by Brett Vonsik
Loud, repeated commands brought the caravan to a squeaking halt. Sweat-drenched Tusaa’Ner guardsmen, not part of the escorting troupe, cleared the street around the jailer wagons, shooing curious passersby away or back to the edge of the paving stones where the merchants and the last of their customers stood watching what Rogaan took by their stares a common sight. A ruckus erupted behind Rogaan to the right of the wagons. Looking, Rogaan fell dumbstruck and gawking at the massive works of the famed Farratum Arena his father had taught him about. Large-cut granite blocks fit together with precision formed the oval-shaped foundation of the almost two-hundred-stride long structure. Many smaller-cut granite and limestone blocks built up the thirty-stride-tall walls. Ramps and walkways and insets with statues of warriors of what Rogaan thought were representations of the Ancients punctuated the walls at fifteen and twenty-five strides high on the second and top levels. Fiery bowls sat atop poles at the edge of the structure’s foundation. Smaller bowls of flames evenly lining the ramps and walkways cast eerie shadows on the stone outer walls of the arena, causing Rogaan to suffer a shiver at an almost sinister atmosphere that engulfed the place.
A light breeze gently fluttered flags of many colors affixed atop wood poles about the arena’s walls. Most displayed symbols Rogaan was unfamiliar with, though some teased at his learned memories. After a few moments of awestruck gawking, Rogaan managed to close his mouth and assess the structure, as his father taught him to do . . . as all good Tellens would do. It had three levels above ground and no guess of how many beneath. He knew they were there . . . his father told him of them, and that it was the Ebon Circle that had seen to the arena’s construction before the Shuruppak civil war. Rogaan recalled more specifically from his teachings that Im’Kas and his master, the most powerful of the dark robes, paid for much of the arena’s construction out of their personal fortunes, refurbishing it many years ago when this place was a field of friendly competition. Recalling more of his father’s telling of the story, the dark robe and Im’Kas defended Farratum from foreign invaders that came from the river Ur. Much destruction had befallen the city, with those two seeing fit to return Farratum’s streets and structures to their former grandeur once the invaders were defeated. This arena was to be a focus and inspiration to the folks in the rebuilding of the city and community. Feeling the place’s sinister shadow, Rogaan doubted the tale now as he gawked at it while a shiver ran through him. So legends get born of terrible times and great deeds with truth somewhere in the telling of stories, though you never know just where. Rogaan felt uncertain what truth was, now, given the happenings of the past few days.
Chapter 10
Descent into Anguish
Yells up and down the caravan broke out. Rogaan looked around, trying to see what was happening, what caused the stir. He was not familiar with the words being yelled and assumed they were Tusaa’Ner commands. Sakes, dressed in those charcoal-colored tunics and some also with like colored pants, all with wide hide belts, short gray and red belt sashes, and hide sandals, appeared from heavy wood beam doors swung open from the sides of the arena. That female Tusaa’Ner sakal spoke sternly at the Sakes in her high-pitched voice as she briskly walked from the front of the caravan toward the jailer wagons, digging her heels in hard on the paving stones as she went with intent. She walked, spouting commands for the Sakes to take the prisoners below and lock them away. As she approached the wagon Rogaan and Pax remained caged within, one of the Sakes nervously sought the troupe commander’s attention with a half wave of his hand while slouching his shoulders in a slight scrunch. The Baraan was slight of build wearing both tunic and pants and carrying a clay tablet with a pen. He looked all the stature of a middle-aged scribe or administrator, recording all that happened and accounting for items. Rogaan guessed what this scribe held responsibilities for were new prisoners. The other Sakes, most heavily muscled and all soaked in sweat as if they just came from the flaming Pit of Kur, looked as if they wanted nothing to do with the exchange between the scribe and the commander. Courage does not always rise from strength, though often out of necessity for those ready for the challenge. Another saying of Father’s that Rogaan found popping into his thoughts as he watched otherwise capable guardsmen and Sakes shy from the confidant swagger of the Tusaa’Ner sakal.
“My apologies, Sakal.” The scribe almost sounded as if pleading with his shaky voice. “We have nowhere to put these prisoners.”
