At other times, the sounds of victims filled his head, pleadings and beggings of all sorts. He would counter this with the sounds he heard from outside or below. It was one of the only things that kept him sane in the dark, sleepless nights, when crackling skin and bloodletting kept him awake, accompanied by the tugging of ropes.
He often pretended he could reach out and touch the ocean. The walls became waves, lapping up against his hands. He had never seen the oceans, except in pictures, and so remained a mystery to him.
Another noise came towards him, another scraping, but different from human nails, though as familiar as a drop of water. Orrin’s eyesight was not nearly as good as his hearing, and he squinted to see the figure mold out of the black, lightless area in front of him. He got up from the floor quickly as the figure revealed itself.
From underneath a velvet hood, the guard’s furry snout appeared. The half man, half wolf bore his fangs, growling harshly at him. He was average height for a feral, just above six feet, with four or five extra bits to spare. Orrin did not recognize this particular one, but in truth, he could hardly distinguish them from one another.
“Vashkaya...” hissed the guard. For all his years spent as their prisoner, Orrin had never learned the feral language, save for a few words. He felt it was an ugly, disgusting language.
He did know what vashkaya meant. It meant voiceless one.
It had been routine for years. The guards would make their rounds, and whenever they passed him, they would whisper the word, vashkaya, as if Orrin need constant reminding he was mute.
Normally he could ignore it. But after the morning’s fiasco during training, he’d had enough. The guardsman prodded the edge of the bars with his spear. Electrical energy sparked out, creating a mellow sizzling sound.
Orrin knew it was meant as a reminder, but he never forgot. He’d seen enough people thrown against those bars, fried until dead. But for all their words and warnings, the snarling and barking became less effective with every year that passed.
In truth, they were afraid of him, from the biggest guard to the smallest cub.
Orrin pushed off the ground quickly, standing straight up, as if he had been called to attention. That was all it took to make the guard snap backwards by two paces. The feral let out a harsh growl.
“What you gonna do, boy?”
Orrin signed to the feral. [ Come in here and I’ll show you. ]
The feral coughed. “I don’t speak your weak language. Warden should have taken your hands and your voice… but then you’d be completely useless.” The wolf man spat against the bars, causing another spark, the saliva crackling into thick steam. “You’d make a good footstool, then. But better just to kill you, I think.”
The moment was broken by Jerryl’s loud snoring.
Orrin looked back at his mentor. He heard a whooshing sound, followed by a growl and the scratching of claws against stone. He turned back to the front of the cell, and saw that the feral was gone.
He moved close to the bars. The iron cuffs around his wrist buzzed slightly, the runes on them vibrating. Orrin had learned the perfect distance from which to stand, but still occasionally gave himself a nasty jolt.
He waited before sitting back down at his desk, as the last of the familiar scraping noises of the feral’s clawed feet left him alone with Jerryl and his few possessions.
He tossed the journal on the desk aside, and picked up a different one. He had stolen this one from an old library. They stole books often; he had a feeling Lobosa knew, but didn’t particularly care. Lobosa had burned any and all tomes or books that could contain any knowledge of anything that could be used against him. Jerryl used the word curated whenever he described their way of learning. Orrin hated that word.
Orrin looked over to Jerryl, the old man’s beard fluttering with each breath. Even in the dim orange light of the torch above, Orrin could see the crinkled age lines that crisscrossed Jerryl’s face.
He turned back to the journal and the intricate drawings that filled every edge, nook and cranny, images of animals, weapons, even rocks. Countless water spots smudged its linings and exterior. Orrin was unsure from where in his mind the drawings came. Often it was not his choice, he simply felt the need to, as if spurred by some god of charcoal.
He picked up a thin charcoal stick, quickly moving across the page. Lines worked into images that appeared sporadically in his brain. He drew quickly, caring not for perfection. He had found an old wooden stencil long ago, and tried it once, and found its rigidity not to his liking.
A small bead of sweat plopped onto the paper just as he finished.
