Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Orrin soon regained his balance, and backed up into the lighted outside as well, incapable of opening his eyes just as much as his brother.

  The ground beneath them was pure sand. Everything was white. Behind him, he heard rocks big and small crumbling to the ground, breaking into dust, floating away.

  “I can stand,” he heard Valor say. “I can walk, stop touching me. Let me go!”

  Orrin grabbed him by the arm, leading him out. He opened his eyes and looked down at the ground, seeing nothing but blinding whiteness.

  “I see white things, Orrin. What do you see?” Valor put his hands on his brothers so he could feel him make the words.

  [ The same. ]

  The same thing happened every time they reentered the true world from beneath the prison, whether it be the Gorabund or the Scarlett Ring. The darkness of the tunnels had made them long susceptible to changes in light.

  White. White, and more white.

  Chapter 35

  All Valor could see was a big white blur. If he could see anger, he would have seen red instead. Anger was all he felt.

  “You - bastard.”

  He clawed at the brightness in front of him, pulling away soft upper layers of sand. There was no response from the old man. “Roiland!” he commanded.

  “I’m here, forgive me.” Roiland said promptly. “Just follow my voice. I’m sorry if I injured you in any way back there. That spell can be a bit rough.”

  “I can see white things, Roiland. And you, you’re a big black… thing. And when I - when I get to you, you’re a dead man!”

  He heard the big black blob chuckle. “Good, good. I know this is difficult, but we need to get far away.”

  Valor spoke out loud, hoping in vain that it would help focus his mindset, which seemed to be evaporating under the sun. “Sun, sand... all the good things. Wonderful. Great. Shit…”

  Roiland the black blob moved to his right, and Valor followed. “Just walk with me!” Roiland said. “Just follow my shape. The land is flat, so you shouldn’t have much trouble.”

  He could see Roiland begin to slowly walk backwards. Valor followed the big mage’s figure as the blues and silvers of his armor and clothes slowly began to appear properly to their eyes. But soon, other figures began to appear in the distance. Dark, brownish red ones. Valor yelled out after him, his sweaty face grabbing stray hairs from his ponytail. “You’re leading me out of the tunnel! And you’re doing a good job doing it!”

  Slowly but surely, Roiland’s blobby figure took shape. He could see the lines in his grey armor.

  “When I get you...” he stepped close enough for a punch, and swung. Roiland grabbed his arm and whirled him around. Valor, now, dizzy, could see Orrin waddling just a few paces away.

  He heard Roiland sighed. “Harma’s sweet grace.”

  Valor tried to remove himself from Roiland’s grip, but found it impossible. “What…"

  “Look back at the cave.”

  Valor squinted hard, his eyes adjusting better now that he was looking back at something dark. He peered into the hole that Roiland had made.

  Dammit, he thought. Feral enforcers had begun to stream out of the hole, in full sets of armor, running and leaping out of the newly formed exit. Even with his vision halfway recovered, he could see their deranged anger. The bloodlust was fueling them; blood red crust caked into the fur around their chins. The dogs were ready for more.

  Suddenly, a white flash appeared in front of Valor. He instantly knew what it was by its shimmering sound. “That stupid sprite! I’m going to kill it! It’s happening!”

  He cursed again and again. The sprite moved back into Roiland’s hand.

  “Roiland - ”

  “Just run.”

  Valor couldn’t see his expression, but felt the urgency in Roiland’s voice ring out.

  “Where?” he asked.

  Suddenly, Roiland’s armor burst away into purple vapor, revealing the same set of armor he had been wearing during his fight with Sindarr. Roiland pulled both boys by the arm, and they set off back towards the edges of the Arnaks. “Run!” he yelled.

  Valor followed Armun’s greenish body outline back towards the increasingly visible outer wall of the Arnaks. He turned back and forth until his neck hurt. He had never been this blind before. Every time he turned back, the blurred limbs of furry men were barreling after him, howling for their flesh.

  Roiland cried, “Don’t look back, idiot!”

