by Brett Vonsik
“You’ve touched it,” the Baraan’s voice went low and dangerous. He didn’t respond to the insult as Aren expected, with an argument of who had the better mind and logical thinking . . . of which Aren felt certain he did. “It’s touched you, and you’ve seen what it wanted you to see before it slumbered. Tell me of it.”
“Slumbered?” Aren sneered back. His anger and now frustration boiled. Pain racked his arms, back, and head. The physical he contended with; it was a practiced matter of not thinking on it, but the pain of those spinning symbols were blinding. He barely grasped some understanding of what he saw in his own mind’s eye and didn’t understand what his questioner was digging at. Any explanation of what he saw or its yet unknown meaning would be lost on him and his companion in the shadows, Aren reassured himself. He decided telling them of his jumbled visions would do nothing to help him solve the tormenting puzzle or relieve him of the pain accompanying the symbols. They’re too stupid to understand.
A frustrated groan echoed in the room. The other questioner broke his silence while stepping from the shadows. “I’ve indulged you for too long. This one has nothing to tell.”
The other Baraan stood just at the edge of the lamplight, short in stature and pudgy with a double chin. Adding to the image his clean and kept wavy black hair, a clean, well-made red shirt, brown hide kilt, and glinting silver-harnessed ruby gemstone dangling from his right ear. A soft person unfamiliar to hard work, but thinks he’s an authority over others, Aren concluded.
The taller Baraan put on an irritated face with rolling eyes while keeping his back to the annoyance. His expression turned dark for a few moments, then, with an effort, he collected himself before turning to address his companion. “I recommend further questioning. He has more to say.”
“She isn’t patient, Lucufaar,” the wavy-haired Baraan impatiently explained. “You’ve been questioning this skinny thing for days without results. I’ve kept Irzal away and uncurious as long as I can. She wants us attending to her tasks.”
“What this young one knows is important to Irzal’s plans, Ganzer,” Lucufaar argued. The Baraan looked like he was trying to keep control of himself and close to losing the battle.
“No,” Ganzer’s reply sounded final. “With her daughter to arrive tonight, you know she’ll be making all sorts of demands.”
Suddenly, Aren’s head was clear. Those jumbling, spinning symbols and that puzzle pattern along with the pain left him. Aren almost started laughing at the relief. Then, the burning from the ropes on his upper arms and his strained shoulders ached terribly. His shoulders felt near dislocated, making Aren want to cry out at the pain, but instead, he fought down the urge with gritted teeth. He wasn’t about to give his captors the satisfaction of him showing pain.
Lucufaar now wore his annoyance openly. Aren thought and hoped he might hit Ganzer. Then, a smirk formed on the tall Baraan’s face as his eyes took on a look of practiced serenity. It happened almost in a blink of an eye. With a baleful smile, Lucufaar turned toward Ganzer just as the door to the cell area swung open. Standing in the doorway crowded a pair of big Sakes with a bound prisoner between them.
“Leave us!” Lucufaar demanded with a stiff chin and heated eyes.
“Following our orders.” One of the Sakes countered in a business-as-usual tone.
“Leave before you’re reported to Za-Irzal.” Lucufaar threatened with a tone of venom in his voice.
“Invoking Mother’s name again, Lucufaar?” Sharp words spoken with a high-pitched voice. It grated on Aren. For a moment, he considered it better to have those symbols in his head. Lucufaar and Ganzer looked surprised. Ganzer then took on a nervousness with darting eyes seeking an escape. Lucufaar’s annoyance returned, then inflamed visibly. Maybe I can use this, Aren noted to himself.
“Get this lump out of my . . . in the room!” That high-pitched voice continued on, grating at Aren, allowing him to forget his burning ropes for a moment. The big Sakes grunted before hurriedly pushing their unhappy prisoner into the room. Their prisoner, a Tellen . . . a tall one with an uncharacteristically close beard, dressed in dark pants and boots, a blue shirt, and charcoal-colored vest. He snarled at his captors before giving in to being handled by the Sakes. He’s trouble, Aren assessed and noted to himself.
