These were the days of paper and pen. Lobosa had learned that, in such times, nothing was solved as quickly as it could be with a threat of death. He hated to admit that it was better.
“Riffhel, where is our order list for that… baroness…”
Riffhel stepped forward again. “Which one, commander?”
“The ugly ones. The one that wears that the hideous face paint.”
Riffhel expertly grabbed and slipped out a crumpled note from far beneath one of the paper stacks and handed it to his master with a curt bow. Lobosa had become used to Riffhel’s presence. He was a good sparring partner, a devout feral to the Everburn, and particularly good at things that the Warden of the Arnaks was not, things like looking for the exact papers he needed.
Lobosa signed the list, handing it to Riffhel, letting out a long grumble, which turned into another sigh. Ferals did not sigh the same way as humans, but after so many years of being around them, he found his body subconsciously attaching to their movements and actions. He hated it.
“Riffhel, how goes the movement of our guests to the Golden Sands?” Lobosa said.
Riffhel quickly bowed before answering. “Perfect, commander. As usual, our mages and spies were able to transport them in comfort through our hidden passageways, skirting the Raging Sands. No issues were reported, save for extreme drunkenness on the part of our guests. No issues with the a’tashi villages, either.”
Lobosa pulled his fur back and away from his face, pulling out a map. “Sounds too perfect. They made it through the outposts without trouble? Are both well staffed?”
“Yes,” Riffhel said. “Of course commander. Both are fully staffed.”
Lobosa nodded, eyeing a map underneath his paperwork. He pulled it free, moving his hands across it. Numbers and figures denoting troop variations and sizes criss crossed. He looked to the outposts, checking how many he had agreed with Riffhel to station there.
Both the Knife’s Edge and Black Breath Outposts blocked the only two passages in and out of the southern Arnaks. They were as vital as anything else.
Riffhel stepped closer to his commander. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, commander. And I know it is your place to worry. But have confidence. We have not been discovered.
Lobosa looked at his assistant, remembering suddenly why he put him in such a position. “For now. All secrets become exposed, Riffhel. It’s only a matter of timing.” He waved away the papers. “Take this all from me, Riffhel. Please, now. See that these items arrive on time for our guests.”
“Yes, commander.” Riffhel took each stack and piled them on top of one another. He then left swiftly, allowing the door to bang. Lobosa growled as the sharp tone of it struck deep in his wolf ears.
Lobosa looked down and saw a single paper that had fluttered from Riffhel’s stack to the floor. He picked it up, recognizing it as the fixer’s schedule. He read it over again, checking off which nobles had donated what amount, ensuring that their favorite fighters and fights were fixed properly.
The Warden felt strong most days, but this was not one of them. With every successive victory, on whatever field of battle, he felt himself growing weaker. The downfall of his sire had been exhaustion, and of his grandsire, the bloodlust. The latter had been too far to the right, and the former too far to the left. Lobosa had always known the need for balance, but it was easier said than done. Balance is tiring, he thought.
A sudden headache gripped him, fueled by his own bloodlust. He pressed hard on his temples, fingernails scratching the skin beneath his thick fur. It had been a long time since he had sated his own addiction. His people needed him sane. There could be no risk of that kind, even in battle.
After a minute, the headache subsided.
He looked at the hourglass, slowly spewing out sand upon his stone slab of a table. Lobosa had not expected to finish his paperwork before the flame seers arrived. He looked back at the hourglass. The seers were late for their weekly gathering.
Lobosa sat, taking a brief moment to himself. The moment turned to the past, and he started remembering terrible things.
Months that lingered like buzzards in the sky. The sight of a fellow feral sitting down, too weak to ever rise again, starvation taking its toll. Even worse was that the others were too weak to lift the bodies. The smell of the rotten and decayed, picked up by the nameless things that slithered in the dark crevices, making their homes in the highest peaks and lowest caves. The sounds of the nameless things, tentacles reaching down, snapping necks and leaving only a slippery trail.
His sire and grandsire had done the best they could. But neither had all the qualities to lead the ferals from the darkness.
