Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  The blackened body of Carrith slid against the poles so that he rested on an angle on top of his knees. Orrin’s eyes fixated on the darkness, scanning them for any signs of life. He heard heavy breathing, and fingers moving in blood, attempting to push cut skin back together.

  A tiny green light blossomed from the back of Roiland’s cell, close to the floor. Orrin strained his eyes to keep watch on it. He could see Roiland’s hand pressing over the light, obviously trying to hide it as it leaked out between his fingers, pulsing with power. Orrin heard Roiland make a hissing noise

  The old man could do magic, and there was no question of that now. The only question that remained to Orrin was one of intrigue. Why would an old mage, and one strong enough to heal a knife wound, be willing to sit in a cell?

  Soon, the light was no more, and gone was the faint hum that accompanied it.

  Moments later, he heard the quick feet of several guards, descending from the ceiling with expert silence. Three enforcers landed with a few puffs of sand, blood red cloaks with violet trim flapping against the bars of the cell.

  “The crazy one went and got burnt.”

  One of the guards lit a nearby torch with a spark from his spear, fully bringing the scene to light. Carrith’s body had begun to disintegrate, steaming and hissing, the smell filling the whole section of the prison. Armun stood with his back to the wall, several fresh tears in his clothing, none of which showed any wounds that Orrin could see. The guard threw light across the body.

  “There. Crazy one just pushed through some worn out bars.”

  From what Orrin could see, the bars between Carrith and Roiland’s cage had eroded beyond repair, orange and yellow rust bleeding up from the ground.

  The shortest enforcer quickly opened the gate to Roiland’s cell with his spear, snatching him from it. The guards looked back and forth between themselves, Roiland, and the charred body. “You do this?” she said to Roiland. He nodded his head, stepping back as the guard stepped forward. “How?”

  Orrin could hear the sweat dropping from Roiland’s forehead. “It was dark. I heard the bars fall and I woke. He came at me, and then his hand hit the bars. He took a big swing. He - he must have broken that hand, because he dropped a knife. It was instinct. The knife - “

  “Fine. Fine enough,” said the female enforcer, tracing the room. One of the guards stepped up to their leader, with said knife in hand. He placed it in the palm of the female. “This must be fixed now,” she said. “You two will remain here until we can find something we can replace these bars with. I’ll be back with someone who can help.” The two guards bowed as their leader leapt up towards the invisible ceiling, with the grace of a ghost ascending to the afterlife.

  The enforcer holding the torch turned towards Valor quickly, who did not flinch at the sudden brightness. “What are you looking at?” asked the guard.

  “A mess, it seems,” said Valor with a grin.

  “What say you shut it, before I run you through.”

  “No problem here, enforcer.” Valor said.

  “Did you do this?” the guard replied. “You try to get this slave to kill this old man? Fess up.”

  Valor opened his hands to the guards, looking all around the room, as if to ask how that could be possible.

  The feral warrior growled and gnashed his long teeth, slobber-splattering agains the bars that Valor, specks hitting his fingertips. Valor pulled back, snapping his wrists to throw the saliva on the floor.

  Two enforcers stood guard, while the female left to retrieve someone who could work metal. In two hours, new bars were put into place.

  Several times throughout the night, Orrin locked eyes with Roiland.

  He knew that they knew.

  Chapter 18

  Two days beyond the night of Carrith's death, Valor waited against the eastern wall of the quarry, finished with his day’s work. He was sometimes allowed to sit and watch, under careful supervision, as the other slaves chipped away lifelessly at their forced employment.

  Valor picked dirt from beneath his nails, watching Roiland, who worked diligently at the other side of the quarry. Of many things Valor was still unsure, but he was fairly certain now that silver hair was neither a spy, nor any agent of the Warden. If he had been, Valor knew he’d have to be on the receiving end of some deranged punishment by now. Roiland, however, had ignored him and Orrin since that night, not speaking one word, nor sharing a glance.

  The stranger Roiland was, at the least, very, very good with a pickaxe.

  Valor studied his silver hair, his eyes, his gait, the way he breathed. The old man gave away nothing to Valor, except what the silence told him.

