Armun nodded. “I may be dead in a few hours. And I’d like to know what someone like you - someone who’s grown up in all this - thinks about those kinds of things.”
Valor scratched at his face. “To be honest, I don’t much know how to answer the question of war. I have never been in a war. Not a real war, at least. Not anything like the ones I’ve read about. I’ve been in skirmishes, but never a real war. I can speak in terms of pain. Sure.”
Valor sank back slightly into the darkness of his cell. “Pain is our teacher, I think. Pain makes us stronger. It’s that simple. Not the most original thought, but… you know, I listen sometimes when the nobles talk, when I’m around them. The ones that come to the Scarlett Ring. The ones that walk above, in the few moments I am allowed by myself when guarding Lobosa. They speak as if they’ve never felt pain - not real pain, anyways. As if, I was to speak the word to them, they would look at me with questions in their eyes. Of all the people I’ve ever met, they seem the most lost.”
Valor rubbed his eyes. “I know there is something coming. Maybe war. If I’m in it, ask me the second question again someday.”
Armun shook his arms about, then rotated his wrists in full circles. “What about revenge?”
Valor laughed. “Hah - don’t know a thing about it. I’ve heard it’s not recommended.”
Armun nodded. “May I ask another question?”
Valor crossed his arms, tilting his head from side to side, wild hair bouncing. “You don’t have to ask me if it’s okay to ask questions. It’s weird.”
“Alright. What do you think of the act of killing? Of death?”
Again, the same as last night, Armun could see the wheels of thought churning in the young man’s mind. He wished he had forever to pick at it.
“It is what it is,” Valor murmured. “Both of them. Killing and death. Death in general? That’s easy. We die, and that’s it. You just die. How it happens, I think, people should separate from the why. Even ferals seem to ask why.”
Valor looked down at the ground. “As far as killing... that depends on what situation we’re in. But I could care less about who is in my way or who I need to step over to break through. Anyone, everyone, and everything. And when I run them through, I will pity them. Pity that they didn’t experience as much pain as I have. Seen and done the things I have. Maybe if they knew what it’s like in the dark, they wouldn’t be so surprised when it all ends. Or maybe they’ll kill me, if their pain is greater than mine.”
Armun leaned against the far wall of his cell. What he had assumed was a boy was in fact a man. “I suppose,” he said, “some things are essential to having a complete soul.”
Valor grew silent. Armun wondered what the young one was thinking in the dark. He was answered with a long chuckle that grew from small to large, ending with Valor reemerging from the darkness.
“Honestly,” Valor said in between laughs, “Screw what is essential. If you live beyond today, you’ll learn I hate those questions. Because…“ Valor raised his arms, presenting a blank stage. “Here we are. You and I. In cells. I grew up here. Trust me though. I understand your point. In a perfect world, do we need pain? In a world where everyone respects one another, takes care of each other, trades harvests evenly, loves their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers... show me that world, and you can take away pain. I’ve never stepped foot beyond the Raging Sands, and even I can tell you it doesn’t exist. And if it doesn’t, we aren’t gonna get there by sharing with people like the ferals...”
Valor cast his hand about as if to feed a few hungry pigeons, then ran his fingers through his wild hair again.
“I hate them. I know I said vengeance doesn’t seem recommended… but I’d murder them all if I could.”
Valor ducked down to the ground, sitting cross-legged, looking at the pebbles.
“Someday, I’ll kill Lobosa.”
It had been a long time since Armun had heard anyone with as much intent as Valor. “In that line of thought, I’d like to ask you a hypothetical question.”
Valor nodded, the king of the prison yard affirming his loyal subjects final request.
“Would you kill your brother? If, as you say, you had to. And that you are a man who would do anything you had to do. What if you had to kill your brother?”
Valor wiped dried dirt from the sides of his mouth.
“He could stab me in the back a thousand times. I’d turn around and embrace him. Never. I’d never hurt my brother.”
Armun pressed no further. “Thank you,” he said, then turned around.
