“We’ve been able to make it even stronger,” the Warden said.
Drake clamped the ober pieces into his hand. “I will happily test it for myself upon returning to Kashrii. I’m excited. It took my mages hours to put a dent in what you gave me last time.”
The Warden nodded. “Finally, the place of transfers, as we’ve discussed, will be by my choosing.”
Drake nodded fervently. “Of course. I can make that concession.”
The feral leader signed the final line. It was done.
Drake curled his fingers together. “Someday - might you and your people join me at the Table of Sand?”
Lobosa struggled to hold back a toothy snarl at the words join me. “Someday.”
“Good. I do hope for it. Your people were part of the Laranu once, correct? The Laranuans, I mean.”
“Once,” he murmured. He tired of having to edit every word he spoke. He passed the scroll back to Drake, who began signing his own lines. “We split ties almost three generations ago. A difference of ideologies.”
Drake’s eyes kept drifting between the Warden and the young boy. “Might I ask what happened? Who started the - schism?”
“Rishakka of the Blood Clan had visions of power for the Laranuans. Most of them did not agree. The rest is history,” he answered with a staccato rhythm.
Drake nodded with a sense of alertness. “Rishakka... I do not remember him from the history books. He’s the one who saw the phoenix, right? What do you call it?”
“The Everburn,” the Warden said. “Our god. The one who showed us the true nature.”
The feral leader fidgeted as Drake nodded and chewed. He almost wanted the fat man to say something offensive about his religion.
Surprisingly, Drake’s response was muted and colorless. “Well… yours is still a young people. Still time to grow, and with the bloom, there is no better time. Nobles are willing to throw money at anything… tell me, can your kind talk to animals? It would also explain how you subdue such magnificent monsters. And where do you obtain such beasts, if I may ask?”
“Forgive me. I cannot answer those questions.” The Warden choked back what he hoped would be the final indignation of the day. Ferals could not speak to animals, as if they were somehow of the same intelligence. The racist remark burrowed into his gut.
“I see,” Drake said. “I assumed you would have bought them from those beast masters that live in the northern forests. I met them once, years ago.” Drake’s tone turned cold. “Strange people. Very strange. Off putting, even.”
Mention of the beast masters filled the Warden with the desire to play his trump card yet again, but he held back. The right time would come.
Drake reviewed the major tenets of the contract, and to the feral leader’s agitation, he did so out loud. “On the… wait, have to change this, initial here… it’s the twenty fifth in the month Tall Sun, now… will change that, promise, promise…”
The Warden zoned out Drake’s words for a moment, his mind drifting into memories of the past, memories of his sire and grandsire. He could see them in his mind, staring down at him as a pup.
He shook his mind loose of history and its terrible lessons. They had survived the worst, and he would survive the useless, banal questions of Drake Redstone.
“… we buy them, and onions by the pound. The rest is standard jibber jabber.” Drake finished. The Warden nodded plainly again, having no idea what Drake was referring too.
The feral leader stood slowly, deciding whether or not to bow. “I’ll expect a copy of the completed contract within two weeks time,” He said. Drake nodded, putting a chubby finger against his thin lips.
The young boy stood with him, moving close to his backside.
Both moved towards the pavilion’s entrance. As they stepped to the end of the carpet, the Rainbow Sight guards lowered their weapons, blocking their path.
The Warden and Valor turned in unison, slowly moving back towards the merchant. His homely face curled up, neck rolls creating two extra sets of lips.
“Redstone,” the Warden began, but the globule of a man raised his finger in protest, eyes slanted in a hard squint. Drake seemed serious, though it was hard for the Warden to tell, with his features being distorted by excess skin. His eyes, however, suddenly spoke volumes of fear.
His voice was soft and murderous. “Warden - do you think of me as a man who wastes time?”
The Warden answered, “No. What’s going on, Drake?”
“Why,” Drake continued, “Would I call you out here seven times, Warden. Seven - times. Seven chances. Seven chances to tell me about what you really have in those mountains.”
