by Brett Vonsik
“We must avenge her, Rogaan,” Pax stated with begrudging acceptance spoken through angry clinched teeth. “Before here, she be innocent in all ways. I be fearin’ she be no more.”
“Likely chance at that . . .” A new guard who must have just entered the room through the now-open door boldly dug at Pax and Rogaan. Laughter echoed throughout the room as the dark-clad guards seemed to find humor in their suffering exchange.
“She be servant to Hurrim’Tal, I hear.” The tallest of the three guards spoke loud enough to ensure everyone heard him.
“An appetite he has . . .” the shortest of now four guards added with a thick tone of cruelty. He too was new. The new guards quietly relieved the two who had been watching them.
“An appetite for the young and pretty.” The taller of the two dug the blade in deeply as he watched Rogaan with cruel eyes. “You killed my friend for nothin’, stoner. It’s righteous your youngling pretty is having pleasures as a woman at the hands of that fat lawmaker and his attendants.”
They kept at him, driving mental blade after blade of painful torment into him. Unwanted images all. Rogaan’s head filled with horrible visions of Suhd’s suffering. Laughter and more cruel taunts from the guards intensified as Rogaan sat awkwardly against the cold bars grasping them tightly in his hands, his eyes shut tight and teeth clenched. A howling pain sliced through him, spinning into a tempest of uncontrollable rage. He gripped the bars hard; trying to keep his pain and rage from exploding on those nearest, all the while fearing nothing could contain what he felt. Thoughts of unbridled revenge at Suhd’s attackers entered his mind’s eye. When he thought it could be no worse, more images of her being harmed flooded his mind. His rage exploded inside, more than he ever felt in all of his life. Yet, somehow, he held on to his sanity. He did not know how he managed it . . . protecting those near from his daimon thoughts needing to inflict pain and suffering.
“Rogaan . . .” A distant voice called to him. It was almost imperceptible.
“Rogaan.” The voice called him again, louder and now deep. The voice was filled with concern, yet calm and familiar. The raging pain swirling inside kept him from focusing on the voice or anything else. Images of Suhd attacked spun wildly in his head. The fragile control he had over himself slipped. He feared it would fail completely as his pain howled at him.
“My son . . .” His father’s voice pierced through the pain. “Breathe. Breathe deep and long. Your breathing only matters . . . only your breathing.”
Rogaan resisted his father’s guidance. He wanted to feel his pain. Make it part of him so he could do what was needed to be done . . . take Suhd from them and make her safe . . . and make them all suffer. He needed his pain.
Calm words of guidance kept at him, telling him to breathe, to take a breath one by one. Rogaan fought against it. Then, without warning, his chest filled partly. His raging pain subsided, but only a little. He wanted his pain to remain, to renew it, and make it raging. His father’s calm voice kept at him, “Breathe and release.” He found his father’s voice calming, soothing. Rogaan’s pain and rage eased. “No!”
His father’s calm and even voice continued on relentlessly. Rogaan’s rage lessened further. Those painful images in his mind started to fade away. Father’s voice led him to breathing deeply, then exhaling in a steady rhythm. The images faded into a blur no longer discernible. Rogaan opened his eyes.
Rogaan found everyone looking at him . . . their stares unnerving. His father’s eyes found and held him from his kneeling position in front of Rogaan. “A relief you returned to us, my son. You chose the worst of occasions to suffer the drunkenness of a young lass.”
“Curse da Ancients!” The taller of two darkly clad guards shouted.
The Evendiir stood stiffly on other side of the cell holding an uncertain look Rogaan could not tell if fear or something else. Pax and his parents held their breath in the other cell. They all had pressed themselves against the far stone walls. Their faces bore both surprise and fear. Rogaan felt a stinging numbness in his hands and wrists and his chest ached terribly. Looking down, the iron crossbar of the shackles that bound him had broken from his right wrist cuff and the leather strap restraining his arms above the elbow was torn, allowing his arms and hands their independence. The bars separating the cells were bent and twisted, enough for Pax or the Evendiir to pass through. How is this possible? With shock and a fearful wonder, Rogaan let go of the bars as he looked at his father.
