Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  “Why are you here?” he asked again for a third time.

  Armun paused again, waiting for two enforcers to clear the end of the table before opening his mouth. “Alright. I was already a prisoner. I was shifting coin in Trade City. I’m a nobleman from Imlen’s Hand. They sent me out west to - “

  “That’s not true either.” Valor swirled his spoon in his slop. “Firstly, no government would send a noble from Imlen’s all the way south to Trade City just to shift coin or cover up some books. I’ve never seen grass, but I can read a map. Imlen’s Hand is over a thousand miles from here.”

  Armun sat up straighter as Valor continued. “You assumed we were unworldly. Don’t make that mistake with anyone else down here. And don’t lie to a feral. They’ll smell it and kill you faster than you can blink.”

  Armun laughed on the inside, remembering when the guards first brought him in.

  The same enforcers made another pass. The three of them waited, and watched.

  Armun pulled his hair away from his left temple, revealing a bruise he still wore from passing through the Raging Sand. “Here,” he said. “A mark. They beat me when I awoke.”

  Valor sighed. “Ferals don't beat. They poke, stab, gut, slice, and flog, but they do not beat.”

  It was not hard for Armun to feign irritation, although he was more irritated that this boy had discovered he was lying than at his line of questioning. “Well then call me a liar. Fine.”

  Valor opened his free hand like a beggar for coin. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  Armun spoke in a stern tone. “You’ve lost your mind, just like everyone else in here.”

  Valor reached forward, Armun snapped back slightly. Even if he was found out, he was doing an excellent job of feigning all the variables of fear.

  “Remember - you’re part of everyone else now.” Valor opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out.

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence, and were soon escorted back to their cells. As they trudged the dark tunnel, descending into blackness once again, he thought about Valor and Orrin. They had in fact not lost their minds, this he knew. They must have some sort of resistance to the noman’s curse, he thought, and if so, who was casting this spell with such magnitude?

  A squishy groan came down from the darkness above. Armun stepped a bit faster, trying to focus on his mission, a man who was a sliver of hay in a stack of needles.

  Chapter 15

  Jerryl looked into the full-length mirror, and hated everything he saw.

  Of all the weapons of war he had used, and all the things he had done, or helped others do - he knew now, as an old man, that no weapon could demoralize a man better than one’s reflection.

  He turned to the barred window on his door, and saw the sun’s rays bouncing across the imported greenery, putting holes in the gaudy reflection pools of the Golden Sands.

  Why am I still here, he thought. He had entertained the nobility the night before, as the Warden would have wanted. Now, another day had passed, and again he found himself putting on the mask of the Warden’s entertainer.

  Gnawing at the back of his mind was the single thought that Valor had been right.

  Something was off.

  It had become as decadent as Lobosa wanted. Palm trees and spiny bushes from the coast of Lirik bloomed their beautiful violet and pink flowers. Glasses of dark wine became highlights against Kashriian carpets. Fresh crabs and clams, magically cooled by hired wizards, sat in spectacularly fashioned ice tubs. The best bakers and butchers he had either conscripted or captured, and the architects had done their best work in hopes of freedom, paid for their efforts with quick deaths.

  He looked to the iron bars, just inches from the windows exterior, his eyes remembering they were barely wide enough to let him through. Hanging himself would be easy, were it that he could die in such a way. With the majesty of the setting sun, and all the beautiful lords and ladies below, it seemed the best kind of day for suicide.

  He looked down, avoiding his own gaze, fiddled with the buttons on his old uniform. He could not put it on without remembering that fateful day. He thought of his men, bleeding on the sand, and his choice to give himself up in order to spare their lives.

  He stretched his arms out, testing the strength of old fibers. He had managed to somehow stay fit, despite spending more time pouring over his books and his maps.

  The uniform fit the same as the day he was captured.

  Jerryl walked to a small table in the far corner of the suite, looking for cuff links. There were, instead, his medals and honors. He pulled out his metal accolades, rubbing some of the dust and grime away from them. There was a time that they would have sparkled in the sun, but wearing them would identify him to the other nobles. He had tried to put them on in the past, but shame and guilt had them off before he could leave the door.