Damn, he thought. A thick bead of sweat rolled down his snout. How does he know…
The Warden looked at Valor, as if the boy could give him an answer.
Drake laughed, tossing the parchment aside. “Oh, and your foul breath doesn’t scare me. Now. I want your real treasure. I want it! Don’t stand there like a damned bump on a log. I know you understand what I desire.”
Hw gave no response. He looked at Valor again. The boy, ever so slowly, began to soundlessly glide across the carpet towards the entrance of the pavilion.
“Redstone,” the Warden said. “I have no clue, in this life, or in the next, or for every grain of sand in this Gorabund Desert - what you are talking about.”
Drake moved forward one step. “Warden… the man who can buy everything very often does. And in pursuit of that goal, I recently added to my collection some of Harmenors best geomancers. You know what they do, correct? Most think of them simply as teachers and earth mages. But the best ones, the brightest ones, often the craziest, can sense things. Magical things mostly. The range at which they can use these powers is great.”
The Warden had made use of geomancers in the past. They had abilities that allowed them visions of all three times, the ability to sense through the earth, and whatever other forces they dabbled in. They were the most educated amongst mages, and a source of wisdom for all. But it didn’t matter what Drake had seen, or how skilled his geomancers were.
Drake pushed a grape into his mouth, staring at the him. “One day, I ordered them to scan the Arnaks. And what they found… I honestly can’t believe it. To think that a legend would be the end of us all. A folk tale, at best.”
The Warden stepped forward. Drake’s two guards matched that step.
The High Merchant continued. “ I want immunity. I want immunity from whatever is coming. He gave it to you. I know he did. I don’t know why he picked you. I don’t know what you have that the rest of us don’t. I want it, Warden.”
The Warden knew that playing the dunce was not an option, nor did he ever care to use such a basic approach. This would only end with some blood, or everyone’s blood.
Drake squished the thick grape between his cheeks. It exploded violently onto his lips.
Every muscle in Lobosa’s body, big and small, began to twitch. He calmed himself enough to respond. He knew what Drake wanted, and who he wanted it from. It was sad to see even a human be so desperate for their future survival.
The Warden asked one question. “What would you offer?”
Drake shivered in the heat. “Anything. Everything.”
He backtracked. “Tell me what it is that you think I have? Do you truly even understand what you’re talking about?” The sharp tone in his use of the word you slipped from his tongue unintentionally.
Drake rolled a thick finger over his lips. “Truthfully, I’d rather not say what I think. I can only tell you what I’ve felt, and witnessed in the magic of my geomancers. And it’s enough for any man with half a brain to know what’s going on. He’s real. He’s actually real.”
The Warden could taste Drake’s fear in the sweaty air between them. It tasted sweet. He held back a smile.
“I think it’s best if you stick to our current agreement.”
Drake raised his left hand high. Shadows ran around the outside of the tent. They we
re surrounded now. Redstone stood tall. The Warden could hear his own soldiers outside the tent, barking.
“What does he want? Tell me. Tell me… or else I’ll simply take it for myself.”
The Warden kept a placid expression. His trump card could now be dealt. “You remember the Day of Shifting Sands?” he asked delicately.
Drake nodded slowly, eyes widening. “Of course. A strange question. I was there.”
“If I recall,” the Warden continued, “the devastation was blamed on the beast master’s losing control of the ivory maws. They ran wild and leveled Kashrii.”
“This is common knowledge,” Drake said impatiently. “Why distract from my questioning?”
The Warden leered at him. “For two reasons. One, it’s not true. Two, they still live.”
Drake’s eyes grew even wider. He stepped back a few paces. “Impossible.”
The feral leader continued. “You and your men failed to kill them. You and the rest of Kashrii blamed them for that day… the day Kashrii was almost destroyed. It’s true, they lost control. But not intentionally. Their magic wavered due to the sudden deaths of two clan elders. Once I listened to their story, they were more than happy to give us control of the ivory maws… which now rest beneath Kashrii. We have traded some very valuable items with them, and in turn they have agreed to ally with us, to an extent.”