The Sakes kept on arrogantly pushing the unhappy Tellen past Aren’s fuming questioner. Lucufaar aired an atmosphere liking to a thunderhead about to let loose with angry lightning. Aren was happy not to be the focus of the tall Baraan’s attention and wondered when he would lash out. Ganzer still looked like a scurrying furbearer wanting to flee, but uncertain which direction to go. Following the Tellen, a blue-clad woman, barely past her youngling years, confidently strode into the room with her reddish-blond hair whipping about. She spared a quick glance at Lucufaar showing her casual disregard for him before turning her gaze on Ganzer.
“You need to do better keeping a tether on your helper, Ganzer,” the Baraan woman was direct staring down Ganzer. Despite her young age, she displayed considerable confidence and authority over Aren’s tormentors. It was difficult for Aren to suppress a satisfying smile at her boldness and her bullying them. He got a glance at Lucufaar when she called him Ganzer’s “helper.” The Baraan just about lost all control of himself.
“You petulant—” Lucufaar started before cutting himself off. His expression twisted for a moment before he put on another serene face.
The young woman, shorter than Lucufaar by a head, turned her heated stare on him. When Lucufaar didn’t flinch, uncertainty flashed in her eyes until she launched into another chastising of him. “Know your place, Lucufaar. You serve and advise Ganzer, not Mother, and not me. Ganzer advises the Za as I do. Your place is where she and we say it is. Now be gone!”
“Our work is done here, Lucufaar,” Ganzer squeaked out, interrupting what Lucufaar was about to say. The nervous Baraan wasted no time squeezing past the Sakes that were pushing more prisoners into the room. “Come along, Lucufaar, before you get yourself in trouble with the sakal again.”
The blue-dressed, reddish-blond-haired woman waited as Lucufaar reluctantly withdrew himself from the room, all the while palming a cloth-wrapped object. She gave a long exhale and appeared relieved when the middle-aged Baraan finally left the room. She fears Lucufaar, Aren noted that for future use. More Sakes entered the room with prisoners stumbling before them. All were quickly dispatched into cells to Aren’s right. In all, eight prisoners crowded into two of the three small cells. A family of three or four, parents and a youngling daughter and maybe a youngling son, in the cell furthest away. All Baraans. In the center cell next to Aren’s vacant one, two Baraans and two Tellens, including that unhappy one, were crowded in together. It was difficult for Aren to tell if the blue-dressed woman seemed more satisfied or relieved when the prisoners were finally locked behind bars. As soon as the cell doors clicked locked, she turned her attention on him.
“What did you do to earn Lucufaar’s wrath?” The blue-clad woman asked. She gave Aren a sympathetic look before it vanished almost as quickly as it was offered. She then whispered so only Aren could hear, “He has a bad side. Best to give him what he wants before you’re seriously hurt.”
“Release this one from the rack and put him in the empty cell,” the woman commanded Aren’s release. The Sakes complied, but not quickly. She stood in the middle of the room with arms crossed, a scowl on her face, and her right boot impatiently tapping the stone floor. Aren waited silently for the jailers to release him from his questioning ropes. When they lowered him, a burning agony washed through him in waves at each lessening of the strain on his arms and loosening of the ropes. The pain took his breath away. He fought hard to keep from passing out before he could get his feet under him, but instead, went straight to his knees and almost toppled over. The painful impact of his knees on stones further bloodied his dirty gray tunic. With no ceremony or sympathy, the Sakes ro
ughly yanked him to his feet, then half carried him to the empty cell before pushing him in a tumble to the unclean floor. Aren lay where he fell for a long while . . . how long, he didn’t know or care. His shoulders and arms were on fire, but free, and the cool stones were comforting. He thought to sleep and felt as if he could do so for days, but curiosity tugged at him and his worry at what the newcomers could do to him as he slept forced his eyes open. Aren didn’t trust them, not one bit. They could be working for this Ganzer and Lucufaar. Who are these newcomers? What are they about? Who do they want? Who’s the woman that has sway over my tormentors? Aren felt compelled to find the answer to his questions to see who and how they meant him harm. So his eyes stayed open, and he watched them.
