He focused his thoughts to the dummy.
He took another step, curling each toe once, twice, maneuvering his digits through the sharp glass, glinting in the light of a lone brazier.
Lobosa spoke. “Where are you, Orrin? Where is your mind? Are you focused on your brother? You should not be. You are too far out from a mind in the silence.”
Orrin twisted his ankle, curving his toes between an oblong, lengthy shard, and several smaller pieces. He pressed his foot on the oblong sliver, gliding across it.
“Smart,” Lobosa whispered.
Orrin slid his left foot forward towards the dummy in the chair, leg muscles feeling a deep stretch. He resisted the urge to let down his mental barriers. He continued to push away the feeling of the warm blood between his toes. He accepted it, and moved on.
I’m bleeding, he thought while repeating a key lesson of the silence in his mind over and over.
And of the truth, nothing comes. And of the truth, nothing comes. And of the truth, nothing comes.
The Warden would not get the better of him, not today, and not when he risked worse than a cut foot.
“Where are you, Orrin?” Lobosa asked again. “Where is your mind?”
Orrin bent his left leg, pressing the oblong slice into the glass below it, rolling his foot lightly, with just enough pressure to push the pieces underneath it flat. He bent his left leg, then leapt forward, right leg launching his body in a perfectly straight line, just past the throat of the target dummy.
He looped both middle and ring fingers onto the spherical pommel of his hidden dagger. As he flew past the dummy, he cut across the neck, severing where an artery would be. His eyes stayed forward. At the last moment, he looked down, ready for the inevitable pain to come to him.
Orrin’s left foot cleared the glass. His right foot did not. He placed the left foot evenly on the clear, rock floor, but his right lagged behind, a few pieces of glass jamming into the sole of his foot. He felt three go in.
He winced, rolling away until his back was up against the far wall, completing the technique with as much grace as he could muster on one foot.
In between hard breaths, he focused his vision on Valor, whose own target dummy had been clearly slashed in multiple places. His brother was completely calm. Valor had finished his task long before he had.
Lobosa stepped around the glass, swiftly walking towards Orrin, strafing a backhand hard across his face.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asked. “Hm?”
Another sharp slap whacked Orrin across the opposite cheek.
Orrin stood silent, looking at the glass. Lobosa’s leathery palms felt like whips, but he dared not show his pain. His voicelessness was, at times, a boon.
“You wouldn’t need to answer me even if you could,” Lobosa said. “I know you purposefully failed… why, Orrin? I know you have the skill.”
He had had the same one-sided conversation with Lobosa multiple times before. He knew it was in vain; a false attempt to break away from his current life.
Lobosa pressed his snout into Orrin’s face. “Where is your mind?” he asked.
Orrin signed his answer. [ The mind is made of light, and thus I am light. ]
Lobosa shook his head, stepping away. The Warden understood the language. “You should put your Grand Script and its verses aside. Hasn’t helped you before, and it won’t help you now.”
[ So you say, ] Orrin signed.
Lobosa’s mouth turned down. “You’re lucky I need you both in top shape. The fights in the Scarlett Ring start tomorrow.”
Lobosa turned towards Valor, pointing at him. “And you. Yes, you. You’ve been oddly well behaved as of late.”
Valor crossed his arms. “So you’d prefer I act out?”
“No,” Lobosa said, “I’d prefer you not act suspiciously docile.”
Valor uncrossed his arms, laying them at his side. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
Orrin waited for it, waited for the inevitable cruel punishment, or the terrible words that would soon flow.
But Lobosa gave no response.
Orrin continued to stare at the glass, never taking his eyes off the deadly glinting ground. He could feel the blood pooling underneath his right foot.
Lobosa spun back towards the front gate of the hidden training room, facing away. “I need you to be at your best for the upcoming games. I’ve already spoken to Jerryl, but make sure he continues with your studies. I need you both as focused as your human minds can handle.” Lobosa pointed at Orrin, but looked at Valor. “Keep him in check.”