It was something Orrin had drawn before, but now the details were becoming sharper. He kicked out from the desk, twisting to the small stack of full journals behind him.
It looked like a doorway. A large sword adorned the front, stretching from the top of the frame to the bottom of the threshold. He had been practicing his shading when it came to grooves and embellishments on physical things, but real sunlight was difficult to draw with weak coal. Orrin had shaded the door into the appearance of stone, rubbing the edges up and down, while laying the paper upon his table, its bumps perfect for such a look. Two trees spiraled up the side, gracing its own curvature with many branches and vines. They came together in a small, upside down hump. Orrin often drew beautiful lines to grace the inside, and these too were familiar. They curved and connected, sometimes symmetrical, then suddenly breaking into a circular pattern.
Orrin sighed and flipped back a few pages. Staring back at him was the same drawing, but this one created a few days before. He turned several more pages, and again, another copy of the same thing. The only difference was that the further back he looked, the sketchier the drawing appeared.
Orrin huffed. He knew these images came from somewhere real, somewhere beyond his own imagination. No book nor map had ever told him where, but the feeling that he had seen them before was always sitting in some back door of the mind, knocking hard, but too far away to open.
Orrin tenderly closed the book, and turned towards Jerryl, who had slowly sat up, leaving the land of sleep.
“What do you have there?” Jerryl asked groggily, reaching for a pitcher of water. Orrin handed him the book. “Ah,” Jerryl replied, “The same thing you drew yesterday.”
[ Yes, ] he signed. [ Nothing new. ]
“You draw like your mother. Beautifully, too. Wish I could have kept hers for you.”
Orrin nodded. He knew Jerryl meant well by saying such things, but it gave him a bad feeling, a longing for something he’d never had. Orrin changed the subject. [ Jerryl, ] he signed. [ I’ve been reading Ani Gillidron’s works. And more of the Grand Script. I’m almost finished. ] He picked up a very old book with a plain, green cover. [ He talks about many interesting things. ]
[ Like what? ] Jerryl signed back. [ And good work! I’m surprised you’ve read it that quickly. Over a thousand pages, I think? ]
Orrin nodded. [ Yes, it is. But I’ve been reading about what it’s like to be an ani. What it’s like to talk to kings and queens, and solve problems without violence. He talks a lot about freedom, as well. ]
Jerryl took the book from Orrins’ hands. “Ah, yes. This is a good one. Excellent choice. I’m surprised Lobosa didn’t have it purged from his collection.”
[ He talks about freedom of the mind. About how a man can be free anywhere, even in a place like this. ]
Jerryl smiled, but Orrin could tell it was half hearted. [ It’s true. That’s part of what I’ve tried to teach you. ]
Orrin nodded. [ Do you think I would make a good ani? ]
Jerryl shrugged. [ Do you worship Harma and believe her every word? Do you pray to her thrice a day? Have you memorized the Grand Script front to back? ]
Orrin shook his head. [ Obviously not. Maybe you are getting too old. Do you remember where we are? ]
Jerryl laughed. “I do. You’d make a fine ani, Orrin. You have a sense of humor and a sharp wit.”
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Orrin smiled. [ Will you tell me something before I sleep? ]
“Certainly.” Jerryl said with a bow. “With one condition. I will tell you this something in the form of a lesson.”
[ Agreed, ] signed Orrin. [ What do you think about the ferals? I know they are awful to us. But why? I’ve never known. ]
Jerryl moved closer to Orrin and took a long drink before answering. [ You know the main issue. You know that they were banished from a place called Laranu years ago. You know that they follow the Everburn, a religion and set of laws based around what they think is the true nature. ]
Orrin nodded. [ But nothing in their book of laws says anything about slaves. Or killing. ]
[ True, ] Jerryl said. [ But it’s about those in power, Orrin. It’s about what they want. In a different life, they could have been different. But not with a leader like Lobosa. ]
[ So they could have been good? ] Orrin signed. [ Could they be good? ]
Jerryl waited a long time before answering. [ As long as Lobosa lives… no. I don’t think so. ]
Orrin nodded, then turned around, pulling the blanket over him. Jerryl tapped him on the shoulder and signed, [ That’s all? ]
[ For now, ] Orrin signed. He had more to ask, but needed time to think.
