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

by Brett Vonsik

  Powerful arms enveloped Rogaan’s chest and neck from somewhere unseen, threatening to choke off his air. The pain in his left side grew worse as arms tugged and pulled him from behind. Rogaan stop his resisting. His rage burned out at the sight of the broken bodies.

  “Blast ya, stoner!” Gray-bearded kunza held his chest and throat from behind. The guardsman no longer sounded smug and superior. He was angry . . . afraid. With a jerk he tightened his hold on Rogaan, then yelled out, “Throw this one’s friend over as a lesson.”

  Rogaan was uncertain he heard the kunza right. Then Pax started yelling at the two guardsmen dragging him to the edge of the bridge. Rogaan realized then he did hear it right enough. They had every intent to kill Pax. Toss him from the bridge. To teach a lesson?

  No! The world stopped. Rogaan saw everyone and everything clearly, in vivid details. The tall Tusaa’Ner sakal stood nervously four strides away on the other side of the bridge timbers making to order others after him, two more guardsmen near the sakal stood looking at him . . . waiting for their orders, and the burly hands of the kunza gripping him from behind. Then, they started moving, in that strangely slow way. The scent of sweat and death and fear filled Rogaan’s nose. Knowing how the kunza positioned his hands, with a twist of his own arms and body, Rogaan slipped gray-beard’s grasp more easily than expected. The sharp pain in his side seemed duller than before. He did not understand why. He did not care. Turning, Rogaan came face-to-face with a surprised kunza, then a frightened and angry Pax fighting against the two guardsmen trying to throw him off the bridge. The kunza wore a frustrated face at trying, and yet not being able to follow Rogaan quickly enough. Rogaan’s more important concerns were the guardsmen setting themselves to throw Pax off the bridge. He charged them. Like a master-crafted hammer striking a weak and brittle metal, Pax and the two guardsmen went flying like broken shards when Rogaan struck them with his whole body. Pax and a guardsmen went tumbling to the wood timbers slower than what Rogaan expected should happen naturally. It was as if time slowed somehow, for all except for him. On his right, Rogaan caught a glimpse of the second Tusaa’Ner guardsmen flying off the bridge toward the place they intended for Pax. He did not know why, his instinct drove him to react without thinking, reaching out and grabbing the guardsman by his hide wrist guard. Just then, the world returned to its normal pace with the weight of the falling guardsman wrenching Rogaan from his feet, slamming him face-first into the wood timbers at the edge of the bridge, the force dazing him. Somehow, Rogaan held onto the guardsman as he lay hanging half off the bridge, the guardsman dangling below.

  “Come to order!” A sharp female voice commanded with firm measure. Rogaan tried, but failed to turn his head to look at the face behind the voice and the cause of a thud near him. Doing so might allow the guardsman to slip from his grasp. He feared the kunza might not like having been bested in the scuffle and poised himself to strike from above. Despite that possibility, Rogaan decided to focus on the guardsman, the Baraan dangling below, whose fate rested, quite literally, in his hand. The woman’s voice snarled. “I said, come to order, Kunza!”

  Rogaan heard a shuffle of sandal soles on wood and the scraping of metal . . . a blade returning to its scabbard, accompanied by a low, angry growl. He hoped the sounds meant he was safe from attack, but wondered, as he expected the kunza and the sakal to be angry, possibly billowing angry. He hoped neither stood close. He hoped. The guardsman dangling from his hand flailed with his legs as he looked down at the thrashing waters filled with awaiting jaws and death. Rogaan’s left side seared with pain and felt wet. The guardsman started pleading for his life and to be pulled up. Then, the guardsman’s words quickly became frantic. Rogaan felt him slipping from his grip as he adjusted to lessen the pain in his side. He was uncertain how much longer he could keep the Baraan from his death. Deciding the situation was not going to get any better, Rogaan fought through his pain, straining, pulling the hanging snapjaw meal up to the bridge. When the dangling guardsman’s free hand was high enough to reach the bridge timbers, he helped pull himself up over the edge of the timbers, roughly scrambling over Rogaan. Dejected, Rogaan stared at nothing for a moment, unbelieving at how “unthankful” the guardsman was using him as a ladder. I keep him from death, and I get his knees and feet on my back and neck, Rogaan more thought than mumbled to himself. He rolled onto his back and found that the gray-bearded kunza indeed stood near, stiffly, with his weapons sheathed, angrily staring at a female dressed in Tusaa’Ner sky-blue armor and a wind-fluttering red cape. Rogaan wondered, what did I miss?

