Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Riffhel folded on leg over the other. “Essentially, Jerryl, you see me as human.”

  “If that’s how you want to say it.” Jerryl said.

  The young feral grabbed the finger. “It’s true. And that’s always been the crux of it. But am I really “human?” Or am I just a way that most in Harmenor would deem to be normal? It’s a question I’ve contemplated since I was a pup… I’ve always been different. I was a small and weak pup. My mind was, and is, my greatest weapon. Although I’m no longer weak of body…”

  A long pause rose between them. Jerryl sensed Riffhel’s tongue was caught.

  He found it again after a few swigs of water. “Developing a mind of your own is dangerous in a place like this. I feel as though I have to wear a mask all the time… a mask I can only take off around certain people.”

  Jerryl’s thoughts stuttered for a moment.

  Riffhel curled his fingers into his palms. “And if that’s true… then what does it say about my own people? What does that fact that I feel more at ease with a human slave than any feral say about me? Even my name doesn’t sound feral… there’s no hard syllables. It’s a soft name.”

  Riffhel began to pace the room. “Besides my own personal… there’s something not right about the Warden. You’re right. He’s involved in bad magic. He spends more and more time to himself… I’ve heard him saying things. Strange things, behind closed doors. Talking to someone, or something. I believe he’s losing his mind.”

  Jerryl began to roll up his maps, somewhat satisfied with Riffhel’s answer. “We won’t be able to outrun the noise the device makes. Fortunately there are crevices we can hide in. We’ll just have to pray… at that point.”

  He held out his hand to Riffhel.

  “I’d rather not,” Riffhel said, coldness on his breath.

  Jerry “We leave tomorrow. We’ll descend while the Scarlett Ring fights are near finishing. The nameless things are more later in the day.”

  “Lobosa is aware of that fact.” Jerryl said. “He’ll want a reason as to why I need you.”

  Riffhel snorted three times, clearing his large nostrils. “There’s enough work to be done for tomorrow’s fights. That’ll be enough of an excuse.”

  Jerryl nodded. “Fine.” He worried that Riffhel might back out of their arrangement.

  “Riffhel… I hope you find your firm answer. If you don’t…” Jerryl left his words hanging in the air.

  Riffhel pursed his thick lips. “But that’s what saves me, Jerryl. I’m never like stone. Stone can’t change it’s shape at will… I’d rather be the sand I grew up in.”

  With that, Riffhel swiftly left the room. Jerryl could hear his muffled voice calling for the guards.

  Once Riffhel left, every crevice of his body began to sweat, pools of moisture building in his connected palms, folded together underneath his chin.

  As the night wore on, he asked the guards for a full plate of food, and an aged, ceramic bottle of plum wine that Wyman had left, aged to perfection.

  He popped the cork, inhaled the sweet aroma, and chugged it. He thought for a long time that, regardless of what task he and Riffhel had set out before themselves, he was watching the fires of anarchy grow.

  He thought about Riffhel, the boy, his words, and how smart he was. Orrin would like him, Jerryl thought.

  Jerryl raised the bottle to the ceiling. “For revolution,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  Iliana Urelyoff lay down on her ruddy makeshift cot, in her ruddy makeshift tent, sipping water from her deer hide flask. She turned onto her side.

  Five or six days had gone by since Armun had passed through the Raging Sands. Five or six long, lonely, repetitive days. Or was it seven?

  North winds blow… has it been a full week?

  Nothing changed in the Eastern Gorabund. This she had learned; that complacency killed the mind.

  There was some wind, but it was low. The sand was still the same color. The sky was still blue. And she was still as pale as ever. She had never desired a darker complexion, but the cool magic within her aura instinctively kept the heat at bay.

  She wondered what it felt like to sweat, a thing she’d never experienced. She was always cold.

  She stood, angrily pursing her lips at the three duties Armun left her.

  Stand guard.

  Watch for ivory maws.