Chapter 12
Newcomers
Aren painfully raised himself off the stones, propping himself up against the wall opposite the cell door. Looking around assessing his situation, he found the blue-clad woman gone. Left behind were two darkly dressed Sakes standing guard at each of the two doors of the room beyond his bars. The cell doors were locked and unguarded, but watched closely by the Sakes. Aren then corrected himself. The Sakes weren’t just watching the cell doors. Several of them pretended not to be looking, but they were all either watching or stealing looks at the light brown-skinned Baraan woman-child in the far cell. Her green dress, though dirty, did little to hide her slender figure as she paced nervously about the cell. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders and small breasts and down her back to her waist, framing her slender face and body. Even at her young age, she was plenty for eyes to take in—for a Baraan, that is—Aren caught himself. And the Sakes certainly had their eyes on her. They appeared to agree with Aren’s assessment of her by the way their hungry eyes followed her everywhere. Leapers watching their next meal . . . that is what Aren’s view of the Sakes reminded him of. Poor thing, Aren caught himself in a moment of compassion for the Baraan. She was in trouble if left in the care of these four . . . guardsmen. Not my problem.
The woman-child’s mother, a handsome woman for a Baraan, in a torn, dirty yellow dress and with disheveled dark hair falling to her shoulders, tried to comfort her daughter with reassurances—wishful lies, all of them—that their predicament was a mistake and that they would be freed. Aren almost chuckled at the absurdities the woman spoke. Thinking they’ll be freed? A dark-haired male Baraan, tall and lean and covered in sweat-streaked grime on both skin and clothes, stood next to the woman. Aren assumed the male Baraan was the girl’s father. His flame-stoked eyes watched the Sakes watching them, watching his daughter with gazes of hunger. The father looked ready to do just about anything to defend his daughter, but he also wore a frustrated scowl at not understanding what was happening or how he could get himself and his family to freedom. A pathetic sight, Aren concluded. The young Baraan male dressed in a too large green shirt and black pants and boots wore a disdainful look at the Sakes. By the looks of him, Aren guessed he was the woman-child’s sibling.
Four others in the cell closest to him seemed a mismatch. A muscular tan-skinned Tellen with a short beard and the height of a Baraan wearing a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and a charcoal vest that had seen better days, dark pants, and hide boots paced his cell as if a caged leaper. Aren believed he could wear a hole in the stone floor if allowed to keep at it. This one is angry and not fond of being captive. An older Tellen sat with his back against the cell’s stone wall. He showed signs of middle age with wrinkles, shoulder-length black hair that was graying at the temples, and a long, braided, black beard with gray margins. Despite his age, the older Tellen looked fit with a broad chest and thick arms under a charcoal-colored shirt, dark pants, black boots, and a finely crafted silver belt buckle with symbols Aren couldn’t make out. Aren guessed him to be a laborer or a smith, but the well-tailored clothing and high quality belt left him wondering who he was. Unlike his younger kin, this Tellen sat with a calmness speaking of patience and wisdom. The remaining two in the cell were Baraan males of middle age, battered badly from the few glimpses Aren had of them. Both sat withdrawn with legs tucked under arms and heads down, sitting in their corner of the cell beyond the older Tellen.
Despite the newcomers being Baraans and Tellens, Aren was half glad for them and half nervous at how they would treat him. Their arrival did manage to drive away his questioners and bring to a stop the pleasure they were having at his expense. Aren grimaced at having reminded himself of his aching body. His arms and shoulders shook with pain when he moved them . . . even when he breathed. Two days of suffering torment and the only thing they were able to liberate from him was the Agni stone they took . . . that red double-bladed-ax-and-flame-shaped gemstone that appeared as a ruby, but wasn’t. It shone with a vibrant inner glow in Aren’s hands, but appeared lightless and dead in the hands of Lucufaar. “Slumbering?” The stone slumbered . . . came to Aren’s mind for reasons unknown to him, nor did he understand what it meant. He even thought the thing spoke to him a few times. Impossible!
