by Brett Vonsik
“No!” Rogaan shouted in shocked pain as he coiled to jump after Suhd. He needed to save her, free her from death’s jaws. A massive weight pressing down on him kept Rogaan from launching after her. So much weight he collapsed under it, dropping to the cobblestones. He had to get free to save Suhd. Rogaan twisted with a strain rolling onto his back. He needed leverage. A shadow of a face appeared in front of him. Rogaan struck it with his fist in a half-jabbing motion. The bearded face went backward, body and all slamming against metal bars. Rogaan paused. Where did the bars come from? Suhd . . . ?
“I’d say . . . He’s ready to see him,” a deep voice spoke with amusement.
“By the Ancients,” another voice with a drawl exclaimed. “He hit his own blood. A mean one, that one.”
“Bind him and get him on his feet.” The deep voice commanded.
Rogaan’s head cleared some. He found himself still in his jail cell, lying on his back and shaken. Suhd. I was dreaming . . . so real. Rogaan looked about. Aren crouched off to his left with wary eyes, and two dark-armored guards stood above Rogaan. Each of them wore an amused smile as they reached for him. Where’s Father? As his wrists were being bound with rope, Rogaan looked around the cell. He found his father sitting up against the bars working and rubbing his jaw. I did not? No. I did hit Father?
“Father, my regrets . . . striking you,” Rogaan sincerely asked for forgiveness for his act. His chest felt as if it would seize motionless as his skin prickled all over. Never had physically fighting with this father entered his thoughts. Never. How can I ever make amend for striking him? His father shook his head several times trying to clear it of the punch before using the bars to slide up to a standing position.
“Bind the other Tellen and the Evendiir.” The deep-voiced Sake commanded. “They go too.”
Another Sake entered the cell and bound Rogaan’s father about the wrists with shackles, then moved to do the same with Aren. What is happening? Rogaan looked to see if Pax was getting bound as well. The battered and bloody sight of his friend and father shocked Rogaan. What happened to them? They looked like punching sacks for Gygaens. Rogaan was hauled up to his feet as he gawked at his friend. The Sakes led him from the cell along with his stumbling father. Aren was prodded out of the cell, followed close by a dark-armored guard behind him.
The three of them were marshaled into an under area of the arena Rogaan was unfamiliar with. They walked a total of ninety-seven strides with two changes of direction, placing them in a thirty-four-stride-long hallway without cells. They were somewhere on the southeast side of the underground and about fifty strides from the center of the arena . . . if Rogaan’s sense of movement and orientation was correct. On their walk they passed by numerous cells, most with prisoners, many of them battered and bloodied. Strangely, most looked to be wearing rags of clothes that once looked fit for the wealthy. He dismissed such thoughts, instead, keeping focus on his surroundings.
Rogaan walked with his father a few strides in front and Aren a few behind. Their three Sake escorts walked a stride behind and a stride left of each of them, with two more dark-armored guards following a short distance behind them all. Ahead, the hallway ended in a bright light coming from a large open doorway. The light was almost blinding . . . not something cast from lanterns or torches. The bright light forced Rogaan to shield his eyes as best he could with his bound hands. His father’s Sake escort stopped just short of the doorway without bringing to a halt his charge. Rogaan looked left and saw his Sake do the same as Rogaan stepped through the doorway. Something is wrong. A stench of sweat and blood filled his nose as a heavy flat surface struck Rogaan, sending him airborne. For a moment, Rogaan felt weightless and physically numb all over. Pain then racked his body as he slammed into the stone floor, bouncing his way to a sliding stop up against a stone wall. He opened his eyes wanting to see what hit him, but found a bright blur with shadowy figures. He heard Aren yelling almost hysterically while moving . . . running around the room. Echoes of Aren’s voice as he ran about allowed Rogaan to determine the room to be large.
“Have ah runner,” a snarling voice stated somewhere to Rogaan’s right.
“Dee’s tu be like little rocks,” a deep rumble of a voice remarked on Rogaan’s left.