  The silver haired stranger stood out, for certain. He stood out amongst them all. It wasn’t really the hair, or his tall stature, but the way he carried himself. He was clearly a healthy man, and though he had obviously dropped some weight in the days he’d been chained, he still had energy to spare. The only man bigger than him was Bleghal, whom everyone called Stoney, but never to his face. And just by coincidence, the two had happened to be lined up next to one another.

  Against Stoney, even new man Roiland was a twiggy thing. Stoney’s veins looked like giant worms, attempting to wriggle out of his skin. His legs were like tree trunks, and his face as ugly as the rock they excavated.

  Valor admired both men’s physiques. He had always been more lithe, and though strong, he had always wanted to be bigger, like Orrin.

  I’ve always wanted to be smaller like you, his brother would say. He chalked it up to simply wanting what you couldn’t have.

  He looked over at Orrin, who was still angry with him for telling Roiland his secret. He hoped Orrin would come around after a day. What’s the big deal? he thought. It was the first time in a long time they had gone so long without a single word between them. Sooner or later, he would break his brother of his softness, for his own good. Normally Jerryl was around to force them to make up, though Jerryl had not been seen for days now. This was a growing concern for Valor, one that he tried not to focus on.

  Whenever he could, Valor would stare directly into Roiland’s eyes. Not for intimidation, but simply in the hopes of finding clues. Silver hair’s keen, blue eyes gave him glimpses of stories he desperately wanted to hear.

  Suddenly, Roiland stumbled, tripping over a loose rock. His body slammed into Stoney, knocking both men off balance.

  Valor’s mind screamed oh, no.

  Stoney was a ring fighter as well, and not nearly as lame as he looked. But all sense left the big man the moment he became aggravated.

  His beastly figure swung hard, nearly taking Roiland’s head off. The old man ducked just in time, nearly falling over backwards.

  Valor stood. The two ferals beside him lurched into low stances, slowly walking towards the fight, as if their boredom from guarding Valor had afflicted them permanently.

  The ogre of a man swung his giant, bulky fists towards Roiland again, with a slow, lumbering movement. Roiland moved back in a strange manner, as if his ability to balance was somehow broken.

  “Please, we can talk about this like gentlemen!” Roiland said, his tone reflecting the way one would speak to a disgruntled dog, more so than an actual threat.

  As a giant, meaty hand eclipsed the shallow light from torches above, shadowing Roiland’s face, Valor knew then it was his time to strike. These moments always felt strange to him, when he was on the receiving end. The mind always felt that there would be time enough to think, and that just maybe you could deflect the incoming blow. But there never was, except for the time a person wasted thinking such a thing was possible.

  True to reality, as the giant fist came down, Roiland reached for the pickaxe he had pretended to fall over. The tip was jagged and cracked, but it glided through the air easily, sticking into Stoney’s rib cage. The big man stumbled backwards, smearing the blood that leaked from his lower ribs, painting the story of his inevitable death. He swiped at the air, knocking one of six guards
that now had the two men surrounded. The other slaves had enough mind in them to know to get against the wall.

  Stoney cried out, swiping another slave in the head. The feral spiraled three times before hitting the ground.

  Valor looked at Roiland. His face did not show the expression of a man who was thankful to be alive. Instead, his mouth turned sour. Roiland stared at Stoney, lips forming a thin, horizontal line, revealing no emotion.

  Stoney sank down to the ground slowly, lowering himself upon his back. Whatever organ Roiland had pierced had done the deed. Stoney’s breathing became soft and staggered.

  One of the guard’s kicked Roiland’s back leg, forcing him to the ground. Two others surrounded him, the grips on their spears as tight as could be. Two others surrounded Stoney, checking him for signs of life.

  As if on cue, Gakkamon appeared standing between Roiland and the

  The skinnier enforcer spoke. “Gakkamon, move out of the way! We’re gonna stick him.”

  “You know the rules,” Gakkamon growled. “If a ring elite dies in a fight, the winner goes to see the Warden.”

