Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Guess Orrin’s not the only one caring too much today.

  As he worked the final chunk of rock before him, he tried to remember the hand motions of the white puller. The white death was still a mystery to him. He half wanted to know what it was for. The other half of him begged to stay away.

  He dropped his pick axe, picked up one last piece of exposed, ober filled rock, and turned towards his full mine cart, dropping it atop the others.

  “I’m done here,” He said to the nearest guard. The guard looked at his pickaxe.

  “What,” the guard said, “trying to make all our picks useless? Plenty more where that came from, human.”

  Valor smiled wryly. “Then I guess it’s not a problem, is it?”

  The guard spit near Valor’s right boot, then growled, snapping its jaws at him, barking loudly.

  “What?” Valor said. “haven’t dipped in the red today?”

  “No. I haven’t,” said the guard in a hungry whisper. “But give me an excuse to bathe in your blood.” The guard stepped in once, then twice, close enough to bite Valor’s nose clean off.

  Another feral with a writing board, one that Valor knew as Linnak, called out to him. “What’s the cart number!” she cried, undoubtedly taking notice of the situation.

  “Forty two!” The guard yelled to the far end of the quarry, where the weight checkpoints hung lifelessly. “Bring it,” Linnak growled.

  Valor pushed the mine cart along its track, the guard never far behind. He knew better than to push a feral who was so heavily infected with bloodlust. The stinking breath, the raised fur, and bloodshut eyes were all signs of the addiction.

  As Linnak checked around the cart and patted Valor down for contraband, he remembered when Lobosa had tried to initiate him with the ritual. He remembered how the blood tasted… it was sweet, like the darkest of chocolates, or the most secret of honey hives, stolen from out behind assassins, boobytraps and other methods of instant death.

  Not only did it not work, but Valor vomited the blood of the five races. But it did do something for Valor; it was one of few key moments that killed fear in his mind.

  The cart tracks were woven together with surprising organization. Valor knew they went into the other mountains, but had never seen how far. He pushed the heavy cart onto the scale. It tipped down, and the counter rose. Linnak wrote down his weight for the day.

  “He’s done,” she said. “Take him to the mess hall. It’s about that time, anyways. Can’t have him starve.”

  The guard behind him snorted. “Of course. Whatever the Warden needs.”

  Linnak pointed her pen at the guard. He stepped back a pace. Valor had noticed Linnak’s ability to affect anyone without words or fists. He liked that about her, and he would have liked her more if she hadn’t been born a feral.

  As he walked towards the quarry exit, five more guards created a five point formation around him.

  Valor shared a look with each of them, glances that determined nothing but the annoying, mutual stalemate they were forced to carry out day after day. They feared his skill, and most knew the Warden trained him personally.

  The ferals learned from Valor’s mistakes, and he in turn learned with every mistake the ferals made. He prayed they would keep making them, and was sure they did the same to him.

  As they descended, he watched everything. He engaged his training in the silence, and the world became open to his viewing.

  The flickering of fire, the defensive gait of the guards, and the flow of air passing across his face; from where it came, though, he was unsure. He sensed all of these things at once.

  The ground was cut flat, large rocks pushed to the side. Geometric carvings ran the entire length of the walls, damaged by excavation or the reckless use of magic.

  Most notably, as of a month prior, most slaves only mined. Very few fought in the Scarlett Ring now, and Lobosa now brought in more fighters than he created.

  Secondly, the ferals had been extracting more of the white death. The spell was often used when a slave was close to the end, and no longer of any use, or to numb the mind of an unruly person, turning them into mindless workers. Now, it seemed to be an action taken at the whims of the white pullers.

  The third was a feeling of foreboding that randomly spiked in Valor’s mind. It was only an instinct, but one that he could not ignore.

  As he reached the end of the short, winding cavern, its mouth opened up into an area half the size of the quarry, a mess hall littered with dangerous cooking fires, dirty pots, and heaps of cattle bones.

  He sat at one of the many tables, which were laid in staggered rows.