  “How do you know I’m looking back if you’re not looking back!?”

  Ahead were the limestone edges of the Scarlett Ring. He could hear the enforcer’s snarls growing louder. He began to sway, the combination of heat and disorientation undoing his balance.

  The pumping of blood forced his vision back to its proper place.

  As he ran, he felt something in his feet and on the tips of his toes. “Orrin, do you…” he began to ask, but stopped as he heard a deep crackling.

  The cracks were now seconded, and then came in threes and fours. The sound of rolling water came to him from behind the walls of the Arnaks.

  Roiland yelled at them. “Keep running!”

  Valor looked up. They had reached the easternmost point of the ring, by one of its lumbering spectator’s towers. The adrenaline continued to fuel the return of his sight, for the harder he pushed, the better he could see. Valor ran harder, pumping his legs deep into the sand. Orrin matched his speed, and the three men formed a triangle of desperation.

  As they rounded the tower, Valor heard a crash, and smelled something overwhelmingly foul. He looked up again. Greenish-black fetid water rushed over the peak of the tower with incredible force, as if the tower were nothing but stale, crumbly bread, the water a sledgehammer. The crumbling bits fell to the ground, fetid items hitting first.

  The ferals heard it too. They skidded into the muddy, putrid sand, trying to double back, but the tower was fell too quickly.

  Roiland stopped running. Both Valor and his brother copied him.

  Valor turned to look up and above, managing to squeeze around even with Armun’s gloved hand firmly holding him in place. He watched the ferals' struggle in vain as they were pelted with death in two stages. Roiland pressed them against the limestone with his huge arm.

  “Stay against the walls!” he cried.

  The first stage was the putrid water. It seeped over the sides, blanketing the ferals in sludge and excrement. The enforcers cried out in pain as loose rocks slammed against their armored bodies. The gear was the best they could have from Kashrii, but it was not enough against a fifty-pound blow of limestone to the skull.

  The second phase was the tower itself. A few made it back beyond its range, but Valor knew they would not escape the tower’s vibrations. As it fell, he turned away and fell into a turtle position. The crash was thunderous, and a return in his vision was exchanged for deaf, ringing ears. A few stray rocks hit him in the back and ribs. Sand blew upwards into his nose and mouth. The rocks hurt, and the sand stung him, but moving was not an option.

  When the noise had diminished, he rapidly brushed his hands through his long hair and spit out the grainy stuff. He realized as he regained his footing that Roiland had not moved, and neither had Orrin. He signed to his brother. [ Didn’t you take cover? ]

  Orrin shrugged and signed. [ He used magic. I didn’t have to. ]

  Valor gritted his teeth in angst, but quickly let it go, looking behind himself to view the carnage.

  Crushed feral bodies lay piled upon the wet sand in contorted, broken poses. The tower had shattered completely. He tried to move closer, but the smell was too powerful. He then realized what it was; sewer water from beneath the ring.

  “That’s amazing,” he said, looking at Roiland. “How did you do that?”

  Roiland shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  With that, the old mage walked around the edge of the shimmering pool of filth and bodies. He held out his hand, and purple mist appeared, his battleaxe coming into exist
ence once again.

  Can he make everything disappear? Valor wondered.

  The dust cloud refrained from disappearing, however, but beyond the battered tower, he could hear the whimpering voices of ferals. He could discern about four or five, and assumed Roiland had called Lifeweaver to ease their suffering.

  But then, one of the voices abruptly ended. And then another, and another. The three men continued their slow walk around the edge of the carnage. He could hear one feral meekly howling for help. That too ended.

  As they cleared the dust cloud, he could see a figure stood among them, garbed in a cloak so grey it was almost black, clearly female, with strong posture. A bluish white sword shone and pulsed in her hand. The point was sharp beyond what could be visible to the eye.

  The figure whirled around, pulling away its hood, stomping towards them.

  Valor stopped walking, stunned by the stranger’s face.

  A pale woman with black eyes and black hair walked towards them. She ended her march halfway between the three men. Roiland continued to move towards the woman with black eyes.

