by Brett Vonsik
“Untrue!” Uril growled.
The badly wounded warrior sat on a dry patch across the pit from Rogaan . . . and unfortunately for Rogaan, Sinthrie. The warrior Baraan looked to have seen better days. Uril, past his prime in years and visibly unable to carry a battle worthy of his heart, was, in his day, a War Sworn, of the Order of the Mace. What did Uncle tell me of the War Sworn and of the Mace? That last thought brought deep regrets to Rogaan. His mother’s brother, also War Sworn, died seeing himself and Pax to freedom. Freedom in a Farratum jail pit. How I have honored Uncle’s death, Rogaan grumbled to himself. Forcing his self-pity down in a surge of disgust, Rogaan sought knowledge buried within him. As he recalled, War Sworn seek perfection in their battle skills to be prepared for the time when the Ancients return to reclaim these lands and the peoples. One of two main factions of the War Sworn intend to pledge their skills and honor to the Ancients, the other faction to reject the Ancients and their ways of tyrannical rule over all those opposing them.
This once dark-haired War Sworn now had more gray than anything else and sat broken in this jailer’s pit waiting for an unworthy death. It took the better part of a day for Rogaan to piece together the warrior Baraan’s story from tidbits he and the other two in the pit spoke of. The warrior Baraan had fresh wounds across his face, arms, and legs that were deep and festering with infections. Dried blood on the side of Uril’s head and the way he slowly turned his head spoke of a broken skull. Rogaan suspected more wounds could be found, but the Baraan hid it well and complained little. Why is Uril here? Rogaan could only guess.
“It is true,” Sinthrie shot back with his brown shoulder-length hair matted to his face. “You see only that they wish. They tell the Houses and street lies while dribbling out foods and rags for clothing and enough to ease their plights. Many receive Farratum’s givings paid for with coin taken from those who earned it, the same coin taken from us at every turn . . . calling it ‘street fees’ or ‘gifts.’”
“Your pockets did well,” the War Sworn accused Sinthrie of holding his coin he thought better used on the poor and needy.
Sinthrie’s face contorted with anger before continuing his debate points as he held his hands palms up. “I built my trade in minerals and gems with these hands . . . scratching and clawing for everything. No Za or anyone else helped. Instead, they took coin from me and my workers in all manner of ways . . . fees to store my stones, taxes to take my goods through gates and over bridges and on the streets, more fees to ensure my stones were true, and more taxes and more fees and more taxes on just about everything I needed to conduct my trade.”
“It is your duty to pay coin so others have no need to suffer,” Uril countered with a heavy hint of disgust.
“Did you not hear me, fellow?” Sinthrie’s neck and face grew bold red with a mix of frustration and anger, but somehow he managed to keep his tone polite. “They took everything from me . . . all that I made, and called me gluttonous and hard-hearted. They claimed it to help those with less than me and my family. They left my family nothing and put me here when I spoke out of their tyrant deeds telling all who would listen. They made my family into their poor. My pockets are lightened and empty now my family is in the streets. My younglings now sleep in the mud . . . hungry, hoping to be at the front of the line when Farratum hands out scraps.”
The War Sworn sniffed loudly at Sinthrie’s speech. It was clear he thought little of the merchant’s plight. Rogaan did not know what to believe. The War Sworn seemed not to believe or care of what Farratum did to Sinthrie . . . as if the merchant deserved his troubles.
“And why are you in this place, War Sworn?” Ahea’tu asked. Rogaan almost fell over from his crouched position against the wall when Ahea’tu spoke. The last of the Baraans in this pit with him boldly wore a great watchful eye above a straight, thick line in the middle of his forehead. Rogaan was not certain what it represented, but had not asked of the symbol as it seemed a part of the Baraan’s persona. That and he was a bit of a rough fellow. Added to that, the Baraan spoke little in the time since Rogaan laid eyes on his almost gaunt face. When Uril met his question with silence, Ahea’tu answered for him. “Same reason we are . . . You are a trouble for those coveting dominion over all they can see.”
Uril’s face took on a mood of dark brooding. The War Sworn kept his silence, as if something in Ahea’tu’s words struck a chord of truth. Rogaan grew more curious at understanding why Uril was in this pit. Why were Ahea’tu and Sinthrie also here? And why he now shared this place with them. Why am I here?