Orrin nodded his head, never taking away his glance. Lobosa knocked on the door four times. The guards opened it, unbarring it from the outside. As he turned to leave, Lobosa said, “Wait for Riffhel to come. He’ll patch you both up as usual, then take you back. Valor, you’re working the mines today.”
The Warden of the Arnaks stepped beyond the door as it swung open. “Behave, boys.” He spoke in a tone that was unusually lacking in menace.
As the door closed, Valor stepped towards his brother, running around the glass circle. “He’s unusually happy,” Valor said. “You’re lucky to have gotten away with two little slaps.”
[ Yes, ] Orrin signed. [ So lucky. ]
Valor read his brothers sarcasm. “You are lucky. Don’t be an idiot. You can’t keep making yourself screw up like that. He knows, Orrin. Save yourself the trouble.”
Orrin knew his brother was right. One by one he counted off the failed tricks in his mind, all the little ploys he’d come up with over the years to make Lobosa think he was useless, or incompetent. One by one, the Warden had picked them apart.
Valor let his brothers foot down and signed, [ Why do you do it, Orrin? ]
[ Why don’t you? ] Orrin shot back. [ Why do you try so hard to learn the silence? ]
Valor dropped his hands. Orrin knew his question had instantly put his brother in a dark place.
“Because… you just shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Orrin. We’ll get out of here someday. And when we do, we’ll need all the skills we can get.”
[ Skills like what? ] Orrin signed. [ Skills for murder? I’m not a murderer. That’s what the silence is for. Killing. We do what we have to. But do you want to kill? ]
[ I want to be strong. ] Valor signed, looking around the room. [ I want to be the strongest, and I want to be free. We’ve had this same conversation since we were children. ]
Orrin shook his head. [ You’re right. We always have it. And you never really answer my questions. So answer me. Do you want to kill? ]
Valor lowered his head. Orrin was about to sign again when he heard the door become unbarred again.
Riffhel entered the room. Riffhel was a tall feral, and possibly the most kindly one that Orrin had ever met. He treated most humans like people, though Orrin could never tell if it was kindness or curiosity that propelled him to behave such a way. He had even picked up some of the language of signs.
Riffhel set down a small toolbox shaped carrier filled with bandages, needle, thread, and healing salves. Orrin would give the ferals this much; they were excellent at setting bones and healing flesh wounds. Anything deeper, however, usually meant death.
“Where is it?” Riffhel asked, skirting the edge of the glass circle with his bare wolfish feet, a stool in his free hand. He handed the stool to Orrin, who moved up on it, and as he did, the searing pain of the cut began. “You’ve got a couple in there it seems. I can tell by the face you’re making.”
“What can you tell by my face?” Valor asked, turning his expression cockeyed.
“Not much,” Riffhel said.
Orrin lifted his foot, himself unsure of the exact location and length of the cut. He put the injured foot crossways over his knee, pulling the bottom to his vision. Through the dirt, both men could see the hook shaped laceration between the toes, curling around the ball of his foot. It slipped open a bit as Orrin touched it. He hissed from the pain.
Riffhel put a hand on his foot with surprisingly ginger care. “Don’t do that. You know not to touch wounds. There’s nothing to sew, so you’re lucky. Just bandage and salve. Understand?”
Orrin nodded his head yes. Riffhel washed the cut clean with a nearby bucket of water and rag, then set about blotting the thick green salve onto Orrin’s foot. It felt cool to the touch, with only the barest hint of a sting, the small pain felt almost pleasurable after what he had just experienced. The sweat on his body had begun to dry, causing him to shiver.
“Cold?” Riffhel asked. “I’d sign if I could.”
Orrin signed a yes. He was always wary of how casually he should speak to Riffhel. He was the right hand man of Lobosa, and in strange times, a comfortable mind to speak with.
Valor leapt into a barrage of questions.
“So - ring fights coming up.”
“The biggest yet,” Riffhel said icily.
“Oh…” Valor let the word hang in the air. “Big one, for sure. What are we celebrating? Is there some feral festival or holiday we don’t know about?”