  Returning to the middle of the suite, he again stood in front of the tall mirror. He saluted several times, then practiced his three quarter, one quarter, and half turns, each nine times, as was military standard. His boots reflected the lingering sunlight as he whirled around the room, throwing rainbow colors against the many priceless stolen artifacts that Lobosa had adorned every room with, weapons and pottery and furniture alike.

  Three short knocks came at the door. It opened, and the Warden entered.

  “Excellent, Jerryl. You’re ready.” Jerryl swallowed hard, feeling the sweat creep under his thick collar. He turned towards the Warden, who always looked odd when dressed in military apparel. His tailors had taken influences from different military designs, mashing them into one. It upset Jerryl how well Lobosa wore it. Gone was his dark leather and blood red cloak, and in its place, something too similar, something too human.

  “Is the vapor maker working?” Jerryl asked, loosening his collar.

  Lobosa looked around the room. “Yes. It’s good that you found that thing. Keeps this place cool.”

  The Golden Sands was the coolest place in the Gorabund, but Jerryl was feeling none of it. The sweat continued to build. It was not the heat that got to him, nor Lobosa, but the lies he knew he was about to tell.

  “The guests have all arrived now that the day’s fights are finished, and I’ve said my piece. I’ve played as one of your kind for days now. I’m tired. Come find me when the night is through.”

  Jerryl wondered if the Warden meant for something specific, but did not ask. “As you say, Warden.”

  Lobosa ushered in the two guards that had been watching his door.

  Despite his change of appearance, he knew that Lobosa was not, nor could he ever be anything more or less than what he was. Twisted as one could be, any sense of humility or normalcy was nothing but shade, placed before creeping darkness. The clothes and false demeanor, though, were enough to impress nobles who had a darkness of their own. Lobosa had chosen his benefactors wisely; he picked the ones that were smart enough not to get caught, but not smart enough to see through his stories and fabrications.

  Jerryl walked through the door. The guards allowed him, keeping close, as they always did.

  He descended the stairs with all the decorum of a soldier trying to reach back in time, down to the ballroom battlefield, a world of word skirmishes and fanciful wars.

  He had seen soldiers cut in half, and others lit ablaze. The horrors he had witnessed in the Arnaks were many, but in the grand ballroom of the Golden Sands, it all fell away.

  Jerryl descended slowly, identifying a few faces before revealing his presence to the crowd. Lord Yehir was in his usual corner, sucking down a clam. Lobosa’s spies had found him trading prisoners in his territory, and instead of death, they made a deal.

  Lord and Lady Meiser bandied about in their newest fashion, the only name one needed to know for black market animal parts, especially skins.

  By the main door, he caught a glimpse of Lady Mei and some of her new pet boys. They were very attractive, and he had no doubt Lobosa would buy them both if she let him.
>
  “Harren! Harren Ledes!” Jerryl had only time to spot four heads before he heard his false name being called by Wyman Beckerton.

  “Harren, get your ass down here!”

  “Wyman!” he called out, raising his arms in the most aggressive greeting he could muster. Wyman loved exaggeration, or as he called it, glorious embellishment.

  “Stick out that chest, you shit livered cod!” That got the room’s attention, and a number of hearty laughs, as he was sure many of the other well to do’s did actually believe Wyman to be a shit livered cod.

  Wyman had a strong grip, but nothing else that Jerryl liked.

  “Harren Ledes, you sick, maniacal man! I see you recovered from our last joyride.”

  Jerryl laughed. “You call that a joyride? Please, Wyman, I caught more motion sickness watching you try and make love, like a worm on a hook!”

  “Haaaargh...” Wyman laughed, roaring into the frescoed ceiling. Jerryl matched his intensity, huffing loudly into the sky.

  He changed the subject quickly. The sooner this was over, the better. “Where are our new friends, Wyman? Allow me to receive them.” Wyman pointed with flair toward three sets of lords and ladies. He was unsure of their crimes, except that they had angered the Warden, and were now forced to be his patrons instead of being thrown in cells and exposed to their local governments. “Harren, this is Jonathan Nethendo, and his lady, Frieda.”