  Red-blond hair flowed about the slender face of a Tusaa’Ner Baraan woman standing on the wood timbers of the bridge as a light breeze blew her hair and cape and the waning light of the day highlighting her in a glow as described sometimes in stories of the Ancients. She stood proudly tall, without helm, despite being several hands shorter than Rogaan. Balled fists on her hips and her tone in speaking with the kunza told Rogaan she was not pleased with the guardsman. Her slight build took away some of the threat of her hard bearing as Rogaan watched her stare with heated eyes at the gray-bearded kunza. This obviously was not the first time these two had crossed. More blue-clad guardsmen stood behind her at the approach to the bridge, all standing stiffly at attention with spears erect and unmoving. Rogaan wondered at her age. She could not be much older than he by the looks of her. Yet, she carried herself with an experience unlike the lasses near her age. Instead, Rogaan felt as if he watched his mother or Lady Eriskla before a scolding. She methodically inspected the scene in front of her with a face of indifference, noting the guardsmen standing and lying about with a mix of a hard and sad eyes. How she managed to hold two such emotions at one time, Rogaan wondered at it. She seemed to be of two minds concerning the guardsmen, but it was clear she did not care for the kunza.

  “On another task for who . . . the Sake?” She spit accusing words formed in a question. The kunza did not reply, but his jaws ground so hard Rogaan thought, and hoped, his teeth would break. When he did not answer, the Tusaa’Ner woman continued. “More guardsmen to tally against you, Kunza.”

  “They live, Dajil,” the tall Tusaa’Ner sakal spoke from a crouch over one the guardsmen Rogaan pommeled to what he thought were their deaths.

  Rogaan felt an enormous weight lift from him. They live! Then, the memory of the old Baraan’s face as he fell to his horrific death placed the weight right back on him.

  “You stay your place . . . , second!” The Tusaa’Ner woman, a sakal by her near identical adornments to the Baraan sakal she addressed. “The kunza needs to account for himself.”

  The kunza’s anger was plain to see. Even his gray beard appeared to stand stiffly, but he kept control of his words while remaining at attention. He replied in a strained tone. “Sakal, the old-ones passed. Stinking up the wagon and the . . . youngones were our kungas. When they refused their duty, I . . . encouraged them.”

  The sakal stood listening to the kunza with an impassive face. The grizzled guardsman turned, pointing down at Rogaan lying prone on the bridge. “This one, after ridding us of the second biter-lure, found it better to rage in anger than serve, almost killing Otuuku and the others. He’s a dangerous one, for sure. Best to chain him to the cage.”

  “He did all this while in manacles?” The commanding sakal asked with her eyes a bit wider with surprise. She looked at Rogaan as one might look considering a purchase of a racing sarig. Rogaan did not like that feeling. She turned her eyes back on the kunza, “Doesn’t speak well of your waning skills. Load the lawbreakers back into their cage . . . and leave them be unless they cause more trouble. You’ve delayed us long enough. She’ll be anxious to see what gifts we return with.”

  Chapter 9

  Farratum

  The caravan traveled on, the jailer’s wagons creaking and stiffly bouncing in increasing numbers of ruts the further they traveled into the edge of the night. Despite the jarring ride, Rogaa
n fell into a stupor lying on his back with eyes half-closed and only a vague awareness of the happenings around him. He felt numb . . . wanted to feel numb, to spare himself from his recent decisions . . . many poor, some simply bad. In his vain attempt to not dwell on the near past, Rogaan kept on in his daze, but his thoughts always returning to his regrets.

  “Ya want ta see dis,” Pax announced, his voice piercing through Rogaan’s stupor. Curious, but reluctant to join the world and feel again, Rogaan rolled from his back to his side, propping himself up on his left elbow with a winch from the pain of the cut on his left ribs. He looked east, into the darkening dusk sky to see what Pax was so excited about.

