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

by Brett Vonsik

  “Possible,” the dark warrior replied flatly. “It will be some time before he’s able to give Aren aid.”

  Aren lay still on the floor with his eyes open looking upward. How did I get on my back? He could barely lift a hand off the floor. Exhaustion touched every part of him, and his head ached. Never again will I disobey Father. Aren noted for the first time the ceiling was solid rock with the metal pillars of the walls touching the ceiling, but only so to support the bars of their cage. Compacted wood boards filled the space between the ceiling and the metal frame of the cells. Why is this important? It isn’t you, idiot . . . focus your thoughts. Aren tried to raise his head, but felt it weighing more than the whole world. Exhaustion bathed him. He decided to allow his strength to return some before trying that again. Aren turned his attention to listening to the spirited banter of the others.

  “I disagree,” the dark warrior’s voice grumbled. “You and your son are not safe here. A Baraan of considerable skills . . . and powers is about. Someone unknown to us was following . . . . You all need to be away from this place.”

  Aren opened his eyes at the word “powers.” He caught the dark warrior nodding toward Rogaan, though the young Tellen missed the reference to him as he was engaged in a heated whisper through the cell bars with the young Baraan. Dizziness and a mild urge to be sick forced Aren to close his eyes to concentrate on controlling his body.

  Aren heard a gruff huff, from who he couldn’t tell. Scuffling noise from the adjacent cell preceded a chorus of voices, all demanding to be freed. They sounded angry, desperate, accusing. Wanting to understand them and figure out what was going on, Aren focused to separate the individual voices and what they were saying, while peeking a little.

  “Dis be ya doin’, ya ol’ Tellen,” the Baraan father stated as fact and accusation.

  “Our Suhd be taken from us cause of ya and ya youngling,” the Baraan mother added.

  “We be givin’ an offer ta take us from dis place,” the Baraan father half-explained, half-stated with a heated tone. His tone then turned kinder, softer, and almost apologetic as he looked to the dark warrior. “Can ya find our young one . . . our Suhd and free her?”

  “Can ya?” The young Baraan asked. “Can ya find Suhd and take her ta be safe somewhere?”

  “Suhd’s freedom is what is important,” Rogaan added to the pleas. “Will you save her?”

  “I’ll stay here if ya can see me young one free.” The Baraan father offered himself in trade for the dark warrior to free his daughter.

  Im’Kas and Mithraam exchanged unreadable glances without speaking. An unbearable silence built every moment they did not respond in favor of liberating Suhd. Im’Kas briefly looked as if torn between wants and duties, then resumed his unreadable mask.

  “She will have need to endure for the present,” Mithraam stated simply as if telling them the sun had just risen in the morning. “I say this with a heavy heart, my son, but to free her is to raise attentions on everyone.”

  “No!” Rogaan and the Baraans spoke almost in unison.

  “If what you have spoken of Suhd is true,” Mithraam broke into their protests before they started, “she is strong and will endure any sufferings they can impose on her. They have limits under Shuruppak law.”

  “Is what they did to Suhd on that table their limits under the law?” Rogaan growled pointing to the wood table beyond the iron bars. “I will see Suhd free.”

  “No!” The young Baraan protested. “Ya be comin’ with us. All of us gettin’ from here.”

  “No one is to come or go,” Mithraam spoke with authority, crushing everyone’s hopes and mood. “There is more at stake than any of you are aware of.”

  “Dat no be for ya ta decide,” the Baraan father declared.

  “I beg ya, Master Protector,” the Baraan mother pleaded with sniffles. “My little one be so precious. I can no think of her ruined by this bunch.”

  A long silence filled the air. It begged for Aren to sit up well enough to see what was happening. Everyone wore dark faces, their expressions gloomy, desperate, and troubled. Suhd’s parents and brother looked to the dark warrior, hoping for a decision to help them. With his reputation of carnage, Aren was uncertain how they could ask him what they did, but desperate people do desperate things. Rogaan looked at the dark warrior with what seemed an anticipation that he’d agree to go after the woman-child. For some reason, he seemed confident the dark warrior would. The older Tellen . . . Mithraam . . . stood stolid. Aren couldn’t read him. He’s well practiced at stifled emotions in such engagements. A disciplined one he is. Unexpected by Aren, the dark warrior wore a troubled expression. He does feel for others. Maybe there is more to him than his living legend reputation in the stories they tell of him. The big Baraan stood motionless for a long time, appearing to weigh options, formulating plans, evaluating them, throwing them down when the thought through outcome turned less than desired, and starting all over thinking through near countless other actions. Aren understood the look of someone thinking a problem through, having already done the thinking he was now working through. There were no good options if motivations were for anything other than gaining freedom for everyone. The dark warrior made to speak after his expression turned determined. The old Tellen preempted him.