  Valor studied her. Her nose twitched constantly. She scratched it with a fury the likes of which Valor had never seen a person scratch. There was something childlike about her walk, but when she stopped moving, she suddenly seemed very old, like a statue with a heartbeat just fast enough to be considered alive.

  She looked at him, and he stifled a shake.

  “Armun,” she said. Valor looked at his brother, who could only shake his head. They were both taken aback by the deepness to her voice, and the thickness of her accent.

  Valor’s immediate thought was, who is Armun?

  “Can you tell me where we are, Armun?” Iliana pointed to the endless desert around them. Roiland, whose true name was apparently not Roiland, raised a hand to speak.

  She did not let him.

  “The desert!” she yelled. Valor stepped back an inch.

  “The desert! If I’d had any idea what your plan was I would have started days ago. Your stupid sprites can only feed me intentions and ideas, and I keep telling you this! Do you know how lucky we are that this worked? And I - let me say that - sewer water! I smell like sewer water! And we were lucky this place is empty! What if there were still fights going on? What would I have done then? Hm?”

  She jabbed quickly at Roiland, or Armun’s, shoulder. He winced.

  Gods how strong is she? he thought. These people are monsters.

  Roiland, or Armun, tried to speak again. “I - “

  “Do not speak,” The woman said with the all the pleasance of an executioner. “Do not speak. Stop. Stop speaking.”

  Silence came over them as the black-eyed woman moved towards it. Valor looked at his brother, who signed to him. [ Do you have any idea what’s going on? ]

  [ Not a clue. ] Valor signed. Orrin shook his head.

  “In any event,” Armun muttered, “This is Iliana Urelyoff. The snow shadow.”

  Iliana gave a short nod, barely an acknowledgement. Valor nodded back. It was very strange seeing a woman, human or not, outside of the prison. It was the first time in a long time that he had seen a woman that was not a slave, prisoner, or noble. Her appearance and her way commanded his attention. He could not take his eyes from her.

  “We must leave,” she said. “I saw a caravann heading north, and quickly. Those big ugly creatures pulling loaded wagons and carriages. It’s carrying that ober, or maybe that white death nonsense your sprite whispered to me about.”

  Armun scratched at his beard. “Good eyes, Iliana. We’ll stop it.”

  Iliana stepped closer to the two boys. She stood in front of Orrin first, then moved towards Valor, quickly planting her feet in line with his. He moved back.

  “Which one of them is Sir Trought?” she asked, looking them up and down.

  “Neither,” Valor said.

  What little color Iliana had in her face flushed away. “What!?”

  “Iliana,” Armun said in a low voice. To Valor’s surprise, she let go of her angered expression, though her face seemed fit to burst if she did not ask at least one.

  Armun didn’t give her a chance. “We have a caravann to catch. Coming?”

  Valor looked at his brother. He felt lost for words, and Orrin seemed to feel the same.

  “Those enforcers that - Iliana - just killed... they were the best of the best. Now they are dead. Ferals’ll want blood. We have no way back in now, and you,” Valor pointed at the mage, “Roiland, or Armun or whoever you are, you already know that. So yes, we’ll follow you. Not that we have a damn choice.”

  The old man tossed his battleaxe to the sky, and it vaporized into purple mist once more. “Good,” he said. “This caravann should contain the white death infused ober, like what we saw in the forge room. You still want to help Jerryl?”

  Valor undid his ponytail, reformed it with his loose tie. “This day is full of stupid questions.”

  Armun huffed. “It certainly is. If we find this caravann and break open its shipment, the memorias, what you call white death, will not be used to harm others.”

  Valor shook his head. “What does that matter? It’s just one shipment. Ober is most likely all over Harmenor by now.”

  Armun grimaced. “It’s better than nothing. We can bury it beneath the sand for now, at least to hide it. I doubt we can destroy it. And yes, my real name is Armun. Armun Murleia… Grand Master the Urenai.”

  Valor suddenly burst into a laugh. It did not stop for some time. Everyone stared.