  Jerryl took their hands. Jonathan was a big man, and already reeked of sweat and booze. His lady Frieda seemed to have more class about her. He pitied the girl. Her youth and wide eyes told the typical tale of arranged marriage.

  Wyman pointed to the next couple, a very young pair, both of blue hair and blue clothes. “This is the young Richard Dommel, and his wife to be, Violet.”

  He shook their hands as well. Again, the girl impressed him more than the man. She at least knew how to shake hands.

  Upon turning to the last couple, Jerryl noticed Wyman’s enthusiasm slump a bit. The man was middle aged, and was the only one besides the guards wearing a full set of armor, plumage upon his helm to boot, which he had stuffed under his arm. The woman was even older. Her pearls were old, her clothes were old, and he was certain her money would smell of dust if he pressed it to his nose. She was clearly that kind of rich; so rich, the thoughts of others never cross your mind. “This is Evelia Galann, and her bodyguard - “

  The bodyguard cut off Wyman, extending his hand between them. “Ollander. Ollander the Bear.” Jerryl looked him up and down, and took the meaty fist in his own, shaking it firmly. Jerryl was unsure of how Ollander had been roped into such a task, but he spoke with clarity, and an obvious false sense of confidence that he could protect Lady Galann from anything as swift as ferals in such heavy metal.

  Perhaps he is indeed that good, Jerryl thought. “Thank you for coming. All of you.”

  Lady Galann stepped forward. Jerryl had already prepared himself for the onslaught of questions he knew she would have. He could always see it in the eyes; the ones with doubt always asked the most questions.

  “Mr. Ledes - “

  Wyman cut her off. “Sir Ledes, if it pleases you, Lady Galann.”

  Jerryl could see by the way she turned down her eyes that it didn’t seem to please her at all. The old money nobles always felt lesser of anyone in the military, and she was turning out to be no different. “Sir Ledes, then. Might I ask you a few questions about - this place? Coming here, everything just happens so quickly.”

  “Certainly!” Jerryl said. “My answers might become more flowery as the night goes on, however, depending on how much of Lord Wyman’s wine ends up in my stomach.”

  Wyman jabbed him with an elbow, “As much as you want, friend! I brought a thousand barrels. Nine hundred and ninety nine just for you!”

  They shared another laugh. For Jerryl, it was even more fake and devoid of realness than the last.

  “Of course,” Lady Galann said. The label of retired military officers was one of constant drunkenness and reminiscence. Jerryl thought this perfectly fine, as otherwise he’d have no character to play. “Sir Ledes,” she continued, “In all honesty, I don’t mean to be prudish... I am obviously old, and am no stranger to indentured servants, or even slaves. But your Warden... Lobosa, who I have spoke to - is he taking this too far?”

  Jerryl took a long slurp of the wine Wyman had brought before answering. “Lady Galann, I assure you - there is nothing here for you to worry about. All of our slaves are criminals, with varying crimes.”

  “And how exactly is that determined?” she asked calmly. “Do you simply walk up and ask them? Interrogate them?”

  “We know, Lady Galann, the same way that we know about your own activities. It’s the same way we learned about Lord Wyman, and Lord Dommel, and Lord Nethendo.”

  Lady Galann folded her arms and asked, “What is this process, exactly?”

  Jerryl laid his glass upon a marble topped round table, nearly knocking over one of Lobosa’s purchases. It was an ancient sword of some renown, from some master assassin, from some place so far away that no one would question its authenticity.

  “I can see you are concerned, my lady. I’ll try to allay all your concerns, and I’m sure there’s something that all of you could learn from what I’m about to say. Now, years ago, the Laranuan’s split into two groups in a bloody, terrible civil war. This was, of course, almost a hundred years ago.”

  Galann fidgeted with her pearls, already tired of his answer. “I’m aware of history, Sir Ledes. The ferals and Laranuans were once one, and they split.”

