Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1)

by Zackery Arbela

  Azaran settled back on his haunches. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled... "All I smell is piss," he said.

  "Ignore it," came Segovac's reply.

  "It's not something I can dismiss..."

  "I said ignore it. " A hint of irritation entered Segovac's voice.

  Azaran did as ordered. He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, ignoring the faint smell of urine that pervaded the air. In...out...in...out....clearing his mind. The thoughts raged against each other in his skull, like animals in cage, then slowly subsided into silence. Nothing but silence. Emptiness. No future, no past, only the present. And there, just on the edge of things, beyond the darkness, just started to reach out...something...

  Whang! A cub snapped hard against the bars of the cage. "You look ridiculous," said the guard swinging it. "What, you supposed to be, some fortune teller, like them what squats in the marketplace? Here's your fortune, scum! Tomorrow you'll be dead!"

  Azaran's eyes opened, He looked the guard in the face, holding the gaze until the fellow stepped back nervously. "And here is a prediction for you," he said. "You will always be a walking dung pile."

  "Empty words from a dead man," sneered the guard.

  "I will die as a man," said Azaran. "You will always live as filth. Which of us is the lesser?"

  The guard smacked the bars again. "Good thing the big man wants to see you bleed," he snarled. "Else I'd be in there to send you to the Pit the hard way!" He turned to the other cage. "When you kill him to morrow, make it slow. I want to hear every scream."

  The men squatting in the cage didn't answer. They looked across at Azaran, fear and wariness in their eyes. They were brought in the night before, a fresh batch of killers to replace the previous lot so quickly dispatched. Word had gotten around and this new lot did not indulge in the insults and threats. They looked on Azaran as dogs might look on a bear they were about to bait - with respect for his teeth and claws.

  But there were a lot of them in that cage, ten or more at least, every one a hardened killer from the scars on their arms and faces. "Rough crew," Segovac said.

  Azaran nodded. He looked at each man, noting the tense energy filling them, the way they watched his every move, studying him as he studied them. The next fight would be different. These fellows knew what they were getting into, they wouldn't be overconfident. "It will be a hard fight," he said.

  "And it's likely Enkilash won't stop with them," said Sagovac. "He will have another crew in reserve, just in case you carve up those fellows. He aims to see you - and me - dead on those sands."

  "Hardly seems fair," Azaran said.

  "Fairness has nothing to do with it."

  Azaran thought on this. "If he intends for us to die," he said, "then I'm not going to oblige him. When we fight, it will be on my terms."

  "Brave words." Segovac gestured about the cell. "But the odds aren't in your favor."

  "Those can change," Azaran replied. "Assuming one could break out of this place...where would be the best place go? Surely there is more to Tereg than this one town."

  Segovac nodded slowly. "Aye. There used to be a villages scattered about the place. Not that large, mind you...the soil is poor and what food there is has to be pulled from the sea."

  "Used to be? What happened to them?"

  "When Enkilash came to power, he burned down every settlement outside of Otossa. Every house, every hut or hole in the ground. As he saw it, the men working fishing boats would be better off crewing his ships. Burning their homes was his argument." Segovac paused for a moment, scratching his chin as he thought on this. "There are a few renegades scattered about the forests. Runaway slaves, men who fell afoul of Enkilash or have no taste for the pirate's life. There are a camps to the east, hidden in the forest. I might know a fellow who would give us shelter. Assuming he is still alive."

  "How do you know him?" Azaran asked.

  "Two years I've been on this island," Segovac responded. "Because of my...background, I was put to work as as a scribe by the man who bought me. I spent my days on the docks, keeping records of incoming plunder and the like. Sometimes, when no one was watching, I would help people escape. This fellow, Tavarus is his name, was a countryman of mine, a fellow Eburrean who fled for much the same reasons I did. I altered certain records to make it look like he drowned, broke his chains and helped him flee the town. I later heard he took over one of the renegade bands in the forest."

  "So he owes you. Good. Is he trustworthy?"