“In Farratum, we’re all troubles, in some manner, to those in authority,” Sinthrie added as if he just realized this for the first time.
“Just as well you find yourself here, Merchant, so your fingers keep from another forbidden stone or passing one on to another undeserving Light.” Ahea’tu spoke down to Sinthrie, almost chastising him.
“Well told,” Uril added. “No hand should touch those foul things. Better to die in deeds than trust your life to a manifester with a stone.”
“Agnis are forbidden to all not Ancients.” Ahea’tu almost sang the words. “The Edicts of Enlil forbid us. You, Merchant, have transgressed before the Ancients and must atone.”
“Atone, he will,” the War Sworn said with a smirk. “The games have been goin’ for a full day. Listen to the crowd.”
All fell silent as Rogaan strained to listen to what Uril spoke of. All he heard was a distant unintelligible chant and felt a rhythmic vibration in the floor and wall, now that he had his attention on it. The vibration was like many people stomping or marching together. Uril was right. A crowd was cheering at something above.
“The crowd shall revel at our deaths when we are delivered to the arena soon,” Ahea’tu snapped at the wounded War Sworn. He spat, then continued in a more measured tone. “The merchant speaks truth. We are in this cursed pit to keep our tales from the lands . . . and the people. The merchant tells a tale of these Zas and their hands growing in greed for all things. Your tale is of a great champion no longer able to fulfill his duty to keep the crowds entertained and distracted.”
“I’m Uril of—” the War Sworn started.
“Uril of the Mace,” Ahea’tu interrupted and finished in a mocking tone. “War Sworn of the High Order . . . Entertainer to all who wish to see carnage from the safety of their seats. You are no longer of use to them so they have you rot here instead of spending coin keeping you in the people’s eyes.”
“That’s not my tale!” Uril spat out before abruptly falling silent with a grimace on his face.
“That is your tale,” Ahea’tu growled. “Accept it.”
Uril’s eyes blazed with anger, but he kept silent until he calmed enough speak. “And you, Ahea’tu? What is your tale? Why are you here?”
“My tale is of no concern to you, War Sworn,” Ahea’tu coldly replied to Uril without looking at him. The marked Baraan looked off distantly as if pondering something. A long moment of silence passed before he turned his attention on Rogaan. “Though it is to this young Tellen.”
Surprise and shock rippled through Rogaan. This marked Baraan he did not know, but somehow he knew of Rogaan. “How is it you know of me?”
“I am Ahea’tu of the Keepers of the Way,” Ahea’tu announced. “Our purpose is to keep mankind on the path given us by the Ancients, the Edicts of Enlil. I am witness to one close to the Zas that possesses great skill with the Agni. He made to extinguish my Light before guardsmen found us. I can taste still the hold of the Agni on me. A foul taste and stronger than I’ve felt of any manifester I’ve silenced. Instead of sending my Light to the Darkness, he condemned me before the guardsmen and commanded them to place me here . . . for a grand death in the arena.”
“How does this have meaning for me?” Rogaan asked.
“They speak of a Tellen who causes troubles,” Ahea’tu replied. “This Hand of the Zas spoke of
this to others while I waited to slip my blade into his heart.”
“What did they speak of?” Rogaan asked in a careful tone, not wanting to anger this Keeper . . . this Light-Taker.
“I heard little except your name, if you are Rogaan, and their frustrations concerning you.” Ahea’tu answered.
“They must have spoken more than that if my name was spoken.” Rogaan grew frustrated.
“They’re interested in keeping the old Tellen for a task.” Ahea’tu paused as he contemplated his next words. “. . . and having the young one’s Light sent to the Darkness for all eternity. I assume they meant your Light as you are here in this Pit of the Condemned.”
A wave of relief washed over Rogaan. His father had purpose and for that they would keep him alive. Then a thought came to Rogaan, and he worried what would become of his father after the task is completed. Nothing is right . . . or easy, Rogaan lamented to himself. He looked up to the platform above and tried to envision what was above . . . the arena and how he was to be challenged there. That he might die and have his Light taken from him was frightening, but if it meant his father would be spared he would accept the challenge. A strange calmness fell over him for the first time in many days. He smiled to himself.