  Valor plopped down and looked at the others. They all stared back. He could see Big Tom, his massive hands dwarfing his tiny spoon, his crew giving Valor the usual hard glance. Red Kevvi and his gang were sitting next to them, his bug eyes growing buggier each day. Freddan, a tall woman just as big as Big Tom, was giving him the dirtiest stink eye, and with her dirty blonde hair shaven away, she looked even more menacing.

  The few slaves that had enough strength to frown at him did so. Jealousy was ripe within them. Valor and Orrin were Lobosa’s favorite pets, and they always got the best food, the best clothes, and the best fights.

  A cook dropped a bowl of meaty stew in front of him. “Enjoy,” he mumbled.

  Valor looked to both sides, noticing that everyone else’s bowls were considerably less filled. As he’d grown older the guilt affected him less. He had learned a small amount of acceptance of his and Orrin’s station as Lobosa’s pets, but only enough to keep him out of trouble. Guilt, he learned, was not a trait the world looked kindly upon.

  Freddan coughed loudly, and Valor ignored it. He had long since given up attempting to understand their ire with him. He dealt with them by simple means. If they said nothing, things were fine. If they started a brawl, he threw the first strike. The guards didn’t dare hurt him, but lately, the brawls had been so many that they had to separate him from the others.

  Six guards flanked the exit, and in pairs of two they made rounds. A hundred feet above, five more guards walked the massive expanse of carved walkways and hidden nests. Bridges intertwined and slashed together, cutting through the darkness like a black woven basket that had been ripped apart.

  Valor watched for a while. He was looking for things big and small. After a short time of seeing no things, neither big nor small, he turned his attention down to his bowl.

  No vegetables today. Just a measly portion of meat and broth, stewed from bits and odds and ends. A hoof floated to the top with one dig of his spoon. He picked it out, and began to eat.

  Valor slurped up the entirety of his stew in less than a minute. He dropped the bowl onto the table, watched the spoon dance around its edge until it came to a shimmering stop. Not terrible, he thought.

  Valor stood, and the room became quiet. He walked past Freddan towards his escort. She called out to him. Valor knew she was going to do it before she even opened her mouth.

  Please stay quiet, dammit.

  “Hey, Valor.”

  Valor ignored her and kept walking.

  “Where’s your collar, Valor? It’s hard to tell what a little bitch you are from far away.”

  It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. In fact, he’d heard it all before. Digs at his brother, digs at Jerryl, digs at him being Lobosa’s bitch. There was nothing new in the Arnaks, especially insults.

  “Bet your mother was his bitch too, huh?”

  Valor turned his eyes up from the ground, meeting the gaze of a guard by accident. The guard instantly realized what was about to take place, his wolf eyes widening as he started walking towards Valor, but not before Valor turned to act.

  It wasn’t a new insult. But the way she had said the word mother just hit him in a new place, deep in his solar plexus. He smiled at Freddan.

  “What you want, bitch boy?” Freddan asked, mouth full of food.

  Valor slugged her hard. Her jaw was not as har
d as it looked. He looked behind himself and saw all the guards moving in unison. Freddan cursed him more. “You bastard!”

  Valor judged by Freddan’s shocked expression that she hadn’t seen it coming. The slave began to hoot and holler, banging their bowls and spoons, the most awful orchestra ever arranged.

  “Argh!” She charged him, but Valor stroke low to the abdomen with a half uppercut. Her stomach was soft, as he expected. “Why,” he asked aloud, “do you big people never keep your gut in check?” Freddan leaned back, as if about to heave. Valor grabbed her around the neck and pulled her face to his. “Who’s the bitch, eh?”

  Freddan’s gang stood, spoons in hand.

  “Oh! Spoons!?”

  As Valor finished speaking, he heard the familiar pull of animal ligament from above him. He looked up and saw ten ferals with arrows nocked, bow strings back to full draw.

  Some of the slaves cowered, slowly crawling away. The guards pushed them aside. Freddan and her friends ducked under the table, the guards pulled them out, yelling and barking at each other.

