had not bothered him since he stepped foot on this ship.
Thumping footfalls followed by those scurrying from the deck above told Aren either something was happening needing more of the crew awake or the morning was about to rise. The door atop steep steps to the deck above opened. A wide-eyed, dark-haired, young Baraan woman, dressed in a clean gray tunic secured at her waist by a belt, instead of the likes of Aren’s thick rope, descended halfway down the steps before stopping to cover her mouth and nose as she started gagging. After a few moments of her in undecided confusion wanting to retreat up the steps, she held her place with a determined look to complete the task she was charged with. Looking around the cargo hold, the Baraan woman’s eyes passed over Aren once, then a second time before fixing her gaze on him. She pointed at Aren with her slender arm that matched her slim body, then motioned for him to follow.
Aren felt both welcomed at getting to leave this miserable deck and cargos but groaned at what was to become soon a sparring match of questions filled with his half-answers. He made no rush at getting up and following, despite his mind screaming at him to run up the steps as fast as possible. He followed the attractive, young Baraan as casually as he could muster with stiff legs and back from the cramped conditions. Aren cursed his captors at keeping him bare of foot. Never finding the feel of stone or wood, or worse, dirt or mud, on his uncovered feet and in between his toes appealing, Aren grimaced at his steps of pure misery on the rough boards of the cargo hold and at the ladder steps. They’ll pay for this too. The dark-haired woman quickly, though quietly, closed the door to the lower hold with a relieved expression as soon as Aren stepped onto the middeck. She silently motioned for him to follow her as she turned and nimbly climbed another set of steep steps to the deck above, her bare feet barely leaving a sound. Aren looked around the lantern-lit deck he stood on, seeking the ones making the thumping and scurrying footfalls. Many Tusaa’Ner guardsmen either still lay in their full blue-colored gear or dressed down to their white tunics and pants were sleeping all about more cargo containers, crates, boxes, and bags. Some of the ship’s tunic-and-pants-dressed crew made sleeping places out of hammocks. About a handful of blankets were empty with signs of hastily being left behind. Aren noted everything as something might be useful in the day ahead. He then followed the youngling up the steps onto the main deck where she stood waiting impatiently.
The near moonless, predawn sky held a breeze that felt wonderful to Aren as he rose from below deck. He closed his eyes to enjoy the sensations—without the stink of the decks below—feeling the moment with the wind blowing through his matted hair as the scent of forest oaks, ferns, and river lilies with the hint of decay on the breeze filled his nose.
“Come . . . quickly,” demanded the young Baraan, her voice ringing with a vague familiarity in Aren’s ears. Suhd was her name, Aren recalled. She turned and scampered to the forecastle on the forward deck where Aren saw Lucufaar’s prisoners led in the afternoon of yesterday while the ship was being loaded.
Aren took in the dark sky and the lights of heaven, in between the half-raised triangular sails, noting a hint of dawn in the high clouds. The morning ruckus of featherwings and the other wild’s creatures waking hadn’t yet started. Aren noted their ship was still on the Ner River, having set off from Farratum at midnight in light sail and with steering oars used mostly to keep the ship centered on the river waterway. On the deck lay bedding for most of the crew, now awake with long poles or oars in hand at the sides of the ship. Also, on deck, the lower-ranking, blue-uniformed Tusaa’Ner and some black-clothed Sakes, all either sleeping or trying to sleep. High on the steering and poop deck was the ship’s commander accompanied by a group of sailors actively navigating the river with the use of yellow-and-blue-colored flags giving commands to the oarsmen and polemen at the side rails of the ship.
“This way!” Suhd demanded with urgency as she again motioned Aren to follow.
“May as well get this done,” Aren spoke under his breath at the annoying yet dangerous game of words he was about to play.
Following the lithe Suhd, Ar
en cautiously approached the forecastle where two Sake jailers, in their black uniforms adorned with blue ribbons about their upper arms and at their belts, stood to either side of the now-open door. They behaved as the Sakes did when guarding a prison cell. Aren, now, was all too familiar with them. Scum. Where is she leading me? Aren asked himself.
He entered the forecastle filled with uncertainty and unease as the Sakes looked him over with a hint of disgust. The room was about six strides wide and squared with the stout forward most mast extending from the center of the almost two and a half stride tall planked ceiling and through the wood planked floor below. Stacked fold-up bunks mounted on the walls both left and right, as the room was designed to sleep almost twenty, but now looked a place for less than a handful. A folding desk and several unoccupied stools sat open next to the stride-wide mast. A small door on the far wall at the left-side corner of the room was closed and appeared locked with bar and padlock. Also, on the far wall of the room were Lucufaar’s prisoners, three individuals that couldn’t have been more different. The young, dark-haired Tellen’s father. Dressed in the gray, knee-length tunic of a lawbreaker, the older Tellen sat awake leaning against the far wall taking in everything. Aren remembered him and his graying braided beard from the Farratum jails under the arena. Mithraam. He appeared in better health than when Aren last saw him a handful of full moons ago recovering from those almost-fatal wounds from the arena’s raver. He also recalled how this Tellen missed very little, and that he had plans. Maybe plans within plans, but not with goals of escape. A strange one, indeed.
Asleep upright against the wall next to the Tellen sat a light brown-haired male Baraan that Aren knew not. Curled up on the floor aside the Baraan lay a sleeping white-haired female Evendiir. Aren took in her slender figure revealed by her gray knee-length tunic now at midthigh and then her face. Not of my family line. Aren felt relief for the she-Evendiir not being related and forcing upon him an obligation to help her situation. All were chained to each other and the wall. Aren purposely left the door behind him open so as not to be completely alone with the Subar.
