Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

Home > Other > Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks > Page 29
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 29

by Serabian, Charles


  Jerryl Trought entered, his hands and clothes freshly bloodied, the blade of his sword much the same. He looked surprised, but only for a moment. His gaze lumbered from Lobosa’s freshly torn limbs to Armun’s shining Laranuan armor. The scene seemed to confuse him.

  “Harma’s sweet grace.” Armun, stunned that his mission had just walked into his hands, fell to one knee. “Sir Jerryl Trought, commander of the Orange and Black… my name is Armun Murleia. I’ve come to bring you safely home. I’ve been sent by Queen Lennith and others who wish to see you return.”

  The scraggily Sir Trought stepped forward and around Lobosa’s body, raising a hand in disbelief to his bearded mouth.

  “He’s dead.” Sir Trought said. He turned his face up, mouth open, staring at Armun.

  “He’s dead.”

  Armun nodded. “Yes, Sir Trought. I am sorry to have taken from you a moment that… I’m sure you desired to enact yourself.”

  Armun stood. “You must leave with me. I’m taking you back to the Spade Kingdom.”

  “This is not…” Jerryl began. “This. This isn’t. This isn’t how I saw this. The people here needed to do this. It would have strengthened them.”

  Armun understood Sir Trought’s logic, but there was no time for plans of such nature. “Sir Trought, how did you manage your way through to this chamber?”

  He watched the old knight move towards the masks and mounted heads on the wall, staring at each one at eye level. He answered in a daze. “The nameless things… they’ve been tearing through the tunnels, killing everything in their path. I didn’t think it would work so well, but I had to do something. Anything.” Jerryl looked back down at Lobosa’s warped expression. “He was going to take my boys from me. And now that he’s dead... Harma’s sweet grace, it might work. It might work.”

  “Your boys?” Armun asked. “Do you mean - Valor and Orrin?”

  Jerryl stepped back in surprise. “Yes. Wait, who are you?”

  Armun lost his patience. “I am Armun Murleia of - Sir Trought, please. We have to leave now if we’re ever going to escape.”

  He grabbed the old knight’s wrist, but Sir Trought ripped it away. “I don’t know your rank, son, but I promise it’s not above mine. Don’t even think for a second I’m just going to up and leave what might be a true revolt against the tyranny of this,” he pointed at Lobosa, “this bastard.”

  Armun bowed. The alchemic mixture of time and a need for respect were blending poorly in his mind. He knew that if one were to stack up the accolades, he would in fact outrank Sir Trought, but was not about to bring that up. “I apologize, Sir Trought. But my mission comes from the queen herself. I’m to bring you back to the Orange and Black. And I don’t intend to fail my queen.”

  Jerryl shook with nervous laughter. “You seem decent, son. Believe me, however, I’ll do more good here than anywhere in Harmenor. I can’t go home.”

  Armun cleared his throat. “Sir - “

  Jerryl pushed his beard into Armun’s face. “You don’t want me home! You don’t want me...” Armun backed away, as did Sir Trought. “I can’t leave here. There isn’t time to tell you of the things I’ve done. But that life is gone to me.”

  Armun felt disturbed. The look of desperation Sir Trought now carried spoke harsh truths. He could only assume what Lobosa had made him do within the small, demented world of the Arnaks. Bringing Jerryl Trought home to serve as a war criminal would not sit well with anyone.

  “Sir Trought,” He said, calmly, “I respect your decision. But I cannot go back to the queen empty handed.”

  “You won’t,” Jerryl said definitively. He rushed forward and gripped Armun by the shoulders. “You won’t, son. The boys. My boys, Orrin and Valor. Take them. Take them as far away from here as you can. Have you heard of them in the outside world?”

  Armun shook his head no, causing Jerryl to gasp.

  “Bounties’been placed on their heads for the last five or six years but I don’t think words reached Spade country yet. Only around the Gorabund! They have a chance, then!”

  Armun placed his own hands on top of Jerryl’s shoulders, attempting to calm him. “Sir Trought, as strong as they are, and as badly as I want to take them, two young boys will hardly live up to your quality. Whatever crimes you’ve committed…”

  Armun stared at Sir Trought, knowing that what he was about to say next might damn his chances or save them. “Sir Trought,” He said, “Whatever crimes you’ve committed are known to few. Your identity has always been secret.”

