Primeval Origins: Light of Honor (Book 2 in the Primeval Origins Epic Saga)

by Brett Vonsik

  Nine guardsmen clad in Tusaa’Ner blue hide armor with red belt sashes emerged from the open gate and set themselves in a well-practiced arrow tip formation pointing their spears directly at Kardul. Rogaan felt his heart sink at the sight of the Tusaa’Ner. More Tusaa’Ner and a number of indistinctly liveried crossbowmen loomed over the tops of both walls and watchtowers. He was doomed . . . they were doomed. He thought to flee, but flee where? This was not Brigum where he had familiarity, it was out in the wilds . . . away from home. He was so far from home. Despair started to wrap its arms around him.

  “Announce yourselves,” demanded a thin Baraan with graying hair and dressed in a Farratum Tusaa’Ner blue tunic and red belt sash. The Baraan set himself in the middle of the formation the nine guardsmen formed.

  “We travel to Farratum from the estates of Isin,” Kardul replied more formally than Rogaan expected. The Baraan did not flinch a bit speaking a lie.

  “State your purpose,” the thin Tusaa’Ner “greeter” continued, almost as if reading his words and applying a formality to them.

  “We escort the children of Isin to the Shield City on family matters,” Kardul replied. He lied expertly, Rogaan concluded.

  The thin Baraan regarded all of them in a practiced manner before speaking. “Place your names in the Traveler’s Record. Do you need aid of a healer?”

  “Your hospitality is generous, kind sir,” Kardul replied formally. “Of course, we will record our names. We may need a healer once we look after ourselves. May we call upon such service when needed?”

  “As you wish,” the thin Baraan replied. He dispersed the guardsmen and the archers at a wave of his hand. “The attendant inside will guide you to the stable master to see after your steeds and will assign you quarters.”

  Rogaan stood shocked he was not getting arrested by the Tusaa’Ner here. He wondered at it. He assumed he was marked for capture from one end of Shuruppak to the other. A swarm of men and a few women dressed in slightly soiled tunics and carrying torches came trotting from the open gate and surrounded the fallen sarig quickly. Ruumoor protested their intentions until Kardul gave him a look, “the look.” A dejected expression washed over Ruumoor, head to toe. He grumbled as he started removing his gear from the lightless steed. “Not another sarig. Get your belongings, youngling, before these scavengers cook them too.”

  Kardul and his Sharur dismounted, stretching their legs, arms, and midsections. Pax and Suhd did the same, though Pax quickly gathered his bottom pack and some other items Rogaan was uncertain of what they were, greeted his sister with a short embrace, and then led her by the hand to Rogaan.

  “I no like it,” Pax started from under his wide-brimmed hat while shifting his bottom pack to a more comfortable position. “Too many red-sashes, and they be lookin’ for ya.”

  “What would you have us do?” Rogaan asked honestly.

  “Not be knowin’,” Pax struggled with an answer. “I be just sayin’ . . . I no be likin’ bein’ here.”

  “Neither do I,” Rogaan agreed.

  “We can’t go nowhere else,” Suhd broke in, her eyes wide. Was it fear Rogaan saw in her beautiful eyes. “Not after nightfall. Not out there. Kardul has brought us this far. We have to trust him.”

  Pax gave Rogaan a sharp look when Suhd spoke of trusting Kardul. They silently agreed with nods that they were not as certain of Kardul as she, but neither of them spoke of it. They kept their doubts and fears between themselves as Kardul’s Sharur collected them up and guided them toward the di’tij gate.