Drake attempted a sputtering response, but the Warden heard nothing sensible. “Drake, I promise Kashrii will be demolished in near the same manner as all those years ago, same as the day of Shifting Sands. And you will go with it. Kashrii will know that you were responsible.”
Drake’s response was immediate. He chuckled, bubbling into full-blown laughter.
“Oh Warden!” Drake cried amidst his bubbly merriment. “I’d sacrifice them all for what I want from you. I’ll simply leave! It makes no matter to me. A man can make money anywhere, and that’s all I’m interested in. Once Kashrii is wasted of resources, I’ll move on as I always do. Now, can we get back to the real matter at hand?”
The Warden wasn’t surprised at Drake’s lack of concern for his own people, but he could smell no lies in Drake’s words, which startled him, halting his mind. His trump card had failed utterly. He could consider few options now besides fighting.
The feral leader moved to the center of the tent. He could see the shadows of both his and Drake’s men, hands on their weapons outside the tent, ready to strike.
He means to capture me, the Warden thought. I’ll make the first strike.
Drake stood, waddling towards him, leaning hard into his face to whisper.
“What will it cos - ”
No more. The Warden snatched Drake’s wide tongue as it extended from his mouth, a target that even a feral cub could grab, forcing him to waddle awkwardly back to his chair, arms flapping like a flightless bird.
The two guards stepped forward, halberds aimed towards him. Both groups outside heard the commotion from within. The clash of weapons was immediate.
The Warden pulled a dagger and held it to Drake’s throat. He turned to look at the guards. They moved slowly, like cranes stalking helpless fish. Like most birds, though, they were single minded. The Warden then watched as the guards proceeded to ignore Valor as he crept behind them.
Children are so easily forgotten, he thought. The child reached down into the loose bootstrap of the bigger guard, pulling out the not-so-well-hidden blade.
Valor stabbed the left guard deep in his lower abdomen, and pulled the blade across his thick stomach. A mess fell out. The second guard turned, but could not swing his heavy halberd in time.
Valor dove straight in with a bent arm thrust, hitting the second guard in the same place as the first. This one he stabbed five times.
Outside the tent, the Warden could hear the sound of flying sand and the cries of both ferals and men. He needed to stop it, but the bloodlust desire crept in.
Redstone’s attendants fled to the back of the pavilion, screaming for Harma’s grace. The Warden didn’t move, surprised at the lack of squirming from Redstone.
The Warden unsheathed his other dagger. Valor disarmed the disemboweled men, and resumed his position next to where the Warden had been seated.
Drake roared. “What are you going to do with those pig stickers, traitor!?”
He licked a tiny drop of blood from his finger, giving in to the bloodlust. “Please, Redstone - stop talking. I want to listen to your men die for just a while longer.”
The sounds of one dead Rainbow Sight soldier did come to his ears, in through the left side of the tent, his body hitting the taut canvas. Massive, muscled arms pulled the canvas cockeyed. A shredded rip cut through the tent, and a feral soldier stood over the dead man, snarling at Redstone.
Drake stared back at the feral warrior in shock.
The Warden howled, and as if he controlled both the Rainbow Sight and his own men, the cacophony ended in an instant. The shadows of his men disappeared, leaving those of the Rainbow Sight alone, weapons still drawn.
The Warden spoke slowly. “I thought you would have been smarter than this. But apparently you’re not. Throw enough coin around and kill enough people - I suppose anyone will bend a knee to swallow your choked prick.”
The Warden leapt forward with incredible speed, slamming one of his daggers into Drake’s right shoulder, pinning him to his riches. Drake cried out, but the Warden fit his massive hand over Drake’s mouth, muffling the cry.