Riffhel shook his head. “We’ve drawn in more money. With more money, comes a bigger spectacle. With a bigger spectacle, we get a bigger draw of people with money. Not so hard to understand. Is it?” Riffhel shot Valor another cold look.
“Right, of course,” Valor said, crossing his arms, one under his chin. “Just wondering.”
Orrin shot his brother a look that clearly was a plea to stop the questioning. He always wondered what Valor got out of questioning Riffhel so much, the only feral who had ever shown them kindness.
“Also, just wondering,” Valor continued. “Are the two of us not fighting at all? Lobo - I mean, the Warden Commander hasn’t said a word to us. Usually it’s more prearranged. Usually.”
Riffhel wrapped the bandage tightly around Orrin’s foot. The salve began to sting.
“No,” Riffhel said. “I couldn’t tell you. Why don’t you ask him, instead of his assistant?”
Valor smiled. Orrin felt the infectiousness of his brothers upturned lips, but forced his own to keep shape, causing his face to contort. It was obvious to anyone that Riffhel was much more than Lobosa’s assistant.
The young feral pressed the bandage tight around Orrin’s foot, snipping off a thin piece to fit in between his toes. “Done this enough times,” he said, as if attempting to start a conversation.
Orrin never truly let his guard down, though sometimes pretended to do so. Riffhel did seem both kind and intelligent, but no feral other than him would be on his knees, washing human feet or bandaging human wounds, even if the order came from Lobosa.
The knowledge that no other feral who would dote on a human led Orrin to believe that Riffhel always had some ulterior motive. But Lobosa was no fool. Riffhel would not have been chosen for his post unless there was some innate trust. Perhaps Lobosa and Riffhel were family, Orrin wondered.
Riffhel kept his eyes on the task at hand until it was complete. “Excellent,” he said when finished. “Move it around.”
Orrin moved his foot every which way. The bandages were just loose enough to allow some flexibility. “Good. Just don’t spread your toes for a while.”
Orrin nodded, the most he would ever give as response. He stood, but Riffhel put a soft hand on his chest, pushing him back down. “Don’t. I’ll get your boots. What, do you think you can just walk out of here barefoot? You’ll undo all my hard work before you even reach the door. Not to mention slice your foot open again, most likely.”
Valor’s mouth dropped open in pretend surprise. “That’s extraordinarily kind of you, Riffhel.”
“It’s my duty.”
In the span of his dialogue, Riffhel had reached the opposite end, picked up Orrin’s boots, and brought them back.
Orrin offered a meek smile, always protraying what he wanted all ferals to think, that he was merely a strong, but too-dumb-to-be-a-threat, mute young man. Only Lobosa and a few other ferals had ever seen through his disguise, Riffhel included.
“The enforcers will be back to get you both. Wait here.”
Neither Valor nor Orrin responded. Riffhel knocked three times rapidly, then twice more. The door swung open again, and Riffhel was ushered outside. The ferals were always careful not to allow the boys any hint of where most training rooms were held, much less anything else of importance.
“Funny,” Valor said.
[ What’s funny? ] Orrin signed.
“They’re so careful to ensure we don’t figure out where we are… as if we actually could without a map.”
[ We’ve been here our whole lives, ] Orrin signed. [ It’s not crazy to think we could have figured out where some of these rooms are. ]
Valor stretched, throwing his arms over to both sides. “No. It’s not crazy. Silly, but not crazy. The harmians did a good job making this place confusing enough.”
Orrin nodded, signing [ True. ]
Valor spread his legs, stretching his stringy muscles. “Lucky you. Get to go back to the cell and relax. Wonder why he’s working me and not us both.”
[ You’re always wondering things. ]
Valor pressed both hands behind his back, pushing out his chest for a deep stretch in his arms and shoulders. “So are you.” He said. “Things of a different kind though.”
Orrin stood. There was only a slight tinge of pain while walking on his cut foot.
He took a lap around the training room, skirting the circle of glass shards. Weapons of all kinds lined the wall, hanging in racks. Other than this, the room was completely plain. Rock walls, weapons, stools and dummies were its only denizens.