  Jerryl shook his head. “No, no - there are those who know me. Few, but enough that know what I’ve done for this monster. I’ll be in chains eventually. But the boys - I’ve trained them. Personally. You couldn’t ask for better fighters or better minds. Orrin’s mute, but gods, he’s smart. Valor’s bright as well, but... they just need another teacher. Another foolish old man like myself, you see? Maybe you?”

  Armun could feel Sir Trought’s desperation seeping through his strong grip. “Or, Sir Trought, or - you can come with us and continue to teach them. I’m sure that someday they’ll have all that you do, but I must insist.”

  Jerryl stood up straight. “Insist what, mage? I don’t see any magical bindings under all that armor you’re wearing. You going to tie me up and cart me out of here? I can see your aura. It’s strong. But not strong enough to restrain me and get us out.”

  Armun grabbed at Lobosa’s water cup and devoured it. If Sir Trought would not go willingly, then he would have no choice. He opened a palm, and summoned Lifeweaver.

  The massive battle-axe appeared in a puff of purple vapor. Its weight slammed against the rock with a heavy crack. Sir Trought looked impressed.

  Armun spoke softly. “Sir Trought, if I have to knock you sideways and drag you out the front gates, I will. I’ll relent about the boys. But I cannot leave here without you.”

  Jerryl stepped forward. “Son, I’m going to tell you something about those boys. This something, I’d like you to consider it a bargaining chip. If you deem the information to be of such value that you can leave me to my plans, and take the boys, do you promise to do so on your honor and rank?”

  Armun carefully considered this. A man of the Orange and Black was bound by his word and the bonds of his brotherhood. In the old days, lies were punishable by death in the Orange and Black, so he trusted Sir Trought’s word, but returning to Carnim Hale empty handed was not a choice.

  Just as Armun opened his mouth, Sir Trought spoke again. “And, if by leaving me here, I succeed in my plans to overthrow the ferals, you will have one less disaster to report to your queen. When you reach Carnim Hale, and you come back, you’ll either find everyone dead, or us slaves alive. Either way, it works out better for you, not to mention for the crown. Imagine what the general populace would do if they found out this place had been operating under the queen’s nose?”

  Armun felt a pang of guilt. He scratched his face. With the world at peace, the discovery of what had been going on under the Arnaks would cause great damage to the queen’s name. “Is there truly no one else to lead them?” He asked.

  Jerryl shook his head no. “Fine,” Armun said. “Tell me your secret first.”

  Sir Trought spoke. Armun listened.

  Armun spent the next ten minutes not only helping Sir Trought devise a better plan for taking hold of the Arnaks, he learned Valor and Orrin’s weaknesses and strengths, what made them tick, and what drove them. He learned what their favorite foods were, and their favorite colors. He learned all the things that Sir Trought had meant to tell them one day.

  When Sir Trough was done speaking, he looked back down towards Lobosa’s hideous corpse. “I must be alone. For just a moment.”

  Armun bowed, leaving Sir Jerryl Trought of the Orange and Black to his own desires.

  He stepped over Lobosa’s corpse, exiting quickly, yanking at the large door. As he slammed it hard behind him, he peered down the pathway, slave and feral shadows clashing in the distan
ce. Growls and battle cries rang out through the cavern.

  The second sound was the familiar squishing fleshiness that echoed from the high cavern ceiling above him. As Sir Trought had said, the nameless things had been awoken.

  He surveyed the grotesque scene, ready to unleash his day’s fill of pent up anger on something he would not regret killing.

  He had been discovered now. Nothing to hide me, he thought, clenching his fists. Armun found himself wishing to illuminate the cavern. With his eyes enhanced by his aura’s power, he did not need it, but the light starved cavern seemed to beg for new life.

  Armun swung Lifeweaver over his shoulder and raised his free hand to the rocky sky. Balls of light burst forth, revealing to him his enemies in all their grotesque splendor.