  Chapter 2

  The Last Stop

  With some urgency, the Sharur ushered them into the di’tij, almost pushing Rogaan along and not giving him much opportunity to collect his things. The heavy scent of burnt wood filled the air as they approached the gate . . . cook fires or fires to warm and push back the cool night air, Rogaan presumed. Once inside the protective walls of the citadel, Rogaan saw it was a place clearly built with minimal defenses, more focused on tending to travelers and keeping animals out than protection from war bands. Ahead of them, Kardul was deep in discussion with who Rogaan assumed was the attendant, a thin, dark-haired Baraan in a clean gray tunic and sandals carrying a small clay writing tablet. Rogaan suspected they were arguing over the arrangements and payment for their stay. It looked as if the attendant was having none of what Kardul insisted upon. While their verbal jousting continued, all of their steeds were led into the citadel by younglings half Rogaan’s age. The younglings placed their steeds into a wood fenced pen off to Rogaan’s left that made up most of the west side of the compound except for a stable work area on the far west wall and a long building on the north side of the pen that looked like a general store . . . of sorts. Some fifty strides to his north, directly in front of Rogaan, stood a rough-looking wood-planked building with a slanted roof, a tavern named the Long Journey by the sign hanging above its door. The east side of the compound was filled with four rows of small barracks. At first, Rogaan thought they were for the di’tij’s guardsmen, but women and youngling clothing hung on suspended ropes between the buildings for drying. Several small ones were running around their mothers who were still tending to wash or other chores. This clearly spoke of a living space for local workers as well as passing travelers. Simple wood watchtowers with slanted tiled roofs stood in each corner of the citadel . . . at least, this side of the di’tij. Atop the stone and mortared wall, a wood-planked defensive wall half the height of a person protected the watch guardsmen from dangers outside, but was otherwise open to all those inside the citadel.

  “Take that as payment!” Kardul growled loudly to the attendant while pointing to the quartered remains of the sarig Rogaan and Ruumoor had ridden in on, now being carried in parts past them by the tunic-dressed workers on their way to the tavern. A pang of regret struck Rogaan. The sarig had been a good steed.

  “Eeeuuw . . .” Suhd grimaced and scrunched up her nose as she looked away from the bloody parts being carried. “They won’t be make us eat it . . . will they? I mean, it carried you here.”

  No one answered her question. Some gave her stares as if she said something stupid. Suhd shrunk a little bit, withdrawing from those stares, while stepping toward Rogaan. “Just no proper way to treat it, I be sayin’.”

  “Agreed,” the attendant answered Kardul loudly, then added, “Though, no longer than four days.”

  Kardul begrudgingly nodded in agreement to the attendant before turning to his Sharur and pointing to the second row of buildings from the tavern. “We have these two bunk houses.”

  The Sharur immediately started off for the bunk houses casually talking to each other about things Rogaan did not understand, their words more unclear with each of their steps. He stood watching them until Trundiir looked back to him and made a motion . . . an overemphasized motion of his fingers tapping on the elongated black and tan hide case holding Rogaan’s shunir’ra. Trundiir still carries my shunir’ra! Rogaan realized with a warming of his cheeks and a tightening of his chest. Panic and anger quickly followed with his instinct to go fetch his shunir’ra back. But the touch of Suhd’s hands holding his arm kept his feet planted where he was. Looking at her, Rogaan stood torn . . . hoping she would let go so he could retrieve his property, returning it to its rightful owner, and hoping she would not let go or stop holding onto him for a long time. Suhd held him a little more tightly while looking up at him. Feelings roiled and spun within him. He realized, I could never ask her to let go.

  “I need a chamber pot,” she stated with a little color in her cheeks. Suhd charmingly looked up at Rogaan with those wide pleading blue eyes and with a calm expectation he would save her from her uncomfortable situation. Wildflowers.

  Her request surprised Rogaan, caught him off guard. He looked at her blankly for a few moments before Pax slapped him on the shoulder while wearing his sly, knowing smile. Pax announced, “Welcome to me family.”


  Rogaan did not understand his friend. Some sort of trick was playing out with him the target. Then he realized Suhd’s request must happen often . . . needing a chamber pot. A question formed in his mind . . . Then, how did she hold her water for so long on the sarig?

  “Rogaan . . . please.” Suhd was gazing up at him with now suffering wide radiant blue eyes. Rogaan melted. He looked about for where one might be. He thought of the bunk houses, but suspected the Sharur would be there, and he did not want their eyes watching Suhd. Then he looked to the torch-lit entrance of the tavern, the Long Journey.

  “Yes, this will work,” Rogaan said to the cool night air and to himself. There must be a pot in there, and hopefully, someone to point us to it. He took Suhd’s hand and led her to the tavern. Pax followed close behind smiling to himself as they briskly walked.

