Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Saying his name prompted no response. He could see that Sindarr’s imagination had run to wherever it went, once again.

  Lobosa turned to leave. Ten paces away, Sindarr called out to him. “This will be a glorious fight, Warden. This will be the greatest I’ll ever give.”

  Lobosa nodded to his fighter, unsure of his meaning. “Just don’t underestimate him. I need you alive.”

  Sindarr turned back to the cage.

  Obsessive to a fault, the Warden thought. At least he’s focused.

  Lobosa turned around to find Riffhel standing before him. “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  Riffhel bowed. “I’m sorry, Warden Commander. I was waiting for you to finish with Sindarr…” he moved in closer to Lobosa, within whisper range. “Is he alright, Warden? He looks more off than usual.”

  Lobosa stretched his lips back. “Hm… we’ll see. He’s always been strange.”

  Riffhel nodded. “Commander, I know you want Jerryl to stay put within the Golden Sands. But I need his assistance on an expedition. He had discovered a massive vein of ober some months ago, but never mapped it fully.”

  “Did you look yourself?” Lobosa asked.

  Riffhel shook his head. “No, commander. That’s why I need him. His maps aren’t complete. And I don’t trust anyone but myself to map it properly, now that Jerryl’s tried to betray you. I promise, Warden, he won’t even touch the map. Just guide us.”

  Lobosa wrinkled his nose. Jerryl would be as much trouble as possible, but had no doubt Riffhel could handle it. “Alright,” he said. “Take the old man with you. But I want him shackled every step of the way. Bring ten men with you - at least. Bring men you trust. Men I trust.”

  Riffhel bowed, leaving swifty, cloak fluttering. “Yes commander.”

  The Warden retreated to his tower, questioning Sindarr’s mood, the stranger in the cell, and what else the day might have in store.

  Chapter 24

  Valor and Orrin climbed the steps to Lobosa’s south tower, fully equipped for their guard detail with Lobosa.

  He killed Jik’qui, Valor thought.

  How?

  Valor had heard whispers of Roiland’s victory. He knew the old man was strong, but not that he was so capable a fighter.

  As he walked up the same staircase he had taken Drake Redstone through just days before, he pondered how an unarmored Roiland could have killed Jik’qui. The feral was not the brightest, but was always capable of sizing up his enemy.

  Valor remembered then how Roiland had fought with Stoney, and was sure the match had somehow gone the same way.

  With Orrin behind him, the brother’s rough boots scraped against the Kashriian carpets, which adorned not only the floors, but the walls as well. Tapestries, candles, and other odds and ends filled Lobosa’s tower, now that the nobles were gone, and it was only him and his personal guard.

  As Valor stepped up the stairs, he checked his weapons and their proper sleeves for tightness. His double swords were snapped tightly on the last loop strap. The knife in his boot had stopped jiggling, finally, and his throwing daggers had finally broken in their tight, single pouches.

  They were armed to the teeth, just the way Lobosa wanted them.

  There were two more daggers, one on each thigh. Orrin carried a staff in one hand, and Valor a bow in the other. They were prepared for any attempt on Lobosa’s life. His personal guard, made up of Gakkamon, two others whose names Valor didn’t know, and an enforcer he’d never seen standing where Riffhel should have been. All four of them were similarly equipped.

  Valor moved to the western corner, Orrin to the east. He stared out into the cheering madness, checking the crowds below for troublemakers, scalpers, and the occasional loose pet. Lobosa enjoyed having misbehaved creatures quarantined and slaughtered for meat, served up to their owners as treats.

  Lobosa waved over Orrin and Valor.

  Valor noticed his satisfied grin.

  “Your friend is very interesting,” the Warden said as he inspected the food arrayed before him. Both brothers approached him slowly.

  Lobosa’s seat of choice for the day was made of a rich, deep orange wood, contrasting sharply with the muddy colors of the tapestries. Orrin believed it was from the Clouded Steps, as they were the only countries to be blessed with a plethora of different colored wood.

  He wanted desperately to ask the one question he knew he’d receive no answer from.

