Gakkamon bowed before replying. “Stoney was going to fight Sindarr, commander. In an exhibition match, if you remember. To be honest, commander, Sindarr will most likely murder this slave. Don’t think that would make for a very good fight. Not a true fight, in any case.”
The Warden click-clacked two fingers on his mask repeatedly. “Everburn, gods… I don’t have time for this - alright. Well what else do we have?”
As Gakkamon began to rattle off the next day’s fights, Armun stared intently at the hourglass object. Slowly, he compressed his aura, wedging it in between Gakkamon and the Warden. It stretched out, thinning slowly. If either of them could feel it, they weren’t letting on.
Armun reached out faster. It touched the object.
Thrmmm….
Armun released, his aura snapping back violently, fizzling like the foaming sea around his body. Whatever had touched the thing last was terrible, and powerful, and held a strength that neither of the two ferals standing before him could contain. Before he escaped, he would need to know, realizing it was most likely related to the white death.
The Warden stopped his pace, and spun. Armun turned his attention back to the Warden. He wiped his sharp nails across his mask. “How well can you really fight?”
Armun spent a long time considering his answer before giving it.
“As well as I have to - to live, Warden.”
The Warden answered. “Good answer. Gakkamon, let him fight Jik’qui instead of Sindarr. Cardiff, do you know what an exhibition match is?”
Armun nodded.
“Good,” Lobosa said. “Good. Gakkamon will instruct you in the details of the fight.”
The Warden moved towards Gakkamon, addressing him. “I’m going to prepare some. Fortunate you caught me before I left. Have this slave bunk with the brothers tonight. Give him a real cot, so that he’s well rested, and feed him well. Tell them to fill him in on whatever you don’t. And if they have a problem with that, send them to me.”
Suddenly, Armun’s head was bagged again, his feet led through through the darkness upon darkness.
Armun sat in the brothers’ cell that night, creating a perfect triangle of insecurity. In the far right corner sat Valor, who seemed content to sit and stare at him. Here was this man, in their cell, now, who was a terrible, terrible liar, but undoubtedly a skilled fighter. Valor knew that the two were not necessarily shared traits, but it was clearly no accident that he ended up in the Arnaks.
In the corner opposite him sat Orrin, who was also completely unsure of what to do.
On the cot gifted to him by the Warden sat Armun.
Not one of them had spoken to each other for every reason one could list, chief of all among them was the deception.
Armun sat, coldly calculating the risk, and every possible idea that could be floating through the heads of both boys. After much deliberation, and large quantities of boredom, he knew that honesty was his only way out.
If need be, he could disappear from sight and find Sir Trought. If the boys tried to stop him, there would be nothing. He was not sure they were not agents of the Warden, and he had to come to grips with the idea that death might be the only option left to him, and that if it came to it, he might as well blow the doors down.
Just as he was about to speak up, an enforcer walked by, quelling him into an awkward body position. Armun forced a grumble, which caught the boys attention. The three silent men locked eyes.
The enforcer stopped at their cell for only a moment. To Armun, the enforcer, who he believed was female due to her slighter build, seemed to be looking around curiously. She left, however, curiosity sated, leaving them to themselves once again.
He could see Valor clench one of his fists, readying himself for a brawl. Slowly, the old man walked towards Orrin, and sat down next to him, hands up in a sign of peace. He then nodded towards Orrin’s book and pencil. Orrin looked between him and his precious journal, as if Armun was asking for his own newborn child.
“I’m not going to ruin your drawings,” Armun said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Valor grunted, catching his brother’s attention, and he signed to the mute Orrin. His hands made a sideways motion, then balled into fists before relaxing.
Valor watched Orrin make the same movements, then turned to smile at Armun. He knew the bigger brother trusted him more. Out of curiosity, Armun pushed out his aura, just enough to touch his hand when Orrin gave Armun his journal and charcoal. The only thing he could sense in that brief moment was a depth of gentleness. “Thank you,” Armun whispered. He noticed Orrin had jumped slightly when they touched hands, and the boy rubbed it as if he had received a shock, a sign that Orrin might have the aura of magic.
