by Brett Vonsik
Justice and payment for harming Father. Rogaan turned, hoping to see his father stirring. His heart sank. Still, Mithraam lay unmoving a stride from the silent, hulking brown body now lying with him on the floor. Stepping toward his father, Rogaan caught the glint of something to his right. A spinning knife coming at him. It almost hung in the air as Rogaan jerked his head and upper body backward, the blade passing in front of his neck, cutting him skin-deep on his chest. The knife then rang dully as it bounced harmlessly off the wall to his left. Looking to see where it had come from, Rogaan found the Mornor-skurst take up a readying stance as he remembered seeing his uncle twice take up in Brigum when preparing for close fighting. The Mornor-skurst is War Sworn . . . By the Ancients, could this get worse?
Rogaan and the Mornor-skurst stood staring at each other. The assumed War Sworn had not seriously harmed either Rogaan or his father, as Rogaan saw it. Except for that blade a moment ago, there is no justification to fight him. In truth, Rogaan felt intimidated at the thought of fighting one dedicated to becoming a supreme warrior, preparing to fight at the side of the Ancients in the End Battle.
Three mouth-gaping Sakes stuffed in the doorway looking from the Mornor-skurst to Rogaan and back several times, waiting . . . anticipating something to happen. Rogaan felt little fear when considering them. But he did feel that sickness in his stomach and a wave of dizziness sweep over him as everything within the room moved about too quickly. Even the noises returned to what Rogaan considered normal, but so fast now! He fought his guts to keep from sicking up. Not wanting to show weakness to this group of dangers, Rogaan forced himself to continue standing as he did the moments before things changed. The Mornor-skurst canted his head and said something to the Sakes that Rogaan missed. One of them quickly took off down the hallway, but not before the look of relief spread across the Mornor-skurst’s face.
Father . . . . Rogaan needed to know if he was truly alone here in this prison, to see if his father was without Light. The blow his father had taken was brutal. In an attempt at controlling himself, Rogaan relaxed his body and stepped toward his father while carefully keeping watch of the Mornor-skurst. He hoped no attack would befall him. Thankfully, the Mornor-skurst stood simply watching him from his ready stance, blade in hand, impassive face and eyes unblinking. This Mornor-skurst is unnerving. Rogaan kneeled next to his father and placed a hand on his chest. He breathes! A flood of relief washed over him.
“Father!” Rogaan gently shook the limp body on the floor. “Wake, Father. Wake.”
A groan escaped his father’s lips. Rogaan helped him roll onto his back while supporting his head. The bloodstains on his father’s face were from a mix of what was on the floor and from his nose. With another groan, his father struggled to open his eyes. What Rogaan saw in those eyes appeared distant, unfocused at first. After a few moments, they regained the sharp focus Rogaan had known all of his life. He smiled at his father.
“You live, my son?” Mithraam half-asked, half-stated with relief. Then with a slight smile from under his beard he added, “This is fortunate. I will not have to answer to your mother.”
Rogaan felt uncertain how to take his father’s humor. It was so seldom displayed and often at the oddest of times, as now. Maybe his head is not yet clear. Rogaan helped his father sit up. Once sitting, his father took several deep breaths, followed by a crinkling of his nose. He turned his head looking around the room. Obviously, he needed to reorient himself. Rogaan too looked up. He found Aren still standing against the wall. The Evendiir’s eyes went from the fallen Nephiliim to Rogaan and back again. Wide-eyed disbelief and a long sigh of relief were the Evendiir’s only emotions Rogaan could read.
“How . . .?” Mithraam started to ask a question, then looked at the fallen bulk of a body lying next to him, and then back to Rogaan with scrutinizing eyes. “You?”
Rogaan nodded. “I do not know how. My anger at him striking you and fear at losing you to the Ancients somehow gave me strength.”
“And quickness,” Aren added as he carefully shuffled closer.
“I see,” Mithraam spoke as if concluding something that needed confirmation.
“How did you move so fast?” Aren asked Rogaan as he knelt near the Tellens while poking a finger at the unconscious bulk. “I barely followed your strikes. He lives, though his face looks broken. Good. He’ll need help to eat.”
“I do not know how,” Rogaan answered honestly. “And I do not care if this one dies of hunger for what he did.”
Rogaan’s father started to his feet as a team of armored Sakes and blue-clad guardsmen poured into the room, all with swords and knives drawn. Disbelief wore heavy on each of their faces.
“Sakes . . . bind the Tellen with irons.” Commanded the Mornor-skurst.
Sakes and Tusaa’Ner guardsmen exchanged uncertain glances before a heavily muscled and confident guard stepped forward with two others following his lead. They made their way carefully to the kneeling Mithraam while watching him with nervous eyes. Rogaan made to step between his father and them, but Mithraam stopped him with an outreached hand. Rogaan felt torn. He did not want his father suffering anymore, but he felt compelled to respect his father’s wishes. Deciding to obey his father, Rogaan made no action against the guards or guardsmen as they reached for his father.
“Sakes . . . not that old one . . . that young one,” the Mornor-skurst scolded as he redirected them. “Careful care with that one. He is dangerous. Double bind him.”