The sakal stopped in front of the scribe with a frown. At fourteen strides, Rogaan saw her well and regretted his meeting her and she becoming the bother to his life at Hunter’s Gate. He felt the regret despite her keeping the guardsmen from him and Pax on the bridge. Road dust and sweat stains mottled her sky-blue Tusaa’Ner uniform, her red cape now missing. She was much younger than he expected . . . around his age . . . maybe a touch older, but not by much. With her red-plumed helmet tucked under her left arm, her red-blond hair fell to her midback, framing her slender face and perky nose. Rogaan found himself staring at her before he realized it, and his cheeks warmed considerably with guilt.
“No cells at all, Gaalan?” The young sakal asked in a sharp, high-pitched tone. Gaalan took this moment to explore the wonders of his sandaled feet.
“Aah . . . .” Gaalan seemed to be searching for an answer.
“Out with it!” The young female sakal demanded with her stare firmly fixed on the clearly uncomfortable scribe. She was slightly shorter than the Baraan standing before her, a hand or more than Rogaan, but her physical stature did not intimidate or deter her.
“All the cells are full . . .” Gaalan started to answer, then trailed off, not wanting to complete his words, “except those in the questioning room . . . where Ganzer and his aide are with a prisoner . . . in an inquisition.”
“See,” the sakal replied with a snide arrogance. “There are cells for the prisoners.”
“But Ganzer will not be pleased if disturbed, Dajil,” Gaalan replied with a hint of anger . . . or fear, Rogaan was unsure. The Baraan then straightened his back to speak further.
“I think Mother will want these prisoners taken care of seeing that she sent me to fetch them,” the Tusaa’Ner sakal replied with her own flare of anger and intent to intimidate, invoking her mother as if her name carried some significance with the Sake. With a wave of her free hand she invoked another directive for the Baraan and guardsmen to get moving as she continued on her walk down the caravan. “Get these prisoners below . . . to the questioning cells.”
The Tusaa’Ner commander walked past Rogaan’s cage minding all inside little attention except for when she caught Rogaan’s stare. Rogaan’s cheeks heated again, and he almost believed that he saw the faintest hint of a smile on her face as she pressed on to matters of not his concern. She spoke loudly in that high-pitched voice as she walked away, “Kardul, we have issues to conclude. You and your Sharur, follow me.”
Rogaan and Pax both put their heads on swivels, looking about for Kardul and his Sharur. Pax spotted them first, but only by a blink or two. They stood stolidly as a group close to the clay-roofed buildings where the merchants were still putting their food wares away for the night. Kardul avoided meeting Rogaan’s eye, though his Sharur stared back at him with blank emotions. Only Trundiir appeared to have shame-filled eyes for their betrayal.
The cage door squeaked open behind, startling Rogaan. He sat closest to the door and went to turn to see what was happening, but before he could twist to get a look, he felt a pair of strong hands grab him and yank him backward out of the cage. Airborne for a moment, he landed on his back with a thud, sprawled on the paving stones, the air knocked from his lungs. Pain racked him in waves while flashes of light peppered his vision of the almost dark sky above. He gasped for air, but his burning lungs would not fill. Moments after he hit the ground an unintelligible voice barked something before he suffered a kick to his ribs. Several more kicks to his arms now protecting his ribs did little to help h
im take a much-wanted gulp of air. Anger flashed within Rogaan, but he kept himself from lashing out at the memory of the old Baraan . . . falling. Pax let out a growl from the cage at someone Rogaan could not see. “Leave him be, ya muck shoveler!”
Strong hands grabbed at him again. Angry at the handling, Rogaan coiled up his legs, rolling his feet over his head, pushing through teeth gritting pain. When his shoulders rolled to the paving stones, Rogaan drove his legs upward in a push of arms and midsection and hips and legs launching his body up, striking something solid. When his body fully extended, he filled his lungs before thumping back down on the hard street. Those flashes in his vision disappeared as he took another pleasing breath. His sense of joy was short-lived, however, as three burly charcoal tunics descended on him. Several painful baton strikes to his prone chest, head, and protecting arms inflamed Rogaan all the more. Fighting off the Sakes, he rolled to his feet, readying himself to launch at his attackers.