“Look at what da Tellen did,” the other guard added in disbelief.
“Father . . . What is happening to me?” Rogaan asked with a shaky voice. “What ills me?”
Confident and kind eyes, softer than Rogaan had seen in a long time, looked upon him. His father knelt unmoving for a few moments, thinking as he stroked his beard. Rogaan knew the sign of his father considering what to tell him. What Rogaan expected to follow would leave him with more questions from his father’s carefully chosen words that would speak tomes, but only if you had a mind to understand. Rogaan needed answers. He wanted the truth without having to figure out the meaning. What he saw in his father’s face when the thinking and considering was done was relief, stern in the way his father held his brow and jaw, but relief was clearly on his face for those who knew what to look for. Is Father to speak all of it? Rogaan dared to anticipate his father’s words.
“Call the Tusaa’Ner guardsmen!” The taller guard ordered almost in a panic.
The disbelieving guard stared at his superior a moment before it struck him to call into the hallway for the city guardsmen. A clatter of metal and footfalls told Rogaan more than a few approached. Four blue-clad Tusaa’Ner entered the room taking up positions next to the Sakes.
“Account!” The biggest of the Tusaa’Ner demanded.
“Look . . .” The Sake guard who had called for reinforcements pointed at Rogaan.
“What?” The Tusaa’Ner leader asked with eyes wide. “By the Ancients, how’d that happen?”
“It be that young Tellen again,” the shorter of the two Sakes answered.
The Tusaa’Ner leader looked at Rogaan, then through him as he spotted the bent bars, then back at Rogaan, then glanced around at the others in the room, and then his eyes returned to Rogaan. “You’re too much trouble, stoner.”
The Tusaa’Ner leader turned to one of his guardsmen speaking something Rogaan could not make out. The young Tusaa’Ner exited the room without hesitation. Wearing a hard scowl, the Tusaa’Ner leader returned his attention to Rogaan. “If I’d get my way, stoner, I’d see ya hang or fed to leapers.”
Rogaan kept silent as he peeled off all but the iron cuffs of the ruined shackles, those remained solidly around his wrists. These shackles were not made well. It was all Rogaan could think that allowed him to break them. But the bars . . . that both troubled and gratified him. He knew he was stronger than many, but bending iron bars was something more than he thought possible.
“Rogaan, heed my words.” Mithraam’s tone brought Rogaan out of his self-reflection. His father glanced around the room to see if any paid them attention. The guardsmen were already involved in disbelieving talk with the Sakes. Mithraam continued in a low voice while pointing at the broken shackles. “In your drunkenness with Suhd, your actions have shown them you cannot be controlled. They fear you and have need to be rid of you and maybe even made an example of. Prepare yourself for . . . more suffering, I fear, my son.”
Rogaan’s head swirled with confusion. He looked at his father with questioning eyes trying to put the pieces of a broken puzzle-box together. Skepticism and frustration filled his voice, “How can this be? How can I be punished without judgment?”
“The Zas have assumed Gal authority to condemn,” Rogaan’s father announced with an exhale. “Za Irzal, as the Utu’Me, has pronounced you guilty and condemned before Gal Suundi. Suundi confirmed the pronouncement.”
“I wa
s not there . . . how . . .?” Rogaan half-stated, half-asked. “I was not given opportunity to challenge?”
“Their new laws appear to have given her this authority.” His father answered Rogaan’s question, then went on explaining. “The victory you had over the Nephiliim . . . that dark-skinned brute . . . We were being tested to determine the manner our Lights are to be taken from us. This is the old way. These games were abolished at the end of the civil war as being too barbaric. The punishments have been renewed . . . a tragedy for the people and what we were building.”
“We . . . ?” Rogaan asked as he challenged his father’s use of words. “Only I harmed a jailer. You committed no transgression.”
