Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Armun then felt it, the fear that had been missing, the thousands of swirling butterflies in his stomach. He was the child soldier again, an impossible mission set before him, and they were all called impossible by those who weren’t him.

  The Warden moved across the table that served as his desk, and sat down in the high, oblong chair, staring at Armun quietly, picking his dirty nails with his dagger.

  Slowly, Lobosa moved behind him, revealing the hourglass device on his desk. Armun’s breath quickened as he stared into its swirling, contained white death.

  The Warden leaned forward. “You excite me. Very few humans excite me. You resisted my use of the silence without saying a word, and you killed my two best warriors.”

  Armun cleared his throat, saying nothing. His captor moved towards the white death time turner and tapped it with his fingernails.

  “I know that you have the aura of magic. Sindarr told me before he died. You probably felt your auras touch when you were changing into that armor I gave you.”

  Lobosa paused. “Your fight was breathtaking, by the way. I do not know exactly how, but you slew my two best warriors with advanced technique and advanced magic. As you and I know, and I’m certain you do, that containing a spell within bone, especially older bones, is difficult. Not only that, you’ve been able to hide your aura from everyone around you for days.”

  The chills grew worse as Armun’s teeth chattered. “I don’t know what you mean. I picked up a bone and threw it towards that… monster. Sure, I gave the thing a good toss, but there was no spell in it. He was going to kill us all. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Lobosa opened a palm to the sky. “Sindarr was… off. He’s always been so. But to get back to my point - there’s a lot I don’t understand about you. For instance, where you came from. Why you are here. How you ended up here. How you’ve managed to resist my noman’s spell, or the silence.”

  Armun was thankful that he’d been correct about one thing. If the Warden knew of the nomans, then he knew of other things out there in the normal world. Feral society was not as secluded as he had suspected.

  Lobosa continued. “What if I was to tell you that war was… fermenting, Mr. Cardiff. Would that interest you? Have you perhaps heard such whispers? You may speak freely.”

  Armun tested his restraints again, shuffling his feet, attempting his best to fake confusion and unknowing. “I have heard talk of strange creatures rising from the ground, decimating villages. Mostly in the northeast. I have also heard that the harpies are ranging again. The King of Spades is still missing - ”

  “Dead,” Lobosa finished, “that king, that one at least, is dead. Missing means dead. He was last sighted around the Spore Grounds two years past, but even that is a rumor. The very air in those lands is poison, at least to human lungs.”

  Armun stopped then, fearing that too much talk from himself would intrigue the Warden more, especially concerning kings and queens.

  He watched as the Warden reached up, squinting, rubbing his temples hard, as if suffering from a sudden head pain. “Mr. Cardiff, I really do wish that you would tell me the truth of who you are.”

  Armun said nothing, the shakes and chills wearing off for the moment.

  “In the battles to come, I can offer you a chance for freedom. A chance to serve under me as a man of power and rank. You’ll have whatever you desire. Anything in Harmenor.”

  Armun nodded his head as best he could without pulling the twitch-lever blade into his neck. “I want to be free of this... this place. I want to - to be free, yes.”

  “Then follow me.” Lobosa slowly rose, blocking the light from the skull brazier above.

  Armun realized Lobosa would not give him much more time. There was now a palpable sense of urgency in the Warden’s voice. He needed answers, and needed them now.

  “From what I’ve learned of ferals, your people won’t take orders from a human, no matter what title you give him. Or her.”

  Lobosa folded his hands in front of his lap. “They will listen,” he said, “when I command them too.”

  Armun shuffled his feet, fending off a leg cramp. “I don’t claim mastery of anything, but all this you’ve built... clearly there’s someone else, someone alongside you. Who is it? If I am to be chained to a new lord, I would like to know the identity of your true master.”

  Lobosa paused, then snapped off his metal face mask, exposing himself. He fixed a scarred eye on Armun’s own, leaning over him, with both hands resting gently on his wrists.

