Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  The old warrior clamped his fists together. Compliments were always a trap with the Warden.

  Does he know of what Wyman told me in the courtyard? If Lobosa did, then Wyman was either dead or soon to be locked in a cell forever.

  Lobosa spoke. “I never thought I’d say this, Jerryl, but… what I have to say is difficult to tell you, almost. Because you are useful. We’re leaving, Jerryl. Soon. And you won’t be coming with us.”

  Jerryl had one thought in that moment.

  Valor was right.

  “What will you do once you get past the Raging Sands?” Jerryl asked. “The a’tashi are no true threat. But the Laranuans will stop you.”

  Lobosa folded his arms. “They are peace-mongers now, losing strength ever since my clans left. There is nothing in them I can’t defeat.”

  Jerryl shook his head. “The Spades, the Terrathians, the dwarves and elves and all their armies… you’ll do some damage, and then you’ll be snuffed out.”

  Lobosa waved his glass around. “With what I know is coming - they’ll have bigger problems to deal with.”

  “What is coming, Warden?” Jerryl asked.

  Lobosa said nothing. Jerryl shared with him the longest gaze he had ever held as the Warden pretended Jerryl had not asked him anything at all.

  The old general stepped forward, ready to ask the question he now dreaded to ask. “What will you do with the boys?”

  “Mhm,” Lobosa said. “Well… this is the part where I become somewhat of a hypocrite. I had hoped, Jerryl, that you would be able to steer them away from their current attitudes. This issue has been your only failing. But it is the most important one. If I leave here, with them in tow, they will undoubtedly betray me. But if I leave them with you, here, then I have no doubt they will come for me.”

  Jerryl’s heart sank. The next words were poison to his own blood, but he needed confirmation.

  “You mean for them to meet the white death,” he said.

  Again, Lobosa left him with no words, but an answer nonetheless through his silence.

  “You said you enjoy our verbal sparring?” Jerryl asked. “Then allow me once last chance to do so with you.”

  Lobosa stared at Jerryl, hoping he would give him at least the faintest chance.

  “Go on,” Lobosa said.

  Jerryl launched into his word assault. “The boys have still never seen grass. Imagine how powerful that memory would be. Just imagine how strong... your plan since their birth was to restrict them from pleasure, to unleash it slowly upon them like a needle, pushing more and more into their skin... but until what? You’ve taught them some things about joy, as twisted and perverted as possible. Imagine how much stronger their memories would be if they actually found love? Or saw grass? Or felt the spray of the ocean?”

  Lobosa crossed his arms. His interests seemed, at least, piqued.

  “Then listen well, Warden. Here’s a fact: you’ve acted on a false assumption since the first day you purchased slaves.”

  Lobosa lit a match, striking it against a lacquered wooden chair, puffing into a pipe. He sat, legs crossed and puffing away, spewing smoke rings and spit simultaneously. Sometimes the spit went right through the rings, as if he was using them for short-range target practice. Once again, the Warden looked positively human. And amused.

  Jerryl waited a few seconds more before continuing.

  “The thing we value most from the past is happiness. Good times. Happiness, laughter, peaceful times. To a feral, perhaps, the strongest memories are ones enthralled in bloodlust. Whatever it may be. But that isn’t the human way.”

  Lobosa’s eyes seemed to be closing, as if he was falling asleep. Then smoke billowed out from his nostrils, as dense as silk curtains. He tapped out some excess weed. “Jerryl, humanity’s greatest flaw, and what will inevitably its downfall, is that they deny their base nature. The most powerful memories are those born of base emotions. Happiness is a construct of religion, Jerryl. That’s why it always leaves. You are a soldier. You of all people should know what stays. Anger, violence, hunger… without strife, we are vapid shells.”

  The smoke cleared a bit as Lobosa barked the word shells. Lobosa dumped out more blackened weed from his pipe and refilled it, powerful lungs having drained the plant completely from the pipe. Two fingertips grabbed enough, and it spilled out from the end of the pipe bowl. He puffed again, blasting out another stream of white grey.

