Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks
Page 8
Lobosa turned his eyes to Getta, who shared his glance.
Seer Castriss’s eyes grew wide. “… and I remember the first time the nameless things attacked Emberless.”
Lobosa could see that for the flame seers and himself the effect of Seer Castriss’s words. They dug deep into the memories of those who sat before him, a room of grown ferals trying to push bad remembrances far and away.
“The lesson I learned from our rebellion was this. That change must come slowly… as far as I’m concerned this is where we were born. We scraped and bled in the fire, and now we are the ones who crack the whips. But the laws we forged from days past, the laws of fire and blood… they will work against us out there.”
The room grew silent. Lobosa felt the sting of Seer Castriss’s words before he spoke them.
“We cannot possibly venture beyond the Raging Sands with our current systems in place. It works here, in a place of blackness and turmoil. But out there, in the light of the sun and the moon… we will be broken by grass and trees. Swords and shields will be the least of our worries.”
Lobosa scratched hard into his head, sighing.
Flame Seer Brandacc, as if waiting to be given a cue, pulled out a thin scroll from her sleeve. “This is a list of changes to our laws… they’d best suit the needs of all ferals. And not just for the next generation, or the one after it. But for all of them, for the rest of what time we have on Harmenor.”
Getta walked around the table, took the scroll, and planted it in front of him, then returned to her seat. Lobosa sat, contemplating how many of them actually agreed with Getta. She had obviously led them to this point. He did not doubt that things were less than perfect; but they were better than they had been.
“I will read this on my own. We will reconvene in one week.”
The Seers rose, holding their hands with palms open, turned towards one another. They raised their heads to the sky, and chanted. Lobosa reluctantly did the same. He believed in the Everburn; but the concepts of worship and prayer he felt were overused and overrated.
Seer Getta led the chant.
When the Everburn dies
Creation is undone
And then comes the spark, and the flame, and rebirth
And all shall be as one
The true nature rules us all.
The flame seers slowly stood. As they turned to leave, Lobosa addressed them one last time, saving the best for last.
“While I think on your new laws, I want all of you to think on something,” Lobosa said. Their heads turned slowly, revolving statues connected to the floor. “Once these games are over, we’ll have enough money to leave this place, enough to buy allies and time. After the games, when the last stinking human has left the sight of the Arnaks… we begin planning.”
Lobosa kept his mouth flat, but a smile crept into his mind as the flame seers looked between each other, their eyes widening. It was way sooner than any of them expected. He could sense their desperation to say something, anything to convince him otherwise.
Instead, they fled from Lobosa. He knew that they could feel his anger at them. As of late, most of their meetings had ended this way; short and ineffective, like a dagger broken in two pieces.
Seer Getta stood from her seat, but did not leave.
“That was short. Short and stumpy.”
Getta made no acknowledgement of his words.
“May I help you, Getta?”
“I know you don’t need to hear more bad news... but I took it upon myself to have the seers take stock of how much longer we can keep mining. We all came to the same conclusion, after some swift calculations, and adding in the factors of erosion.”
Lobosa scratched his neck with a fury. “And what is said conclusion?”
Seer Getta held up her hand, extending all her fingers. “Five years, give or take a few months.”
“It matters not. Within a few months time, we will be gone from this place.”
Getta stepped backwards in shock. “What? Do you really think we can?”
“I do,” Lobosa said with excitement. “We can do it, Getta. Riffhel and I have been over the economics of it. That’s all it comes down to. And what’s better yet, I’ve saved the best news for you alone.”
Lobosa quickly ran to the back of his stone table, and pulled a small map, only one foot by another, and unfurled it. It was a collection of forests, far to the northeast. “Here,” he said. “Here we are. This forest here.”
Lobosa pointed to a thickly drawn packet of trees. “My spies have told me that it’s exactly what we are looking for. It’s thick, they say, almost tunnel-like, almost cave-like. But with sun! And good soil, and open patches for raising live stock.”
Getta’s eyes went wide. Lobosa feared her old heart might suddenly burst. “Where? Wait, where? What is its name?”
“Dallanee.” Lobosa said, cubbish and praising. “Not a bad name for humans to come up with. I promise to tell you more later.” Lobosa peered over her head to the door. “The guards will be listening.”
As Lobosa wrapped up his tiny map, Getta’s expression turned back to normal, as if putting away the map had stolen what little joy she’d received from his news.
She began to nod apathetically. “We must be careful. The walls are eroding faster than we thought. Some of our own have been crushed and mangled by accidents… one might argue we’ve been getting crushed by these mountains for years.”
“Then make it safer. Only five years. We can’t have too many of those… are you alright, Getta? I thought you’d be more… energetic.”
Seer Getta bowed. “Forgive me, commander. I’m just… I’m old. In all honesty, I fear for myself on such a journey.”
Lobosa stepped forward, summoning a sense of familiarity he had not needed in years, the familiarity of family. Getta was all he had left. “Getta,” He said, “I would carry you on my back if need be. You cannot leave my side.”
