by Brett Vonsik
Chapter 5
Bitter Bonds
Searing pain kept at Rogaan as he lay semi-aware in a surreal world of deep grays. He tried opening his eyes countless times, but found them too heavy to obey. Voices, distant, some familiar and some not, swam in his head just beyond his ability to understand their words. He tried to concentrate, tried to focus, tried to understand their words, tried to forget his throbbing head and his aching back and the sharp stabs, like daggers, in his ribs that came with every breath. Agony. Time passed, how long Rogaan was unsure, before the voices started to get closer, clearer, as did the buzz of biters, bloodsuckers, and bitemes. The voices spoke with sorrow, with confusion, with anger, all worn out and defeated in tone. Rogaan tried opening his eyes again . . . and the deep gray gave way to blue hues striped with dark bars. Suddenly, the voices went quiet—his ears filled with the buzz of biters . . . some actually biting him. Rogaan’s eyes focused on something . . . a white cloud against a deep blue, set behind iron bars. The stink of animal urine and other waste suddenly pummeled his nose. His eyes shot open at the assault, and he tried to sit up. Pain racked him everywhere, but most intensely in his ribs, causing him to collapse backward with a groan, his head aching as he rested it on wood planks. Rogaan gritted his teeth and suffered at all the pain for long moments until the pain lessened, allowing him to let go of his grimace and look up. A thin face with slate blue eyes framed by cropped black hair appeared in his view.
“About time,” Pax spoke. “Ya had me worried again.”
Rogaan’s head throbbed, and it hurt to breathe. The burning in his nose and eyes was gone . . . He was relieved and grateful for that. As he raised himself up on his elbows, his head throbbed more fiercely and his ribs protested with spasms of pain. Rogaan grunted, “I swear to the Ancients, the next one that gives me a foul drink or puffs in my face or tries to bump my head . . . I will pound him senseless into the ground.”
“They be afraid of ya,” Pax stated matter-of-factly as he sat with his back against the bars.
“They gonna be more afraid of me,” Rogaan promised in a flare of anger, then mumbled to himself about being tired of getting poison-drinks, all the while trying to shake off disorientation and pains. He realized they had him shackled at both the wrists and ankles. Rogaan assessed the metal to be of average quality and the links breakable if he could find a way to get some leverage. Looking about, he saw that it was midmorning by the rise of the sun. He sat as a prisoner in a jailer’s wagon that was part of a caravan on a slow move eastward . . . likely to Farratum. He hoped he was at least in the caravan with his father. The wagon behind was pulled by a pair of dark muscular niisku driven by two Baraans dressed in gray tunics. Flanking both sides of the wagons, Farratum Tusaa’Ner guardsmen in their dark blue armor and uniforms marching with spears and short swords. A new handful of either Kiuri’Ner or Sharurs on sarigs flanked the Tusaa’Ner. They patrolled at the edge of the caravan and the forest for dangers . . . likely Sharur on the flanks and Kiuri’Ner scouting ahead as Rogaan had come to understand their ways in his learning of them in Brigum. Rogaan took note that the caravan traveled along a road through heavy forest. The hard-packed road was wide enough for two wagons. Wheels, hooves, and feet kicked up little dust, and the road showed few ruts. Surveying the cage he was in, Rogaan found that he and Pax were captive along with two others; half-clothed Baraans who looked beaten and smelled as if they messed themselves. Both men lay flat trying to sleep. Their cage . . . rusting bars formed into a cube enclosure, except for the wood planks he lay on and the forward part of the wagon where the drivers sat guiding their beasts of burden with reins and whips. Flanking the driver’s seat were a pair of incense burners, likely filled with a purple flower concoction to keep the biters away. At the center of their cage, a hole cut in the wood planks, too small for a person to fit though, was closed off with a sliding wood door. The area around the hole and door was stained wet with urine and brown-green matter. His stomach turned sour at the sight of it as a small halo of biters and bitemes hovered around the foul mess.
Pax sat leaning against the bars at the rear of the cage with his knees drawn up toward his chest. Pax was someone not easily quieted, but there he sat looking somewhat defeated. New bruises on his face and the way he moved hinted at him suffering in pain.
“How did they catch you?” Rogaan asked his friend.
Pax did not acknowledge Rogaan’s question for a time. He simply sat unmoving, staring blankly. Rogaan waited silently for his friend to reply, knowing that pushing him would get him little. Pax answered and did deeds when Pax wanted.