Armun opened the journal to a blank page, then quietly placed his charcoal stick in the hands of their mysterious friend. Armun wasted no time in writing out his words. In less than a minute he was finished, and quickly placed the journal and pencil into Orrin’s hands.
He watched as both brothers’ eyes stirred across his written words.
I will admit that I am not normal. But we cannot speak anymore in this place.
You are correct, Valor. Soon things will change, for the worse and for the better. Suffice it to say, I was sent here to look for someone. Telling you could put you in the Warden’s path in a way you have not been before. Trust is a thing to be earned. If I survive tomorrow, I will tell you everything.
Valor ripped the page from his book and ate it, crunching down hard, swallowing it bite by bite. He shut the book upon finishing the words on the page. Silence followed until Valor had swallowed every bit of paper.
“Yes,” he said.
Orrin nodded as well. Armun couldn’t help but smile, and the mood in the cell lifted.
“So, this Scarlett Ring… Gakkamon gave me an earful. How to act in front of the crowd, procedure for waiting at the ring gates - but how does it really work?”
Valor stood then, stretching and yawning. “You enter. You fight. There are no rules except that you cannot start before the battle master says so. But even that rule doesn’t always apply if your opponent is ready to do nothing but kill.”
Orrin reached up to the ceiling and yawned while Valor continued, copying his brother’s movements.
“It’s really not much more complicated than that. You fight, and if you win, you live. If you lose, you die. The only way to really lose is if you die. I’ve seen matches where both combatants would go at it for hours, and one in particular, where both men simply moved to different sides of the ring, and sat there. Refused to fight. Simply sat there. Interesting, but foolish.”
“What happened to them?” Asked Armun.
Valor scratched his hairline. “Well, that’s the thing, see... Lobosa just let them rot. He cut off the hands of anyone who threw them food or water. They died of starvation and dehydration. Days went by, and the fights simply continued. They starved themselves.” Valor scratched at his thick, short hair.
“Really, it depends upon Lobosa’s mood. I don’t need to tell you that he’s twisted, he’ll do what he wishes. I don’t know whether those warriors were brave or stupid. I suppose that depends on the person.”
Armun picked crusted sand from his beard. “Those kinds of questions are better left unanswered.”
“How so?” Valor asked.
“One man’s bravery is another man’s cowardice,” Armun said. “I have seen enough of this world to know that certain cultures have different ways of doing things. Have you ever met a troll?”
“I’ve fought a few.”
Armun looked at Orrin, who nodded in agreement. “Sorry, what?” he asked in surprise.
“I fought a few. I’ve read some about that war that went on. Not many of them left.”
Armun sat more upright. “But how did you best them in combat?”
Valor’s blank stare spoke confusion. “With… my swords? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to answer your question.”
Armun
felt a loss of words hook his tongue in place for a moment. He had watched countless skilled soldiers die in the troll wars.
“That’s alright... no one knows how many are left. And trust no one who says they do. They are cunning, even more than these ferals that hold us imprisoned. I have found, though, that in war, they do not believe in the idea of retreat. Nor, in fact, throughout their entire bloody history, have they ever infiltrated another camp or won by trickery. They meet you on the field of combat, and they pour all their ingenuity and effort into that moment. They fight until there is not one soldier left. And should they lose, that would mean none were left. One would even say that, oddly enough, they could be the perfect soldiers. Perhaps the greatest soldiers to ever live. It was what made them so difficult to, ehm...” Armun trailed off then, realizing that his rambling was leading to a place he did not wish to go, or to discuss.
Armun could see the gears in both boys’ minds working. “I’m getting lost on your point,” Valor said.