  He grabbed Lifeweaver with both hands, slamming it to the ground. Purple vapor exploded around his body, and suddenly his weight grew twice as much. A full set of armor appeared upon him. He dropped his weight to accomadate its sudden appearance. He turned away a tentacle’s lashing with Lifeweaver.

  Beneath the heavy plates, the light leather set that Lobosa had unintentionally bequeathed him radiated with his aura. The magic energy the armor had absorbed from his fight with Sindarr was enough to give every child in the world a light to read by until the end of their days.

  A tentacle lashed out at him, and he sidestepped, slashing down with his axe.

  These must be the nameless things, he thought.

  “Disgusting,” he said, raising his right hand.

  Chapter 32

  Valor stood as close to the bars of his cell as possible without being shocked, nerves on edge, eyes focusing through dim light. The sounds of battle had filled him with such intensity that he had to remind himself to breathe. Orrin stood with him, nearly forgetting about the charged iron bars that surrounded them.

  Valor’s hands turned clammy. Orrin turned to him and signed. [ What is going on? ]

  He returned the question. [ Something not good? ]

  [ Sounds bad, ] Orrin responded. Guards scuttled across the invisible ceiling bridges, jumping in and out of the darkness in front of them, disappearing as quickly as they came.

  Valor worried about Jerryl, unsure of how he knew that the clash of sounds from the upper tunnels were somehow linked to his mentor.

  No, Valor thought. They finally crossed blades.

  He wondered if the old man had planned a revolt without telling him or Orrin.

  The sounds of feral barking lingered for the better half of an hour.

  Disappointment settled into Valor as he looked to his brother. [ False alarm? ] he signed.

  [ They seemed extremely vigilant for a false alarm, ] Orrin responded, then sat back down on his bed. Valor stayed standing, kicking at the ground, waiting. At several points he thought he heard what sounded like huge gusts of air flowing in and out of the prison. Upon hearing the third gust, this time much closer, Valor leaned in closer, feeling the buzz of the magic bracers around his wrist.

  An intense burst of white light flooded the area, illuminating the ghostly figures of frightened slaves, crying out as if in pain. Valor tried to make out the figures he saw outside of the cells. Enforcers clashed with one tall man, his body exploding in random bursts of light. The figure disappeared quickly behind the mass of feral bodies, however, and light faded soon, replaced by sounds of metallic screeching.

  Valor tried his best to see through the darkness, but only became frustrated.

  A feral body flew quickly past Valor’s cell, howling in pain, and then there was a short moment of peace, followed by the clacking of feral feet.

  With a sharp growl, one guard sprang in front of their cell, and then up towards the ceiling.

  Something armored and blindingly fast fell from the guard’s intended path, collapsing onto the feral’s back, a balance beam too weak to hold the weight. The armored body of a man stood and pushed his silver hair aside.

  Roiland Cardiff turned to reveal his face.

  Excitement and confusion overtook Valor as he looked Roiland up and down. Valor looked at Orrin, whose face blatantly showed a shared sensation. Roiland had somehow adorned himself in a regal set of armor and gained the company of an enormously large battleaxe. A grey-blue cloak was tossed to one side. Valor was clueless as to how the old man could hold the monstrous weapon with one hand.

  Valor asked the only question he could think of. “Well?”

  Roiland, covered in sweat, spoke softly. “Time to leave.”

  The silver haired old man grabbed a feral spear and jammed it into the key slot, sending the familiar shockwave through the bars, unlocking their cell. “Come here,” Roiland said harshly. Both boys jumped out of the cell. Roiland wrapped his hands around the bracers on Valor’s wrists, eyes closed, head twitching slightly.

  Suddenly, the bracer’s cracked once, twice, then fell apart, shattering on the floor. He repeated this process for Orrin.

  Valor rubbed his wrists, mouth dangling open. He looked at his brother, who seemed on the verge of tears. He rubbed the skin where the bracers had gripped him, a spot he had not touched for most of his life. His chains were gone, but instead of the joy he expected, he felt more confused than ever.

  “We must hurry,” Roiland said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Did you kill Lobosa?” Valor asked. “That’s the only way you could be here now. We watched his goons take you away.”