“Burn da Tusaa’Ner,” Pax spoke in anger. He worked his jaws and his blank stare turned intense as if he was watching or reliving something unsettling. “Guards tried and tried ta catch me last night. Fools. When they could no catch me da daimons threatened me ma. Took her from da wagon and put a hand ta her. Ma screamed for me ta stay hidin’. Same of me father. I kept ta da shadows. Da rot worms hit Ma some more. Then da dung shovelers called out sayin’ they’d do Ma worse. I gave meself up when dey ripped Ma’s dress and roughed her up.”
Tears flowed down Pax’s dirty and bruised cheeks leaving lines. Rogaan’s heart sank for his friend. Family was very important to him. He considered himself a protector of his ma and sister, helping his father who worked long shifts in the mine to keep clothes on them and food in their bellies. Rogaan came to understand that Pax took any attack on his family with the utmost seriousness.
“They beat you when you gave yourself up.” Rogaan stated his conclusion.
“No,” Pax replied. “I got beat when me ma slapped one of the guards for handling me rough. I got beat ta teach her a lesson. Her howls watching me get beat hurt me more dan anything da worms could do ta me.”
“Pax, I am sorry you and your ma suffer—” Rogaan was cut off by him.
“I no want ya ‘sorry.’” Pax looked possessed with hatred. “I want ya anger. I want ya poundin’ da daimon guards into da dirt. Break ‘em. Kill ‘em. Make ‘em suffer.”
Pax looked away, his face furious and intense and unwavering. Rogaan did not know what to say to his friend to console him, or if he even could. Never had Pax shown so much resentment, so much hate. Thinking to change the subject, Rogaan realized he did not know where Suhd was. Panic prickled his skin. “Pax . . . Where is Suhd?”
Pax was slow to answer, but did though he continued staring off into the distance. “She be with Ma and Father in da wagon ahead of us. Ya father be with ‘em.”
“Keep quiet in there.” Commanded a sky-blue-clad Tusaa’Ner walking alongside of the jailer wagon.
“Quiet yaself!” Pax shot back so fast Rogaan thought the response came from someone on the other side of the wagon.
The guardsman struck the cage bars with his spear. “Speak again and I’ll see your tongue cut out.”
Pax rose to his knees and made to bark at the guard again, but held his tongue when he saw Rogaan put up a hand signaling him to caution. Pax shot Rogaan a long, heated stare until it got uncomfortable for him. He then repositioned himself in the corner of the cage, all the time mumbling to himself loudly, as he sat down. “I be in a jail wagon . . . with a pair of smellies. They must of messed their pants. And we be on da road ta doom. But no . . . Ya want me ta be good and quiet.”
“Who ya callin’ smelly?” A gruff voice with a bit of a whine in it asked accusingly. Rogaan sought who spoke and found one of the other two prisoners looking at Pax with accusing eyes. The haggard, brown-haired Baraan was beyond his prime and not in the best physical condition. He had not washed in a long while from the looks of the rags he wore and the dirt and grime on his wrinkled face, exposed chest, and legs. The other Baraan had more teeth missing than not, though he looked in far better condition than the less-clothed, brooding Baraan next to him.
“Ya havin’ a trouble with us?” Pax shot back.
“Stop talkin’ to
that Tellen,” the half-clothed Baraan demanded of Pax with open disgust. His eyes looked lightless except for the hatred that now flared in them. “I not spend my days fightin’ the likes of him to see yawl friendin’ up to that animal.”
Pax’s eyes went wide with surprise. He recovered quickly, putting on his usual mask of self-assurance hinted with arrogance while readying an answer to the half-clothed Baraan’s declaration of unfriendliness. Rogaan made to cut Pax off before his friend got his first words out, but was too late. Pax launched, “What ya talkin’ about? Ya both be stinkin’; messed ya bottoms, ya have, and ya know it. Ya have no self-respect. And don’t be talkin’ about me friend like he be some kind of burnin’ pile of dung. He be a good friend.”
The two ill-tempered Baraans stared at Pax and Rogaan with murderous eyes. Pax gave their murderous stares right back and seemed about ready to leap at the two. Rogaan feared a fight was about to erupt over him, just for him being part Tellen blood. Senseless. We’re all prisoners in a jailer wagon, and they want a fight about me being a bit different than them, Rogaan thought to himself in disbelief. Glares and tensions grew more intense with each passing moment. Just when Rogaan thought Pax and the two raggedly dressed Baraans were going to attack each other, a spear tip rattled across the wagon’s iron bars, startling everyone and freezing all in their places. A tall, lean Tusaa’Ner officer, another sakal by his plumage, dressed in sky-blue and charcoal-colored hide armor, plated with burnished metal on shoulders and chest and topped with a burnished helm with face guard and red plume, worked his spear back and forth across the iron bars until everyone inside fell quiet and paid him full attention. “Keep quiet and no fighting! The Seergal doesn’t want her prisoners injured . . . before time.”