  And wait for his signal. Stand, watch, wait. That was it. It had taken her a lot less time than she thought it would to skirt troll country and the edge of the Raging Sands. She had scouted forward, and seen the great door of the Arnaks, guarded by two, then returned to her camp.

  For a moment, she thought she saw felt the ground shake, but realized it was just her boots sinking into a loose pocket of sand.

  Iliana knew that ivory maw sightings were rare now, and even more rare since the Day of Shifting Sands in Kashrii. According to Armun, the maws would not follow her if she used magic to keep her body temperature low. He had also mentioned that they preferred beautiful women, the same as demons.

  Fortunate that that is a matter of opinion, she figured.

  Iliana shielded her eyes to look out on the horizon, and saw nothing. No maws, no ferals, and no trolls. She returned to the tent. She grabbed the sword on her hip, unsheathing its thin silver blade. She stripped down out of her long, thick cloak, folding it up, placing it neatly on the floor, along with her undergarments.

  She took several deep breaths, stared into her blade, and saw her mentor’s reflection in her own. Armun had told her next to nothing about their mission. They had been together for years, so where they went was no matter. As of late, she had found herself caring even less about what they did, and more about how they went about doing it.

  Iliana thought on the nickname she’d heard whispered through taverns and courts.

  The snow shadow, they called her. She had followed Armun everywhere. She didn’t love the name, but didn’t hate it either.

  Even here, she thought, letting go of a long sigh. I can’t think like this.

  The pale skinned mage threw on her undergarments before wrapping herself in her northern garb. Armun had begged her to don something more comfortable and suited to the desert heat, but the cloak would show her enemies where she was from. Many people still feared the north. Most people feared its superstition, and a few for more legitimate reasons. Whether it was monsters or people, she cared not. The looks on the faces of those that realized where she was from gave her power, a facade of strength that she couldn’t ignore.

  Iliana shook some sand from her heavy cloak, snapping it thunderously. The runes and embroidering alone made it several pounds heavier, appearing more as carvings into stone than silver threads into fabric.

  She left the tent, her heart ready to burst from lack of stimulus.

  “Ugh…”

  Time seemed to stop in the Gorabund, especially during midday. Waiting for Armun’s signal was, above all else, painful. Her skin itched with boredom. The other night she had seen a pack of wild dogs, and hoped they would attack. She had never eaten wild dog, and figured she might as well take the chance. But they ignored her, like everything else.

  Perhaps even they know I’m from the north.

  She turned towards the sun, shielding her eyes. It blinded her slightly, and she pulled her cloak down. She began to sweat instantly, and reached for her flask. It was empty.

  Kneeling down to the ground, with one palm nestled in the dirt, she dug a small hole and began to feel for whatever water was hidden underneath. Slowly but surely, a steady stream of clean water bubbled up from the ground, which depressed to form a tiny pocket big enough to pour her flask in to. She drank heavily from it, and to her surprise, it was the fourth best water she had ever tasted. Purified and untouched, she thought, unlike so many things left in this Harmenor, even if it was a bit grainy.

  Suddenly, a strange noise startled her. It sounded like a metal bowl dropping to the floor.

  She turned, pullin
g her sword. Instead of finding an opponent, she found a tiny sprite, dancing about like a giddy butterfly. Iliana’s pulse raced as she snatched the energy sprite, absorbing its energy. It dissipated, flowing through her veins like trout swimming upstream. It sharpened her mind, tingling her well-defined muscles.

  Armun's words approached her mind, by way of the sprite, and she let them in, as did images of the things he’d seen. Visions of men and women half starved, checking away at rock, and the monstrous ferals pushing them on. One image of a man being dragged to the ceiling stuck in her mind. She struggled to keep her eyes shut. Armun had shown her much, both joyous and terrible. But what she saw fueled an anger in her she had not felt for a long time.

  His instructions formed in her mind as white words across the blackness of her closed eyes.

  A terrible plan as always, she thought.