  "The man I knew kept his honor despite the circumstances. Whether that is still the case..." Segovac shrugged.

  "How did you end here?" Azaran asked, now curious. "Did they catch you breaking someone out?"

  "If they had, I would have died on the spot. No, the man who owned me did something to get on the bad side of Enkilash and died rather suddenly. No one wanted to own his slaves, since they were seen as tainted, so it was off to the Pit." Segovac leaned back against the wall. "All this talk is meaningless, friend Azaran, so long as we are in here."

  "My time here is done. Let's see what else this island has to offer." Azaran rose to his feet. "Follow my lead. Hey, guard!"

  No answer. The guard did not come.

  "Try insulting his mother," Segovac suggested.

  "How does that help?"

  "Most men look ill on insults to their mothers. Especially the vile ones."

  Azaran shouted down the hall again. "Hey guard! Your mother is a ..." he paused a moment, "Your mother is a cheap prostitute who fornicates with dogs! Your father is one of a hundred beggars who lay with her for free! And you are a fat man with cries like a girl when he stubs his toe!"

  "Shut up down there!" came the shouted reply. The guard stuck his head through the door. "Or I'll shove my boot up your backside!" He went back outside, slamming the door behind him.

  Segovac shook his head. "Needs some work. Insults are a fine art, my friend, and you definitely need instruction."

  "Can you do any better?"

  Segovac smiled. "Step aside, friend Azaran, and learn." He stood and went to the bars, took a deep breath and shouted, "Hey! Bumboy guard! Why don't you come in here and bend over? You dog-raping boy whore! I piss in your mother's womb and shit in your father's mouth, all one hundred of them...and here he comes."

  The door flew open. The guard stomped back in, red-faced with anger. "Say that again!" he bawled, raising the cub. "I'll shove this up your ass 'til it it tickles your teeth..."

  Segovac stepped back. Azaran remained at the bars, eyes on the guards. "You won't make it to the pit!" the guard yelled, swinging the club at his head. Azaran stepped aside, letting the cub and the hand holding it pass between the bars. He grabbed the arm and twisted it sharply. The guard howled with pain as his arm broke. The club dropped from nerveless fingers. Azaran caught it with his right hand and swung through the bars, striking the guard between the eyes There was a sharp crack and the man slumped, Azaran letting go of the broken arm

  "Get his keys," he said.

  Segovac hurried over, reaching through the bars and plucking the key ring from the man's belt. He thumbed through them until he found a small iron one, which he fitted into the lock in his collar.

  "Glad to be ride of that," he said as the collar and chain fell to the floor. He unlocked Azaran's, then went to the cage door, trying one key after another until one finally opened the lock. Out they went, rubbing their necks where the collars had chafed and glad to be free of them.

  The man in the other cell stared at them, saying nothing. Azaran glanced at them. "Hand me those keys," he said.

  Segovac passed them over. "Some mischief in mind?"

  "You might say that." He tossed the keys through the bars. They landed with a jingle before one of the men, who quickly picked them him. "Stay or go, as you will," said Azaran to them. "But you will find it in your interest to use the smallest key on that ring."

  The fellow with keys unlocked his collar and hurled it away. He turned to his fellows and began f
reeing them as well.

  Azaran and Segovac strode out the the door of the holding pen, stepping into bright sunlight. A guard sitting on a nearby stool gaped at them, a beaker of wine raised halfway to his lips. "What the..."

  Azaran crossed the distance between them in two steps, grabbing the man in headlock as he stood and snapping his neck with a single twist. He yanked the man's sword from his belt as he fell, turned about just in time to parry a cut from a third, knocking it aside with almost contemptuous ease and slashing the guard open from neck to navel, then kicking the body to the ground. He scanned the area and saw no one else. But it wouldn't be long before more guards arrived.

  He spotted a small clay lamp sitting on the ground near the stool. "Hold this," he said, handing the sword to Segovac. He picked up the lamp, hefting it in his hand. He knelt down by the body and felt about the pockets, finding a well-used flint and steel in one.