Armun continued stretching, and not long after pulling a tight knot out of his shoulder, a fat feral guard came to their cell, motioning for Valor to come forward. The fat one unlocked the cell, and then addressed Armun.
“Will come bahg for you in a momenth. I’m taking the skinny oneth.”
Armun sat, and recited his mantras. He looked to the Astrals for guidance, and prayed to Harma for many things, victory being the smallest of them. Mostly, he prayed that magic would be unnecessary in the coming fight, therefore exposing him to thousands of people of unknown wealth, power and evil. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Valor and Orrin were smiling at him as they left into the twisting exit towards the quarry.
As soon as they were out of sight, Armun sat down on the ground, facing the southern corner. He cupped his hands, focusing energy into his palm. A low hum resounded in his cell. He had forgotten the noise the spell caused, looking left and right with a snap, but none of the few slaves he could see took notice.
His tiny sprite formed in his hand. It bounced a few times, as if happy to be in his service.
The sprite turned from bright grey to white. He whispered to it, pouring his thoughts and intentions into its tiny shimmering body. It pulsed like a living heart, then flew up towards the fractured ceiling, darting through the rickety walkways above, disappearing in the darkness.
Once the sprite was no longer visible, he sat, waiting his turn.
Chapter 20
Jerryl sat alone in his room at the Golden Sands, pretending to pour over his drawings and maps. He couldn’t concentrate. The itching of his healing shoulders was too bothersome, and the bandages were wrapped too loosely.
The Warden had had many of Jerryl’s maps brought to him so that he could complete his work. Jerryl had obviously done nothing of the sort. There was no reason to do anything for the benefit of the Warden now, not with the boys’ lives being forfeit.
Besides the physical, his thoughts were not his own. They were only of the boys, with visions running through his head of Valor and Orrin having the white death used upon their minds.
The door opened. Riffhel stood in its empty space. Jerryl stared at him.
Riffhel nodded to each enforcer. “Leave us be.”
“The commander said stay put,” spoke the leftmost enforcer.
Riffhel made a very human gesture, sighing heavily and folding his arms. “I speak for the commander in his absence. We need secrecy.”
The big enforcer stared at Jerryl. Jerryl stared back. “He’s stronger than he looks. He attacked the Warden and did decent work. No offense, Riffhel… but he could match you.”
“I know,” Riffhel said impatiently. “I’ll be fine.” He flashed the daggers on his hips. “I’ve been the Warden’s sparring partner for five years. No offense - tell me how long you think you’d last?”
Both enforcers left without further questioning, heading down the long hall of the Golden Sands. A short ruckus occurred between an a’tashi whore and her purchaser, quickly silenced.
Riffhel entered, closing the door, the sounds of the outside life now seeming so far away. Riffhel took the seat next to his.
“Jerryl.”
“Riffhel.”
“The Warden sent me so that we can plan one last expedition through the lower tunnels. Shall we get to work?” Riffhel asked.
“Please,” Jerryl said.
Jerryl spread out his
maps, one for each corner of the large table in front of him.
Riffhel turned toward the mass of paper and scrawled drawings. Jerryl had finished mapping a quadrant they had yet unexplored, one that dug straight down to a place so far away.
“You haven’t named these tunnels yet?” Riffhel asked. “How are we supposed to keep track once you’ve fully fleshed out this area?”
Jerryl clenched his fist, knowing what he needed to ask, but felt he was without the right words to say it. He spoke anyways.
“We need to use it.”
Riffhel sharply turned his head back towards the door, then back towards Jerryl.
“Use what?”
“You know what I mean by it,” Jerryl said. “The harmian device we found. The thing we found on our last expedition.”
Riffhel’s eyes grew wide. “The time isn’t right.”
“This is the only time,” he said, covering his own mouth, realizing he was speaking a bit too loudly. He quieted himself, and lowered his voice. “This - is the only time. When the Warden was here the other night, he told me, right before his enforcers stabbed me. He told me some of his plan to move beyond the Arnaks.”