After a brief pause with nobody moving, the Sakes carefully approached Rogaan as if his sweat was as poison. They bound him at the wrists and just above the elbows. Wrists in front and elbows behind him. Both bindings were of metal shackles. Uncomfortable, but bearable if for a short time back to his cell. Any longer, and they would cut through his skin, maybe to the bone. The Sakes appeared surprised at Rogaan’s compliance. Aren and Mithraam were then bound with ropes, arms and wrists in front of them. The three of them were lined up as a heavy escort surrounded them with drawn weapons, readied to cut down trouble at the giving of the order. The Sake zigaar entered the room wearing only his dark chest armor, kilt, and sandals. He filled the doorway that others cleared to make way for him. The dark-haired Baraan’s scarred arms spoke of much fighting. Scars on his face spoke of great experience gained through pain. He surveyed the room in a glance with his eyes setting on Rogaan when he was done.
“Sworn One, how did this happen?” The Sake zigaar demanded.
“Zigaar . . . this one.” The Mornor-skurst pointed at Rogaan. “You spoke of him being a bother, though you made little of it. Nixdatt couldn’t strike him when he is alert. This one even evaded my thrown blade, though only by a hair. He felled Nixdatt in four blows . . . all bone breakers. He’s more than a bother. He’s a danger. Why did you not give warning?”
“Trouble you are, young one.” The Sake zigaar ignored the Mornor-skurst as he scowled at Rogaan. “Even unskilled you achieve this. The arena hasn’t seen the likes of you in a long time. How do you mark them, Sworn One?”
The Mornor-skurst pointed in turn at Aren, then Mithraam, then Rogaan. “Runner. Runner. Fighter. I say, kill the young Tellen and be done with him. Too much unexpected happens around him. That’s not my liking.”
“Sakes and Tusaa’Ner.” The Sake zigaar again ignored the Mornor-skurst as he spoke deep and loud. “The young Tellen is to remain in binds at all times. Double the watch over him. Kill him without mercy if he makes more trouble. Keep him alive otherwise. The Zas may have interest in him.”
The Sake zigaar spun on his heels, then strode from the room with purpose as a gathering of guards, guardsmen, and others parted way for him in the hallway. The Mornor-skurst turned his attention back to the room, if he ever took his attention from it, waving his dark, wine-colored hand to the armed escorts, signally for them to take the prisoners away. By knife and sword tips, Rogaan, his father, and Aren were prodded down
the hallway, escorted on both sides, leaving no room for anyone in the throng ahead of onlookers to suffer anything other than being pushed out of the way. While concerned about their unknown fates, Rogaan oddly felt a sense of satisfaction. His father lived . . . and so did he. Even the Evendiir survived this testing . . . whatever it was meant to test. A small victory. One not to gloat over. He still did not know how to invoke his wild spirit, as he decided to call it. It seems to take me over when it wants, he resigned to himself. And what does “runner” and “fighter” mean?
Chapter 20
Revelations
A night and a day passed slowly for Rogaan since his brawl with the Nephiliim. His mind kept reliving the fight and how he came to be in it, and the strange combination of events. Was this chance, or guided by an unseen hand? His life had the tone of a story, though Rogaan did not know if it was one to be great or cursed. The most painful part for Rogaan was Suhd being taken from him, despite the assurances of the Sake zigaar she would not suffer at unknown hands. To not know her fate seemed more painful than losing her to the Ancients. Then there were the two dead at his hand, one Rogaan felt justified as he was harming Suhd. The other, he carried with a growing guilt and sorrow. Rogaan’s head remained in a swirl. So much had happened since his ignorance became enlightened by dark realities and his innocence was taken from him during the hunt. So many regrets for the dead and suffering living because of him. He brooded.
Several tremors shook the jail cell floors, walls, and ceiling in that night and day. The shaking happened briefly both times, all without bringing the place collapsing down on them. Rogaan noted this underground was constructed well. He wondered if Tellens had any hand in building it. He knew he would not be surprised if they did. Rogaan guessed it was late afternoon from the shift changes of Sake guards and Tusaa’Ner guardsmen through a mental exercise he developed himself. Their only meal of the day, a meager thing of dried meat and some kind of herbs and water, should arrive soon . . . if his figuring was right. His stomach grumbled at the thought of the poor-tasting meal. He was not certain if it meant he was hungry or if his stomach would reject it. The bindings shackling him, an iron bar between his iron-cuffed wrists were in front of him and another bar bent across his back had a pair of thick hide straps securing his arms just above each elbow. It was impossible for him to sleep soundly with it on, and the bars made it impossible to stand or sit without doing so awkwardly . . . and painfully. Using the chamber pot also proved a challenge. Embarrassing. Rogaan dreaded the need to use the thing in the presence of others even without the shackles. With them on and everyone trying to steal a look to see how he fared . . . He groaned at the image in his head.
