by B A Vonsik
“What . . . Who?” Rogaan asked.
“Lucufaar . . . Luntanus . . . the Shunned!” Aren again raised his voice, now trembling. He yelled up to the command deck and the crewman dressed in blue. “We must get far away and quickly from the Khaaron!”
“Who be ya givin’ me orders?” the blue-dressed commander rhetorically asked.
“Follow his guidance, Saalar,” came a choking voice from the barely moving big fellow clad in red. The half-stripped warrior then attempted to stand but fell, collapsing back to the deck.
“Quickly . . . Saalar! Quickly, you idiot!” Aren yelled out again. “The Shunned still can reach out to us with his deadly ways.”
Saalar barked orders right and left as he made sure Aren caught his threatening stare. A female Evendiir in an emerald dress appeared near Saalar’s side also yelling commands. The crew responded in the gloomy dawn with sails elevating and riggings tightening and any number of things happening about the ship Aren was unfamiliar with. The sound above of canvas whipping on canvas told Aren the sails were opening. The ship lurched forward with newly puffed out sails above. Then, the ship started into a slow left turn, causing yells and more barked orders from the command deck.
“She be damaged!” Saalar bellowed out to the crew. “Da tiller trackin’ partly ta da wheel. Re-rig da sails ta haul her close ta shore.”
“What is happening?” Rogaan asked of whoever near could answer.
“We must get far away from this . . . Shunned.” Aren repeated himself to the dark-haired half Tellen and his friends, Pax and Suhd, who now stood near listening to the goings-on. Awed by the expanse and might Luntanus Alum commanded the Powers, Aren’s skin crawled and hairs stood with real fear for the first time since Farratum’s arena. “Out of his reach with his Agni Powers.”
Arguing drew Aren’s attention to the green-clad warriors now half-carrying the big warrior between them. They passed by Aren and Rogaan for the stairs down to the main deck. Intensely at their task, none of the warriors gave the slightest glance at Aren or the others. The once red-clad warrior now with a bare chest and back with what appeared as scales and partial armor on his lower body was barely conscious and mumbling words. Aren only heard some of them, and of those he did not understand. The big warrior bore many scars of what looked to be blade slashes, stab cuts, and burns. Some of them fresh as the scent of burnt flesh followed him. “Help us take forward the Vassal to his cabin.”
“Vassal?” Aren asked of no one.
“He named himself Vassal of Vaikuntaars,” answered Rogaan.
“City of the Dead . . .” clarified Aren. A chill rippled through him as he stared at his trembling hands wishing they would stop.
“Yes. Place of the Ancients,” answered the white-bearded Tellen, dressed in dull-green hunter’s armor with dark brown hide boots. The thick-bodied Tellen walked by them on shaky legs. He offered his services to the two green-clad warriors who were lowering the Vassal down the stairs.
Rogaan grumbled something Aren didn’t catch before dropping his bow and quiver of arrows, then went to help the warriors and Tellen with the big-bodied Vassal. The four of them worked together quickly getting the Vassal down to the main deck as the crew of the ship watched but offered no assistance. Pax and Suhd left Aren to join the group on the main deck as they half-carried the Vassal toward the forward cabin in the forecastle. On the Khaaron, Aren remembered the forecastle as a prison for the few unfortunates of use to Lucufaar . . . Luntanus Alum. Aren felt a pang of fear thinking of the Shunned. The stories of legend didn’t measure up to what he experienced of the cursed one, he reflected. Aren looked about and found himself alone while still holding to his chest the red and black hide wrap and the Agni within. He suddenly felt alone. Normally, he welcomed such a feeling, but today’s happenings made him fearful of both mortals and Ancients. While growing up, he dreamed of meeting such beings . . . the Vassals of the Ancients and those of legends and myths. They were never supposed to be. Seems they’re not just stories, Aren considered as he ran after the others while trying his best to look as if he needed no one.
As Aren approached the group carrying the Vassal, he felt a vibration . . . intense and powerful coming from the direction of the adrift Khaaron. He calculated it several marches to the north adrift on the eastward flowing Ur. He turned seeing lines of Power carrying a large and intense ball of liquid red flames just strides above the waters of the Ur. It came straight at them from their port side with great speed spewing up volumes of heated vapor in its trail. Aren warned anyone who would listen, “His reach is upon us. Hide.”