  Where is Jerryl?

  Valor stared at Lobosa’s chair. Carved into the seat was the feral emblem of the burning, bloodied phoenix. The head of the seat, impossible to rest your head against, exuded carved feathers cut as sharply as sword points. The twisted beak arched forward, the head tilted over Lobosa’s own like an evil canopy. Even the legs, which took the appearance of both feral and phoenix claws, clasped together, blood drawing from the flesh.

  Few things made Valor squeamish, but Lobosa’s tower throne was one of them. The eye of the phoenix troubled him the most, bulging, screaming for mercy.

  Valor often spoke for his brother. It made things easier, especially when dealing with Lobosa.

  “Roiland’s not our friend.”

  Lobosa shook his head. “I was referring more to his combat skills. Have you ever seen a human male his age swing a weapon with that kind of precision or finesse?”

  “We weren’t here for the first match, Warden...” Valor had heard whispers of it through the many halls of the ring, though, and knew that the stranger had killed Jik’qui within seconds. He was glad of it, and only wished he could have been there to kick the feral’s corpse.

  Lobosa stood, moving towards the back table, and devoured some raw meat slivers. “I’ve seen a few, certainly. But just a few... not many.”

  As Lobosa mumbled, Valor quickly signed from behind his back to his brother.

  [ He’s dancing around it. ]

  Orrin signed back rapidly. [ Very much so. ]

  The Warden turned, his plate full of delicacies balanced perfectly on three fingers.

  “You’ve spent time with him?”

  Valor wasted no time in answering, though taken aback by Lobosa’s casual flair. The Warden rarely ate in public, not even in view of even his own subjects.

  “He seems like a confused old man,” Valor answered. “He’s always asking questions, taking the answers, and asking more questions.”

  Lobosa barely moved, giving no nod, nor wave of the hand. “Has he shown any other proficiencies?”

  Valor pretended to stumble over the question as well as he could, pausing, looking around in confusion. “Proficiencies?”

  “Proficiencies. Skills.”

  Valor answered curtly. “No, Warden.”

  “Well…” Lobosa’s voice had acquired an airy, faint quality to it between the last time he spoke and now, almost a niceness. Valor’s weight shifted to his toes, leaning in for the end of his sentence.

  “We’ll find out now,” Lobosa finished.

  Valor and Orrin stepped towards Lobosa’s seat, flanking him, peering over the garland-covered banisters. The crowd’s noise was ceaseless, the battle master’s voice being smothered by the cacophony, just a figure in the sand that seemed to do nothing but silently move his lips. Orrin focused his ears on the familiar cranking sound that reverberated even through the full height of the Warden’s tower, the groaning starting to grow louder and louder.

  Despite the tower’s height, Valor could see Roiland’s figure moving outside from the opposite gate, wearing some kind of strange, skin tight armor, bulging along the contours of his muscles.

  Valor caught Lobosa, saw him turn his eyes, keeping his head in the same position. The Warden was watching him.

  The battle master spoke again, the crowd cheering even louder, their spit appearing like crystals and diamonds, glinting in the sun, flittering down to the sand below. The gate closer to them began to brew the sand, throwing dust clouds high into the crowd, wafting against the highest edges of the noble�
�s towers.

  The dust, however, did not need to settle for the brothers to know who stood beneath. Two balls of flame appeared parallel to each other, just above the lip of the gate and its parapets, along with a shimmering, white gold cloak, billowing in the dust roar.

  Sindarr and Jik’qui had been Orrin and Valor’s dark shadows for years. Valor and Orrin had been matched against them in the arena many times. Though always for show, though the feral siblings often seemed to forget that, tossing their magic flames so close that both Valor and Orrin had had their skin permanently darkened around their arms and legs, as well as the sides of their faces.

  Sindarr, in a serious fight, was a madman.

  Sindarr, in a serious fight, against the man who murdered his brother, would be even madder. Valor knew Roiland had some magic, but doubted it would be enough to beat Sindarr.

  “What do you think, Orrin?” Lobosa asked. “Who’s going to win? Will I lose both my best champions today?”