  It came to him then, staring at the arrowheads. Let this be it, he thought. Come on. The smile left his face. He opened his palms to the sky.

  “Stop!” A voice rang out. At once, the bowmen let their strings have slack, and Valor’s guards surrounded him. Freddan and her cohorts took their seats.

  Valor looked behind himself. Gakkamon, Lobosa’s war master, was standing twenty paces away. His tree trunk sized arms were folded into a pile of chest hair and muscle, left hand rubbing his snout. Valor could hear his powerful lungs huffing in agitation.

  When Gakkamon appeared, ferals became soldiers again.

  His anger soaked breath was visible in the musty air.

  “Gakkamon!” Valor called loudly. “Come to join us?”

  Gakkamon ignored him, and instead addressed his men. “You six will receive a pay dock for this. Now take him to his cell. You’re lucky I was walking this way.” None of them moved as he stepped forward, almost pushing his black, leathery nose into Valor’s eye. “You. Lobosa has forbidden anyone from punishing you physically. Though everyone has accidents now and again.”

  Valor went wide eyed, and replied, “You’re right, Gakkamon. Everyone. Anyone could just slip.” He stepped toe to toe with the war master.

  One guard grabbed him by the arm, dirty nails scratching Valor’s bicep, pulling him towards the darkened exit.

  “Good day Gakkamon!” Valor said with sarcastic prestige. He heard the old warrior’s familiar growl before entering the darkness yet again.

  The five guards surrounded Valor, close enough to keep him within range of their spearpoints. “Back to your cell,” said one of the guards behind him.

  “Of course,” Valor responded.

  Through the darkest underground roads, a short time later, they reached the main entryway to Emberless, the feral city. It was a lonely road, fifty feet wide and a hundred plus high. Late in the day as it was, most ferals would have already returned home, sometimes from excavating the lower tunnels, cleaning and readying the Ring of Scarlett, or preparing Lobosa’s pleasure palace, the Golden Sands, for its next crop of wealthy spectators.

  The abandoned harmian city, woken and repurposed, was a sight to behold for those whose heads were not covered by brown sacks. The sprawling city stretched out like the limbs of an octopus, spiraling up to the very top edges, where the slope was too great for even ferals to manage.

  Homes were painted in all ranges of earth tones, but occasionally one appeared dressed up in violet or bright orange. Some were more hovels than homes. They lined the cavern, stretching to its tallest heights, which appeared more like an empty hornets nest, gutted inside out, left for them to make their homes. The more magnificent structures stayed low to the ground.

  He wondered how well they’d do being locked up their own cells, mining their own mines. Walk this way, he wanted to say. Look at your true legacy.

  He realized, though, that they’d probably do alright, which made him feel worse.

  The main entry came to a low crest, but tall enough to see the higher perches of Emberless. A rough bag was placed over his head, and he was led by the strong arms and sharp nails of his captors.

  It always felt to Valor that they were walking through an empty land, right until they crossed the first building. Only then could he hear Emberless.

  Every time they brought him through, he could feel the millions of feral hairs standing up straight as the scent of his human sweat and blood flowed into the city. He had been brought through Emberless so many times.

  Normally, they would have caught his scent from far off, but the bakers and farmers were selling to huge throngs today. He could smell the cooked meats and fresh breads through the loose bag, filling his nostrils with limited joy. Valor knew they took him through this path due its shorter walking distance. Lobosa and his guards had no fear that he would cause trouble with so many ferals around.

  Valor couldn’t help but feel that the scents and sounds of a better life were meant to torture him.

  Sometimes, though, there were holes in whatever tattered bag they threw over his eyes. Luckily, today, there was such a hole, through which he caught brief glimpses of Emberless, images passing by too quickly to dwell on.

  Females’ wrapped their pups up tight, covering them with traditional red cloaks. Some males threw snarls in his direction. Voices far away and high up on the slopes howled at him. These people were few, though. Most that witnessed him walking through Emberless treated him as if he was just a ghost.