Aren dove for cover among crates stacked against the cabin wall. The heavy crates and boxes offered little cover, but it was all he could find with doom so quickly approaching. The rest of the group looked about searching, finally seeing it too, coming with great speed, a sphere of red, yellow, and blue flames. They all followed Aren’s lead dropping to the deck, allowing the Vassal to plunk down on the wood planks with a thump.
Peeking through the crates, Aren couldn’t take his eyes from the rapidly approaching flaming sphere, wanting to learn everything about it. It might mean their doom, but he didn’t want to waste an opportunity to learn of anything that could give him his own power. The lines and pattern of the Power and the feeling of its vibrations left him with an intense curiosity of this manifestation. With a rumble, the burning sphere struck the port side of the ship near midship, exploding . . . sending a roaring concussion wave through the air and a great shudder through the wood frame and planks of the ship. Aren, crouching behind the crates, was knocked off his feet as heat rose instantly to a painful searing before dissipating almost as fast. Burnt wood and sulfur filled his nose as flames spewed over the deck touching sails, timbers, crates, and crew. Most of the damage seemed below where yells and screams from the crew came in numbers as the moments went on. A warm, salty mist covered the ship, putting out small fires here and there. Aren rose from the deck into a sitting position trying to get the ringing in his ears to stop by shaking his head this way and that. Looking about, he found everyone among the group and some of the crew doing the same. Somehow, he survived.
“We be takin’ on water!” yelled voices from below. More crew across the ship echoed the danger with their loud yells. Many footfalls and more yelling below deck told Aren the crew was trying to repair the damage to stop from taking on water.
The blue-clothed commander bellowed orders from the command deck that Aren couldn’t make out from the ringing still in his head. Oh, what a head pain, he moaned to himself. He felt terrible, as if his whole body and head had taken a beating.
Struggling with the Vassal, the green-clad warriors were getting him to his boots and toward the forward cabin. The two warriors reluctantly accepted help from the white-bearded Trundiir and dark, short-bearded Rogaan. The four of them carried the more than two-stride tall Vassal into his cabin leaving the door open behind them. Aren, curious of this Vassal, found himself at the cabin door looking in. Spacious by any standard of ship design, Aren now understood. The bed they placed him on looked as three crates set end-to-end with generous padding and more covers on top. The Vassal seemed awake, but only vaguely aware of his surroundings. His battle with the Shunned must have taken a toll. Aren looked down at his own still-trembling hands and understood a little, he imagined. Stepping into the cabin, he spied more red armor on the floor and several long cases. They looked stout, but not made of any metal or wood he was familiar with. What in Kur are they made of? Gleaming silver locks unlike any he ever had seen secured both. Next to the cases, a backpack of dark tanniyn hide appeared to be stuffed full. Nothing else worthy of noting or remembering caught his eye.
“What? Get out!” one of the green-clad warriors demanded when he caught sight of Aren looking around.
Aren stood unmoving. I have rights to be here, he confirmed to himself, feeling empowered now that he no longer suffered under the thumb of Farratum or Lucufaar . . . damned Luntanus Alum. Who a
re these two to give me orders? Indignant at their ordering him about, Aren made it a point to stand his ground—even if he still trembled while doing so.
Trundiir looked at Aren, then to Rogaan, then spoke, “We should take our leave.”
Rogaan nodded in agreement at the Tellen. They both slowly backed away from the warriors tending to the Vassal as the Tellens scanned the room. Taking in everything, both Tellens glided over the wood plank floor trying to be quiet in their passing with each seeming to be competing with the other. If a contest, Aren had to admit, Trundiir was much better at the style of movement.
“Come join me, Aren.” Rogaan made his request as he passed by Aren at the door.
“Would you point me to some sandals or better, boots, for my feet?” Aren half-asked, half-demanded of Rogaan.
Trundiir stopped in front of Aren presenting a challenging stare up at the Evendiir’s face. Standing a full head taller, Aren almost laughed at the scene . . . Little Tellen trying to intimidate an Evendiir—me.