  The Long Journey looked every bit worn down with warped graying planks of old wood covering the exterior of the wood-framed structure. The entranceway porch was covered by a small overhanging roof to keep rain away from the large single graying wood door. The stained splintering wood boards of the porch deck had a worn arc scraped into them from years of the door swinging open and close. A waft of cooking spices and other things unknown to him touched Rogaan’s nose as he reached for the iron door handle. Rogaan thought of home as his stomach rumbled. The pleasant smells made him hungrier than he already felt. The place was run-down . . . true. Rogaan thought he was being kind with his assessment of the place and wondered what kind of establishment could look so shabby yet smell so good?

  “Rogaan . . .” Suhd now bounced a little on her feet.

  He opened the door to an empty room that looked to fill the whole building. Unoccupied hardwood benches surrounding small square tables filled the floor. A raised counter populated with empty drinking mugs and dishes spanned the far wall. A brown brick hearth with a low flame sat in the far right corner. It illuminated that part of the tavern. A large candle chandelier hung from the tall ceiling centered above the room, illuminating most everything else except where wall lanterns were needed around the serving room. Rogaan stepped into the tavern with Suhd quickly pressing in behind him, followed by Pax wearing a wide smile.

  “Greetings . . .” Rogaan spoke out loudly. After a few moments of silence Rogaan called out again. His hopes of being Suhd’s hero, no matter how small, began to fade away. “Is anyone here?”

  “Rogaan,” Pax pointed to a tall bronze pot off to their left with a top opening the size of two of his fists. “What do ya think?”

  “Did not expect a chamber pot out here,” Rogaan answered innocently.

  Pax gave him a confused look, then a wider smile. “It be for spittin’, no . . . ya know. Either in it or on the floor by the looks of it . . . me sister.”

  Suhd pushed past them in a hurry with her green knee-length dress hiked up slightly. She reached the pot and looked in before scrunching up her nose. “This smells terrible. You no expect me to—”

  “Suhd,” Pax cut her short, “not much of choices.”

  “Turn around . . . both of ya,” Suhd demanded. She impatiently wiggled about waiting for them to turn away. Rogaan and Pax gave each other a grin, then complied with her demand.

  “Ya know,” Pax spoke casually crossing his arms as he did and still smiling ear to ear, “she snores somethin’ when she be real tired. And I just have ta warn ya she—”

  “Stop tellin’ lies, Pax,” Suhd insisted as the ringing of her water in the pot filled the room.

  “I have an obligation ta me friend,” Pax played with his sister.

  “What of me?” Suhd asked of her brother.

  Rogaan could not believe this was happening. His cheeks felt very warm, and he did not know what to say. His best friend and the girl he cared for arguing while she relieved herself in a spitting pot in the main serving room of a strange tavern . . . far from home.

  “What in the name of the forsaken Ancients are ya doin’?” Boomed a deep voice that echoed throughout the entire tavern.

  Rogaan nearly jumped out of his skin at the reverberating voice. He spun around to see who was in the room with them. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Suhd’s upper thighs as she jumped from the pot before her dress fell down her beautiful legs. Rogaan thought his heart stopped . . . for a moment. Pax too looked surprised and a bit embarrassed at his sister’s display, if that was possible. A big Baraan, almost twice as wide as Rogaan, though not a finger taller, stood in the far doorway dressed in a gray shirt and breeches with bloodstains on a short white apron covering his belly and under gut. He stood with his arms folded across a broad chest, blocking the way to the back rooms. The Baraan was not fat, simply big . . . wide, and his arms were larger than Rogaan’s by no small amount. The big Baraan stood looking at them with his short-cut black hair mussed and a scruffy black beard that tried hiding a wide scarred face. He was chewing on something while waiting for their answer.

  “My apologies,” Suhd offered in a shaky voice. “I could no hold me water another moment, and I—”

  “The sitter is out back, youngling,” the big Baraan growled. “I told all of ya to stay gone until the bell got rung. Can’t do everything at the same time. Got me a fresh sarig to carve up. Yawl be eatin’ good for the next nights.”

  Pax quickly took up a spot next to Suhd. Rogaan too, flanking her other side, to protect her. Pax spoke, “We mean no disrespect—”

  “What do ya call dropping water in my spittoon to be?” The big Baraan barked back. “A man’s got to spittin’ in there.”