  “True, they split,” he continued. Jerryl motioned for them to circle closer, and the group formed a huddled circle. “But, what most do not know is that the Laranuans chased the ferals far and away, all the way down to the edges of what is today Spade territory, in an attempt to exterminate them, a small fact I’m sure history books will always ignore. Even our Warden Commander, Lobosa, does not know why the Laranuans did so. But his theory, which he shared with me in secret, is that the Laranuans had become so obsessed by their worship of the deep that their visions showed the ferals, who comprised the blood and fire clans at the time, as future enemies.”

  “And were they?” Lady Galann asked.

  Jerryl shrugged and shook his head. It was the one truth he would speak that night; none knew what went on between them. Perhaps Lobosa’s sire or grandsire could tell, were they alive, and not torched in prayer to the Everburn.

  “No one knows, my lady. But visions are a thing of the future. I can say, that at that present time, the ferals had harmed none. So, the Warden’s grandsire took his people as far as he could, to this desolate place. Imagine, if you can, the struggle of thousands of people, starving for food and water, trading what little they had with the tribes around the Gorabund. Imagine, if you can, being forced to eat your own dead - simply to survive.”

  The young Violet raised her hands to her mouth. “Sir Ledes, tell me that’s not true!”

  Jerryl sipped his drink. “It is true, my lady. And so are worse things, but don’t frighten yourself child, I won’t explore such terrible madness in detail. Lord Dommel, forgive me if your fiancé has nightmares. I meant no harm, except that which comes of the truth.”

  Lord Dommel waved him on. “It’s quite alright, Sir Ledes. Please though, continue. I must say, I always felt deep worship was a strange thing. They say demons spring from the deep, but who can truly judge? Not as if any of us have any connection to it.”

  Jerryl snapped a finger. “Exactly, my young friend. But to continue… Lobosa’s grandsire, Rishakka, found the ancient harmian city within the Arnaks, after a long time of desolate wandering. With his small army, he cleared its inner parts and outlying lands of nameless things, bandits, anything that would harm his people. After decades of work, they managed to turn it into a hospitable place. But it took many, many years, not until our current Warden Commander Lobosa came to power, that he could find a way to create and sustain a
n economy for his people. Lobosa’s sire, Kesh’rah, created the prison, and built the foundation of what we have now. But our Warden Commander Lobosa was the first to use it to help his people.”

  Lady Galann, who was clearly not satisfied, continued to press. “How, Sir Ledes, does that explain Lobosa’s need for our support? And to do so in such a secretive manner? I suppose, to be direct, Sir Ledes, I simply don’t feel safe. You seem trustworthy - but your constituents do not.”

  Jerryl gave her a slight bow, and took her hands. “Lady Galann, the reason we swear you to secrecy is as I just told you. The rest of Harmenor will not understand the truth of the matter. And that is the reason for the prison; we want to show Harmenor that we can do good things. The prisoners here work off their debts. Every single one of them can earn their freedom. Ask Lord Wyman, here. Tell me Lord Wyman, you once served on the judgement council in your home of Goldleaf, did you not?”

  Wyman released a soft belch, rubbing his stomach. “Indeed.”

  “And what did you think of your system of justice?” Jerryl asked.

  “Well, if I didn’t think much of it at all, I wouldn’t be supporting your cause.” Lord Wyman turned to the Lady Galann. Whatever he thought of the wine trader, and whatever Wyman thought of him, he knew that Wyman made the biggest contribution to Lobosa’s efforts, Drake Redstone and Kashrii aside. They had, over the years, formed an unspoken relationship of help, if for no other reason than the both of them were in too deep to ever get out. For Jerryl, those facts comprised another bond he had with a brother he cared nothing for.

  Wyman opened his mouth, his words lagging behind. “Lady Galann, surely you’ve run into your own issues with human governance. Our laws are old, and simply aren’t working anymore.”

  Lady Galann snickered. “I’ve seen our courts and laws at work. We don’t need prisoners to pay off their debts. We need them to stay in prison.”

  “The world is not so black and white, Lady Galann.”

  “Oh?” Lady Galann stood upright. “And what if your daughter was raped, Lord Wyman? Would that man deserve to work off his debt? Tell me, Sir Ledes, do you have rapists in your prison?”