“Stop!” A familiar voice pierced Rogaan’s anger-clouded mind. He hesitated as his father’s demand sank in. With a flush of shame, Rogaan complied with his father’s wish, just as he had his entire life.
“Well, I’m not a stoppin’,” announced one of the burly Sakes who wore more scars on his face and arms than could easily be counted. The mean-tempered brute hit Rogaan square in the mouth with his sizeable fist. The punishing impact on Rogaan’s jaw shook all of his body. He thought his jaw broken until he worked it about. Like a breeze on a kindled flame, Rogaan’s anger flared. He took in the dirty, charcoal-colored tunic in front of him. The Baraan had sweaty, heavy muscles rippling under scars on his arms and a dark beard. He had the blunted face of a brute. Angry eyes of the Baraan held a contrast of expressions, something between glee and surprise as the Sake seemed unsure of what to do now that his punch had not dropped Rogaan.
“You hit as a little one,” Rogaan spit, intending to insult and inflame the Baraan, but kept to his father’s wish, otherwise. “A little one.”
The Sake lost his uncertainty and swung at Rogaan with all his anger in a growl. Rogaan had slowly backed up to the wagon before he spat the insult. Watching the Sake move as if in water, Rogaan easily dodged the punch, leaving the bars and iron plates of the cell in the path of the brute’s fist. Rogaan heard the bones of the Baraan’s hand shatter in a sickening, crunching ripple when his fist struck the iron. The Sake immediately doubled over in a howl of pain holding his deformed hand. Rogaan felt calm as he stood watching the Baraan dance about in pain with his companions looking on in what could only be described as astonishment. A sardonic smile touched Rogaan.
“I’ll kill ya!” Declared the Sake holding his broken hand in between pained grunts and groans. “Ya be lightless! You hear me? I swear to da Ancients, ya be in Darkness!”
Rogaan made to spit another insult at the Baraan, but stopped when he felt the tips of two swords pressing at his neck, one on each side. He looked with his eyes to see who held the blades. On his left was a familiar figure, a big Baraan in dark chest and arm armor and a red-feathered silver, open-face helm. Cold dark eyes stared at him from under the helm. The Sake zigaar. Rogaan suddenly felt cold and alone. On his right stood the female sakal, several hands shorter than he, but with eyes burning with as much anger as the Sake who broke his hand. For a moment Rogaan thought she would run him through.
“I see this one is much more trouble than you thought,” the Tusaa’Ner sakal’s tone was even and confident with a heavy hint of disdain.
“Lock him away,” the Sake zigaar ordered to no one in particular. Four Sakes jumped at the Baraan’s command, pressing knives into Rogaan from all angles before securing him in wrist bindings. They quickly pushed and half-dragged Rogaan through the doorway the Sakes had emerged from earlier. His captors led Rogaan to a long, stone-paved lamp-lit passageway that sloped downward before unkindly pushing him in front of them. The air smelled foul of feces, sweat, and burning oil. Wails of pain and despair echoed ahead. The walls and floor shook as a tremor worked its way about the massive building. It was brief, but definitely a tremor; Rogaan felt it through his feet as any Tellen would be expected to. What am I descending into . . . Kur? He wondered and feared the unknown ahead. Sweat started to drip from his brow at the pressing shadows. The situation suddenly weighed heavily on him. He may never see home again.
Chapter 11
Questions Entangle
A puzzle of dancing symbols flowed along a confusion of patterns. Throbbing pain came again with those symbols. It always did. The agony and torment of that unsolvable puzzle was almost too much for him, his suffering preventing sound thinking and the focus to reckon it out. He didn’t know what it all meant, but the symbols and puzzle teased him, thrived in compelling him . . . daring him to solve it. He feared these surprising and awful attacks of jumbled symbols within his mind, but having survived it so far, he wanted to figure it out; to fix what he had broken, and regain the respect he lost in his father’s saddened stare. A mess he made in his disobedience. Now, self-exiled and with no one to help him, he suffered his disobedience when he closed his eyes, and often when they were open. At first, the aid offered by his now-uppity captors gave him hope, but their goodwill quickly showed itself as selfish intent. The two were more concerned with tormenting him than anything else it seemed . . . and felt. Nobody cared to help him from his pain and anguish. They all stood . . . wanting him to suffer. He would need to rely upon himself to make it go away . . . to solve the blasted thing. Yes, he would fix things . . . and make them all pay a hundredfold for his pain.