  The skinny enforcer gnashed his teeth. “Those rules are old, and so are you. Besides, the games have already started.” He moved towards Gakkamon’s left side. “Move.”

  Gakkamon grabbed the spear tip. The feral holding it refused to let go, and was tossed to the nearby wall, hitting it hard, bouncing to the floor like a flopping fish. The two closest enforcers squealed and stepped back as the old feral warrior pressed forward. His growl was so deep that Valor could feel it in his bones. He saw the feral’s jowls quiver, and a full display of Gakkamon’s surprisingly white teeth.

  “What’s wrong with you all?” Gakkamon quickly gripped the jaws of one of his men, pulled open his mouth, taking a deep inhale. The enforcer wanted to struggle, but knew better. Valor watched his hands and legs twitch from the force of Gakkamon’s claws.

  Valor looked around the quarry. Many had stopped to watch events unfold.

  When Gakkamon let go, he whispered to his men. “Find replacements. Go to your homes. You’re all on leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” The five sullen guards responded in low voices and meek grumbles. Valor smelled the bloodlust on their collective breath as they spoke, even from afar. Many had overindulged. It came together in Valor’s mind then as to why they had been so careless as of late. Permanent effects of the bloodlust finally seemed to be taking hold.

  Gakkamon gripped Roiland by the shoulder. “I’ll take this one myself.”

  The five remaining enforcers bowed low, and then left.

  Valor watched Gakkamon reach under his cloak, and pull out a familiar black hood, placing it over Roiland’s head.

  Valor’s stomach became butterflies. Just as it was proven to him that Roiland could both fight and do magic, he was taken. He realized Roiland would most likely be seen again, but only in the Ring of Scarlett.

  How strong is his magic, though? Valor thought.

  For the first time in a long while, Valor had no ideas, his mind as blank as the rock wall behind him.

  As Armun was lifted up by the one who had been called Gakkamon, his hands were whipped behind his back and lashed together with a strong, thick rope. Gakkamon seemed to be using a common, though slightly modified, prisoner’s tie. It wrapped around his wrists and abdomen, forming a leash in the center of his stomach.

  Gakkamon tugged the rope firmly, and Armun followed. The only thing he could see through the blackness were torches and the spiral like, energized lights of their lightning magic, tracing intersecting lines across the walls.

  They walked for about ten minutes before Gakkamon pushed him forward, letting him take the lead.

  “Up the stairs. Slow.”

  Armun took a step, thankful the stairs were well carved. He took them one step at a time, and Gakkamon was right behind him. He dared to speak, wondering if, now that they were alone, he might be able to grab some information from the feral that had saved his life. It was a long shot, he knew, but still worth a try.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” he said plainly.

  Gakkamon said, “Hmph. You might not thank me once you’ve been in the Scarlett Ring.”

  Armun thought carefully about his response. “Well - at least I have a chance. Alone with your men, I’d have been dead.”

  Gakkamon laughed a little. “Not much of one. I consider you humans to be a low kind. Don’t look into it too much. The Warden allows me to serve above others because I follow the rules. That’s why you are alive, but only for now.”

  Armun had him talking, which was all he had hoped for. “He trusts you,” he said.

  “Quiet, human.”

  When the ground became level again, Gakkamon moved back to the front, leading him for a short while, until Armun felt the furry claw again. The hood was suddenly ripped off.

  They had stopped in front of a wide, multi-panel oak door, a thick latch hammered into it, hinges big enough to hold a catapult in place. The walls were plain rock, save for two large torches that left black char marks on the wall. Gakkamon tied the rope firmly around a handle that was bolted to the rock wall. He stared at Armun before entering.

  “Don’t try to run.” Gakkamon whispered.

  Gakkamon yanked hard on the door, leaving barely enough space for Armun to get a glimpse. As it closed loudly, Armun stepped a bit closer to hear.

  “Warden Commander.”

  “Gakkamon. Seems like you brought me something.”

  The voice that Armun did not know he could only define as malicious. If he had not heard cruelty in voice form before, it would have frightened him, but evil men were nothing new.