The caravan kept its steady pace, slow enough so guardsmen could match it on foot. From the fatigued looks of the guard ranks, Rogaan guessed they were not used to forced marches. The tall Tusaa’Ner sakal seemed in better condition than most, easily working his way around the cage closest to Pax while keeping pace with the wagon.
“You are the one with family in the other jailer?” The tall Tusaa’Ner sakal made conversation that felt like it had a point. Rogaan did not like where this talk was heading. Pax exchanged looks with the sakal, but said nothing. Rogaan was impressed and yet worried all at the same time at Pax’s silence. “A father, mother, and sister. A sister that should clean up good. I’ll wager she’ll fetch good coin when we get to Farratum. Lawbreakers with a fresh face and healthy body such as hers always go good as servants.”
At the guard’s word, Rogaan sat up in a snap and a fume, staring at the tall Tusaa’Ner sakal with heated eyes. Pain racked him, worse in his ribs, but Rogaan refused to show his weakness to keep the sakal from using it against him. What Rogaan wanted more was for the Baraan sakal to renounce his words, to confirm that was not Suhd’s fate . . . a bonded slave. He fumed, but realized he could do nothing so long as the sakal kept his distance. Rogaan maintained his seething stare as a deliberate challenge to Farratum authority. Arrogantly, the tall Tusaa’Ner sakal stepped forward and stuck the spear through the bars at Rogaan’s midsection, stopping the blade tip just short of pushing hard enough to run him through.
“Careful, stoner,” the tall Tusaa’Ner sakal sneered. “I’d like nothin’ more than to stick you and see you bleed out, but the Seergal would lose the coin you’ll fetch.”
Rogaan glared at the sakal. They all seemed to hate him for being Tellen and who knew what more. Rogaan looked down to the spear tip pressing against his charcoal-colored hide vest. Little good the vest will do against that spear tip. Rogaan, helpless as he was, decided to relax his glare.
“Many ways for you to go,” the Tusaa’Ner sakal spoke with palpable arrogance. “As a worker in the mines or on the docks or even the decks, or a conscript porter for us in the Tusaa’Ner. No. Maybe as a consort for an ugly enough old Baraan who likin’ your kind and looks. If you can understand what I’m meaning.”
The haggard Baraans captive with Rogaan glared at the sakal and loudly spat at his words. Rogaan took their response to the Tusaa’Ner pronouncement as disapproval, but why would they act as if they were defending him . . . a Tellen? He was unsure, though suspected they wanted to see him run through, killed . . . and they were agitating the tall Tusaa’Ner sakal in the hope he would do their work for them. Rogaan decided he needed to keep a closer eye on them from now on. The sakal barked at and threatened the two Baraans into a silent brooding and averted their eyes from him. Instead, the two put their dark glares on Rogaan in some act trying to make Rogaan unsettled. They seemed to need to make him feel unsettled, unwanted. In Rogaan’s experiences, such small-mindedness and hatred focused against Tellens wasn’t typical of most in Brigum, especially those that liked his father’s work, but a few, like Kantus and his band, always found some way to make his life miserable. Tired of such treatment, Rogaan returned their malicious glares that brought the spear tip press harder into his vest.
“Take care how you look at folks in Shuruppak, stoner,” the sakal sneered. “Tellens aren’t much favored. Me . . . I think you all need to be bound as servants or tossed into the arena for everyone’s enjoyment.”
Pax grunted at the Tusaa’Ner sakal’s hate-filled words. Rogaan’s anger swelled. He did not consider himself better than anyone else. His father taught him to respect others, despite differences, and to work toward something common, as much as possible given all folks will not agree on everything. There appeared nothing common to work toward here, except for one fact . . . They were all prisoners of the Tusaa’Ner. Strange they would not work with him against a common enemy.