A different pain, a physical one, racked and wrenched at his shoulders as the ropes wrapped around his upper arms tightened. He feared them pulled from their sockets. It hurt, terribly hurt, but not as much as his throbbing head pains. Oh, they will pay for this! He promised himself as another flash of symbols spun in his mind. Sweat stung his eyes and blurred his vision. The rope treatment started after a day of simple questioning by the Sakes that soon turned him belligerent. Such stupid questions . . . dim-witted Baraans. Then they happened on it. Dead Sakes were the surprising result with the rest blaming him for it. They blamed me! It wasn’t long afterward these two dressed-wells showed up, asking all new questions. One treating it like a fanged animal set to bite. The other as if an animal to tame. “Why do you have it? Where did you get it? Did you touch it? How did you feel when you touched it?” When his answers didn’t satisfy them, they moved him down here under the arena grounds to this place where his screams would mingle and be lost with many others. Then, he learned just how painful ropes can be in the hands of the competent and sadistic. All this because he fell to the street when a flurry of symbols took him unexpectedly and he didn’t know up from down. His fall drew the attention of the Tusaa’Ner. Now, exhaustion started to wear on him with his feet and legs cramping from him keeping on his toes to lessen the agony in his shoulders and back. What do they want?
He reluctantly opened his tear-filled eyes. They’re still here. His hopes dashed away. There would be no reprieve . . . no respite from this interrogation. The closest of his questioners stood near in the light of a table lamp, a lean Baraan just about his own height and in his middle years. The Baraan’s dark, squinty eyes deeply sat in his clean-shaven tan face. Neatly-combed light brown hair framed his slender features and almost covered ears that looked more Evendiir than Baraan, with ever so slight points to them. His tormentor wore loose-fitting black pants, a dark lavender shirt of large weave with silver buttons down the front, and a dark charcoal, short coat of fine, light weave with silver cable clasps. The other Baraan kept back in the shadows, leaning casually against the stone wall with arms folded. He appeared more bored than anything else. Can I use that? That Baraan was a mystery since he walked in the room hours ago, his words few and of no particular importance.
“Aren,” the Baraan in front of him spoke in that even, calm tone that appeared to be well measured to set the fact of him being in
absolute control. The middle-years Baraan held up a red gem the size of his palm, shaped as a double-sided ax enwrapped in flames. He was careful not to touch it directly and kept a hide wrap between the crystal-like surface and his hand. “Son of Larcan, you have obligations to speak of your theft and all that you have seen since.”
A jumbling of symbols shadowing a whirling pattern filled his mind. Pain throbbed in his skull as the symbols and pattern teased him. They had meaning, but that meaning eluded him since they first came to be in his head on the dreadful day when he snuck a peek and held the double-ax-and-flame gem several moon rises ago. Aren feared something had happened to him when the gemstone he held in his hands flashed an eerie, radiating red. At that moment his head filled with those damnable symbols, patterns, and that unsolvable puzzle. He then woke well into the night lying on the floor of his father’s study, the gem next to him without its glow and that torment dancing in his head. He managed somehow to put back the gem in its hiding spot without his father’s knowing he touched it. For days following, Aren avoided his father, not wanting to speak wrongly and let him know he had defied explicit instructions not to touch that red Agni stone.
“Young one!” Aren’s questioner sounded impatient and annoyed. A quick stinging hand on his left cheek left Aren working his jaw and blinking to clear his vision. “Waste my time no further. Give me your eyes.”
The stinging slap brought Aren back to the here and now. He worked to focus past the spinning symbols in his mind and see what his questioner demanded. Aren’s anger helped him focus, if only to show his questioner a defiant stare. His vision clearing, he found the scowling Baraan with those dark, squinty eyes boring into him in a way that made him unnerved. Aren’s skin prickled. The middle-aged Baraan looked determined. Despite Aren’s helpless situation, his anger slipped from his containing it. “I told you, idiot. I know nothing of a gemstone.”