“I’m not going to kill you, Redstone. I need you. As much as I dislike you, murdering the High Merchant of Kashrii will only end in my destruction. I’ve even left some of your men alive, you can see their shadows out there, see? They’re still standing. And maybe, if you serve us well enough, you can gain the immunity you so desire. Now… time to renegotiate.”
Once the Warden had levied a heavy discount for himself and improved trade routes for his men, he commanded Valor to clean and set Drake’s wound. The fat man screamed when he ripped out the dagger, but the Warden was able to keep his mouth covered. Valor did excellent and quick work. The Warden was careful not to praise him, instead sending him outside to wait while he forced Drake to sign the new changes they had agreed upon.
“Warden…” Drake said in a breathy whisper as the Warden moved towards the pavilion entrance. “I want to know your name.”
“I am the Warden of the Arnaks.”
“I want your name.”
The Warden knew that Drake’s knowledge of the feral race was as extensive as any humans could be. The High Merchant was surely aware that to give a human his real name was to take away the false self; the humanity he pretended to have.
Someday Harmenor will know my true name, he thought. Let it start here.
He reached up, unclamping his heirloom mask, the mask worn by his grandsire and sire, and revealed the true face. Red eyes and scars showed to Drake, who smelled a breath away from an exploding heart. His snout carried the heaviest scar, which ripped straight through his right nostril, stretching to his eye and down across his upper lip. When he inhaled, air whistled through the tiny slit in his nostril.
“I am Lobosa Feracis-kon, Warden Commander of the Arnaks. And you are beneath me.”
Lobosa refit his mask, clamping it back upon his face. He left the defeated Drake, turned and exited the tent, sunlight burning into his eyes.
There stood his young ward, over the bodies of two feral guards, blood drenched, with one of their spears. Valor turned towards Lobosa, covered in black feral blood.
“Again, Valor?”
The boy stood as tall as he could, with a sword in both hands, caked in blood up to his forearms, splatters dotting his face. It had dried quickly in the heat, appearing more like mud than anything else. Both his men and the Rainbow Sight had their weapons pointed at Valor.
Wild eyes stared back at Lobosa. The boy was so close to what he wanted, but still so far away. Metal creaked against metal as he loosed his daggers once again.
Lobosa sighed. If only I can get him to behave.
ten years pass…
Chapter 1
Orrin took a step, trying to push aside his disdain for the exercise before him.
Orrin just wanted to look to his brother, to be with him, but he could not. Valor was moving the other way.
His eyes glanced down. He wondered only for a moment if he should do it, if Lobosa would fall for his intentional accident.
“We are all tools of the silence.” Lobosa whispered. “Forget your mind, Orrin. Tools don’t think, and we are tools of the silence.”
Orrin pressed his foot down. The piece of glass he stood upon cracked between Orrin’s toes. He winced as the glass, one piece of thousands scattered around the floor, pressed into the skin. Then came the warmth, followed by the stream.
He still had seven feet to go.
Seven more feet of rock ground covered in broken shards of glass. This was the first noise his feet had made. The previous thirteen feet were nothing. There were only seven left, seven feet to the practice dummy’s empty face, a sack of sand, a limp body he meant to attack.
It was born a dead thing, and yet he felt guilt.
To counter this guilt, he recited a verse in his mind from the Grand Script.
When evil pushes one against their will, remember, you are not evil’s will.
The silence was not a skill gained by premeditated means, a thing Orrin often forgot. It was a skill gained by focus, dedication, and a desire to perfect the art of killing.
Orrin knew he had two of three.
He felt the tiny trickle of blood run out from the webbing in between his toes, and the droplets of sweat pouring from each pore of his forehead, his naked body resisting the urge to tremble from the continual cold sweat.
“Still a ways to go Orrin. Don’t be distracted. Don’t let my words hamper your focus.”
Orrin allowed Lobosa’s words to filter out of his ears, visualizing them landing on the floor in front of him, spewing from Lobosa’s disgusting mouth.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 2