Rogaan blinked his burning eyes trying to see the room and who spoke. Foul air close to the floor penetrated his nose causing him to cringe and sit up gagging. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the bright room enough to see what he faced. Seven melon-sized orbs lit the room. All protruded a stride from the walls almost six strides high in hooded mounts resembling outstretched arms and hands. They radiated white light at equally spaced intervals around the circular-shaped room of large cut-stone making. The ceiling rose almost ten strides forming a dome. Glass wedge-shaped portals just over eight strides up spanning the entire circumference had moving shadows in them. A watching room. Rogaan’s eyes returned to the floor where Aren stood with his back to the stone wall shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of something only he could see. When not looking at the empty air, the Evendiir kept his eyes on a looming big, brown-skinned brute dressed only in a loin cloth. The wide and muscular brute had a clean-shaven head topping just over two and a half strides tall. Rogaan guessed it to outweigh him by three times or more. Another figure, a Baraan . . . no, something else . . . lean and muscular with almost wine-black skin and sunset sun-colored top-hairs, beard, and fur down the center of his chest, stood a little taller than Pax at one side of the room. The dark, wine-skinned creature positioned himself over Rogaan’s prone father who was trying to shake off what Rogaan assumed was a coward’s punch just like the one that hammered him when he entered the room.
Somewhat recovered, Rogaan rose to his feet, then stepped toward his father to help. He stopped immediately, freezing in place when the creature drew two blades and held one just over his unaware father’s head, the other pointed directly at Rogaan. The creature dressed in high-calf sandals and what looked to be the skirt part of brown eur armor and a hide harness with wide straps crisscrossing across his chest. Where he stowed the long knives prior to drawing them, Rogaan could only guess. The creature was fast and precise with intense green eyes, widely set level about his nose under a heavy brow. Watching Rogaan’s every move, the creature’s curved ears twitched at every noise. Its deep cheeks framed a mouth of thin lips and fanged teeth. Rogaan recalled seeing drawings in books of ancient warfare of warriors looking as this one, but could not remember its name. An ancient Evendiir? No, it is something else.
“What are you?” The dark, wine-skinned creature demanded of Rogaan looking at him down his left arm and blade.
Rogaan looked back at him, not knowing what he asked or how to answer. They stared at each other for a long moment before Rogaan felt uncomfortable and shrugged with open hands, “I do not know.”
“Asra’Tellen . . . fighter, runner, or a coward to be made lightless?” The creature clarified the meaning of his demand.
Rogaan’s skin prickled and his chest tightened at the unknown of the creature’s words. He did not like that “to be made lightless” part . . . nor the “coward” reference or “runner,” either. All sounded at the wrong end of the sword. What remained? Rogaan answered. “Fighter.”
The creature flicked his left wrist tossing the blade twirling in the air toward Rogaan. Watching the long knife’s blade and pommel rotating at him, Rogaan considered catching it in air so as to impress. Then he thought better of the consequences to anything but a great success at that, allowing the blade to fall to the bloodstained stone floor, clinking and clattering to the wall. Rogaan’s eyes fixed on the stone floor beneath him for the first time. Blood, both dried and fresh, stained the floor everywhere with only spots here and there allowing him to see stone beneath the Waters of Life. As he looked on in shock and with growing horror, Rogaan saw his bloodstained clothes, arms, and hands. Is this blood mine?
“As
ra’Tellen . . . take blade,” the creature demanded in a matter-of-fact demeanor.
Rogaan looked at the blade, then the creature. I will have to fight him if I pick that up. The creature stood as a statue when Aren ran by him making a hysterical groan, the brutish big one chasing him close. Rogaan assessed the chamber large enough for two or three pairs of combatants not to interfere with each other as he watched Aren run for the doorway they entered the chamber from, only to veer away and run right following the wall. An escape was not possible as the Sakes crowded the entrance arch wanting to watch this exciting spectacle. Even if there was room for Aren to squeeze through, the Sakes would not let him escape. Turning his attention back to the dark, wine-skinned creature, Rogaan found him standing, unmoving, still above his father.
“Help me you, idiot!” Aren with desperate anger demanded of Rogaan as he ran by him right to left.
Rogaan glimpsed Aren running the curve of the wall after he passed. A quick look back at the creature to make sure he kept where he remembered . . . crunch! Rogaan went flying again . . . his face and right side of his head in pain. He hit the bloodstained floor hard, jarring his teeth before bouncing and striking the floor a second time.