He touched her arm, then swiftly moved back to sit on his throne, looking back at the few papers that remained on the table. Getta did not move.
“Is there something else, Getta?”
Getta turned a few inches, facing him squarely. “I sense you need help, commander. Though I know not with what.”
Lobosa sniffed, sensing unspoken intent upon the air. “I can’t help but feel that you ask that question with ulterior motive.”
Flame Seer Getta took the seat closest to his table.
“I’ve always been here. I was there the day you were born. I cannot speak for the others… only for myself. You know that. We do not rule ourselves like the outsiders, with one in charge, and the rest left to be hanged.” She picked a thread from her old robes.
Lobosa’s hairs stood on end. The sense of familiarity he had was now gone. “That’s interesting,” Lobosa said. “Seeing as you all so expertly tightened my noose just now. You and the other seers only real interest in this meeting was to hand me a list of demands. I trust the Seers. I do. But cannot one of you simply be happy with what I’ve achieved? I don’t hear these complaints from my men, or others – “
Seer Getta interjected, raising two knobby fingers. “Lobosa, what others? You used to walk amongst your people. But for much of this past year, you’ve been vacant. You’ve been gone for far too long. The younger generation has only heard about you in whispers, and the things that they hear are not all kind.”
Lobosa refastened the belts upon his jerkin. “From who? Other seers?”
“Not the seers. They understand the importance of standing behind their leader, at least in the public eye. But, people talk - commander. They know that the Scarlett Ring fights have become more prominent. They know that you are less seen. And things that aren’t seen, like ghosts, become subject to rumor. The men and women in your service…”
Lobosa shook his head. “Don’t presume to tell me my warriors dislike me. Hate me.”
“As usual, you are going to extremes. My point, Lobosa, is that you are now more
ghostly than ever. Your people need to see you.” Seer Getta pulled back the hood of her cloak. She ran her long fingers through her thick, luscious fur. Even in her old age, she was still the most beautiful female Lobosa had ever seen. As a pup, she had been his mother, and his protector.
Who is she protecting now? He wondered.
“Warden…”
“Yes, Seer?”
She cleared her throat. “You know I have the aura of magic. It’s not developed, but - ”
“I do. Your point?”
She nodded her head towards a small bauble on his stone table. “What is that thing?”
Lobosa turned nonchalantly, picking it up. It appeared much like a time turner, though the two glass parts were spherical and without curves. Its insides contained some white death. “A small trinket, really. A new design for containing the white death. One of the older smiths made it for me. As a gift.”
Seer Getta nodded, though it was clear his answer did not ease her mind. “It does not feel the same as when the white pullers exchange it into their own containers.”
Lobosa touched the bauble. “No. Truthfully, even I don’t know all the secrets of the white death.”
“I see… which smith was it?” Getta asked.
“Neronak, I think.” Lobosa answered.
Getta turned to her once protégé. “Did he not explain to you how he crafted it?”
“He did, but, as you can see,” Lobosa threw out his left arm, displaying the mountain of paperwork that surrounded him, “I am a bit distracted. It is an achievement, no doubt. Yet another one for the flame seers to ignore.”
Seer Getta seemed to ignore him. “Lobosa – I am concerned for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lobosa,” She said, with a sudden sternness that shot him back through time, to younger years when she’d catch him stealing weapons from his sire’s hidden rack, practicing with them in the dark. She was the only person who could reel him in. He tried to fight it, always, but found little success.
“Lobosa,” She said again, but this time softer. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He shook his head. “No, Getta.”
“You are an excellent liar, my cub. I trained you in the silence. Don’t use my own skills against me.”
The Warden threw his claws up. “Getta – I am beyond lost as to what you are getting at. You tell me what you think is so off about my behavior, or my mood, or what have you.”
Seer Getta leaned forward, almost snout to snout. Lobosa saw the cavalry of guilt, galloping for his head.
“Don’t lie to me, cub. Please.” He hated how she could turn from demanding to desirable within seconds.
The Warden stood. “Enough.” He could not allow her inside of his mind anymore. He was not just the Warden, nor their commander. “I am everything my people need me to be. I will be more. Just keep your faith in me.”
Flame Seer Getta stood, threw her embroidered hood back over her face, and walked out. Just as the enforcer outside was about to close the door, she grabbed it, stopping her, and said, “Those who do not trust someone, anyone, are doomed to fail.”
“I trust you, Getta. I may be a ghost, but I am not yet wailing for my unfinished deeds.”
Getta smiled. “You remind me so much of Leh’kani. Sometimes more than your father.”
“We use sire in this place, male or female, Getta.” Lobosa snapped at her. He regretted it instantly. “If my father had pushed the harpies away sooner, she might still be here.”
Getta nodded. “She might. I wish she could have been.”
With those words, she closed the door behind her. Her last look was a mournful one.