Riffhel shook his head. “If there was a plan, I’d know it. He’s messing with your mind, Jerryl. And you let him win by attacking him.”
Jerryl pulled his chair closer to Riffhel. It groaned loudly across the marble floor, screeching a bit. Both men glanced back towards the door.
Jerryl lowered his head, getting in close with Riffhel. “Listen. The slave population is dropping every day. With every passing moon we stand less of a chance.”
“So what?” Riffhel said quickly. “Last you told me, every cell block and gang has lost all desire to fight against the Warden. You have Valor and Orrin to thank for that. And most are still controlled by the noman’s spell.”
Jerryl waved a hand. “Listen, once the nameless things attack, it won’t matter. While your people are dealing with the nameless things, I can use the diversion to go through the prison levels and free whoever I can.”
Riffhel brushed back his silky fur across his ears. “You haven’t thought about this like I have.”
Jerryl folded his arms. “I’ve led armies as big as your peoples’ entire population. But please, continue to tell me what I do and do not know.”
Riffhel leaned in closer, nearly pressing his snout to Jerryl’s forehead. “Let’s go over the facts. We have mages, the slaves don’t. We have weapons, the slaves don’t. We have organization - the slaves don’t. Beyond that, we control the food, and the water. We can poison our aquifers and other water sources at will. There are precautions for serious revolt in place.”
Jerryl leaned back slightly. Riffhel was not as gruff or mangy as many other ferals, but his breath smelled just as awful. “None of that matters to the nameless things. They’ll chew through your army just as easily as it would through any other.”
Riffhel shook his head. “Do you have any proof that Lobosa has a real plan?”
Jerryl shook his head. “Of course not. If I did, I’d have shown it to you already.”
“So,” Riffhel said, “you want me to activate an ancient harmian device, calling an unknown number of nameless things to wake, and then watch my people suffer? No plan we’ve ever discussed included such massive casualties.”
Jerryl opened his right palm to the ceiling. “My people will die too.”
Riffhel stifled a laugh. “Yes? Your people? Jerryl - you don’t know them. You know perhaps half a percent of the slaves. I’ve overseen the birth of every cub in the Arnaks over the last five years. I memorize their names. Not intentionally, but… Ankha. Taki. Ercia…”
Jerryl cut him off. “Your point is not lost on me.”
Riffhel huffed. “It must be lost on you, human, because they are my people. Legitimately. Not some random gaggle tossed together.”
Jerryl waved a finger at Riffhel. “Tossed together by ferals.”
Riffhel wiped a hand across the air. “This argument can go around and around for days. I know what needs to be done, Jerryl. I know what we have to do.”
Jerryl could tell Riffhel was feeling a rare emotion for a feral; empathy. He took advantage, staring hard into Riffhel’s eyes. “Then do it. The Warden and his bloodline put your people in this position. It’s time that things change. You know it’s true. You should have seen how quickly he dispatched his own men, merely for breaking a single order. He’s not right, Riffhel. And you know as well as I… he’s dabbled in some awful magic.”
That stopped Riffhel from shaking his head. The young feral’s gaze drifted down. Jerryl knew he believed it was true, but would never admit it out loud.
Jerryl tapped the table. “There will never be a right time. There never is a right time for revolution. In fact, the wrong time is often the best time.”
Both men grew quiet, taking in the sounds of chatter from Jerryl’s open-air window.
“This won’t work,” Riffhel said quietly, a hint of regret in his voice.
“It will.” Jerryl said, some of his old authoritativeness coming back into play, deep within his voice. “We will succeed. And when we do, your people can live free of Lobosa, and whatever mess he plans to lead you too. Perhaps, if I were to help, the Laranuans will give the ferals some level of amnesty.”
Riffhel laughed, his sight never leaving the table. A long, quiet moment filled the gap between words. Guards outside of Jerryl’s window spoke in the feral tongue, casually conversing.
“Then what’s the plan?” Riffhel said, reluctance heavy in his tone.