“Games of power have little reason more than to rid that which is feared, perceived a threat, or is uncontrolled,” Mithraam further explained. “By her actions, this Za I speak of has no care of the laws, except what she can wield. She ignores what does not serve her and uses the rest as weapons against all between her and her goals. It appears the other Zas are little better or they would have muted her. Corruption has grown and rooted itself very deep here. More than we suspected.”
“We?” Rogaan asked confused by his father’s words. “Who?”
“You are seen as a danger.” Mithraam continued his explanation, but not of what Rogaan asked. “The ones who see the people of these lands in need of ruling, who covet authority and work influences over the masses in soft steps to keep rebellion from rising, all the while the Zas and their devotees enslave the people . . . small step by small step. Strangely, many willingly ask for enslavement caring to feel safe instead of free or to have their bellies filled without need of laboring instead of being productive and responsible. Then, it becomes too late to dissent, those having authority invoke their iron grasp of rules against the masses and anyone a challenge to them. This place is filled with those who pose such a challenge to the tyranny. You saw them in the cells even if you did not understand what you looked at. Now, the coveters see you threatening their plans with strength and resolve, as they see me with ideas and principles. They want us removed.”
“You mean lightless?” Rogaan asked as his body shook at the seriousness of his father’s words and the realization that this was no game.
“Yes,” Mithraam answered solemnly.
“I thought the laws and the law-keepers would always be there to protect?” Rogaan both stated and asked seeking a better answer from his father.
“They have been corrupted so even the unknowing aid the coveters.” Mithraam’s clarification did not help Rogaan’s sense of dread and despair. “Many without coin and those of coin and the privilege it can bring have discovered true tyrants rise from the governing . . . those with power to make and enforce laws.”
“. . . the selfish, the coveters of authority over others, without honor and righteousness to guide them.” Rogaan finished reciting one of his father’s teachings from years before. He did not understand it, until now.
“Tyrants reign when no challenge stands in check to the gathering of power and authority over people.” Rogaan’s father sounded the teacher of days past. Then, in a saddened tone he changed the focus of his words. “Before they come for you . . .”
“Who is coming for me?” Rogaan asked as his innards turned and tightened. “More Sakes, Tusaa’Ner . . . who?”
His father gave him that look to keep his thoughts focused on what IS important. “We do not have long. You ask me what is happening to you. You are experiencing the Zagdu-i-Kuzu.”
“My Coming of Age?” Rogaan asked as if he heard wrong. His father’s teachings taught him the Zagdu-i-Kuzu an event having both flesh and spirit qualities. Rogaan only believed it a ceremony of passage . . . no more.
“A poorly understood part of Tellen ways,” Mithraam replied softly. “The ancient blood sometimes rises in Tellens, revealing itself during the Zagdu-i-Kuzu. Most never feel it. For those that do, it is a difficult time for them with their blood raised so. Some perish. Others suffer it for a short time . . . days, and then it is gone, never to return. Others are forever changed . . . some for the better, some not. You have felt this raising for some days now, haven’t you? I suspected it. You have qualities unlike most with the gift, though some would call it a curse. Only you will see it for what it is. Your ancient Tellen blood, that of the ancient Sentii, mixes with that of your mother’s, also of a distant line of Sentii.”
Rogaan fell back against the bars stunned and in fearful awe at his father’s revealing. Ancient blood? Father’s? Mother’s? Both of them? Rogaan understood history lessons that the Tellens were descendants of the bloodline of Our Lady of Battles. She was legend to be Sentii, but that was only legend. His father’s telling meant she was Sentii. And mother’s . . . ? What does this mean for me . . . curses or something worse?
“Why have you both kept silent of this?” Rogaan asked with stunned curiosity.
“It is not something one speaks of to younglings,” Mithraam answered. “They are too free of tongue and too many elders are fearful of the ancient blood. A raising of the blood often sees younglings cast out into the wilds. I was not to take that chance with a careless word off your tongue.”
“My blood has been raised for many days, Father,” Rogaan nervously admitted. His innards churned at the possibility something terrible was happening to him. Rogaan’s father put on a concerned, contemplating face.