That won’t happen again.
A knock came at the door. He stood.
Rare to be unpunctual, he thought. “Enter,” Lobosa said.
The flame seers entered slowly, arms folded into their cloaks, hoods drawn far over their brows.
The flame seers had always been an intrinsic part of feral culture, but lately, Lobosa had become wary of an increase in their fervor. Their sermons, given in the public squares of Emberless, had grown more fervent as of late.
Lobosa, nor his sire, or grandsire for that matter, had ever considered that money should have a place in religion. Their teachings were free, in places where all could hear, and the Feracis-kon lineage had always supported them. The flame seers kept the peace inside, so that Lobosa could do what needed to be done outside.
As Lobosa welcomed them in by name, he counted their deeds to himself, one by one. Seers Vikta and Cronn’sak had tirelessly worked over the last several years to excavate the lower tunnels, and they had done great work. The outer dwellings were now habitable. They had even managed to grow small patches of black corn. Seers Reisink and Raktano gave spiritual guidance to the men in his army, in all its functions.
It was not their dedication to feral society that Lobosa questioned; but their dedication to him, and besides all the other issues, they were all getting on in years.
“Flame Seer Getta,” he said, grasping her shoulders as she came around to greet him. She touched his shoulder with a grandsire’s affection.
“Lobosa.” Getta was one of few who called him anything but Warden, or Warden Commander.
“You look exhausted,” she said in a raspy voice, a voice he missed more often than he could admit.
Lobosa shrugged. “I am fine. Please, sit. We have a lot to discuss.”
Getta nodded. She had raised him not to beat around the bush when it came to important matters, and he would especially not do it now. The seers leader took her seat on the opposite side of his table, facing the Warden.
Lobosa grunted before beginning. “I don’t want to waste a lot of time. The games begin later today. If we had someone capable, I’d be scrying all of you, so that you could keep working.”
Seer Macc’teri coughed hard. Lobosa could sense that it was forced.
“Please, seers.” Warden began. “Remove your hoods. I feel as if I am talking to a bunch of anis or monks. Please.”
They did as he asked, and with expert drama. Lobosa looked at each of them, their faces appearing just as exhausted as his own. The fights in the Ring of Scarlett would begin in mere hours, and he knew that everyone had been working double time. This, however, was not a time for weakness.
Lobosa looked down at his list. “The lower tunnels. Seers Vikta and Cronn’sak, have you found anything of note?”
Seer Cronn’sak spoke first. “We have found countless items of note, Warden. The real question is whether or not we have actually been able to put them to use. There is only one that we have been able to make work. It seems to be a water pump of some kind, and the water it delivers tastes free of anything that might cause illness, as long as you have a source to draw from. Its output is high. But that is all.”
Lobosa thought he smelled the scent of passive aggressiveness in the seer’s voice, but let it go. He did not have time for sarcasm today. “That is
excellent news, Seer Cronn’sak . Thank you for your efforts. Everburn light your way to even greater discoveries.”
Both of them nodded, Lobosa looked back down at his list. “Seers Reisink and Raktano. You have something to report on my troops?”
Lobosa could see in Seer Raktano’s face that he already did not like the answer. He paused for a long while before answering. “I must answer honestly, as the Everburn would decree. Fire does not lie.”
Lobosa acknowledged him with a wave. “The truth will bring you no danger.”
His words were a lie, but Raktano relented.
“Forgive the harshness of how this sounds, Warden Commander. But many of your soldiers, male and female, feel hopeless. Almost all of them are infected with the bloodlust. We understand, Warden, we flame seers, that war is part of the true nature, perhaps better than anyone. The Everburn decrees such, and we’ve never questioned your choices with our forces, or the ones of your sire, or grandsire. But we must strongly reconsider the rules of when, how, and why bloodlust is acceptable. Despite our battles with the a’tashi tribes and random patrols being lessened, our warriors return with fractured minds, and fractured souls, with only the body strong. That will not do. Seer Resink will agree with me.”