  Orrin looked at Valor to sign. Valor translated. “Orrin says he stands a chance if he could kill Jik’qui.”

  Lobosa sucked down a meaty clam. “Only if he can perform magic… did either of you know he killed Jik’qui with one strike?”

  Orrin and Valor shared a stunned look, which Lobosa noticed. “I’m guessing,” the Warden said, “that by the looks on your faces, neither of you had no idea.”

  Valor watched the Warden swallow another sliver of meat, then thought about how the ferals of Emberless would react if both of their greatest warriors perished. Jik’qui and Sindarr were heroes to every feral old enough to understand the concept of one. Their funerals would last days, and bloodlust ceremonies to shatter memories of all the other warriors and mages the ferals had heralded as heroes over the years.

  They were everything Valor and Orrin could have been, if only they had been born feral.

  Valor looked down at Sindarr. His red tinted scale mail reflected the strong flickering of his own magic, casting light spasms against the sand and arena walls. The mage quickly tossed fireballs into the air, colliding at the same height as Lobosa’s tower, showering the crowd with tiny, quickly plummeting flames, harmless and beautiful.

  He looked at the Warden again. Where was the fury? Where was the unbridled rage that he had seen so many times before? His best warrior had just been slain in what was supposed to be an exhibition match, and in a matter of seconds, no less. Valor realized that Lobosa must have discovered that Armun was a magic wielder of some kind. He took a deep breath, watching closely.

  And where the hell is Jerryl?

  Armun watched as his opponent’s fantastical display as it showered him with tiny sparks, sticking to his hair, skin, and new armor.

  Lobosa was no fool. This would be a fight to death, and unless Armun used some of his potential, he was sooner dead than alive.

  While the feral fire mage was still waving to the crowd, Armun looked around at the walls. He knew that whether he lived or died, it would be his last chance to examine the ring.

  Covered in sand, thin as the line between two pieces of paper, he could see geometric shapes carved into the walls. Squares overlapped triangles, circles linking them all together. Crags and divots were scattered across the walls, randomly peppering the relief work. As he followed the lines of two intersecting triangles, which were bisected by alternating circles, he noted small streaks that had been swept away, most likely by years of sand and wind.

  Paint. Old paint.

  Armun looked around the bottom edges, noticing that the sand was discolored, partially from old blood and the black stains of charred corpses. Dry bones stuck up from the sand, probably cleared to the edges of the battlefield by slaves. It would indeed be anticlimactic for a fight to end because a warrior took one false step, slamming sharp, broken bone into his foot. Armun made a note to watch for those.

  Focusing his aura into his eyes, he could see the cracks snaking up from the ground, escalating vertically as well as horizontally. He looked back to his opponent, who was still slowly making his way to the two starting lines dug into the ground by the battle master. Armun looked down, sweeping away the sand with his new boots. When he reached a depth of a foot height he hit something hard, like limestone, but smoothed over. More of the markings revealed themselves in between streaks of darker sand.

  Ferals did not build this.

  It could only be harmian, he figured. If ever the ferals were to lose their grip on this stronghold, he would have to travel back here. Had the ferals killed whatever harmians were here? It was possible, but unlikely. None could conquer the same harmian armies he had seen in his youth. But perhaps they hadn’t been the same.

  Armun looked up. The feral mage, who he thought the battle master had said was named Sindarr, stood in a slight squat, steam rising from his hands.

  Armun found it odd that the first thing he considered was that Sindarr seemed quite beautiful. He heard a shout from his right, and realized that the battle master had moved to the eastern wall, nothing more than a tiny person now, a dot draped in seven different colors. The battle master raised a spiraled war horn, and blew into it.

  Armun stepped a few paces closer, now just a stone’s throw away from Sindarr.

  Sindarr looked up to the tower behind him. Armun attempted to squint up towards the same viewing area, but the sun was too powerful. As he raised his hands to shield his eyes, Sindarr turned and smiled with all of his teeth, motioning towards the old man.