“Indeed. Sorry,” Armun said quickly, “my point is simply as stated before. We are all different in many ways. So many of our differences are not really differences at all, yet we judge others by them, and in turn attempt to judge ourselves by the actions of others. It is difficult to understand wholly, and even more difficult to lead this way.”
Valor nodded. “First hand experience?”
Armun smiled, holding a finger up to his lips. Valor mimicked him in his expression.
“I can say,” Armun said in a low whisper, “that difficulties arrive in joining with nations of such strange behavior. My using the word strange to describe the trolls is hypocritical to my own beliefs, I know... but soon. Soon. Back to my point, again I stray - people are confusing. Confounding. Abstract. The bloom has helped a great deal, though.”
“What’s a bloom?” Valor asked.
“Oh… a newer term. Call it a cultural awakening? Yes, that’s the best way to put it. People start to care about the important things in life, like... how we breathe? What’s behind the veil? What is good art?”
Valor winced. The word art seemed to cause him pain. “Doubt that last one is really that important.”
Armun agreed, especially after his recent pass through a terrathian art gallery. The painter had used his own feces as a darkening tool on portraiture of famous warlords from the past. The point was not lost on him, nor was the smell.
Armun turned towards Orrin. “Are you listening?” he asked Orrin, who nodded quickly. “I had always wanted to learn the language of signs.”
“It’s not hard to get,” said Valor.
“How did you learn such a thing?” Armun asked.
“Our mentor taught us. The three of us worked most of it out. We invented some signs for things we couldn’t find.”
“I must say, this mentor of yours must be quite a man. I’m assuming he’s human?” Armun said in between a series of coughs.
“No feral except the Warden would teach us a damn thing.” Valor said. “Our teacher’s human. His name is Jerryl.”
Armun’s attention snapped into the place at the sound of his mission’s name.
“Jerryl, you say?” he asked. “Does he stay in this cell with you?”
Both Valor and Orrin looked at each other, suddenly very quiet. Armun wondered if they were onto him. “He does,” Valor said. “But… we haven’t seen him for days. Lobosa’s taken him somewhere.”
Armun couldn’t believe what he was hearing. All this time the clues to his quest had been just a few feet from him. “Where would Lobosa take him? Is he valuable to him?”
“Very,” Valor said, “which is the only thing that makes us less concerned. Lobosa wouldn’t outright kill him. He used to be a general for the Spades. And part of some secret group… he’s got something he calls life link magic. It makes his body regenerate. Lobosa’s probably tried every which way to find out how to kill him, but I don’t think he’s figured it out yet.”
Armun couldn’t believe the words coming from Valor’s mouth. He, too, knew about the life link magic, but was surprised that this young boy was aware of it as well.
“I’m sorry.” Armun said. “He sounds like a good man.”
“He is,” Valor replied softly. “The closest thing we’ve had to a father… who knows where he is.”
Harma indeed, Armun thought, thankful for at least having something to go on.
He changed the subject. “The Warden, Lobosa... what makes him in charge?”
Valor shrugged. “His bloodline. His grandsire and sire built what you’d call a foundation. Lobosa’s been trying to make that foundation work.”
“Has he succeeded?”
“In every way but one,” Valor answered.
“What way is that?” Armun asked.
Valor waved his arm around, looking about the cells. Armun got the point.
“No way of life should ever be made on the backs of others,” Valor said.
“On that we agree,” Armun replied.
Valor continued. “Other than that, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him use magic. But - I’m sure you know a lot of magic can’t be seen. I’ve seen him take serious injury though, multiple times. His enforcers make him disappear, and when he comes back around, he’s stronger than ever. His biggest tool, though? Fear. Plain and simple. He doesn’t need the fear so much with his own men... they don’t just look like dogs, you know. You know the saying - loyal to the teeth.”
“Could you match him?” Armun asked quietly.