Lobosa folded his hands in front of him. “Is that also your assessment, Seer Reisink? Curtail the bloodlust?”
Seer Reisink looked between her commander and her fellow seer. “Warden… I don’t know if it is quite as bad. Seer Raktano isn’t wrong, not entirely. But – “
Lobosa cut in. “The two of you cannot give me a halfway answer on this. I greatly respect what you do for our warriors. But are or aren’t my men in trouble? I can’t have soldiers losing their minds.”
Seer Brandacc, ever the peace maker and rationalist, raised a hand. “That’s just it, Warden. That’s exactly what you’ll get, and that’s exactly what’s been going on since the time of your grandsire. We used the bloodlust to survive in the early days, but we do not need it anymore. The blood tasting ritual after birthing is doing more harm than good. Even if I wanted to, we could not…”
As Seer Brandacc spoke, a red hotness rose in Lobosa’s temples. He could feel his own bloodlust rising to the surface. The only thing he could see was Seer Brandacc’s throat slashed wide open by his own claws. He turned away, looking at one of the masks mounted on his wall.
He interrupted Brandacc, saying, “The blood tasting ritual was handed down from your ancestors, the old flame seers. Not our military. And from my own grandsire, the teachings of the white death.”
“Exactly,” Brandacc continued. “I don’t dispute its origins. Whether it be our military or our beliefs, we inherited a culture of constant killing. Bloodlust is a disease, Warden Commander. It is a sickness that just happens to gain you certain physical benefits for a short time, as well as a burst of euphoria. And that’s all. But it’s been elevated to be status quo, just another part of life we must accept.”
“Warden, you’ve given us more than your sire and grandsire combined, and you are still young! But as we talk and theorize about how best to leave the inner mountains, we must also talk about how we are to change, and in equal measure. Even the Everburn must rest from time to time.”
Fixating on the mask allowed Lobosa’s anger to subside. “I will not allow the ritual to stop, but you may draft new laws on the usage of bloodlust. We still need it. Our enemies will only grow more cunning, and we cannot give up any edge.”
He turned back to the crowded chamber. Reisink and Raktano looked at each other. “And what about the white death?” Reisink asked.
Lobosa snapped his head towards Seer Reisink. “What about it? Surely you won’t ask me to curtail that, too. It’s what gives the ober power. And besides the noman’s spells, it’s the only other thing that keeps the slaves in check. And the ober and white death are two sides of the same coin. We can’t have one without the other.”
“Warden,” Reisink said, “This is true, but the white pullers… it’s never really been explained to us, exactly how it works, I mean.”
Lobosa looked between each of his flame seers, a bit bewildered. “Seers, my grandsire explained this to you all, my sire did as well, and so have I. But I shall explain it again. The white pullers pull the white death, a collection of magical power stemming from memory, from the slaves. The white death is then placed in their special pouches, and then taken to the forge. The smiths then empty said containers into the forge, and infuse it into the ober, and from there we sell it, and by and large come to our main source of income, which we will not stop producing.”
Seer Resinks’ jaw turned askew. “Can we not cut its use at all? The effect it has on our mages, or… our white pullers is… not good.”
“No,” Lobosa shouted. “My grandsire used it, my sire used it, and I myself have mastered its use. It’s in my heritage, it’s in my blood, and if the white pullers have an issue with it you may remind them of their oaths… remind them any way they’ll remember. In any case, I use it myself from time to time.” Lobosa picked up his notes again, ignoring Reisink’s frightened face. “Tekko, how are things at the Sands?”
Seer Tekko always spoke with gusto. Lobosa appreciated it. His energy cleansed some of the ill mood, even if he was the biggest blowhard of a seer to ever sit in his chamber. “Excellent, Warden. Things could not be better! I honestly don’t know how you continue to find such willing patrons, but, they are enjoying what we are offering. Their compliments seem honest, if nothing else they say is true. Your spies are doing their jobs, ensuring that secrecy is kept. They love the wine, they love the women – “
“They love our women,” Seer Qeronis said with a snarl. Lobosa steeled himself for her coming tirade. She had long been the biggest opponent to the Sands. “Our women. Our people. The Everburn does not preclude us from spontaneous fornication, as does the Grand Script of Harma, or the monks in the east with their weirdness. But tell me, Warden; are we all whores now?”