  Roiland gave no answer to the question. “I left the Warden of the Arnaks with your mentor, Jerryl. He’s alive, which we won’t be if we stay here much longer.”

  “Where is he now!?” Valor shouted. “And how did you get down here?”

  Roiland yanked both boys down the long, dark hall. “Questions to be answered later. Now move!”

  Before Valor knew what was happening, his legs threw him past the overlapping cells of his fellow slaves, with Orrin in tow. Time seemed to slow with each face he gazed into, as people he had grown with turned into ghosts, memories of the past, already fading.

  The living ghosts of the past were soon behind him as they ascended the twisted, hacked out stairway.

  “How did you not get lost?” Valor asked again.

  Roiland answered bluntly. “Short answer; magic.”

  He watched Roiland extend his hand, and a massive flash of white light burst from his palm, gliding across their path, showing the way. A guard’s cloak fluttered in Valor’s ear, the shadow of a body descending with his spear pointed towards Roiland’s forehead. Valor watched as Roiland stepped to the side with perfect synchronization and split the guard in two. Without so much as a grunt, the guard’s spear split in half, falling to the ground.

  Two more came from behind, their quick feet giving away their position. Valor side stepped at a forward angle as a spear sheared past his right shoulder. He snatched the slow thrust and kicked hard against his opponent’s knee. The knee shattered, the guard howled, and Valor put the guard’s own spear through him.

  Orrin dealt with the other. Valor watched his brother’s assailant swing wildly, as if his spear shaft was a mace. It was not, and Orrin caught the ancient weapon. He deflected a swipe from inside the arm, and blasted the guard’s chest with a powerful front kick. The guard fell, and Orrin picked up the spear.

  As they reached the top of the stairway, Valor noticed the utter lack of noises, the common grunting and barking that usually came from the feral soldiers. “Where are the other guards?” He asked.

  “Busy with Jerryl’s revolt.” Roiland whispered.

  Valor asked him the same question as before. “So did he kill Lobosa?”

  “No,” Roiland said with some hesitation. “I did.”

  Valor felt slightly robbed, but only for a moment. Relief that Lobosa could no longer harm others blew away any notion of his being denied. The Warden is dead, he thought. Dead.

  Orrin took his brother’s hand. Valor looked at him. [ It’s over, ] Orrin signed.

  [ Maybe. ] Valor sign
ed back. Lobosa would have a plan in place for the event of his death. Valor was sure of it.

  The old mage held up a finger to his lips. “Sh, quiet, silence.”

  Valor watched Roiland clasp both hands together, rubbing them as if he were kneading thin dough. A low shimmering noise began to seep through his fingers, as did a few beams of light. He slowly allowed his hands to separate, revealing a tiny sprite that flittered about, chirping and chiming. Roiland held up his hand, allowing it to rest, petting the thing as if it were a trained animal.

  “Find me what I’m looking for.” With those words, and another soft, broken shimmer and a hum, the little creature took off.

  “What do we do?” Valor asked.

  Roiland started after his sprite. “Follow. It will show us what we’re looking for.”

  “And what are we looking for?” Said Valor.

  “A way out. Maybe something else. Sprites have a mind of their own sometimes, but they are good enough at following orders. Now sh.”

  “So it might not lead us out?” Valor asked.

  “Sh!”

  Valor skulked behind Roiland, and Orrin behind him, trying his best to use the silence, emotions clouding his concentration. Several times he found himself moving ahead of Roiland, who pulled him back.

  Valor tried to regain a sense of composure, but absolute freedom felt so near. He knew that blindly following Roiland, who had travelled from who knows where to do who knows what, was not a great plan, but the silver haired mage seemed determined to find a way out.

  Valor realized that only two facts, however unlikely, could have occured. Lobosa undoubtedly had Roiland brought back to his chambers after the match with Sindarr. Somehow, Roiland had gotten the upper hand. How Jerryl fit in to it was still a mystery.

  The other fact was that Jerryl had to be leading the charge against the ferals from somewhere. No one else could inspire or organize them as such.

  At least, he thought, not right now.

 

‹ Prev