“Little rock. Ha, ha, ha . . .” The big, brown-skinned brute loomed over Rogaan. The massive . . . whatever he is . . . seemed pleased with himself, wearing what Rogaan took as a grin for a moment before taking off after Aren again.
The taste of blood in his mouth gave Rogaan concern. These two are serious about whatever it is they do . . . hurting, maybe killing. His head ached, and his jaw felt numb from that shot. That is twice since I have entered this room. Anger started to boil within him. The scent of all the blood and sweat staining the floor filled his nose, causing him to gag and sit up to get away from it.
“Asra’Tellen . . . a strong one,” the dark, wine-skinned creature snarled. “Most never rise after two thumps.”
Rogaan spit to clear his mouth of the taste of blood, then stood up. Anger pushed him, giving him reason to rise. He stepped forward again, with the intent to aid his father despite the threatening glare facing him. He pushed on. Rogaan stopped short of the long knife-wielding creature, now two steps removed from Father. Rogaan then carefully made to help his father to his feet. The creature stood motionless except for his eyes that followed Rogaan’s every move and those twitching ears. As Rogaan assisted his father up, Aren approached in a run, still irritably demanding help with the big brute chasing him. Fortunately, Aren was a bit faster than his brown-skinned pursuer.
“You going to help me with this Nephiliim?” Aren yelled as he passed, off and running and sounding panicked, but no longer hysterical.
As the Nephiliim closed, Rogaan pulled his father down into a crouch as that club of a fist passed just over their heads with a whoosh. They immediately stood back up looking at a thick brown backside waddle away after Aren. Baffled, Rogaan asked his father, “Nephiliim?”
“Asra’Tellen . . . a smart rock you are,” the creature snarled with what Rogaan took as a confident grin. “Good with a blade?”
“He is not,” Mithraam answered before Rogaan could. His father stepped closer to the wine-black-skinned adversary. “I am skilled, Mornor-skurst. Test me, not the youngling.”
Rogaan gave his father a stunned stare. His father had skills with hammers and chisels, but not blades! The only blades he ever recalled observing his father swing were those he tested . . . at still targets to ensure they cut and retained their edge as expected.
“Father—” Rogaan started to protest, but was cut off by his father’s empty raised hand signaling for his silence. Rogaan mused at his father somehow managing to put a long knife in his other hand. Where did he get it? Footfalls pattered behind him accompanied by labored breathing. It was gone almost as soon as it came. Rogaan feared for his father playing blades with this “Mornor-skurst.” So that is what a Mornor-skurst looks like. I’ve never seen one before . . . Thud.
Rogaan felt a tremendous impact to his head and the sensation of being weightless, again. The pain felt something terrible, but the weightlessness had a serene feel that somehow traded off with the pain . . . until Rogaan slammed into the bloodstained floor stones . . . again. This time, the wind knocked from him as his head spun in a daze. His face stung. Rogaan feared his cheekbones broken.
“Little rock no learn. Ha-ha.” The brown-skinned Nephiliim loomed over Rogaan, again taunting him. He stood with his massive foot now pressing down on Rogaan’s chest. Rogaan gasped for air, trying to fill his burning lungs, but failing. The weight on him made it impossible to take a breath. Flashing spots filled his vision. He hurt everywhere and felt himself slipping from this world. Then the pressure on his chest disappeared without warning, allowing him to gulp in a lungful of air, and then another. The flashing spots diminished, though his lungs still had a sting to them. A ruckus echoed in the cylinder-shaped room drawing his attention. He found his father standing between the Nephiliim and him. Somehow his father had forced the brown-skinned bully back as he kept waving that long knife in front of him to ward off his massive opponent. His father moved the blade in short, controlled slashes keeping his angry intimidator at bay . . . at least for a short time before an overhand hammer of a punch sent his father to the stone floor where he lay unmoving. A long, stunned moment passed for Rogaan as he stared at his still father, hoping he would rise but fearing him lightless. Not a twitch. Panic gripped him. Is Father lightless?
“Dat’ll teach him tu cut me,” the brutish Nephiliim declared, then chuckled.