  “Im’Kas . . . no, my friend.” Mithraam spoke confident, unwavering, but kind with a hint of sympathy. “Some would use our escape to claim you as lawless. That cannot be so.”

  “My choice . . .” Im’Kas replied flatly.

  “It is not, ol’ friend,” Mithraam corrected him. “It is his. We all agreed and gave our word. We are on a path of greater purpose that I will leave unspoken. Rogaan and I will survive. My son is strong.”

  Aren glanced at Rogaan straightening his back with what looked to be a rise of pride. He immediately felt jealous of Rogaan as Mithraam’s words, meant as fact and not a boast, spoke of a father’s confidence in his son. Loss then filled Aren’s heart as he struggled to recall praise by his father. It was rare.

  “The others . . . ,” Im’Kas made to make an argument for them while not hiding his dissatisfaction at having his hands bound in this matter. “They’re innocent.”

  “Yes . . . they are,” Mithraam replied with sadness in his voice, but solid in his convictions. “They will have to endure, as well.”

  “Talk for ya own self,” the Baraan father spit. “We be takin’ da woodsman’s offer ta get us out of here.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Mithraam exchanged uneasy glances with Im’Kas. With all things said and observed, Aren concluded the old Tellen and the dark warrior’s relationship was complex. Very unexpected. What could these two have in common? So much to discover, to understand.

  “You must leave us,” Mithraam spoke quietly, too low for the Baraans to hear, but not so low that Evendiir ears would miss his words, “before you draw attention.”

  Im’Kas reluctantly nodded before exchanging unspoken words with Mithraam. Aren grew concerned as Im’Kas scanned the cells. What did they just agree to? Aren dared not blink. He felt certain something was about to happen . . . and he wanted nothing of it. The Baraans noticed the silent exchange too. A flurry of questions and accusations of betrayal erupted from the parents. Their son pleaded with Rogaan and Mithraam for the dark warrior to rescue his sister and take her and his parents from this place. With a look of resignation, the dark warrior raised his hand to his chest, to a chain holding a . . . . A chill ripped through Aren. No! He’s invoking the power. Aren’s skin crawled, and he felt it difficult to breathe. He spotted the gemstone . . . the Agni stone under the dark warrior’s fingers when he pulled it from under his shirt. A shallow breath was all Aren could muster. A blue-violet flash under Im’Kas’s hand, followed by a faint glow all about the room that slowly faded away hung over collapsed Baraans and Tellens. All fell. Aren wondered if they were now lightless. His chest
grew tight and burned. He felt unable to breathe. Sweat streamed down his temples as he felt his chest grow damp. Im’Kas is a Kiuri’Ner. How is it he wields the Agni, the Powers?

  “The manifestation is useful on all except long-ears,” Im’Kas explained to no one, though Aren thought his tone more instructional than defensive. Aren looked about to see only he and the dark warrior were awake. Another shiver took hold of Aren. “They’ll sleep for a time and will remember little of what’s happened.”

  Aren kept silent while keeping his eyes fixed on the dark warrior. Fear swelled in him. He swallowed hard, afraid the power was to be used on him and uncertain of what was to come by its use. Agni powers . . . “manifestations” hung in the air. Aren could see them, their dissipating glow all about the room, though mostly in the cells. Briefly they illuminated the entire chamber, then dimmed.

  “Then there’s you,” Im’Kas continued in an even, confident tone. “You’ll remember. You’ll remember me. That’s the Evendiir mind. So . . . What am I to do with you?”

  Aren feared to answer. His mind raced in all directions. Panic! He struggled to form a thought . . . answer the dark warrior’s question. What to do? What to say? Im’Kas appeared to glide up to the bars closest to Aren. The dark warrior crouched bringing his eyes closer to Aren’s. Aren felt near to losing his bowels.