“They will cut off your naddles and feed them to you as soon as let you stand here gawking,” informed Trundiir in his serious, deep voice.
“I have a right to stand wherever I wish,” Aren proudly and arrogantly spoke with a hint of a shake in his voice.
“You have no rights with them,” Trundiir stated in his deep rumble as matter-of-factly as Aren thought possible before he pushed past Aren. Stopping at the cabin door, Trundiir spoke. “They are Sentii and have little fondness for the rest of the races. Do as your pride and arrogance compel.”
“Sentii?” An outburst of the name escaped Aren before he realized he spoke.
“And the one they attend to . . .” Trundiir’s deep voice grumbled on as he walked away. “is far more dangerous to us than any Shunned.”
Chapter 18
Scheming
“Da Makara still be takin’ on water and soon be goin’ ta ground near da shore.” Pax explained what was told to him by the Makara’s second commander a few moments ago. Gone was Pax’s brooding demeanor when Aren first boarded the ship. The dark-haired Baraan stood with the rest of the group on the slanting deck, though was the only one openly wearing a face of angry determination. The deck’s listing raised the port side of the Makara. It was an attempt by the crew to slow the ship’s taking on water, at least until reaching the shallows. “Da commanders say da ship be a dangerous place ta be after groundin’. Ship can sink bein’ dragged out in da river when da current changes or be torn apart on da rocks or attacked in da shallows by tanniyn and mu’usumgal . . . da water-dragons.”
“And this Shunned with his troops . . .” Rogaan injected a question into the conversation. It was clear to Aren the half Tellen was unsettled by Luntanus Alum and uncertain of what to do next. “How long before he comes looking for us?”
“Do not know about him, but we should go to the hills and forest once we get to shore.” Trundiir’s deep voice was almost a grumble while he visibly continued holding back an unsettled stomach. Aren noticed the Tellen’s skin coloring to be still a bit greenish.
“What of da . . . Sentii?” Pax inquired. “Dey be ownin’ da wilds there.”
“Not this far north,” white-bearded Trundiir flatly answered, then belched with a sour face.
“How do you know that?” asked Rogaan in disbelief.
“Hard lessons learning with the Sentii here before . . .” Trundiir answered, then belched again. Aren wondered how long it would be before the Tellen made a mess of the decking, again. “They are a hard people. Dedicated to the Ancients unlike any temple Kunsag. And they are fierce protectors of their lands beyond Anza . . . violently so.”
“So, we keep away from da mountains and stay in da hills.” Pax announced the group’s unagreed upon decision. When no one protested, he continued. “How do we get back over ta da other side of da river . . . back to Farratum and Brigum?”
“Is that a good idea for us?” Rogaan asked. “We just broke out of that prison isle. And the Vassal left it a mess. Where can we travel north of this river and be without Farratum or Brigum’s Ensi wanting to put us back in manacles?”
“We can no go with da Vassal!” Pax protested. “In da Blood Lands? No. I no trust what he be schemin’.”
“You can make a life out here . . .” Trundiir belched his offer of a resolution to their situation, “in these hills. At least until you figure something different.”
Aren didn’t like where the discussion was going. He wanted to get back to Windsong and its familiar hills, and to his father to learn more of the Agni and of the Power. A whisper somewhere in his head taunting, compelling him into wanting different. No. You’re not telling me anything, Aren warned off the whisper.
“What of ya father?” Suhd asked with a concerned tone. Pax, Rogaan, and Aren all looked at her thinking she was talking to each of them. She avoided her brother’s tearing eyes and solidly fixed her gaze on Rogaan.
“Father?” Rogaan repeated.
“He still be on that ship,” Suhd announced as if everyone was aware of what she spoke.
“On the ship . . . the Khaaron?” Rogaan asked, shocked and astonished.
“Yes,” Suhd answered with a bit of frustration.
Rogaan stood silently for moments as everyone watched him. Aren felt a twinge of fear accompanied by a smaller twinge of guilt for not speaking of Rogaan’s father being present when the half Tellen was on the Khaaron.