The room fell silent. The bloodlust headaches came back. He could feel that his next words were murderous before they left his lips.
“We are whatever we need to be, Seer Qeronis. If I need you to fuck a human or two, you’ll do it. This is how we get where we need to go.”
There was a long silence for a moment as unease rose into the seers, from their shuffling feet to their random, glancing eyes. but Seer Getta responded coolly. “And where, Warden, are we going?”
Lobosa pressed himself against the edge of his desk. Every instinct told him to pounce.
There had never been much argument amongst the seers, as they all tended to see things the same. Lobosa couldn’t tell if it was fatigue or ideas that now separated them.
Getta grumbled, lifting a finger to Lobosa.
“Lobosa – we – I – thank the Everburn every day for the struggles you bear. However, a new age is upon us. We know it – you know it. For nearly a century we have been in the Arnaks. Now, we are prospering. Far be it from any feral to say we should stay… but things are improving greatly, more than any of us thought possible. The bloom in the outside world is allowing other countries to forge ahead. We must do so as well, if we are to survive. But the reasons to leave here are becoming less and less. For the first time, ever, I feel - we feel - that things are good.”
The Warden sat back in his chair, contemplating Getta’s words.
Getta stepped closer. “We also must stop the pilfering and pillaging of camps, the a’tashi… and others.”
“Pilfering? Pillaging!?”
Lobosa stood after settling in his chair for no more than a second, struggling to keep his anger in check. “Again, the conflict is not with the people. They are following the laws of the Everburn, and as much as you all see fit to criticize my sire and grandsire, it seems that none of you understand why they did what they did. Their actions led us to be able to create what we have so far. Everything they did was to build a foundation for us to stand on.”
Getta spo
ke again, this time louder. “It is a foundation built on bloodlust and killing, Lobosa. And thievery. What little Harmenor knows of us does not craft a favorable image of our ways.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting a finger of his own. “So now, we get to the heart of the matter. When in the name of Everburn have we given a care about what the rest of the world thinks? We are, and always have been, Harmenor’s two way mirror. They look, and only see themselves. We look through the other side, and see them for what they are.”
Seer Castriss raised a hand. He had not yet spoken, and rarely did, unless he felt he had something important to say. Getta was the leader, but Castriss was the philosopher, a speaker of wisdom and hard truths.
Lobosa usually found said wisdom to be useful, but his gut told him that all the seer’s mouth contained were words he would not want to hear. Lobosa motioned to Castriss, allowing him to speak.
“I am the oldest on this council.” Seer Castriss stood, pushing himself up as if rising from a strong current, his old face hiding surprising strength. “I am the oldest… and in all honesty - I’m surprised to be around and kicking. Hmph.” Castriss smiled at Lobosa, pausing a moment. The meeting of their eyes disarmed Lobosa of some irritation.
Seer Castriss began again.
“I was there when Rishakka, the one who began all of this, had his first vision. I remember watching the fire dance and grow, and I was afraid it would swallow him whole. When he spoke of what he saw, we all believed… and soon enough, we began to have visions of our own. I was also there when he presented this to the other Laranuan clans… and to the Deepchild’s.”
A collective growl filled the room at the mention of the old Laranaun family.
Castriss sighed before speaking again, two long fingers scraping deep into his temple. “I remember when the Laranuans drove us to this place… with the Spade Kingdom at their backs. I remember him guiding us through secret passages, skirting the Raging Sands. I remember fighting by your grandsire’s side, commander, watching him swing his war axe, shouting victory. I remember your sire as well, pulling us away from our darkest hours. I remember the famine, the deaths, the disease… I even remember watching Seer Getta attempt to nurse you back to health, Warden. You were so ill one summer, we thought you would not make it.”
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 7