Rogaan talked with his father intermittently after their surviving the Testing. His father praised him for besting the Nephiliim’s challenge. He seemed genuinely surprised at Rogaan’s victory. Rogaan’s pride at his father’s words was all the more sweetened by his father’s amazement. But as much as this made him feel better than he had in days, Rogaan’s thoughts kept returning to Suhd and her suffering. Rogaan asked his father more than a few times if he thought Suhd was safe and unharmed. He wanted assurance she would remain unspoiled and unharmed. His father could give him neither. They discussed family, more to the point, Mother, and how her being of the House Isin gave her a shield from some of the high games being played among the Houses and Zas. Then, their discussions turned to Father’s “lessons,” with him talking of grand philosophies concerning righteousness; freedom versus tyranny, the selfless and selfish, and the law-abiding versus those who want, at any cost, or have no care of whom they hurt. He heard all of these “lessons” many times over the years. For Rogaan, his father’s teachings had remained out of his grasp to fully understand and appreciate until his recent experiences. Here in the arena underground, Rogaan felt the direct hand of power seekers and tyrants. He did not understand how one person could treat another with such disregard.
Rogaan’s father then took up quiet words with him so to keep others from listening. His father spoke of his plan for Rogaan to take up and carry his obligations and responsibilities once his Light traveled to the heavens and Rogaan being properly prepared. He gave apologies for not completing these preparations. At first, Rogaan felt confused at his father’s revealing. What obligations? What responsibilities? His father then revealed long-kept secret plans for him, but why now with them locked away in a Farratum jail? Still, his father kept from speaking too much of it. Why so little after revealing it at all? Rogaan’s confusion turned to frustration the more his father spoke of these responsibilities. Bits and pieces of this plan were revealed, but not in a coherent manner allowing Rogaan to make sense of it. Further frustrating him, his father’s answers to direct questions were never simple. Deciding this line of talk hurt his head, Rogaan asked how he was to see Suhd free. It burned at him thinking of her being touched by others and in ways he had not, yet. His mood turned dark every time he thought of it . . . thought of her . . . which was often. His father’s answer offered little that could be done, mortifying and angering Rogaan. How can he give up at saving Suhd? Is a cause worth her freedom and her dignity, as well? Rogaan silently brooded on that thought, but got nowhere in answering it. Does Father truly expect me to give up on Suhd . . . to let her suffer at the hands of . . . others? “NO!”
Rogaan looked around uneasily after his unexpected outburst. Everyone nervously eyed him with their breaths held tight. They are afraid of me. With a growing curiosity, Rogaan stood, then moved about the cell to test his conclusion, especially concerning the guardsmen. They appeared nervous to Rogaan. Even bound as he was, they feared what they saw in his eyes before averting theirs. Good. It made him feel powerful in an unexpected way. Even his father looked at him differently. He did not know if he liked that, so he returned to his cross-legged seated position where he continued to think on all he had recently learned.
When not allowing the discomfort of his bindings to get at him and occupy his mind, Rogaan’s thoughts always found their way back to Suhd. He increasingly worried at her being handled and abused. It tormented him, burning him inside until he felt ready to scream and bite at the cell bars to get free and find her and take her away. Images of that terrible moment when the guardsmen attempted to have their way with her kept filling his head. Rogaan found it more and more difficult to remember her as she was in Brigum . . . innocent. Instead, he saw her pain, suffering from assaults by unclean and uncaring captors. Rogaan ached at wanting . . . needing to protect her honor, keep her safe, and take revenge on those harming her. That sizzling flame of internal pain grew into a blaze, then a raging fire. It felt as if it would consume him. He stopped caring if it would as he felt power in his rage.
“Thinkin’ of me sister?” Pax asked quietly from the other side of the bars. Rogaan, so intensely focused on his own tormenting thoughts, did not recognize his friend’s voice at first. He looked at Pax as if looking at an unwelcomed stranger before struggling to back away from his rage so he could acknowledge his friend. Rogaan realized his friend broke the silence his parents demanded of him. Their unapproving glares confirmed Pax’s defiance. Same old Pax.
“Yes,” Rogaan replied honestly, but kept his answer short so as not to elaborate on all that was swirling in his head and heart. Rogaan did not want to give up his pain as it gave him purpose, but those self-created visions of Suhd in his head made it difficult for him to keep his emotions under control. He felt a need to explode, but did all he could to keep from doing so. It would do no good, not here, not now.
“Ya think she be . . . safe?” Pax asked while looking at his boots.
“I hope she is . . . safe,” Rogaan answered solemnly. In his mind, there were different kinds of “safe.” The kind where she lived and the kind she did so without injury . . . mind and body whole.
“Suhd be . . .” Pax tried to be positive, but his shaky voice betrayed him. He sounded as if trying to convince himself or his
parents that Baraans were not having their ways with her. He fell silent for a moment with a dull, pained expression before his face twisted into a wounded and angry brother. “She be smart and knows well enough ta keep hands from gettin’ places havin’ no matter bein’.”
Rogaan gave Pax a sour sideways glare meant to tell him he had to do better at convincing him. Rogaan’s innards twisted and roared at the images flashing in his mind. The images seemed to be getting worse, more brutal. Rogaan tried to keep his emotions suppressed, buried deep inside.