  When he managed to quit giggling enough to speak, he did so, unevenly. He looked at his silent brother, who never hid his embarrassment well. “Hah! You’re Urenai? Orrin, he’s Urenai! And a Grand Master? Well. I have never before needed to pray. But if you’re Grand Master of the Urenai, and that mess back there is what you’re capable of…” Valor burst into another fit of laughter. “Oh, gods. Sweet Harma, full of grace. Bestow upon me a boon, or, finish the job and just stick it up my - ”

  Iliana pulled her sword.

  Chapter 36

  The cool wind of the Gorabund night embraced the feral Nerik as he leaned upon his spear. He picked lightly at his right incisor, taking out a small bit of flesh. The bloodlust was wearing off, and he felt groggy. He reflected on the insanity of the day. Fear gripped him at the thought that he and the caravann may be the only ones left. He and his men had no way of knowing what had happened to Emberless. Riffhel had sent them beyond the gates so quickly. He hadn’t even had time to pray to the Everburn with his family. He was thankful that they had chosen to stop for the sunset hour.

  He spit as he thought of Riffhel, and then spit again as he thought of Lobosa.

  If, Nerik thought, he had never sired, then deserting would be the best choice. He wondered if the desert tribes would accept him. He was as skilled as any guardsman, and weak humans always needed those from other races with superior strength. There would be a clash of beliefs, he knew. The tribes were cultish; they worshipped half formed gods, and half formed ideals.

  He wondered if Flame Seer Getta was alive. He always enjoyed her gatherings, even if it tended to get preachy.

  She cares, he thought. She cares about what happens to our future.

  He knew he was not the only one who disagreed with the Warden Commander. Whispers floated about that he meddled in dark powers. The few times he had seen him were from afar, and much too far to smell magic on him. Many agreed that ferals would never achieve the prophesied dreams of their forebears.

  He spit again, this time at the idea of prophecies.

  None of it mattered now. His clan, the blood clan, was miles away now, so far off in the distance that even in his mind the words sounded as if they had been shouted from the western peaks of the Arnaks, where only harpies could survive.

  Clans were past tense, he thought. His superiors had sent him out here in the desert with the last handoff of white death infused ober, their coordinates far to the northeast, a safe house belongin
g to rich humans, whose names he was unaware of, names he didn’t care enough to know.

  Nerik growled, and turned towards the fleet of sealed wagons and carriages, containing what he again thought could be the last of his people. They were alone. He looked at the Eggren beasts, the sloth-like creatures that pulled their wagons. They had little food, and he wondered how long they could make it undiscovered.

  His toes cracked with the sounds of old age. The sand was cooler now, reminding him of the few streams that flowed through Emberless.

  Nerik looked to his other clansmen. All seemed beaten, downtrodden, and demolished in spirit. They had lost many by way of a slave ambush near the main entrance.

  A new day was beginning. The others in the caravan knew it, and none of them liked it. But whatever happened, they could rebuild. They had survived every pain, and won every battle. It was time to leave the old ways behind. As old as he was, he figured, if he could do it, so could the younger ones.

  Could it be so hard? he thought.

  Suddenly his chest felt tight. No breath could come or go. He looked down, and saw something blue and white had pierced him. It sucked back into his stomach, and fell to the ground sideways as blood warmed in his abdomen.

  Then he was running through a dark pool beneath a black sky, filled with millions of exploding stars.

  Orrin’s hand connected to a feral’s furry fingers. He clenched down on the knucklebones, breaking a few, causing the injured wolf man to whimper. Armun swooped behind and cut at its back. The guard fell face first into the sand.

  The few ferals that were left mounted their sloth-like beasts, digging their spurs into the creature’s sides. The beast’s moans echoed through the open desert as they lumbered off towards the horizon with surprising speed. The rest of the feral’s scattered, leaving the caravan. Even from a distance, Orrin could tell that they had no desire to fight. Armun had instructed him to move behind the caravan, due to a lack of weapons.