  “He killed Stoney in a fair fight. Pick axe, right about here. Stoney’s thick as a Ya’gah tree. And this human was on his back. Stuck the pick at least four inches in.”

  “That’s a powerful swing. Bring him in, sit him down.”

  Gakkamon opened the door, yanked Armun inside, and slammed him down into a chair before his mind could take stock of what had happened.

  The chamber was well lit. Weapons and masks littered the walls, spiraling in perfect rows up to the concave ceiling.

  As his eyes focused, Armun saw the Warden.

  There stood a feral, dressed in leather. Thick, flat daggers sat loosely on his waist, and an intricately designed mask covered his face. He wore the blood red cloak, and a heavy shoulder guard on his left side. The Warden’s gauntlets and leg guards were made of thick layers of water hardened leather. He wondered how this feral managed not to impale himself.

  Armun was drawn to an hourglass style apparatus on the Warden’s table. He felt the instant desire to crawl away from it, toes pushed instinctively against the dirt floor, fingers stretching away on the uneven wooden armrests.

  Without warning, the Warden pressed his face into Armun’s. His breath was foul, and reeked of meat. Deep, orange eyes penetrated Armun’s blues, holding obvious ill intentions.

  Armun knew he should have pretended to feel fear. His instinct was the opposite of normal as he stared back at the Warden, realizing he’d ruined his chance to show that he was not suited for combat.

  Armun looked again at the hourglass thing, swirling insides with white, creamy fog. His mouth went dry, arm hairs standing on end.

  “What is your name?” the Warden asked Armun. The feral’s voice was oddly human. He spoke with clarity and distinction, like a well read man, with undertones of anger.

  “Cardiff. Roiland Cardiff.” Armun did not have to work hard to fake fear. Something about the Warden gave him chills.

  “You must have some skill to be able to off Stoney. It’s a bit unfortunate. He was a great draw for my ring.”

  The Warden pulled his face away. “I am the Warden. And our rules here in the Arnaks state that anyone who kills one of my arena elites must take his place. So - can you fight?”

  Armun was about to speak, but the Warden quickly withdrew two long daggers, scissoring them between Armun�
�s throat. Armun became a statue then, and did not move. Sweat dribbled off his chin to the tip of the blade. He met the Warden’s eyes, deep and bloodshot. He stared into them, and his heartbeat became calm.

  He recited an old saying to himself.

  In all eyes, you can understand.

  Of all of Harma’s teachings, this was one he found true. He took a chance and released his aura.

  As he looked into the eyes of the Warden, he saw lethality, murderousness, conflicting ideas of order and nature. They were the eyes of a tired leader, stretched to the bone, bloodshot, and despite his skill, there was desperation, barely clinging to plans, a feeling of hanging that one gets from hanging off of a cliffside by two fingers.

  Armun was unsure of what the Warden saw in his eyes.

  The Warden pulled his daggers back across eachother, close enough to leave tiny cuts on Armun’s neck. Armun cursed himself. He had wanted to stay out of any trouble long enough to find Jerryl Trought, but after that second exchange, there was no way he could lie.

  So sloppy, Jerryl thought of himself.

  “Where is his cell?” The Warden asked.

  “Right across from the brothers, commander.” Gakkamon said.

  “Is this the man who was attacked the other night?” Lobosa asked.

  “Yes, commander.”

  Lobosa smiled. “So not only can he defend himself during the day, but he can do so in complete darkness as well. Are you military, Cardiff?”

  Armun answered.“Yes… yes Warden. I was, Warden. When I was a young man. No longer.”

  “Well, excellent. You can fight then?”

  Armun nodded, noting the strange way the Warden spoke to him. It was as if the dog was speaking down to its owner, as if he had the half brain of a mutt, and nothing more. It was no longer a question where his men learned their habits of treatment.

  “Sir,” Gakkamon said, “where will he fit in the roster?”

  The Warden made his way behind his stone table, nonchalantly waving off Gakkamon’s question. “Wherever Stoney was, Gakkamon. You know how this works. You don’t have to ask that.”