  “Anger. The need to kill. Note, Jerryl, that I said need. There is a need in us, in all living races, for violence. Even for those ridiculous dwarves who have taken a passivity to war. Would you ever have thought you’d live to see such a thing? Dwarves and fighting - they were once like bread and butter. Now they sit on Mt. Zei, doing what? Nothing. Your idea, Jerryl, is filled with curious notions. The most powerful memories for humans are the ones filled with love and joy and peace... that is your opinion, yes? And that I should wait for the boys to experience some of these things, perhaps allow them to run with a bit more freedom, and then steal it away from them?”

  Jerryl nodded slowly.

  “Fire and blood, Jerryl, that’s the coldest thought to ever come out of your mouth. It’s not a terrible idea. But it won’t work.”

  Jerryl spoke. “Might I also suggest - “

  “No, Jerryl.” Lobosa lifted his hand, halting his words. “You may not. I know you want to protect them. But you can’t. Truthfully… you never could.”

  Red hot anger rose in Jerryl. He made no attempt to hide it from Lobosa, his face curling into an expression of unbridled violence.

  “Truthfully…” Lobosa said. “None of you could ever last.”

  Jerryl sprinted three steps to the north wall, ripping a mages staff from its rack, raising it into a high guard, turning swiftly and stepping toward Lobosa.

  The Warden’s face curled into a smile. “Oh, you poor, poor man.”

  Jerryl let loose a battle cry as the doors burst open. The two enforcer’s standing guard rushed in.

  “No!” Lobosa said, unsheathing his daggers. “Let him come. Let him truly understand.”

  Jerryl had no words for the Warden, only the desire to kill him. “My life link magic won’t allow me to be killed by any wound you can inflict, Warden.”

  The Warden said nothing, but his smile grew wider.

  Keeping up his high guard, Jerryl stepped forward, clashing against the furniture. He struck hard, thrusting over and over, knowing full well that he had to deal with Lobosa’s daggers before he could strike.

  Jerryl poked again and again. His weapon did not have the speed of Lobosa’s long daggers, so he jabbed high and low, knowing a bladed weapon would do him no good. He threw a thrust to the center, then wheeled around the staff to strike high, then low.

  Lobosa cackled, parrying the strikes, though Jerryl noticed Lobosa’s timing was off. He feinted a strike to the right shin, then brought the opposite end of the staff around, cracking Lobosa in the neck.

  “Ack!” Lobosa cried. Jerryl did not waste his advantage. He wheeled the staff to Lobosa’s inner thigh, pulling out his leg.

  Lobosa dropped into a half split, cutting at Jerryl’s legs.

  Jerryl jumped, cracking Lobosa across the head. Jerryl felt the reverberation through his hands. Lobosa stumbled further, holding out his daggers for defense as his mouth dangled open.

  Jerryl’s feet hit the floor, and he heard a sharp growl, then felt the rending of his right shoulder, muscles giving way as a spear point sheared through them from behind.

  He yelled out in pain, instantly dropping to his knees. Another spear went through his left shoulder, pinning him to the ground, and he screamed again.

  Jerryl huffed and puffed, breathing in the stench of feral feet and old carpet.

  He heard Lobosa stand up and grunt. “Warden Commander,” said one of the guards. “Are you alright?”

  “You disobeyed me,” Lobosa grumbled.

  Jerryl heard the death howls of both guards as Lobosa sliced th
em apart. Blood dripped onto his face and back in slowly dripping patches, as if dropped from someone’s hands.

  Lobosa spoke with a deep growl. “I will be holding you here the next few days.”

  Jerryl heard the door close, then suddenly, the two spears drove into the ground, pushing deep into the thick carpet. The pain was so great that Jerryl could no longer cry out.

  He felt Lobosa’s sticky mouth press against his ear, whispering softly.

  “They were always mine.”

  Lord Wyman’s words of hope no longer held water for Jerryl. He heard the Warden leave, and the door close behind him. Sweat pooled in Jerryl’s wrinkled palms. His thoughts became singular.

  I have to get them out.

  Chapter 17

  Orrin hunched over an old, tattered copy of the Grand Script. His eyes traced across a particular line of text, which read: Feel not that you are lost, but only on a different path.