As of late, Seer Getta had been gnawing on his nerves. At the end of the day, though, she told a straight story. Through his life, she had never lied to him. Lobosa took a deep breath, exhaling into the rocky ceiling. He resumed the seat at his desk, and looked at the white death inside of his bauble.
But why had she brought up his mother, Lobosa wondered. Getta never spoke of her, as legendary as she was. But why now?
He could not let her in. Not her, nor anyone else. The things he knew would transpire in the coming months would change the entire, short history of his race, and he could not have them threatened by the old ways, or the new. He needed things to stay the same, or as close to the same as he could keep them. Change would come; that he knew. It always did. His sire had once told him that resistance to change was worse than trying to push the whole ocean back with your arms.
He was right, Lobosa thought.
He looked down at the glass bauble and saw that the white death had turned to a violet haze.
Lobosa began to sweat beneath his thick fur. He grabbed the wooden bar to his chambers and flung it downwards with a hard grunt, locking it into place. He proceeded to race around the room, blowing out the giant candles that lit his chamber, faster and faster.
The master was coming.
He left one candle alight, and placed it on his table. His night vision was good, but the master’s presence required some remembrance that the real world did still, in fact, exist.
He sat, and waited. Then all at once, a cold breath blew upon him, icy and terrifying. He gripped his seat, shivering. The thin, white outline of a tall, human man appeared, and a terrible mist filled the room. It smelled like death.
“My master...” he whispered. The whisper was necessary. Breathing the mist made his throat constrict. He remembered that the master could hear his thoughts, something he often forgot.
Lobosa.
The voice of the figure did not speak again for some time, but when it did, it filled the room with a larger, ominous presence.
Are we ready, my son?
“Almost, master. I simply need to wait for these last fights to complete. The moment the nobles have left the Golden Sands... I will call to you.”
No, my son. I will call to you.
“Yes, master. Forgive me.” What a fool he was to say such a thing. The master was the one who called. He was the one who beckoned. “Are you still weak, master? How else can I help to rebuild your strength?”
Kind words, my son. Thank you. But no. I am not - so weak.
Lobosa’s candle blew out as a powerful gust of wind tossed more of the vaporous stench into his nose. It was as if all the tar fields in the east had suddenly caught fire, and had spread to his nostrils. “Yes, master,” he eked out. The master spoke a final word to him.
Go.
Slowly, the mist faded, and the cold chill blew away.
The candle on his table sparked to new life, causing him to jump and snap at it.
Lobosa sighed. The master was still weak. He dared not to say it, but knew it. He could feel the master’s power, like an ivory maw just beneath the sand, but without the strength to open its jaws.
He shook away the remaining dread, and focused his mind on the events to come. He looked at the time turner on his table. The first match was about to begin, and he needed to be early to greet those who had so graciously offered him extra money.
After the end of the week’s games, when his benefactors left for greener places, he could return to his people.
But for now, he needed to pretend. For now, he needed to be the ghost of the Arnaks.
Chapter 8
Valor stood at attention, his brother at Lobosa’s other side, watching the commotion occur all around them. The fights were well under way, and so far, the crowd, rich and poor alike, seemed pleased.
He looked at Lobosa, who was wearing what he’d heard some ferals refer to as his human suit. The term wasn’t far off. Lobosa’s clothes were a ragtag band of oddly mismatched colors, cuts, and styles from all over Harmenor. The other ferals in attendance were forced to wear the delicate costumes as well, though Lobosas was certainly more snug than the others.
Valor knew they hated wearing them. He loved watching them pick at the tight collars, shuffling in the form fitting clothes.
Two flame seers, whom he did not know by name, wandered through the crowd of mostly human nobles, educating them with emphatic arm movements and well-crafted words. Though he could not hear them speak, he could see the reactions of those who listened.
Valor was impressed. The Scarlett Ring to him looked, for lack of a more complex thought - clean. There were fewer beggars than he’d seen in the past. The coin changers acted with civility towards bystanders and gamblers, opposite their normal desire to snarl and bark. The procession of crowds was smooth, funneled through archways and tunnels without incident. The enforcers and white pullers acted like a word that Valor hated to admit using.
They look like gentlemen.
The ferals even smiled, which took Valor even more off guard. As much as he’d complained about their general attitudes, he thought how terrifying it would be for them to acclimate to less wolfish standards and behave with more common courtesy.
Even the Ring of Scarlett itself looked the opposite of its normal yellow-white tones. Banners, streamers, trumpets and food were too colorful. Too happy. There was joyousness in the air that Valor didn’t quite comprehend.
Everything is off, he thought.
“They do love to talk, don’t they?” Lobosa asked, turning his head side to side, eyes tracking the movements of hundreds of pairs of feet.
“They do, Warden.” Valor kept his answers short, and always answered quickly. Lobosa’s questions were not an invitation to converse, only to accent his own thoughts.
Lobosa’s fingers tickled against the stomach of his incongruous uniform. “I’ve always wondered… why? What is it about being rich that makes one so superfluous with words and interruptions?”