  “Son of Larcan,” the dark warrior held Aren’s eyes with his own as he spoke in a low voice, “can I trust you?”

  Aren stared back blankly at the dark warrior, his thoughts still unable to organize. Aren just knew he was going to be harmed by the dark warrior and his Agni power. It terrified him. His muscles froze him in his sitting position, and his tongue felt as if it filled his whole mouth. Sweat poured down his face. The dark warrior touched his Agni stone. Aren felt as if a great hand clenched his heart, stopping it from beating. His vision blurred. I’m fading. Strange words from the dark warrior were spoken, whispered in truth. A chill washed over Aren. Agni! No! Aren’s mind screamed, but no sound issued from his mouth. Gloom engulfed Aren. His thoughts dissipated. Darkness took him.

  Chapter 16

  Masks of Corruption

  “Wake ya, skinny, pointy-eared crawler!” A distant and unfriendly voice demanded.

  The words and the unkind tone carrying them preceded a rolling sensation. Confusion wrapped itself around Aren, but only until he opened one of his eyes. He woke to Ugly. A wrinkled and scarred face hidden behind unkempt gray whiskers. It held a satisfied smile.

  “Sleepy?” Rotten teeth and a breathy stink instantly brought Aren fully awake.

  Gagging, he scrambled into the corner of the cell, away from the old smelly Baraan. Looking up, Aren realized the wrinkly-face Baraan was the same dirty prisoner that cleaned their cells daily. He stood with a hunched posture in his filthy tunic, smiling. Aren felt unclean just looking at him. The fog of slumber still clouded his head, but started clearing some with that unsavory waking. Beyond, Aren found lightly armored guards snickering as they held Mithraam between them. The door to the cell opened. He caught a glimpse of a bound Rogaan being escorted from the chambers and down the hall Aren walked yesterday. Or was it the day before? I’m having trouble separating the days. The Baraans were awake, but strangely quiet as they sat clustered in their cell whispering to one another. Aren looked past the guards flanking Mithraam to find the familiar dark-armored guards at the doors to their larger room. Did that really happen, or did I dream it? Aren felt uncertain.

  “Git him up,” one of the new Sakes commanded.

  “Ya meanin’ me?” The filthy Baraan asked nervously.

  “Yes . . . you old one,” another of the guards confirmed gruffly. “And keep that piss pot from slopping. These two are goin’ to the Hall.”

  Disoriented and shocked with his abrupt waking, Aren found himself being guided to his feet by the smelly old Baraan. Ripping his arm away Aren barked, “Remove your hands from me!”

  The Baraan cowered from Aren as if expecting the prisoner to strike him. A pang of guilt hit Aren for causing the old Baraan to react so, then another inhale removed all his guilt as he wrinkled his nose at the offense wafting around him. An unintelligible whisper to Aren’s right drew his attention. Looking for the whisperer, he found the Baraan family still sitting and keeping quiet. Aren dismissed the whisper as just a noise sounding like a voice.

  A Sake guard pushed the old Baraan out of his way to take hold of Aren, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t touched the creature. Wiping his hands on his lower tunic with a disgusted face, the guard then took hold of Aren before shoving him out of the cell. He and Mithraam were unceremoniously escorted into the hall Aren last saw Rogaan walking. They were taken to an alcove cut into the rock some two or three strides directly off the hallway. A raised rim on the floor separated the hallway from the inset alcove. The wet alcove floor looked uneven and had a grate in the center. Aren and Mithraam were shoved into the alcove together by their snickering escorts. They were stripped naked, then smacked in the face with ice-cold water when they turned around. The cold wetness shocked Aren’s whole body and stole his breath. More cold water hit him, the guards openly laughed now. Aren managed a breath and some unflattering dancing and a lot of shaking in between three more buckets. He was soaked, cold, shivering, and angry. Looking to see how Mithraam fared, he found the wet Tellen an unreadable stone. How’s it the old Tellen isn’t angry? And . . . not shivering? That’s just not right.

  “Don’t worry yurselves,” one of the guards taunted, tossing to the floor a pair of gray tunics for them. “Yul dry out some on yur little walk.”