  He sighed and looked over at Roiland’s cell. He could barely see the old man, but knew he was there.

  Orrin could feel him, and even he was unsure what that meant. It was like there was a long curtain attached to his body, reaching through the bars, flapping in his face.

  He had described this feeling to Valor.

  [ Does he still feel the same to you? ] Valor signed.

  Orrin nodded. [ Yes. Even stronger. It feels warm to me. ]

  Orrin moved to the wall closest to him and started to stretch his legs, but that soon bored him. He had achieved a full split by the age of twelve. There wasn’t much further to go than that.

  He looked again to Roiland’s cell, and picked up his journal. [ What are you doing? ] said Valor.

  [ I want him to see these. Can you tell him? ]

  Valor begrudgingly walked towards the cell bars. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening for any guards. When he was satisfied with the lack of nail dragging, he called out. “Hey... psst, ‘ey.”

  Roiland looked up from his boots and pushed himself to a standing position. Orrin tossed it underhand through the bars. Roiland grabbed the journal as it fluttered open, and then quickly disappeared into the back end of his cell.

  Roiland turned the pages rapidly. He paused on a few of them. “What is this?” he asked.

  “My brother’s journal. He draws these things. Ever seen them?”

  Roiland flipped through the entirety of the journal before responding. “No.”

  “Really?” Valor asked.

  “No. I haven’t. Some of them look a bit like things I have seen, but no, I haven’t seen these exact designs. Though if I were half the traveller you think I am, I definitely would have seen something like this. But I’m not. And I haven’t.” Orrin could sense Roiland’s irritation in his voice.

  Valor looked at Orrin and shook his head, signing what Armun had said. Orrin had heard, though. [ You believe him? ] Orrin signed.

  Valor shook his head. [ Not really. Not at all. I don’t know if we should speak to him anymore, Orrin. He may be a spy for Lobosa. ]

  Orrin itched his nose. [ A spy of Lobosa wouldn’t still be around. ]

  [ You might be right, ] Valor signed slowly.

  Valor looked towards Roiland. “Thank you,” he said to Roiland.

  Orin looked at him bewilderingly, signing with quick hands. [ You said not to speak to him. ]

  Valor shook his head. [ I’m not necessarily speaking with him. I’m testing him. Did you hear me invite him over to play two fates? ]

  Valor turned again towards Roiland. “Hey. Old man.”

  Roiland sighed. “Yes?”

  “The ferals haven’t picked up nearly as many prisoners as of late. If anything, they’ve been thinning us out. I’m sorry that I doubted you, again. It’s just strange, is all.”

  Valor waited for a response, but the silver haired man gave none. He met Orrin’s gaze, who was still bewildered by his decision making.

  Valor spoke again. “I think we’re all going to die.”

  Orrin turned to Valor, accidentally snapping his charcoal in half. He signed, [ Now you are just being morbid. ]

  Valor waved off his brother, and turned to face Roiland. “Well, when I say we, I don’t really mean we. Just in the general sense. We won’t die. I like you, sort of, and Orrin likes you, so you may not die. Either that, or we will live. Depending...”

  Valor stopped to think.

  “Depending..?” Roiland asked.

  “Depending upon their needs. The ferals’ needs, whatever those may be. Things are changing. I’ve noticed people falling away. You have to think on this one a bit, but the answer is simple. People stop doing things when they know change is coming. Why do something unnecessarily, after all.”

  Roiland stood, stretching his arms. Orrin watched mister silver hair shrug his shoulders, and release another sigh before he asked, “Besides the lack of new prisoners, what other evidence do you have?”

  Valor smiled. “Well, I... I can’t see why they’d need us anymore. You’ve seen the quarries. The walls of the mountains are thin. People die from crumbling rocks every day. So the ferals have got their ober. And who knows what they do with it, besides sell it. They are more organized than ever, richer than ever... the moment the Scarlett Ring closes the door. That’s when it’ll happen.”

  Valor stopped, and gave his brother a devilish grin.