  Chapter 22

  Armun stood before the wooden gates of the entrance to the tournament grounds, staring at years of bad repairs, bent nails, and ferals who were too tired to contain their anger any longer.

  He hoped plan a would work. There was, of course, a plan b, and also a plan c, and a tentative, not-so-great-plan-d. He stopped at plan e, believing that four distinct plans should be enough, regardless of quality or feasibility.

  Above ground, the spell that wavered over lower tunnels and quarries was not so strong. He allowed his aura to spread out a bit, but no more than an inch from his skin. He noticed it wavering, conjoining with the sunlight, rising with it.

  A noticeable change took place in his brain, and a smile crept across his lips for the first time in days. He felt as if he was relearning how to breathe, and stand up straight. It was undoubtedly the lessening effect of what he still assumed was a noman’s spell at work.

  He thought about the hourglass-like thing on Lobosa’s stone table, and wondered if that was the source of the noman’s power. It was a tiny thing, though, and the spell had such a range that he doubted its potency as a magical source. Whatever the device was, it was big, or at least bigger than an hourglass.

  Perhaps it’s a focal point, he thought. Or a receiver?

  Two enforcers flanked his side, one toiling with a chipped nail, the other snapping at the gnats that surrounded his wrinkled face. Outside, the crowd noise flared randomly for reasons he could not discern.

  The enforcers turned towards him by some unseeable cue. The one on the right unfurled a large whip, ready to strike should Armun become unmanageable.

  The other handed him an old longsword with an unwilling mood. He imagined the enforcer would rather shovel dung than hand him a weapon.

  Armun stayed his sword hand and the strong desire to be done with both enforcers with one arc of his sword. Although then incapable of enacting plan a, he could from there enact plan b and c.

  Unfortunately, plan a was, to him, ninety nine percent necessary. Plan b, c, and d all shared the leftover one percent.

  The crowd’s screams for gore grew louder, and a booming voice coming from across the arena reverberated in Armun’s chest, though his words were inaudible.

  The gates began to rise, a loose nail nearly impaling his right nostril. He snapped his head back just in time to miss a new hole.

  The fear in him subsided, replaced by a happy anxiety, and a relief to step into sight of the blazing sun. The enforcers prodded him out, the booming words now understandable.

  “... NEWCOMER ROILAND CARDIFF!!!”

  The crowd made a strange mixture of cheering, screaming, and booing, a collective hostile cry that pierced his hearing. The battle master’s voice was magically enhanced, but even that was drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He had stepped into a new world, a twisted paradise of sand, blood, and men that were now animals.

  Armun had seen it before, knowing in the back of his mind that though he was caged, so were these spectators. At least a hundred yards across, on top of another gate, stood the battle master, garbed in an odd golden headdress that pointed towards the sun, as if to say : by the by, you’re in the Gorabund.

  Armun stepped on a bone, cracking it into dust. He could only ask himself one question, over and over.

  How could we not have found such a place sooner?

  So much death had gone on beyond the little world he had made for himself in his old age. Other questions danced around his mind. Had he been true to his code? Had he abandoned freedom for a quieter, easier life?

  Am I to blame for this? he wondered.

  Another battle master, this one garbed in a tightly wound purple and red robe, silver shoulder pads bouncing wildly, approached. He was gifted with the facial features of a stoic, storybook knight, his attitude and smug face adding to it. The battle masters’ features were more chiseled like that of a man born under someone who had fought for a lifetime, and inherited the look, as if wearing the ghost of his ancestors. As he walked closer, Armun could smell the thick makeup. The man was a trouper, not doubt.

  He noticed the battle master was standing on the fighting grounds with no means of protection. Foolish, he thought.

  “To start the day, we bring you a classic one on one match!” Just when Armun thought he would be free of the ear ringing, the enhanced voice of this new battle master brought it out again. “Something to warm the palette, no doubt!”

  The crowd cheered again, and Armun shook his head.

  He kept asking himself the same question, guilt rising in his gut.

  How could we not have found….