  Sakes ushered them down underground halls, many new to Aren. While walking side-by-side, Aren glanced at the Tellen. Mithraam showed no emotion. He remained unreadable. Aren wondered at his unbreakable self-control, even after being ill-treated and soaked with ice water. Aren’s anger still had hold of him at the mistreatment. A spinning symbol flashed in his head. No! Not again. A fist slammed into Aren’s back, sending him stumbling forward before he got his feet under him. His back ached. A strong hand from behind then pushed him forward in the hall. Aren felt confused. Mithraam somehow now walked ahead of him. One of the guards cursed at him to get moving. Aren realized he must have lost a moment, stopping at the sight of the symbol. Another colored symbol spun in his mind’s eye. More followed. Please don’t return, Aren pleaded to no one in particular. Why have they returned?

  The Sakes turned them down a long, high-arched tunnel of cut-stone walls. Lanterns lit the left wall as iron bars lined the right. Prison cells. Guards prodded Aren and Mithraam to walk past the jailed cells full of folk, more than Aren could count. Almost all were Baraan, and by the looks of them, locals. Wrinkling his nose, a pungent smell hung thick in the air telling Aren these cells were ripe with waste. Most of the jailed appeared harmless, except for some coughing. Aren covered his mouth and nose while passing those sick. As he and his escorts walked the cobblestones, prisoners begged for water and food . . . many for their freedom. The worst pleas . . . wails, in truth, came from mothers begging for their children to be freed or simply fed. Aren ignored it all. At least he tried to. Their imprisonment wasn’t his problem to solve, though the mothers and crying children weighed on him, tore at him before he could push his feelings down. A sick sensation in the pit of his stomach made Aren wish he had never seen this rabble. Why are they here? The streets are not so unruly for so many to be jailed.

  Aren and Mithraam cleared the cells after what felt to Aren an eternity of one foot in front of the other. Many desperate pleas for food and freedom got at him, making him feel more miserable about his circumstances with each step. Passing through an open cut-stone doorway with a thick iron door held by two young blue-clad guardsmen, Aren, Mithraam, and their escorts found themselves in a large well-lit arched-ceiling chamber of plain stone blocks. A single arched opening opposite where they stood was the only exit from the area, other than the doorwa
y behind them. Two more blue-clad Tusaa’Ner guardsmen, one with a red plume signifying him as the one in command, entered the area from that opposite doorway. They crossed the chamber without ceremony, stopping just short of running over Aren. The image of symbols spinning in Aren’s head left him disoriented. With a look of disdain directed at the Sakes, the guardsmen bound Aren’s and Mithraam’s wrists with hide lashes, then led them through the opposite doorway while commanding the Baraans who had brought them from the arena underworld to set a rear guard, then join the escort. Aren felt relieved for the fading pleas as the six of them entered into another long passageway. The stone tunnel was minimally lit with lanterns, causing deep shadows to swallow the tunnel at regular intervals. The place was damp with water seeping in spots overhead. Only their echoed footfalls and the occasional heavy breath broke the silence.

  More spinning symbols forced their way into Aren’s head. He tried to dismiss them, but found them spinning faster for his efforts. Aren wasn’t certain how far they had walked as they emerged from the passageway into a well lit room almost identical to the one at the other end of the tunnel. Two blue-clad guardsmen with sheathed short swords stood at a closed iron door at the opposite side of the room. A hand signal from the taller of their two escorts put in action the guardsmen unlocking and opening the door with an echoing chorus of creaking and grinding. Aren felt the noise rumble through him. It irritated him and caused him to work his jaws hard from side to side to relieve his nerves. The two blue-clad guardsmen resumed their positions of semi-attention on either side of the door just before he and Mithraam were shoved through the doorway into a chamber with a rising rail-less stone stairwell shaped in a rectangle. A red-caped guardsman made his way up the stairs without hesitation. Aren and Mithraam were both poked at from behind to follow and keep up. They climbed and climbed, to Aren’s disbelief. He found himself fighting his mind to keep his vision uncluttered from those damnable symbols while stepping carefully to keep from tripping and falling off the stairs. Trying to keep his mind focused on things not of the symbols, Aren guessed they climbed more than twenty strides up, maybe more. Two more blue-uniformed Tusaa’Ner guardsmen armed with short swords flanked a stout wood door at the top of the stairwell on a platform large enough to accommodate the eight of them. Looking down, Aren felt queasy and a bit disorientated as those symbols kept spinning all the while he peered into the gloomy depths.