  “Oh, Kalal, worse been put in that pot.” An equally wide and almost as tall Baraan woman with brown hair pulled back in a tail to her midback chided her fellow as she pushed past him into the room. “You know that, big cuddles. What have we here . . . ?”

  The stout woman stood there in her ankle-length green dress and stained yellow apron. She was handsome with kind, but don’t dare cross me eyes. She stood as proudly as Lady Eriskla ever made to. Yes, she was in charge of this place, or at least thought so.

  She looked back to the big Baraan with a disapproving frown. “You should see better. These young ones are lost in their travels and need a warm meal.”

  “Shimil, they—” the big Baraan started, but was cut off.

  “Kalal, have Isiki prepare three stews,” Shimil instructed her husband, then turned her attention back to her young patrons. She pointed to a large wash basin and drying cloths near the entrance. “Wash up, then get cozy by the fire. Kalal, stoke those coals some before they think us wildly.”

  Shimil had her daughter, Isiki, a young, plump, brown-haired girl with pimples, wearing a plain gray dress, bring out three bowls of stew and some flat bread for them to eat. Rogaan, like Pax and Suhd, attacked the stew, devouring their meals. It was only when they were almost done did they look up, realizing their manners were completely lacking. Rogaan felt his cheeks warm and Suhd’s became visibly red. Pax seemed unabashed and kept shoveling. Shimil just smiled and proceeded to show them motherly kindness while gliding in and out of the room serving them food, water, and spice wine. She made them comfortable, so much so that Rogaan felt as if he were home for a time and found he forgot his problems for a while before speaking of them openly. Shimil demonstrated her deftness at making small talk, drawing out information you never meant to give, like Suhd letting it out that their parents were arrested, and Pax speaking of the jail wagons set to arrive at the di’tij tomorrow, and Rogaan slipping and confirming both. After revealing what he thought was too much, Rogaan fretted. Will the keeper tell the Tusaa’Ner of us? He feared she would, but something of her ways . . . her motherly ways, gave Rogaan hope she would keep their words to herself.

  “We have mouths with loose tongues.” Rogaan scolded Pax and Suhd and himself for their carelessness talk. He was careful to speak of this in-between serving sessions by the keeper and her daughter, who engaged them in friendl
y conversation with each new serving. Shimil and her daughter orchestrated the bringing out of meats and biscuits and cheese and drinks while keeping the friendly conversation going. The hearth smelled of flamed hardwood and a strange scent of flowers wafted in the air. Rogaan did not recognize the flowers, but found their scent very pleasant. Small flames and coals in the hearth bathed them in a comforting warmth while Shimil and her daughter kept working at loosening their tongues. Rogaan found it strange that they never asked for coin. “We need to take better care who we tell what to.”

  Worse, their loose tongues and carelessness with information made Rogaan realize . . . They did not have a plan. They had not thought through how to free Father or Pax and Suhd’s parents. He chillingly realized they were not prepared and despair gripped him. Events had swept them up since the day he and Pax returned to Brigum, not leaving much of a chance to breathe or think and certainly not to plan. Now in position ahead of the jailer caravan, he put his head in his hands at the overwhelming realization that they were a small number against an army. Dread filled him as he leaned forward, hitting his head on the table.

  “Rogaan . . . What be wrong?” Suhd asked, still caught up in the comfortable atmosphere the keeper had made for them.

  “Ya thinkin’ what I be thinkin’?” Pax asked Rogaan in a sober tone while looking about to see if Shimil or her daughter were in earshot. Satisfied they could speak . . . privately, he continued. “How do ya plan ta get our ma and fathers free?”

  Rogaan looked up at his friend with a blank face. “I have nothing. No idea how to get our folks free and get away from here. We do not even know how many guards are in the caravan, how many wagons and prisoners they have, or how many Tusaa’Ner and loyal men are in this place that will try to stop us.”

  Pax replied with a serious expression. “Two jail wagons, two troop wagons, three supply carts all be pulled by niisku. Near abouts forty Farratum Tusaa’Ner and maybe a couple hands full of those black-hearted Sakes. Four prisoners. Our parents and a Baraan as tall as me father. And here . . . I thinkin’ no guard will be likin’ what we have ta do.”