As Orrin made it around the first lap, Valor whistled to him. Orrin lifted his head.
[ Something’s going on, ] Valor signed. [ I know it. I feel it. ]
Orrin put his hands on his hips, and sighed. Valor always had feelings or inklings, usually farfetched, occasionally right. He dropped his hands, then picked them up again. [ Don’t do anything stupid, ] he signed.
[ I won’t. But I’ve been watching them. I just know it. Didn’t Lobosa seem too pleasant? He rarely talks so much during training. ]
Orrin threw up his hands in a posture of uncertainty. [ He was different. But I wouldn’t use the word pleasant. ]
Valor resumed using his voice. “I bet he regrets letting you ever read the Grand Script. Even I regret it, the amount of times you quote it.”
[ It helps. ] Orrin signed with a serious look on his face. [ You don’t have to like it. I don’t force it on you. ]
“You’d be better off accepting the silence,” Valor said.
Orrin stayed quiet, which was often the better option when it came to him and his brother’s disagreements.
Valor moved towards his brother, whispering to him. “I’m serious. Keep your eyes open. I know it. We might get a real chance this time.”
Orrin shook his head, signing slowly. Slowly but surely, he remembered their previous two escape attempts. The first time cost Valor the scars on his back. The second time, Orrin woke up without his voice, and no memory of how it was taken from him. [ That’s what you said the other times. I told you not to bring this up anymore. ]
“I know what I said, but this time its different.” Valor said. “Don’t you want to get out of here?”
Orrin moved closer to Valor. [ I do. ]
The door opened again. Two enforcers entered, the best and smartest fighters in Lobosa’s army. They stepped forward wordlessly, bagged Valor’s head, and led him to the mines. They came for Orrin then, to lead him back to his cell.
The bag stunk like old cheese.
Chapter 2
Hours later, Orrin sat alone on a stool in his cell, arms pressed against an old desk.
Jerryl slept behind him, snoring loudly. Orrin turned back to look. The bearded, shorthaired Jerryl was mentor, confidant, friend, and loud sleeper. At the moment, he was displaying his great skill in snoring.
Can snore through anything, he thou
ght.
Orrin’s wide frame was bent over a half torn, half empty journal. The thing was small in his hands, but he had learned to treat it with a light touch. He had contemplated the day’s training, absorbing all the sounds and colors that bounced around in his vision from the lack of light. What light there was burned in braziers and candelabras far above his head, high enough only for a feral to reach.
His hands graced the page, turning the paper lightly, so as not to break the thin binding. He began to draw something. He never knew what, and never really cared; he was thankful to be without a captured mind for a change.
The Arnaks had taught him to be thankful for the little things. His cell was separated from the others, divided by the thick, rocky walls. He prayed this would never change. Too many of the other prisoners had tried to take his life, and besides that, he appreciated having a quieter space.
Orrin heard a loud scraping noise from one of the cells across from him. It was Carrith; an older slave, his mind permanently damaged by years of hard labor, and the mysterious white death, which the ferals used on slaves to dull their minds. Orrin watched him, a marionette whose strings were just too long.
The scraping of nails on the gravel floor alerted Orrin’s acute ears. Distracted, he turned towards the room. The grey, jagged walls reached up to the sky, both rough and smooth in random patches, torches hastily bolted to the stone, some lit, some not, revealing partially hidden walkways high above the prison bars, high enough that only a feral, with their powerful claws and legs could reach.
Staring at the barely visible planks of the wooden walkways, He sighed, closing the journal for a moment. Orrin lay on the cool floor, pressing his ear against it. Sometimes, he could make out the sounds of violence between nameless things, and less frequently, running water. He knew that beneath the Arnak Mountains, even further than the depth at which his cell was located in, there was a world unto itself, dangerous and deadly. Still, he wished someday to see it. Jerryl, his mentor and teacher, had led expeditions below, and described the lower depths as beautiful, full of colorful things that glowed with life. Orrin tired of blacks and browns and reds. Greens and blues had become a craving he yearned for.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 3