Jerryl finished unfurling the map that sat on top of his pile. He pointed to an unnamed cavern in one of the lower tunnels. “Here,” he said with a pointed finger. “There’s a large, untapped vein of ober in here. The Warden and I were going to lead a small exhibition to mark it. At least, until we fought. Tell the Warden you need me. Truthfully, you will. Bring just a few men…” Jerryl paused, looking Riffhel in his massive, dark brown eyes.
Riffhel said nothing of the obvious.
Jerryl raised his finger upwards along the line of the cavern, where there were many broken splits. “This map alone won’t tell you how to get there. But I can.”
Jerryl raised his finger again, following the splits until they became one again, leading into a higher cavern. “Here. I think from here the sound of the device will travel far enough to rouse the nameless things.”
“Do you think you can kill him?” Riffhel asked.
Jerryl began to nervously pick at the edge of the table. “I have to. My life link has kept me alive through his torture, and healed my body more times than I count. When we had our brief match in his quarters the other night… Harma’s blessing, I knocked him around. But I don’t know how serious he was.”
“It’s suicide.” Riffhel whispered.
Jerryl nodded. “If he was human, and I feral, it wouldn’t be any different.”
“No,” Riffhel said. “No it wouldn’t… we’ll be traitors after this.”
Jerryl took a long sip of water before speaking. “I’ve already betrayed my country, my queen… it’s a small association.”
Riffhel stood, moving towards the window. Jerryl turned his chair to face him. “This is the only way,” Riffhel said. “Nothing else will work. If you don’t kill the Warden, I’ll have to do it myself. There is no one else that can be trusted.”
Jerryl crossed one leg over the other. “Yes. It will fall to you. Can you handle it?”
“This feels more wrong for you than it does for me.”
“Do you want some advice?” Jerryl asked.
Riffhel turned back towards Jerryl, leaning the back of his head against the thick window bars. “No.”
Jerryl spoke anyways. “Do what you have to. You’re only responding to what’s right.”
Riffhel suddenly turned vicious, lips curling up around sharp teeth, tongue flashing like a whip. He barely managed to keep his voice contained. “Don’t presume
to lecture me on psychology. I’ll be a murderer when this is done. A traitor. There’s no way around it.”
Jerryl felt Riffhel wrap around his little finger. This was a trick he’d done before. Push someone to the edge, then pull them back to his cause.
“Of course not. That’s why you’re talking to me. Do you remember our first conversation? How we danced around our own thoughts, as well as each other’s. Now we talk about this… easily.
Riffhel’s eyes narrowed. “Easy for you, perhaps. You are once a traitor, now almost twice.”
Jerryl scoffed. “As if Lobosa is any kind of leader to me. Or, are you attempting to overthrow him because he’s just too flawless?”
That comment seemed to stick with Riffhel. He gave up his feral posture and resumed his seat, as calm as he was before. “As far as what you’ll be… you might be a hero when all of this is over. You’d make a much better leader.” Jerryl took another swig of water. “You’ve never been in a real war, have you?”
Riffhel shook his head. Jerryl scratched behind his ear, straightening out his dress shirt. “It’s terrifying at first. You ferals are born with a lot less of… I don’t know what to call it. Let’s call it base fear. Humans, we have to break through that. We do it in all sorts of ways. Some of us make cruel jokes. Some of us grow silent.”
Riffhel traced all four tunnel lines with his fingers, bringing them together at the cavern intersection.
“Ever since we first conceived these ideas, I’ve wondered something.” Jerryl said. “Why? What’s your reasoning. Do you have a firm answer?”
The young feral pulled his hands back to his lap. “You want a firm answer?”
“I do,” Jerryl said. “This kind of action requires one to be solid as stone. Inside and out. But I don’t sense that in you.”
Riffhel opened his mouth, methodically licking his lips. “Firm men always want firm answers,” He said. “When you look at me, Jerryl, what do you see?”
The old general thought for a moment. “I see a young man, desperate for change. I see someone who can view things from another side.”
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 21