  It was almost nightfall with the cloudy sky gloomy and unfriendly. The trees were pushed back from the road, opening up to ranch and farmlands and sparse structures on both sides of the travel way. Ahead, a flock of white featherwings swirled just above a tall wall of gray, cut-block stone taken over by thick green, leafy vines in a few places. A smaller number of leatherwings circling, soaring even higher than the featherwings, were bright and colorful with the last of the day’s sunlight. The stone wall sat deep in shadows. Two triangle, obelisk-shaped towers of cut stone topped by watch posts with slanted red-tiled roofs stood astride the heavy timbered gate, each adorned with poles flying slightly fluttering flags. The towers stood more than three times the height of the armored guardsmen standing at the gate entrance. Gray walls extended in both directions away from the towers and gate until they were lost into the forest or dusky gloom. Large torches lit the main entrance that was open to travelers ahead of them. The throng at the gate, wagons both simple and ornamented and carts, all pulled by work animals, made a line more than a hundred strides long. Goods filled both wagons and carts as folks dressed in all manner sat atop their possessions, all seeking refuge within the protective walls of the city before darkness fell upon everything.

  The pungent odors of animals and things he cared not to think of filled the air and his nose, and grew stronger as they approached the city. The air seemed cool otherwise, not the stifling heavy stuff he remembered from earlier in the day. Guardsmen on both sides escorting his wagon looked anxious to move forward and get through the gates. A troupe of guardsmen, dressed as those flanking his wagon, stood tall before the open gates with spears pointing upward, watching travelers and caravans pass at a steady pace through the towers marking the boundary of western Farratum. Passing through the double-door timber gate, they entered a corridor of stone. The narrowing corridor they traveled appeared to be built for protection from all that threatened from outside. A thick odor of dung hung heavy in the air inside the walled corridor they passed through. Rogaan’s stomach turned and his nose wrinkled at the stench. The buzz of biters and now bloodsuckers grew worse the further they went. Without more of the purple flower rub, Rogaan fell prey to the pests and found himself frequently swatting the annoyances away to keep them from biting. Everyone—prisoners, workers, and guardsmen alike—appeared affected the same. Emerging from the corridor, the inside area opened up with a main street running straight.

  Once inside the stone barbican, its flanking towers, and the channeling corridor, the road turned paved with large cobblestones leading to a bridge to the main city. Few people were about on the street here. Those that were mostly had on dirty tunics drenched in sweat and carried the look of folk wanting the day’s chores to end. North of the street in this village on the western shore of the Ner River lay a half-dozen large wood and brick buildings spread over some eighty strides along the road. The buildings appeared to have living quarters and workplaces for artisans. Behind the buildings, ample stables and pens for steeds and smaller animals spread as far as Rogaan’s eyes could see. Illuminating the buildings were lanterns lit within as the day was coming to an end. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys of several buildings, the ones made of brown brick, carried on the air the scents of taters, greens, and spices, but no roasting meats. Local folks standing around the buildings, dressed in everything from soiled tunics of the assumed poor to lived-in tunics, shirts, breaches, and sandaled feet of those with a few hard-sought coins, looked on at the flow of wagons and animals as if this was a daily ritual. As they passed the locals, Rogaan looked back at them all with uncaring eyes. His insides remained numb.

  South of the road was much the same, with another stand of similar buildings edging the road, with the land behind falling away into pens, tall fences, and wooden shacks lit with lanterns, torches, and bonfires. Folks here too looked and behaved the same as those on the north side. The pens beyond held multitudes of snapjaws, both small and moderate in size. Skins from the animals hung splayed on poles between the shacks drying and being worked by tanners. A buildup of stone buildings and wood docks butted up to the southern side of the bridge where their caravan passed through another barbican with more timbered gate doors set between flanking triangle-shaped towers.

  “Dis be a sight ta see.” Pax wondered at the grand walls, wharf, and docks of the region’s capital. Rogaan lost his melancholy, if only for a moment, sharing with his friend the awe of being at the outer walls of Shuruppak’s guardian city. The guardian city . . . That is what Rogaan’s father called Farratum in his teachings.