  The battle master looked Armun in the eye. “Are you ready to meet your opponent?”

  Armun nodded nonchalantly.

  “Good!” the battle master clapped his hands.

  Before him, a massive feral in shiny armor leapt forward, his body ablaze with reflected light. The seven foot tall, monster of a feral let loose a roar that charged the crowd with full blown manic energy. It infected them like a disease, taking effect almost instantly as the crowd began to chant.

  “Blood! Blood! Blood!”

  Armun’s mind was still on his single thought.

  How could we… how could I?

  The feral leapt again, this time halfway across the sandy ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt upon landing. Two axes hung by his side, but Armun gathered that he preferred claws, catching a glimpse of the bloodstains on the feral’s nails. His armor was light across the chest and heavy on the joints, and made of mirror glass, something he hadn’t seen in years.

  It reflected the sun’s powerful rays into the opponent’s eyes, crafted by the harmians years ago. Again, Armun felt himself being pulled into the past. It was a patchwork job, but an excellent one, undoubtedly looted from an old harmian ruin. Armun felt anger at such disrespect for the past.

  How could I…

  As the battle master prattled on, Armun lifted his head, feeling sick. Of all the sights he had seen, this one, he wished he had not.

  Armun had grown out his beard considerably, which made him look quite different, and there had been so many heroes from the world’s wars that unless they were military, they would not pick him out if he were in a line up of others.

  The same was not true for those he saw in the stands and towers above. With a growing disgust, he began to put faces to names, watching them drain ales and wines as if they were life serum.

  Armun could not recognize all of them. But he had spent years as a diplomat for Queen Lennith, and could memorize a face and a name better than anyone. Now, he wished this skill, and the memories attached to it, would leave him, as he counted those he knew, anger growing with each recognizable face.

  Hubert Langley, a wealthy lord, drank with a gaggle of Yeshars, birdmen from the western Arnaks, as they poured their drinks into their open beaks.

  Young Terrathian nobles, in their trademark silver and purple clothing, flirted with others. Among them was the eldest son of Lord Celthiére, current lord reagent of the eastern grasslands, and the middle daughter of the Breakwater family, whose elders served in many court
s of justice.

  Most disgusting of all was Haggan Derrin, a well-connected spade bishop, his arms draped around two feral females. Haggan was a man he’d met many times before. Haggan was a man he trusted. A man he’d helped.

  A man I trusted…

  One by one, he moved his eyes through each gaggle. With every figure revealed, his despair and anger grew. He lost focus on his aura, letting it go completely. He could endure the suffering no more.

  Let them see me. Plans be damned, he thought. I can no longer idly hide in this madness.

  Armun took a breath, inhaling the sandy air that blew hard against his nostrils. He drew his sword, and the feral Jik’qui withdrew both war hatchets, deepening his stance.

  This drew another eruption from the crowd. The battle master began to say something as he backed up, holding up his hands as if to prevent the inevitable, but Armun couldn’t hear. All he could do was smell the foul breath of his combatant. It came out in a putrid haze, smelling of some kind of gas and rotten meat. It built in Armun’s brain until he could no longer take it.

  Armun drew his aura into his eyes, and the reflections of the mirror glass armor faded until he saw his own reflection in them.

  “What’s wrong, big man?” the big feral said. “Soil yourself?”

  Armun felt his insides snap. He was no longer the old man. Now, he was the angry young soldier, snapped forward from the past, with fire in his stomach and a sword in his hand.

  With murderous calm, he spoke to the battle master. “Move out of the way.”

  The battle master only had time to look at Armun, and open his mouth.

  The fight was over in less time than it would take a mouse to snatch an easy piece of cheese

  The battle master raised a hand in protest, mouth dangling open for far too long.

  Jik’qui swung with a double strike, one axe following the other. He turned cleaving off the battle master’s head at the lower jaw. It flew through the air, spinning like a child’s top. Armun ducked, unleashed his aura, and touched the blade of his sword. It began to vibrate.