  “Your name?” Sindarr asked as he bowed, his dashing looks now covered by silky hair.

  “Roiland Cardiff,” He said.

  “You are a beautiful man, Roiland Cardiff... and your name... such strength in it.”

  “Your name tells a story as well,” Armun said.

  “It’s a bit obvious, I suppose - but appropriate, don’t you think?”

  The young feral mage laughed with humanistic flair. Armun wondered if that was a learned trait or something he simply adopted for the fun of it. “Roiland. Roiland. Roiland Cardiff. I could say it over and over.”

  “You’re welcome to say it as much as you like,” Armun said. “I would much prefer talking than killing.”

  The feral made a tut-tut sound, rapidly opening and clamping his jaws. “No, Armun. Sadly, no. For you see, it was my brother that you killed a short time ago.”

  Suddenly, Sindarr looked a lot more feral to Armun. The skinny mage pulled back his wide lips, revealing all of his teeth. “It’s strange... I felt sad, to be sure. But now that I see you... I can’t help but see your beauty. And that makes it alright. Your true beauty, you know?”

  Dammit, Armun thought. He realized that Sindarr had most likely touch his aura with his own while he was locked up in Lobosa’s cage.

  Sindarr shook his body, acting as if he had suddenly been chilled. “Your aura, Roiland. Oh my, your aura. I could drink it in. I’ve never been so conflicted. I’ve never seen such beauty.”

  Armun raised his hands as Sindarr’s aura broiled around his feral body. “We don’t have to kill each other.”

  “No?” Sindarr asked, head tilting decrepitly to the left. He wagged a finger. “No. I will fight you, because - well - the others will not forgive me if I leave you alive. Maybe I could get away with burning you within an inch of your life, and then making you my slave. But with an aura so beautiful, I doubt you’ll go so easily.”

  Armun wondered why he was enduring this wizard’s banter. He was an enchanting one, but not the first he had met. Instead of responding, he said nothing. After a few seconds of silence, Sindarr continued.

  “A pity... you know, unlike my kin, I am obviously gifted with magic. Not many ferals are. Not even our beautiful Warden, Lobosa... even with all his scars I still dream of him at night, sometimes.”

  Armun both desired to know and not know what the young wolf man was on about, obviously mad, possibly with bloodlust.

  No, Armun thought. Too calm for bloodlust. He might just be mad.

  “O
h, Mr. Cardiff, you make me feel so conflicted! Look at you - all aglow. Just magnificent. I watched you in that cell. I saw your aura stretching out to touch my Warden. Oh, if only he could have sensed you.”

  Armun pulled his aura even tighter against his skin.

  Sindarr shivered again, this time seeming less false about it.

  “And now, there are two sides tugging at me, just tearing at me, ripping this useless body apart. One side is telling me to turn this whole audience into corpses and take you away from here... we could learn so much from each other. Eventually, my impulsiveness would… perhaps… be forgiven. Take me - or deny me?”

  Sindarr stepped forward. Armun matched the step, moving back, wondering if this young wolf man was serious, deluded, or a mixture of both.

  “I have enough gold to last us for years. I’ve seen so little of the outside world.” Sindarr stretched out his hand. The moment he did, the crowd went wild. Every move he made displayed his other power, one that was more real than magic; a power of seduction.

  Armun looked into the eyes of the young feral mage. “I don’t understand your game. But I think we’d best get on with this.”

  Armun looked directly into Sindarr’s eyes, and saw something he did not expect.

  Tears began to form in the wells of his feral eyes. “Please...” he whispered. “Please... take me away.”

  To his own surprise, Armun believed him. He extended his aura, pushing it outward to touch his opponents. The technique of touching auras could never tell a person’s exact intentions, but an outright lie could be read with training. Once their aura’s mingled, though, Armun sensed no wavering or falsity. Only a straightness, like vibrating metal, so strong he could wrap his fingers around it.

  The young feral was being honest. He truly wished to leave.

  Armun did not know for what reason this young feral wished to run off with an old human, though it made him sad. He shook his head. “I used to save young people like you. In another life - perhaps.”