Under the question for days, Aren felt pride in not having betrayed either his father or those Kabiri of the Circle who gave his father the thing to study and Aren . . . borrowed. Aren’s tormentors seemed obsessed about the Agni stone, especially that older one. Try as they did, they didn’t break him. With a half-smile, Aren settled down with his foul-smelling rag of a blanket that kept him warm enough to sleep the past few nights.
Aren tried his best to sleep, but those blasted newcomers just wouldn’t shut up. At first they, the Baraans, yapped about their travels here and the hardships they endured. Only an occasional grunt from the young Tellen reminded Aren he was in the next cell. Aren noted the older Tellen kept silent throughout. The Baraans continued with arguing over whose fault it was for their sufferings. They reached no conclusion. Next, some of them started scheming how to gain their freedom. It all would have been interesting to listen to if Aren wasn’t trying to sleep. He felt weary and in pain and, now, irritated. Enough is enough!
“Quiet!” Aren exploded from under his blanket, then continued in a grumble. “Idiots . . . all of you.” Silence filled the chastised room except for the snickering from the Sakes.
“Quiet yourself. Go back to your sleep and be silent,” the young Tellen spat as he paced.
Aren’s sensibilities burned at the arrogance and insolence of that young Tellen. Aren, unhappy with being awake, wanted to dismiss all of their rudeness and go back to sleep, but the presumed superiority of that Tellen heated his temper. The heat within Aren quickly became too much. He kicked off his blanket and sat up, then locked his flaming eyes with the young Tellen. They stared at each other for a long time without either of them flinching. Aren meant to intimidate the Tellen and the others into silence so he could be left alone to the sleep he wanted. The Tellen wasn’t cooperating, returning Aren’s stare with what looked to be his own internal flames. The Tellen was bigger in bulk than Aren, he realized, and could likely pound him into the dirt. But Aren’s hot anger kept him from backing down as many would to avoid a confrontation. Instead, Aren exploded.
“Such a pompous tail!” Aren stood launching his verbal attack from a slightly taller height. “Silence yourself. You arrive with your anger and expect me to bow to you? I haven’t a care of you or your wants.”
The young Tellen gripped the bars between their cells, turning his knuckles white. Aren immediately reconsidered his approach. This one is really angry, he realized. Aren consciously stopped himself from stepping back. I can’t demonstrate that I’m weak. Besides, there are bars between us.
“Who do you think you are . . . ?” The young Tellen started. Aren immediately composed a response in his head to answer the challenge and more as he ignored the rest of what the young Tellen spoke. He felt certain his answer would make the Tellen’s head spin and make him feel a hand tall. Pride filled Aren for it . . . and for not backing down from this hotheaded bully.
“My son,” the older Tellen spoke calml
y, controlled from where he sat.
The flames in the young Tellen’s eyes quelled and flickered, then burst back to full intensity. His arms rippled, and his knuckles whitened on the bars all the more. He looked as if he was straining. Then the metal bars flexed. A spike of fear bolted through Aren.
“Rogaan,” the older Tellen continued in his even tone, “hold your anger and contain it. More is happening than you know. You must keep from losing yourself.”
Aren feared the old Tellen’s attempt to get his son under control wasn’t going to be enough. This . . . Rogaan . . . still gripped the iron bars with white knuckles and his eyes remained as angry flames. The bars Aren thought a safe barrier between them bent as the young Tellen strained. Panic swelled in Aren, growing stronger as the bars bent further and further. Then those flames cooled . . . some, as Rogaan’s clenched teeth relaxed a little. Aren let out his breath realizing he had been holding it. He then sighed in relief as quietly as he could manage. I must be more careful.
“Let me arm go!” The protest came from beyond the Tellens in the far cell. A Sake had his big hands on the Baraan woman-child’s right arm, dragging her fighting and screaming from the cell. The father, sitting in the far corner of the cell with his head in his hands a moment before, appearing to have just nodded off, now looked awake and shocked and caught off guard. The mother stood stunned with a horror-filled expression. The young Baraan male rushed the Sake, but found the darkly clad guard’s left hand engulfing his throat in a grip that must have been as iron by the way the Baraan’s eyes bulged red. The Sake then heaved the young Baraan back into the cell, thumping him on the floor before rolling onto his father with a groan of pain.