  The sound of a cage door banging open came from the holding pen. One by one the fighters from the other cell ran out, not a one looking back or offering a word of thanks. They disappeared into the town. Moments later came shouts and screams, and the sound of combat.

  "Guards are coming," Segovac said, raising the sword nervously.

  "I am aware. Keep an eye out."

  Azaran went back into the holding pen. He knelt by one of the open cells, struck sparks from the steel and carefully lit the spout of the lantern. The flame guttered for a perilous moment, then rose in strength, casting a faint light in the shadows. He smiled, stood back up, and tossed the lantern into a pile of moldy straw.

  The clay of the lantern shattered when it hit the ground. Oil spread through the straw, lighting up as the flames touched it. The straw hissed from the dampness, but the fire was spreading. Azaran grinned and headed back outside.

  "Trouble," Segovac said, pointing at a trio of guards approaching the holding pen. They all held drawn swords.

  Azaran took his sword back. "Give me a moment." He strode towards the guards, raising his blade as they attacked. Battle cries turned to screams and all three men fell to the ground, dropped before they had time to swing. Azaran picked up one of the fallen swords and handed it to Segovac.

  "My thanks," Segovac said, hefting the blade uneasily. "Though I am a bit out of practice."

  "That will likely change. What's the fastest way out of this dung heap?"

  "East, into the barrens. But we have to get through the gate..."

  "One problem at a time."

  They went away from the holding pen and the pit beyond, turning a corner and entering the town. The streets were in an uproar - locals were running away from the sounds of combat ahead. Steel clashed on steel, and a man screamed.

  "Get away!" said a portly man, running past. "They've killed two men already! It's a revolt, I say! Flee!"

  Azaran went against the tide of panic, heading up a curving, muddy street, his bare feet squelching in the muck. He stepped aside to let a woman holding a bawling baby pass, then saw the first body. One of the pirates by his dress, belly gutted like a fish. A few paces away was one of the fighters from the pen lay face down, his back a mess of stab wounds.

  The street curved to the left and he saw men dodging back and forth. One of the killers, red from the waist up, holding a sword in both hands, fending off a pair of pirates on either side. His technique was crude, Azaran noted, but desperation gave the man strength. He wondered if he should wade in and help...then turned away. The bastards would have killed him if the opportunity presented. He owed them nothing.

  Or maybe you can offer them the chance for redemption. The silent passenger spoke up. He ignored it.

  "Not my concern," he muttered.

  "What was that?" asked Segovac.

  "Nothing...the way ahead is blocked. We need another route..."

  "Find all the slaves!" bellowed someone ahead. "Every single one! Cut them down where they stand!"

  "We need more than that," Segovac said, pointing at the rags on their bodies. He looked around, then jutted his chin to the left. "This way."

  They went towards a small shop across the way. The door was open. Inside were piles of old clothing, apparently sorted by size, condition and general cleanliness.

  "Plunder from the ships," Segovac said, closing the door behind them. "The scum take everything, even the clothes they wear. Find something that fits..."

  "YAAH!" A man popped up from behind a counter, dagger in hand. He rushed at Segovac, raising the weapon high, face pale with fear.

  Azaran kicked at a pile of shirts, sending several into the air, one of which wrapped around the man's face. He cursed and fell, the dagger clattering away. He clawed the shirt away from his face, just as Segovac punched him between the eyes.

  The man fell back, out cold. Segovac shook his hand hand from side to side, grimacing at the pain.

  "Why didn't you use the sword?" Azaran asked.

  "He just a shopkeeper. Probably thought we were thieves..."

  "All this is stolen. That makes him a thief as well, no?"

  "He's no threat. It's not necessary to kill everyone, Azaran." Segovac started rummaging through the piles of shirts and trouser. "Find something that fits," he said again.

  Azaran pawed through the clothes. He is a wise man, said the silent passenger.

  "Shut up," Azaran muttered.