  A large gray stone bridge ahead stood almost thirty strides wide. The caravan left the cobblestone road at the barbican for the stone paved way spanning a wide flow of brown flowing waters separating the village on the western shores of the Ner River from the eastern shore where even taller stone walls rose from the massive stone blocks of the wharf and docks. Burning braziers running the length of the bridge on both sides wafted a cloud of pungent flowery smells of incense of some sort. Rogaan wrinkled his nose at it. He guessed the cloud was meant to keep away biters, bloodsuckers, and more as their buzz stopped the moment they cleared the barbican. Ahead, the busy wharf completely surrounded Farratum’s western and southern sides. The sight stirred a moment’s interest in Rogaan before he forced himself to return, again, to his uncaring numbness. Small boats and a few ships sat moored at the torch-lit docks with workers, carts, and cargo bustling about with lanterns, and handheld torches now needed to replace the waning sunlight.

  Approaching the wharf, Rogaan’s nose was assaulted by a mix of odors; the pungent yet flowery incense, smoke, fish, garbage, and what seemed to be meats cooking for evening meals. He felt himself fighting to not sick up. How can anyone live in such a place? Rogaan questioned the sanity of city living. Nobody else appeared to suffer the odors as he; instead, they had their eyes fixed on the high walls of Farratum. Rogaan thought the walls ahead impressive, but still, they were just stone, like his father taught him to work.

  Passing over the busy wharf, the jailer caravan entered Farratum through another barbican with flanking triangular-shaped towers grander than all before and through a gate with large doors made of great timbers bound by thick bronze bands of metal all surrounded by massive stones tightly fitted against each other without a sign of mortar. Rogaan recognized the style. It felt familiar, almost comforting . . . the same as his father used in building their home, just with much-larger stonework.

  The inner city opened up as soon as the caravan cleared the towers and gate. A smoky smell hung in the air matching the haze visibly hovering over the buildings and streets. While the smell of animal dung and garbage still mixed with chimney smoke, Rogaan welcomed the lessening of the odors of the wharf, here. Despite his melancholy, he watched in fascination at Pax looking in wonder at their surroundings as their creaking jailer wagon rolled down the main street passing between mildew-stained brick and wood buildings that stood two and three floors tall. Along their way, lanterns lit the cobblestones of the street and walkways along the sides of the main corridor. Melodies from flutes and harps came and went as Rogaan’s wagon moved down the street. Throngs of folks dressed in all manner of plain and bright colors crowded the sides of the street walking on wood planks and paved stones. Most slowed or stopped their st
rolling to watch the jailer caravan pass. Riding sarigs and pack animals unevenly peppered the wood hitching posts spaced at fixed intervals at the edge of the cobblestones. Most were still with saddles and packs, not yet prepared for a night’s stay in the stables or here in the main travel way of the city. Most buildings projected awnings of slanted wood planks or simple canvas, covering the elevated walkways separating the store fronts from the wide street and offering merchants and buying folks shelter from the hot sun of the day and foul weather the region was known for. Incense burners mounted on the sides of buildings and hitching posts spewed more of that pungent smoke the biters and other nasties did not like, making the street tolerable to walk and do business in.

  Roasting meats and simmering spices from cook fires lofted on smoky fingers filled the air and Rogaan’s nose the further his wagon rolled eastward. Hunger pains started making his stomach grumble and his mouth parched dry with thirst. He realized with disappointment and a bit of frustration he only received a crust of bread and several cups of water today. He felt weak and tired. He felt hungry. His stomach grumbled again.

  Rogaan’s moving jail turned left onto a paved street even wider than what lay behind. The caravan followed the street gently curving back to the right. On his left, at the edge of blue paving stones, sat single-story buildings of wood construction topped with weather-worn clay shingles. Light-giving lanterns, hung from each of the buildings, pushed back the gloom of the encroaching darkness of the new night sky. Canvas awnings and makeshift walls of browns, deep reds, blues, and bright greens, hung separating individual store fronts. Fruits, vegetables, and salted meats of all kinds on half-filled tables and carts from the day’s haggling. Merchants, mostly dressed in plain, dull-colored tunics, some with stains of blood and fruits, sat on stools resting or cleaning with brooms and hand whisks or were wrapping up their goods preparing to close for the night.