“When did these ‘raisings’ first take you?” His father asked.
Rogaan thought back to when he first felt . . . different. In his memories, he stepped back in time through moments when he experienced the world slowing, when he perceived things strangely . . . in vivid detail, when his ears rang painfully at every sound, when he felt sickened. “It was the night I completed my shunir’ra.”
“You are certain?” Mithraam looked at him with intense and serious eyes.
“As best I can remember,” Rogaan replied.
Rogaan’s father sat back against the bars lost in deep thought. He remained so for moments that seemed much longer. He was working something in his head . . . assembling a puzzle, as he had explained thinking to Rogaan when younger and full of “what’s” and “why’s.”
“Father?” Rogaan interrupted his father’s thoughts, causing those distant eyes to see the here and now. Then, footfalls synchronized in cadence by a handful of Tusaa’Ner approaching at a brisk pace. Rogaan felt them vibrating through the floor, at first, then heard them just as his father did.
“They are coming,” his father announced with recognition that Rogaan already knew. Mithraam looked to Rogaan with serious eyes before whispering, “My son, your blood is raised with the touch of the stone. It has awakened your blood. There is no direct telling of this in the books of old, only stories passed down by elder words. You must seek their knowledge, and you must retrieve your shunir’ra. It is more than of your simple making. Keep it safe from others. It holds the key . . .”
Six fully armored Tusaa’Ner entered the room, crowding in with the others and forming an almost semicircle of blue around Rogaan’s cell, all standing behind a now-alert Sake guard engaged in talk with the Tusaa’Ner leader. All blue-clad guardsmen had hands to pommels of undrawn swords. Several more darkly clad Sakes followed the Tusaa’Ner into the room before positioning themselves on the far wall.
The Sake leader, with the Tusaa’Ner behind him, smiled in relief and a renewed confidence as he waved his long knife between himself and the cell. “Now, we see that head of yours to the noose, or better, the ax.”
Chapter 21
The Pit
“Hold your blades!” A demanding and confident voice of someone thinking he is in charge rang out from beyond the room with an irritating sharpness.
“We’ve been commanded to kill this one for anymore troubles,” the Sake leader proclaimed boldly as he pointed at Rogaan. “I say he’s trouble.”
“Then why isn’t he lightless, already?” A light-haired burly Tusaa’Ner sakal asked as he entered the cell room wearing irritation from eyes to toes. Adorned in lightweight, sky-blue armor, a red cape, and calf-high sandals, he looked upon the room with a crossed brow. “Don’t bother with your excuses, Tuumai. I’ve listened to enough of them already.”
The Tusaa’Ner guardsmen made a hole in their formation for the commanding officer. He strode through with a sharp, irritated gait, stopping in front of the jail cells with his angry eyes fixed on Rogaan. Rogaan tried to look as innocent as he could with eyes wide and with the best youngling-like “oops” expression he could put on. Behind him lay broken shackles and bent bars and all. The commander’s eyes flashed wide for a moment once he focused on the damage Rogaan had done. Looking about the cells, eyeing Pax and his parents, Aren, and Mithraam, he gave a dismissive huff.
“How did you allow these prisoners to do this?” The Tusaa’Ner sakal demanded to no one in particular, though Rogaan guessed his question was directed at Tuumai, the Sake leader.
Tuumai put on a surprised look at the question. Then, his face turned indignant as he angrily pointed at Rogaan. “It was that stoner. No others. He was angry about somethin’ and started growlin’ just before doin’ all this breakin’ of things.”
“Impossible,” the Tusaa’Ner sakal dismissed Tuumai’s explanation.
“I swear by the Ancients, Commander,” Tuumai replied in a venomous tone.
“How?” The Tusaa’Ner officer asked with a touch of his anger gone.
“He’s stronger than to look at,” Tuumai answered with a growing heat. “He’s killed Arguu and injured Ezanu. He put down big ol’ slow-wit from what the whisperings say. Now, he’s broken his shackles and bent those bars. He’s too dangerous to keep. His Light needs to join the Darkness.”