  [ No! ] Orrin signed. [ Don’t tell him about that! ]

  “My brother doesn’t want me to tell you about something, but I still don’t think you are who you say you are. So I’m going to tell you. Then we’ll see how you react.”

  Orrin knew exactly what Valor was going to say.

  Roiland turned, meeting his challenge, looking at both of them. “Fine. Let me give you a closer view of my expressionless face. It’ll be the same once you’re done yapping.”

  [ Valor, stop! ] Orrin signed.

  Valor ignored his brother’s plea. “Orrin saw something terrible. The first time we tried to escape. He saw a forge, undoubtedly enchanted with foul magic. The entrance to the forge is close to the main gate of the Arnaks. It’s very well hidden. It’s impossible to see on the way in, only upon leaving, and even then it is difficult to find. Supposedly, this is where the white death and ober become one.”

  Valor paused. “Lobosa found him. Used the white death on Orrin. That’s why he’s mute. It didn’t take - whatever the white death normally takes from its victims. Your soul, your mind, whatever it is… instead, Lobosa just took his voice.”

  Valor turned to his brother. Orrin was fuming.

  [ You become more and more like the Warden every day. ]

  Roiland looked from side to side, then whispered. “How do you know the forge is magical?”

  Orrin pressed his back to the far wall, staring at Valor, who stared back as he continued speaking. “A long time ago, the ferals used powerful acids to melt away useless rock. One day there was an accident. A huge vat of acid mixture fell over, and the magic seal that supposedly had it shut tight was gone. It spread throughout the quarry. Orrin and I managed to grab onto a high ledge. We watched as the ober floated away, unmelted. Looked like long, big worms swimming in green water.

  Orrin managed to peel away his angry eyes from Valor, looking back at Roiland, who began to pace. After a silent minute, Roiland returned to the front of his cell. “Tell me more about this forge,” Roiland asked.

  “I can’t. For Orrin, the thought of that experience is still too difficult.”

  Orrin felt himself reach a new level of fury. His hands crinkled through his short hair, shaking. [ Go on you ass. You’ve told him everything else. ]

  Valor threw his hands up. [ Speak to him or don’t speak to him? You’ll be mad at both. ]

  [ I’m mad when you say one thing and then do another! ] Orrin shot back.

  Valor tsked into the air. [ It was a spur of the moment idea. ]

  “I see,” Roiland said. “Why tell me all this? Even if I’m not who I say I am, what makes you think I can de
al with any of that information?”

  Valor moved as closely to the bars as possible. Orrin resisted the urge to push him into the iron wall, just enough to get him back. “They will either kill us or use us. And it will be soon. I’d rather you be on our side when things get bad.”

  His question did not prompt a response, and the old man returned to the back wall of his cell, drifting out of sight.

  Orrin grabbed his brother, wheeling him around. [ More like the Warden. Every day. You didn’t even ask me. ]

  Valor shook his head, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and signing. [ We have no friends left in here, Orrin. We need someone on our team. And I just know. I know there’s something about him. ]

  Orrin awoke to the unmistakable sound of bloodletting. Then he saw Valor, already standing as close to the bars as possible, eyes locked on Roiland’s cell.

  A strange noise occurred then, the sound of metal against metal, accompanied by a hammering of fists against thick muscle. Suddenly, a slave known to both Orrin and Valor slammed into Armun’s cage face first.

  The face belonged to a man named Carrith; the face of a man who would soon be dead.

  He was only alive for a moment. A well kept secret about the lightning power of the bars was that the more force it received, the more it responded. A hundred and twenty pound man flying against those bars would receive enough force back to kill him.

  Bluish purple veins of electricity ran their course through his skeleton, blinding Orrin for a moment. It was over in seconds. When the smoke dissipated, what was left of him did not appear human. Steam began to rise from his charred body.

  Orrin had almost forgotten about Carrith. His cell was next to their new friend’s, where he had been confined for nearly four and a half months. The white pullers had done their full work upon his mind, leaving only a shell of a person, without the decency to put the man out of his misery. Carrith barely ever moved, and the guards never even thought to stir him. What was more odd, they still fed him, and left him be.