  Lobosa drew out the words slowly. “Would you like to meet him?”

  The chills came back, flowing through Armun’s body like a quick gust. The Warden knew, and he knew that Armun knew. All pretenses left the room. Valor had been right, and Armun could see it in the Warden’s eye. Ferals could smell liars, and the Warden had sniffed him out, calling his bluff.

  True horror grew in Armun’s ever vein, almost stunting the blood within. Horror and a loss of hope. He pushed it beneath his stomach.

  “Forget it. Kill me. I have no desire to join you.”

  “Such an extreme reaction,” Lobosa said. “Come now, don’t be so hasty.”

  “Warden…” Armun began.

  “No.” Lobosa said with a heavy sigh. “No, you deserve to know, after everything you’ve seen. The true master will want to know who I’ll have serving directly underneath me.”

  Armun swallowed hard. The Warden stared at him, and reached slowly for the orb like hourglass. He must have seen the real fear in his eyes. The Warden retracted his hand, and sat back on his table, looking between the white death container and Armun, back and forth.

  “You seem nervous. Afraid. Do you… do you know who I am about to call upon?”

  Armun did not hesitate to nod yes. Lobosa peered down at him. “How?”

  Armun dropped his own pretenses. His voice lowered several octaves. “Who else could it be?” he said. “There’s only one master who could have guided you to commit the evil I see here… and accomplish so much, so well hidden.”

  Lobosa nodded. “It is good to meet a believer. I suppose we can save the introductions for later.”

  Armun said nothing as relief washed over his body, cooling the hot sweat beneath his armor.

  Lobosa shook, suddenly giddy. He offered Armun more water.

  Armun slurped down the full cup. The Warden sat back against his table.

  “Does what you’ve seen here disturb you?” The Warden asked.

  “Greatly,” Armun said with the flatness of a still creek. “You disgust me.”

  The Warden looked at Armun. “The disgust you see is a manifestation of our interior urges, human. If there is no war, then gatherings like my Scarlett Ring become a special occasion. You would be amazed at the amount of people who don’t get a spot on the list. Seating is limited after all… you most likely didn’t see all the festivities outside, but gods - the drinking, the whoring, the makeshift fights just outside the ring - my men have more than enough trouble keeping the peace inside and out. But why? Why are the people of Harmenor so desperate to see bloodshed?”

  Armun had a million answers, but offered one. “… manipulators like you.”

  Lobosa raised his hand and pointed at Armun. “I manipulate nothing. I simply hand out offers. Killing is normal, Roiland. Death and destruction are a part of us all. It breaks us down to our most primal essence, and then builds us back up. It’s basic; it’s true.”

  “Is that what you preach to your people?” Armun asked.

  Lobosa let his head loll to the right. “More or less. Roiland, think about your last fight. Think about being on the brink of death, staring down Sindarr or Jik’qui. Did you not feel truly alive?”

  Lobosa cut him off before he could speak. “I don’t need an answer. I could see it on your face after both fights. There’s a distinct look that a human has when he’s contemplating something so deeply. Death breaks us into thinking about things in new ways. It’s a simple fact.” />
  Armun coughed, and Lobosa fed him more water, this time with a slightly forceful hand. The Warden seemed to have run out of words, of which Armun was thankful, though what had already been spoken made Armun feel guilty enough.

  “We can learn those lessons without war. I’ve seen enough to know that as fact.” Armun let the words out with a heavy sigh.

  Lobosa tapped his cup. “Perhaps you have some wisdom. But regardless of your bright mind, you have a decision to make. I’ll allow you one more question.”

  Armun contemplated quickly. He had one final question, and in this, he knew Lobosa was serious. He asked it firmly. “The spell your soldiers use to take the white death… how is it done? What is it?”

  Lobosa went from inquisitive to solemn in a heartbeat, looking at Armun as if staring at a dying, wounded animal. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question. The ober we mine is the only physical material that can contain the white death. We piece them together in combination with certain techniques. The master taught my family how to wield it. I taught those among us with the aura of magic.”