Valor scrubbed his face with a rough hand. “If I had a choice to run or fight, and escape was possible, I would do so. My brother and I are not schooled in magic, nor do we particularly care to be. I’d rather let Lobosa chew on my balls before I learn any of that garbage.”
“You spoke of feral loyalty,” Armun said. “From what I’ve seen, there isn’t much to go around. Like that incident with Gakkamon after I killed Stoney.”
Valor answered, seeming reluctant. “That was from the bloodlust. Gives you brain haze, red eyes, bad skin… a lot of which is hard to see in a feral.”
Armun nodded his head, confirming what he already knew.
“But trust me - you haven’t seen anything of what I mean by feral loyalty. They worship the idea... well, it’s not a solid thing, really, but the idea of a revolution, or an end of the world. More of a prophecy, some fire and blood nonsense. They think that someday, they’ll bring about a resurgence of their people, running wild and eating babies and all that darkness. The flame seers are like their versions of priests or monks. They run the show. Doubt you’ll see them, though. They are preachers, and excavators, and torturers, and who knows what else.”
Armun nodded. He wanted to know more, but sleepiness was beginning to take hold.
“We shall see what comes of tomorrow,” he said. Valor held out a hand. Armun gave it a firm shake, then shook Orrins.
Valor said, “Don’t get yourself killed. I honestly hope you can fight. You’re not so bad, I guess.”
With that, Armun laid down on his cot with a wandering mind. It had been so long since he’d been in a situation where he felt threatened, his life not truly in his own hands, variables many, rapidly multiplying.
Armun rubbed his hands together, rubbing them over the bones in his knees, elbows, and hips. They felt as good as they did sixty years ago, when he was just a young soldier.
Even his feelings were the same. He remembered his first important mission, deep into the heart of beast men territory, far to the western forests. His mind racing, chest tight with one fear; the fear of failure, a fear that helped him persevere.
He felt that fear now, sixty years later. It’s been too long, he thought.
If he survived the Ring of Scarlett, and if what Valor said was true, Jerryl would return to the boys sooner or later. And if not, then he had to be ready to do whatever was necessary.
Chapter 19
Armun awoke on his own the next morning, unsure of the time. It felt li
ke morning, but the darkness of the cave kept his mind in uncertainty. He pulled his aura in, as it had slipped outward during sleep.
Valor was awake and alert, staring at him, waving, watching as Armun rose and dusted off his pants.
A large bowl of hearty stew sat at his feet, alongside a metal mug of clean water.
“This actually appears… decent. Smells decent.”
“They want to make sure we have physical strength, but nothing up top,” Valor said, tapping his forehead.
Armun took a deep spoonful. His normal morning routine was meditation first, food second, but he assumed his time was short. “Where is your brother?”
“Gone to the mines. We will be Lobosa’s escort later. Most likely we’ll see you down there.”
Armun quickly consumed his meal, surprised at how content he was. He guzzled the water as if it were his last glass, depleting it in the same manner as the stew. It was an unhealthy way to eat, but his mouth and hands seemed to move on their own.
“What happens now?” Armun asked, wiping broth from his beard.
“You wait. They’ll come for you. Chances are they’ll give you some armor and a cheap sword, and then send you off to fight. If you’re lucky you’ll get a mace. A cheap mace is better than a cheap sword. You’ll break right through most of whoever or whatever you’re fighting.”
Armun nodded, and began a stretching routine. He inhaled deep, filling his belly, reaching for the sky. He thought about how strange it was to have such confidence in himself. He did not believe he would die today, but that many others might. He had held his aura in for days now, and it was beginning to wear on him. He stared at Valor.
Their conversation from last night had sparked something.
“Valor.” Armun said.
Valor lifted his chin. “Hm?”
“What do you think of war?” He asked. “And pain?”
Armun watched Valor’s face go through a long serious of facial expressions, ending with a laugh. “That’s a really thick question, considering it’s so early. I also can’t imagine why you’re asking someone like me.”
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 20