He lay there for a short while, then released a sigh, thankful that there were no sounds of bad things to keep him awake. “Sleep easy, son.” Jerryl said, moving to take his place at the desk.
He looked around the cell. It was a palace compared to the others. The desk was beautiful, though broken. Books lined the corners, and they were lucky enough to have pillows and sheets. He felt a pre-sleep dream coming on; one in which he was in a home somewhere, built on a grassy field. A place that he had never seen.
Before he fell asleep, he reached out once more and tried to touch the ocean, fingertips pushing against the wall.
Chapter 3
Valor lifted his pickaxe and sang to himself.
Freedom goes high
Freedom goes low
Freedom will go where the wind will blow
Freedom we need
Freedom come now
Freedom is simply out milking the cow
He inhaled, raising his pick axe high, relishing the break in between the up and down swing, where the world weight took over. He came down hard, with expert precision and a heavy breath. His swing was always perfect. He had learned to enjoy the in-between moment of up and down. It was the only time one could fake a rest, and the technique had always bought him more stamina. Since the age of five, he had been splitting rocks. At twenty two years, he had had seventeen of them to master it, and a master he was.
The rock cracked easily, as if he had simply asked it to. A perfect split, directly down the middle. A perfect swing and quotas filled early meant less time under the slave drivers’ whip. Not that they ever whipped him anymore.
From behind, he heard a double crack of said whip. He turned to see who had received it, but found that no one had. Sometimes the enforcers just liked to remind everyone.
He dropped his pick and grabbed a dirty brush, wiping away some ground up dust from the left half of the rock. Inside, gleaming black veins pulsed underneath his warm, rough hands. As he brushed the right side, he looked around at the other slaves struggling to complete half of his achieved workload. He pitied them, but in small amounts. Some were real criminals, and were where they belonged. Valor let his brother Orrin do the caring.
He cares enough for both of us. Valor stared into the random gaggles of mining men, women and children, watching them struggle.
Master of my domain, he thought.
Two enforcers laid their spears against the rock wall to Valor’s left. Valor kept swinging, but turned his attention to their brief conversation.
“Warden Commander wants this place cleaned out in three months.”
The other enforcer paused. “Doubt that’ll happen.”
Thank Harma ferals don’t know how to whisper, Valor thought, excited to have received his first clue to support his hunch. He couldn’t wait to rub it in Orrin’s face later that night.
Valor turned his gaze to the pulsing black vein beneath his hands. Ober, the ferals called it. Ober was all they called it, at least in front of the other slaves. Valor grabbed both halves of the rock with each hand, and then dumped it into the mine cart behind him. He constantly wondered what they used it for, other than selling it. He had thought many a time it could just be for looks. The stuff was like marble, but more beautiful. He knew Lobosa, however, and that fact alone meant there was more to it.
He stood, stretched his back, and looked to the opposite wall, where the western mountainside was crumbling more and more each day. The mountain Gharzak had been their focus for months, so much so that it was a danger. The ferals had foolishly tried to hold the falling edges with iron beams. It didn’t work, resulting in two feral deaths. Valor would admit he was no mason, but even he knew you couldn’t hold up a mountain with cheap iron.
The eroding hole teased him, but the guard stations on both sides created a gauntlet of death, daring him to run through. Valor felt an instinctive need to test it.
He looked around at the other slaves, bodies and minds all in different stages of decay. The hot wind that blew in through the open, eroding hole threatened to knock the weaker ones off their feet. They moved like lazy animals, though Valor knew they were crazed.
Sunlight flowed in from the jagged hole near Gharzak’s peak. Valor stuck his hand out, grabbing at some of it, wishing he could stuff it in his shallow pockets.