Rogaan feared the worst and started crawling frantically to his father, hoping all he had suffered was a bump on the head. Rogaan found himself unable to stop from visibly shaking at the horrific thought his father was gone from this world . . . and from him. With painful realization, Rogaan, for the first time in his life, saw his father as mortal and that he, Rogaan, was not ready for his father to meet the Ancients, leaving his family behind. His throat ached and tightened as he crawled. Tears welled up in his eyes as he fought for a shred of self-control. What am I to do with him gone? How can I tell Mother Father died protecting me? Rogaan felt to howl in his pain, but did not. His captors would know his pain and weakness.
Powerful hands grabbed Rogaan by his shoulder and belt, then heaved him into the air. That weightless feeling took him again, though Rogaan allowed no comfort in it as the cut-stone wall rushed at him. He struck hard, bouncing off the wall, then slamming to the floor. Terrible pain rattled through him at each impact. Stunned and numb, Rogaan lay on the bloodstained floor, but only for a moment. Anger swept through him like a fire upon a dry field on a windy day. He exploded to his feet, propelled by his arms. With his booted feet firmly set to the crimson-stained floor, Rogaan quickly surveyed the room and everything in it. His attackers moved with that familiar slowness. The stench of the blood, sweat, and other body odors ravaged his senses. He chose to ignore his nose and what was filling it. Instead of being unnerved by it all as he had been before, Rogaan chose to use this thing, this wild, raging surge within. He, for the first time, welcomed it. He took in many details with a single quick scan. Father lay unconscious or lightless two strides to his right. The big brown Nephiliim stood growling at him three and a half strides to Rogaan’s front. Aren panted heavily, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. And the Mornor-skurst held a casual stance while sneering with arms folded seven strides to his left. The rancid odor of the room was powerful and tried to test him, but Rogaan chose to ignore it still. That brute is to pay for his cruelty against Father.
The Nephiliim started to raise his right arm and shift his weight in an attack on Rogaan. Rogaan saw each detail of the brown-skinned Nephiliim’s moves and decided to avoid and counterpunch. He stepped to his left and twisted, allowing the brute’s hammer of a fist to miss him as it swept in front of his face by less than his own hand’s width. The Nephiliim’s head with a growing l
ook of surprise hung in front of Rogaan . . . an easy target.
With all his anger, all his fury, all his pent-up rage, Rogaan unleashed a righted-handed hooking punch propelled from his firmly set feet through the exploding extension in his legs, the rotating of his hips and torso, his even faster rotating shoulders and arms, until his painfully clenched fist smashed into the Nephiliim’s right cheek. Rogaan felt the brute’s cheek flesh compress and his thick face bones break as they gave way to the impact. The big Nephiliim staggered backward and to his left, his arms flailing and his tree-trunk-sized legs spread apart to keep from falling over. Rogaan did not give the creature a chance to recover. With his exploding anger and hunger to avenge his father propelling him, Rogaan launched himself at the Nephiliim, striking his right knee at the side with his foot, the force of his bounding attack bending the knee in a manner it was never designed to. The ripping of his intimidator’s flesh vibrated through Rogaan’s foot. The brown brute collapsed to the floor in a howl of pain, but managed to keep from sprawling on his wounded face by extending his right arm and hand to stop his fall. His father’s tormentor awkwardly knelt before him on damaged knee and outstretched hand. Rogaan, his anger and his lust for vengeance still not satisfied, made to strike the wounded beast until it was no more. No one hurts my family. Not without payment. No more. He grabbed the brute’s right forearm, pulling it up and back, forcing the brute into a kneeling position while Rogaan rotated his own body and stepped under the arm he raised. With his back to the intimidator, Rogaan pulled down on the forearm with every muscle fiber in his body contracting in a rage. The Nephiliim’s arm at first resisted, but with a renewed burst of determination from Rogaan, snapped at the elbow with a slow, resounding pop, rending the flesh and bone as Rogaan bent it in an unnatural way over his shoulder. The Nephiliim’s howls reverberated throughout the chamber. To Rogaan, the howl was long and wailing . . . and the beginnings of his satisfaction. The flame of his anger still not quenched, Rogaan sought to deliver more punishment. He cocked his left arm forward, then drove his left elbow back as he did his whole body backward with his legs. Rogaan felt his elbow impact what he thought was the brute’s face. He felt bones collapse as he drove backward. Then, the big body pressing against him went limp, sliding to the floor with a reverberating thud.