  Armun’s heart skipped a beat.

  Lobosa spoke quietly. “This power is memorias. The magic of extracting memories. A power stronger than any other.”

  Armun clenched his teeth.

  Gods… no.

  “Allow me one more?” Armun asked hurriedly. Lobosa waved him on, lips curling across his incisors. The Warden seemed impatient. “Is there a man in your service named Jerryl Trought? He was a commanding officer of the Spade Kingdom, and of some renown.”

  Lobosa stood, firmly placing his cup down.

  The feral leader sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Roiland Cardiff. Each question you ask puts you farther away from any answers. I… I should have known better.” Lobosa began to move behind Armun.

  “I pity you,” Armun said.

  “What?” The Warden snapped.

  “I feel awful for your race... how twisted you’ve become, demented and perverse.”

  Armun felt cold nails against his scalp once again as Lobosa spoke. The Warden reached behind the chair. Armun felt springs pop from behind him, the Warden disarming the blade trap pointed at his neck. Something metal clanged to the floor.

  “We’ve become our true nature,” said the Warden. “But regardless of what that means to the rest of the world - in the end, Roiland Cardiff, we will be alive. And you will be dead. Now, quiet please. Memorias is difficult to perform.”

  Armun watched Lobosa close his eyes, breathing hard and heavy.

  The pain came instantly. It was as if the Warden was funneling his soul through a thin hollow branch, yanking and twisting. Tunnel vision overtook his eyes as the pressure on both sides of his head mounted higher with each passing second. Every organ felt stretched to the limit.

  Lobosa pulled hard, and Armun watched as a massive stream of white energy burst forth from his forehead like an exploding pustule. White, ghost-like sprites shoved their way against each other into Lobosa’s tangled hand as he yanked against the resisting memories. Armun’s head snapped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as Lobosa pulled.

  “You’re fighting me… it seems you are not willing to let go!” Lobosa cried.

  Finally, after one last stretch; Lobosa stumbled back, pulling everything out.

  Armun felt numbness over every inch, sweating profusely, mouth dangling as drool spilled out of it, vision leaving him. He could still see Lobosa struggling to contain the massive white threads of his life in his large feral hands.

  He watched Lobosa as closely as he could, fighting away the desire to pass out. The Warden seemed to be shaping the memories with his hands, and funneling them into a thick glass vial.

  Lobosa turned back towards Armun. The Warden held his silver haired head firmly with both hands, and said, “Mr. Cardiff… it does seem that you have more to give.”

  Chapter 31

  Lobosa leaned back upon his table, fur matted with sweat, drool leaking from between his fangs. His body felt taxed, muscles weak as thin wet paper, and at any moment he knew he could fall asleep from the exertion of performing the memorias. The only thought that kept him up was the self-assurance that he was in charge.

  I am the Warden, Lobosa said to himself. He is the prisoner here. He is the prisoner here, in this place, in my domain. I am the Warden.

  He looked at Roiland’s limp body. In the final moments, it seemed that his neck had snapped.

  The Warden had received flashes of Roiland’s memories, and he mulled them over as he brushed back his sweat caked fur. War, politics, and a single, brief love, and so many faces in so much pain.

  Who was this man? he thought. Surely his name was not Roiland Cardiff.

  He looked down at the full bottle of memorias, knowing full well the power of the memories contained within.

  Roiland’s memories were unlike any that Lobosa had ever seen. They vibrated in his hands, and he could hear a slight hum from them. He was glad that his smith’s new glass could contain them.

  Lobosa could not help but feel that this signified something. What, exactly, he did not yet understand, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he was cast in a bright shadow, some dawn approaching he could not see.

  Perhaps the master would call for him soon.

  He lifted the vial again, admiring his work. Roiland Cardiff’s memories would be used to power something great. The life of a man so fully lived should be enough energy to decimate an entire army, or so Lobosa hoped.