Rogaan turned his attention deliberately and directly onto Aren. He looked unhappy in every way. “You said nothing—”
“You asked of the other Tellen . . . a Sharur Tellen, exactly.” Precise in his memory and argument, Aren didn’t flinch when answering Rogaan. “I answered about what you asked.”
“Truly.” Rogaan looked at Aren as if he had horns . . . that he was about to rip from their roots. “You spoke nothing of him. Did he not save you in the Farratum court?”
“Would you have had the Shunned and the Vassal put a hold on their scuffle so that we could chat of everything of concern in your life . . .” Aren rhetorically shot back at Rogaan in an attempt of getting control of unpleasant their conversation. Rogaan fell silent staring at Aren with fuming eyes. Everyone else shifted their attentions back and forth between the two while holding their tongues. Awkwardness filled the silence. It was plain to see the half Tellen was more than angry . . . likely all at Aren and certainly of the situation. The question present in everyone’s awkward silence was . . . would Rogaan have the self-control to act . . . fruitfully or be brazenly reckless? Aren hoped for the first as he bit his lip holding back a much-desired and -deserved scathing rebuke about this whole situation . . . and Rogaan. Instead, he locked stares with the half Tellen mustering as much courage as he could marshal. Long, silent moments passed in the dawn hour with only the fluttering of sails, the lapping of water against the ship, and the mostly faint voices of the crew trying to keep the Makara afloat.
“We stay with the Makara as crew.” Solemn words came from Pax breaking the silence, sounding as if he reached a best of all decisions.
“Father needs to be rescued,” Rogaan announced with heat in his voice.
“Ya father be in da hands of an ancient killer,” Pax countered Rogaan’s heat with an attempt at reason. “Told so by da worst . . . bloodiest stories tellin’ our history. Legends should no be real. Dey be frightenin’.”
“Words of ya father before seeking . . . Mithraam, it is.” The blue-themed, well-dressed second commander spoke as he approached. “Ya father wanted to see with his own eyes a livin’ legend. Yes. Da Tellen be known even out here. He be well thought of by da River Folk as a champion of da free ways.”
“Then, help us rescue him,” Rogaan asked with a frustrated tone.
“A fool’s task,” the dark-haired, clean-shaven second commander of the Makara answered in an unexpected way. The Baraan stopped his sure-footed steps on the listing deck to be standing next to Pax and Suhd. “We be damaged and need sailin’ ta da shallow
s before takin’ on much more water. And dat ship, da Khaaron, da Makara’s crew knows now it be carryin’ an Ancient One. No one be helpin’ ya . . . or even me with such a task.”
“Rogaan . . .” Pax almost sounded as if pleading by his tone, “ya can no be askin’ us ta give up our Lights tryin’ ta save him. No with him in da hands of a Shunned. Dis be da stuff of legends, and we should be readin’ and hearin’ of it. No livin’ it.”
Rogaan’s eyes were instantly wet, and Aren thought he saw a thunder cloud forming over him. Rogaan made to argue but was cut off.
“Ya father no wanted dat for ya, Roga of da Blood An . . .” the second commander spoke with compassion in his eyes. When Rogaan’s face twisted at the Vassal’s given title of him, the second commander pursed his lips, then continued. “Such a seeker of da free ways, as ya father, would no be wantin’ his only son ta fall ta da blade or be made lightless. Not even ta free him.”
“We need ta be stayin’ with da Makara,” Pax restated his desire.
“Ya father no wanted dat for ya, either,” words of prudence directed at Pax and Rogaan came from the second commander. “He be wantin’ ya away from da water-thievin’ livin’. Wanted much more for his family. He said so before he ever held ya in his arms. He heard da stories of Mithraam in da civil war, fighting by da side of da Ebon Ones ta beat tyrants back and make Shuruppak da lands of men . . . not rulers. He and da Ebon Ones made da lands free . . . until a handful of years ago when darkness be startin’ ta poison Shuruppak, again.”
Rogaan looked stunned and angry, all at the same time as his eyes darted from the second commander to each of those around him. When his eyes fell on Suhd, they softened and then became wet again.