A rough growl emanated behind him, followed by the sound of four human limbs and one pair of buttocks hitting the ground.
“No, no, please! I can’t - Harma’s mercy!”
A slave not much older than himself fell to the ground in front of the two guards that faced him. They pointed their misshapen spears together in his face. A blast of lightning forced the slave to the ground. The man’s face cracked like dry clay with every jolt, seizing in pain. Somehow, his hands rose to defend himself, pointless though it was.
Another jolt flew through him, and his left hand punched outwards uncontrollably, slugging the feral in the jaw. The guard snapped back, hand on his mouth.
Many of the slaves turned to look. Without wasting a moment, the guard dropped his spear and mounted the slave. A decrepit hand wrapped around his throat, forcing the slave down, choking him.
Valor watched. He saw the others watching too. The fire of revolt grew in him, an alchemy of anger and a sense of uplifting energy.
I could lead them, he thought. Push aside the guard, knock him out with a rock, take their weapons, stab the others, lead a charge into the adjoining caverns, cries of freedom ringing out from their cracked lips. Not even the Warden could stop them.
But one by one, the slaves turned back to their work and Valor stood alone, the only watcher.
The guard doing the choking was one of Lobosa’s white pullers. Valor could tell by his intent, instead of by insignia or uniform, which was the same as the regular guards. Wearing the same uniform disallowed the slaves from attacking them directly in the event of an insurrection, a small proof of genius by the Warden of the Arnaks.
The guard placed two spindly fingers of his left hand onto the slave’s temple. The standing slaver wheeled around so that his spear was pointed to the prisoner’s skull. As the white puller began to whisper, the slave recited a prayer to Harma, a cry for help that Valor knew would go unanswered. Silver strands escaped from between his eyes, multiplying quickly, from one, to ten, to one hundred.
Then came the scream. It was always the same scream. It didn’t matter whether it belonged to a man, woman, or child. The white death always sounded the same.
The strands of energy soon turned into a small, liquid-like ball; everyone called it the white death. It poured out from between the man’s eyes like water resisting the world weight.
As the last bits were pulled out, his b
ody jerked, and the slave’s arms shot out as if iron bars had been stuck through them. His eyes snapped towards Valor as his head spasmed.
Valor held the man’s gaze. He would not show the stranger the indecency of looking away. It was how he remembered his anger. Not by staring death in the face, but by being as one with the dead as he could.
I’m with you for the ride, my friend.
The guard pushed the man’s head to the ground. There was a crack, and death took him. A choked gurgle escaped his lips. Ferals were too careless with their strength.
Valor kept his eyes locked with the dead man’s sightless orbs.
The white puller took the energy from his hand and opened a small leather pouch, laced with glistening ober, carefully placing it inside. As he finished this, the taller guard pushed him away from the body.
Valor felt his anger peak.
“Rash’vul!” A taller guard yelled, looming over his partner, striking the white puller on the back of his head with an open palm. The injured white puller leapt upwards, ready to scrap.
“What!?” he screeched.
The guard put his snout against that of the white pullers. “You killed him, you imbecile.”
The guard snatched the white puller towards him, and spoke low. Valors’ ears were not as keen as Orrin’s, but he didn’t need them to hear the exchange.
“There’s only so many, now...” he whispered.
The white puller accepted this, but not without a snap of his jaws and the utterance of another curse. Without any place to put his resurfaced anger, the white puller kicked the body before him, and pulled it by the arms to one of the dumping shafts.
Valor felt the fever of hate climb through his spine, and recited Jerryl’s maxim.
Walk through death. Walk through life. Bury the sight. Bury the strife.
He repeated Jerryl’s maxim in his mind over, and over, and over.
He looked at his two rock halves. Valor smashed the fine point of his pickaxe; two hard slashes against each half, an angry grunt for each. Today, for some reason, the songs and maxims and mantras did nothing. Jerryl’s teachings had helped his mind, but today, he could not find one to spare his heart.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 4