  He looked away for a moment, then back at the vial.

  The memorias was gone, as if it had never been in the bottle at all.

  A murderous feeling gripped the Warden. He instantly dropped the container, and heard it shattering on the rock floor. He withdrew both daggers, spinning wildly.

  He thrusted both blades in and out of Armun’s heart and right temple at the speed of a hummingbird’s peck. Instead of blood pouring from the wounds, sand escaped the holes.

  He inhaled sharply. The sand smelled of burnt flesh. A moment later, the whole body became sand, tan grains collapsing onto the floor, through and away from the restraints.

  Lobosa’s snarls grew louder with each exhale.

  As the sand disintegrated, the lights on the skull chandelier above him blew out. It was no matter to him, for he could see in the dark well enough to kill anything that would mean him murder.

  Lobosa backed up into a body. He spun to strike.

  A hand reached out to his face, and an explosion of light occurred in its center. A hundred tiny sprites made of every known color flew from the big palm, round and round the room, confusing his perception of anything and everything.

  Lobosa found himself only capable of tiny movements. He tried to focus, tried to search through sight and smell for his opponent.

  Suddenly, his daggers were not in his hands.

  He realized then that, like Roiland Cardiff, he too had aged. A shadow descended upon him, and as he swung upwards, he felt his arm move in the general direction of up, yet he saw nothing.

  The Warden squinted, and started to turn his head towards where his arm should be, but his left leg gave out suddenly, and he found himself staring at the ceiling, screaming, as the lights dimmed and he passed out. Warmth began to pool beneath him as the room turned black, the lights of the brazier receding, dimming, disappearing.

  Armun lingered in Lobosa’s chambers for a few minutes, ensuring that the Warden would not rise, waiting for his real body to finish connecting to his projected self. He fought back the urge to smash every mask and stolen trophy mounted on the walls around him. He pushed out his aura, letting it be free for the first time in days. He took a deep breath, feeling his body lighten.

  His aura was still strong, but casting astral projection had clearly thinned out its edges.

  He looked down at the sand that had acted as his double while his real body had hidden in the smoke of the Scarlett Ring. Raising a hand, he pulled the energy of his aur
a from the sand.

  Half of his aura’s strength had gone into the spell, and though he regained some of it, maintaining two bodies cost him a great deal of his power.

  Armun picked up the Warden’s daggers and dropped them upon his body.

  All he could think was; Selex.

  He stood over Lobosa. The Warden’s eyes were open, torso occasionally squirming with what was left of his connected body. The left arm twitched at the fingers.

  Guilt came back to him. Lobosa, a feral who could have been a hero, continued to bleed puddles on the floor.

  Armun took pride in reaching those that others did not have the strength to help, and he couldn’t help but feel Lobosa could have been saved. He had rescued some from cults, death worshippers, and the most terrible of bandits, but today was not one of those days.

  “Harma’s mercy.” Armun wiped blood from his hands, and offered a quick prayer for the terrible Lobosa.

  Once the prayer was over, a million thoughts flowed through Armun’s mind, but one stood out.

  Selex, he thought again. He would rather take on ten dragons single handedly, in their prime, than deal with the harsh truth that now lay before him. It would most likely end the same, he realized, with his mind frayed and his body strewn about in much the same manner.

  Possible futures rolled out of his mind like elegant tapestries. Defeats and victories played out in his head. Alliances were broken and formed. Many people died needlessly, and many people did not die that needed to.

  Lobosa had been right about one thing. War was coming, and all of its pointlessness would infect Harmenor again.

  Armun poked at Lobosa with his foot. The body responded, though only by the death twitch, and he turned his attention to the door. Once he left it, everything would be different. He hated the fact that so many doors had been such literal representations of change in his life.

  What’s one more? he thought.

  Armun stepped over the bloody body and threw up the thick wooden bar. Before he could place his hand on the handle, it turned. Armun backed up to the left wall of the chamber, and readied himself.