  A short while later they emerged back on the street. Gone were the rags they had been wearing in the Pit, replaced by trousers that ended just below the knee and loose linen shirts. Azaran found a pair of old boots that were close enough to his size to be worn without discomfort. Segovac remained barefoot, refusing any offer of footwear. "It's forbidden for my kind," he said when asked.

  They looked no different from anyone else in the street. Two men of the town about their business. The swords were thrust through the sashes wrapped about their waists.

  Segovac tied a length of cloth about his forehead, just above the eyes, to catch the sweat. "You make a fine cutthroat," he said with a grin.

  "I'll take your word for it." Azaran's hand remained on the sword hilt. "How far to the gate?"

  "That way." Segovac gestured in an easterly direction. "And we'd better hurry."

  "Why..." Then Azaran stepped back as man ran ran past holding a bucket of water.

  "Fire!" The word carried through the streets like a curse, leaping from mouth to mouth and sparking panic. Azaran looked back towards the Pit and saw black smoke rising upwards, along with glowing embers carried on the warm wind towards the wooden buildings and thatch roofs, each and every one a firetrap.

  "Right. Lead the way."

  They went east through one muddy street and fetid alleyway after another. Horns were sounding and more people were headed in the opposite direction with laden buckets. Others were climbing up on rooftops and tossing water on the thatch, dousing any embers that touched down. Such measures were only partially successful; more shouts erupted from somewhere behind them and when they looked back they saw a two-story building with a wide balcony going up in flames.

  "That was a brothel," Segovac said. "Looks like the women got out." He pointed at a line of coughing prostitutes running out the front door.

  All actions have consequences, said the silent passenger. There was a hint of disapproval in its voice.

  "It was necessary," Azaran said, a bit louder than he intended.

  "No argument from me," said Segovac. "Looks like the gate guards are coming to help."

  Men in leather armor were indeed running through the streets, spears in hand. Men and women yelled at them to help with the buckets, but for the most part they just stood and gaped at the flames. A few ducked into unattended buildings and stalls, helping themselves to to any valuables they came across.

  "Not that helpful," Azaran said dryly.

  "Well...at least they had good intentions," Segovac responded with a laugh. "This way..."

  They continued on, crossing another muddy street. On the other side was a low earthen
ramp, topped with a palisade. A twenty-foot wide gate opened on its eastern side, the door made from wooden logs reinforced with bands of iron. A watchtower rose up on the northern side with a single guard in it. He stared at the fires with wide eyes, swigging from a clay jug. No other guards were present, they'd all headed into the town.

  "Don't run," Segovac said quietly as they went towards the gate. "We're just two men of Otossa, headed into the woods for some hunting. Nothing suspicious about us."

  "What are we hunting with? This sword isn't much use in that regard."

  "Just stay calm."

  "I am calm."

  They walked through the gate. Azaran resisted the urge to look up at the guard tower. He waited for someone to order them to stop, for a warning horn to blare. Nothing...the the guard remained fixated on the fires. He didn't look down as they went by below.

  A wide area of open ground lay on the other side of the palisade, marked by the stumps of long-chopped trees. Weeds and brambles clung to the sandy soil here and there. A hundred yards way on the further side was the forest, dark and inviting. Both men continued to walk, ignoring the urge to take to their heels, in case anyone was watching from the walls. A path of sorts went from the gate towards the trees. Footsteps from countless feet ran along the sides, and a pair of wagon ruts in the middle.

  "Woodcutters sometimes use this," Segovac said. "But the rest of the island may as well not exist, as far as Otossa is concerned."

  "Good for us," said Azaran.

  The path ran into the trees, vanishing about a dozen yards in. Both men glanced back at the town. More columns of smoke rose up from behind the palisade and they could hear the faint cries of alarm from within. There was no sign of pursuit.

  "Now we run?" asked Azaran.

  "Now we run," answered Segovac.

  They turned and ran into the forest.

  Chapter Six

  "Not much as forests go," Segovac said, pushing aside a branch and stepping past a tree barely twice as high as his head. "By Heaven, if I was a tree I'd feel nothing but shame at such a little height."