The Tusaa’Ner sakal poked Rogaan with the spear tip again. It started annoying him, but he did his best not to show it. To Rogaan, the sakal seemed to be enjoying himself. Several more verbal insults and a couple of spear pokes gave Rogaan the impression the sakal wanted him to believe Tellens were inferior to Shuruppak peoples . . . and him. Arrogant . . . and small-minded. If not for Rogaan’s consuming desire to strike the officer, drive his face into the dirt, he would have felt pity for the Baraan. The sakal, again, pushed the spear tip a little harder into Rogaan’s vest. The pressure hurt his midsection and felt close to piercing him. Fearing the sakal would go too far, Rogaan grabbed hold of the wood shaft just below the metal spearhead to keep him from pushing too hard in making his point. The tall Tusaa’Ner sakal was surprised at Rogaan’s boldness and when he tried to pull, then push, his spear free, his surprise grew at Rogaan’s strength.
“You are no better than our niisku beasts,” the sakal declared with a sneer as if repeating a learned and practiced belief. “Strong and stupid, stoner.”
Rogaan yanked the spear free of the sakal’s grasp then shoved the butt of the spear shaft back into the Baraan’s chest. The tall sakal staggered backward, grabbing at the shaft to keep from falling. With a reestablished hold on his spear, the Tusaa’Ner sakal, with teeth bared and a growl, shoved the weapon hard, trying to skewer Rogaan, but Rogaan’s two-handed grip on the wood shaft denied the sakal success. They struggled for moments before Rogaan managed to wedge the spear shaft against the cage bars where he had leverage on the weapon. An angry strike from Rogaan’s right palm splintered the spear shaft precisely where he intended, an arm’s length below the spearhead.
“Stick him, Rogaan!” Pax growled.
Rogaan gawked at Pax uncertain of what he just heard or what to do. Does Pax want for me to kill this one? He wondered of his friend. Rogaan just wanted the poking and spitting insults to stop. Ending the life of the backend anseis was something he had not considered doing. Looking at the spearhead in his hand, Rogaan made his way to the cage lock keeping them from their freedom. Finding ample rust on the mechanism, just like that on the iron bars of their traveling prison, he thought if he struck it just right it would break. Without another thought, he drove the spearhead into the lock, breaking it. At first, Rogaan stared surprise
d that breaking the lock was so easy. Then a smile came to his face in the satisfaction of doing so. With the lock no longer a hindrance to escaping, Rogaan head-nodded to Pax for him to follow, but before he could move, spear tips poked at him from all directions. A deep voice boomed, “Hold! Or suffer a run through.”
Rogaan froze in a crouch with the broken spearhead held ready to strike back. He looked about, the afternoon sun shining brightly on the metal spear tips pointing at him by four Tusaa’Ner spread out around the iron cage. They all had determined eyes behind their helmed, face guards. They meant to end his life at a command. The wagon had stopped sometime during the confrontation. He had not noticed that before now.
“Drop the blade!” A big Baraan commanded with the expectation of being obeyed. The Baraan dressed in dark armor covering his chest and arms, wearing a charcoal-colored tunic underneath, a short red cape, and a red-plumed silver open-face helm. This one is different, Rogaan considered. From his father’s teachings, Rogaan recognized him not as a Tusaa’Ner, but a Sake, an Enforcer . . . a Sake zigaar, at that. A group with a not-so-good reputation that were feared by most because of their authority to judge on the spot and being known to be quick to execute. This Sake zigaar was as big as Kardul, yet with heavier muscles, if Rogaan ever thought that was possible. “Drop it or everyone in the cage finds the Darkness.”
Outnumbered and with the lives of the others entangled with his own, Rogaan dropped the spearhead with a thud on the wood planks. He did not know what to do except surrender. That did not sit well with him. In fact, it was distasteful to him, burning him at his core, but he saw no other paths to his and everyone’s survival. Several more Tusaa’Ner soldiers nervously worked the temperamental cage door, eventually opening it. The four with spears on Rogaan were ready to strike at a command. The big Sake zigaar casually approached and reached into the cage to retrieve the spearhead. To Rogaan’s surprise, Pax made a move toward the Sake, but stopped as soon as he started with a steely-eyed glare from the Sake zigaar fingering his sword pommel and just daring Pax to do more. The two haggard prisoners in the cage with them turned away and cowered in the opposite end of the cell trying to keep themselves apart from anything to come. For Rogaan, the moment hung on forever. He took notice of details of each of those engaging him, from the fear-filled eyes and trembling spear points of the Tusaa’Ner soldiers, to the cautious body language of the Tusaa’Ner leader with his broken spear and his focus on the Sake zigaar, to the beads of sweat falling from Pax and his friend’s darting eyes trying to see a way out of the stand-off and escape, to the utter, unshakeable confidence of the Sake zigaar and what seemed his hope Pax would act brazenly. A long unbearable time the staring stand-off took to pass for Rogaan, but Pax eventually retreated to a place next to him.