  He heard a small, leather ball skitter across his path, and a few feral pups running on all fours to catch it, snapping their teeth at each other.

  The path took them through the Emberless bazaar. Here, his small eyehole served no purpose. There were too many bodies. But his nose and ears picked up enough. The harsh spices of red peppers and shaved villander root, meant for feral stomachs only, shot hard into his nose. He could hear the chatter of the feral language, but some spoke in the world tongue.

  “Two to one!”

  “Break it! Break it! Oh come on, too slow! Get it up there!”

  “Fresh pork pies!”

  I’d kill for a pork pie, he thought. As he walked, he became more aware that something in him was off today. Life must be good in Emberless.

  After a long walk plus several lefts and rights, the voices and sounds of city life fell away. They had passed through Emberless, again descending into the darkness.

  The bag was removed. Valor inhaled deeply.

  As they entered the final tunnel, one guard stepped towards the wall. Tapping its spear on an inconspicuous stone ring, the tip sprang to life with lightning. The feral tapped it against the ring again, and as he did, two lines of flame erupted down the hallway, curving into a spiral pattern that arced jaggedly, moving downwards too far to see.

  Valor and his guard descended stairs and open caverns, a twisting path that one could not possibly memorize without a map, or an experienced geomancer. The only lights were the two lines of spiral flame, hypnotic in their presence. Without it, one could easily trip and fall, painfully tumbling downward until they reached the bottom.

  Stairways became caverns. Caverns became stairways. Sometimes they became neither caverns nor stairways, but simply rock as nature intended, carved barely wide enough to ensure proper crowd control. Several poorly made stairs widened to the lowest level. Prisoners of all races except feral stared at Valor as he passed, as if he’d been responsible for their fate.

  Valor felt the ground become smooth. He heard the shuffling of dirty feet and the folding of rough wool clothes.

  They reached his cell. One guard to his left shoved his spear in the key slot, unlocking the iron bars. Bluish white sparks crawled up and around, dispersing once they hit the rocks. The door sprang open like a weak mousetrap, and Valor entered.

  The guards wasted no time in locking it back into place.

  Valor watched as the
smelly guards were swallowed by darkness.

  Orrin lay asleep on his stone bed, breathing heavily. Jerryl greeted him. “My boy,” he said. Valor greeted him with a hearty hug.

  “Work you hard?”

  “So ends another average day,” Valor said. He turned his head just enough to make sure the guards were gone for sure. “Training in the morning. Working the mines. Then home in time for nothing to do. Saw another white death.”

  Jerryl ran his fingers across his beard. “Did you?” he asked. “Anything new about it?”

  “Nothing. But like I’ve been saying, they’re doing it more and more. that’s all I know. And - Freddan started a brawl.”

  Jerryl glowered at him. Valor tossed his hands up. “She did, Jerryl. She started it.”

  “With words, I’m sure. Words in here are as cheap as my trousers. Valor, you cannot engage them.” Valor nodded and sighed, sitting down on his bed.

  “Is something else wrong?” Jerryl asked.

  Valor shook his head. He didn’t want to tell Jerryl the horrible idea that had come to him so naturally, staring up at those obsidian arrowheads. A moment of weakness wasn’t worth making Jerryl concerned. “No. Just feel a little run down.”

  Valor spotted Orrin’s latest journal, picked it up, scanned the pages for the newest occupied space. He recognized the drawing, and closed it.

  He felt the urge, then, to do something he rarely ever did by choice. Valor reached around Orrin’s stack of books, and picked up a random one. He read the title: Trade City, Vices and Virtues. He instantly lost interest, and tossed it onto Orrin’s stack.

  “Reading is important, Valor.” Jerryl leaned over, picking up the book. “This is an excellent one. Think I’ll give it another go. No one’s ever been harmed by reading a book twice.”

  With whatever books we’re allowed to read, Valor thought with a tinge of spite. He had long ago tired of having his knowledge hand picked by Lobosa.

  Orrin awoke. He rolled over and signed to his brother. [ What time is it? ]