“Tell me of this ‘Hand’ that spoke of me,” Rogaan asked of Ahea’tu in a careful tone.
“He aides the female Za,” Ahea’tu answered slowly. “Strangely, he speaks of her with contempt to some, and with respect to others.”
“What . . . How does he appear?” Rogaan refocused his question hoping to get an idea what this “Hand” looks like.
Reverberating creaks and groans of great timbers overhead along with the clanking of chains accompanied with slight vibrations in the floor and wall deafened any chance Rogaan had to hear Ahea’tu’s answer. Frustration filled him. He wanted . . . no, needed to know who the Right-hand of Darkness was in these shadows. Looking up, he watched the wood platform descend in a clatter of chains and creaking wood beams. The platform stopped at the top of the pit where Rogaan heard a commotion of voices followed by many boots and feet on stone and timbers. The platform filled with shadows of people he could see through small openings between planks. The pit then plunged into darkness as the platform continued down onto their heads. Rogaan fought off a panic at the sudden darkness. He was unprepared for it. Every hair on him stood on end as his heart pounded so hard he thought it was to burst from his chest. Sweat quickly drenched him. He felt unable to focus and out of breath as the stench of the pit overpowered him and made him want to sick up. Looking up again, Rogaan feared being crushed just as the platform clanged and creaked to a halt only an arm’s length above his head. A door in the planks, offset from the center of the platform, opened. A rope ladder dropped.
“You are summoned, Keeper,” a booming voice announced almost as an invitation before it continued in an unfriendly tone. “Climb the ladder or be cut down.”
Ahea’tu stood and approached the ladder. He wore a solemn face, a thoughtful demeanor. He looked at Rogaan as he took hold of the ladder. “Not much for choices. When you enter the killing grounds above, dare not cower. Take from them more than they expect. May your Light find peace with the Ancients.”
Ahea’tu ascended the rope ladder without further ceremony, up through the trap door. The trap door slammed shut as a scuffle broke out on the platform. From what Rogaan could make out of the yelling, clinking, and boots stamping on planks, Ahea’tu either tried to escape or fought his escorts. The platform ascended without him knowing what came of the scuffle or if Ahea’tu still lived.
“At least he has heart,” the War Sworn growled with respect.
“Heart?” Sinthrie questioned. “We’re to die this day. How is having heart mean anything when we’re lightless?”
“We all see our Light leave us,” Uril answered calmly and coldly. “It’s a measure of the quality of your Light how you depart this world that matters to the Great One.”
Sinthrie argued with Uril over his callousness and misplaced bravado. As the platform cleared the pit, light rays bathed them, bringing brightness to the filthy pit. Rogaan felt better with his anxiety now melting away. Somehow, it even smelled better. Looking up again, Rogaan found himself needing to swallow hard. As the platform locked into the roof with a loud clatter, Rogaan locked eyes with his father, who stood at the edge of the pit with his hands bound in front of him. Pax and his parents stood next to Rogaan’s father, as did the Evendiir. All bound as his father was.
“What is this?” Rogaan asked no one, asked everyone in a disbelieving voice. He wanted answers. He did what they asked of him! Father was . . . is to live! Rogaan yelled, “What is this?”
Mithraam held his son’s eyes with his own with the intent to keep Rogaan from taking rash actions. When Rogaan shook his head no to restraint, his father returned his own head shake of no while wearing stern conviction only one who deeply cared for another could muster. Rogaan’s heart sank as a numb void filled it. He was at a loss at what to do. The walls were next to impossible to climb; there was no way to reach his father or his captors and reaffirm his commitment to take his father’s place. A deep sense of loss enveloped him as he stood exchanging silent words with his father for a time. Rogaan wanted the moment to last forever as he understood that once gone, so too would be his father. Groaning timbers broke Rogaan’s almost trance. The platform descended once again. The crowd’s noise from the high opening was almost deafening. They sounded unhappy, unsettled. Rogaan gave it a moment’s wonder before returning his attention to his father, to look him in the eyes one more time before the platform concealed him. As the timbers groaned again and the chains suspending the platform clattered it to a halt, Rogaan lost sight of his father. His heart sank deeper; it ached with loss. Footfalls on the platform followed by the groan of timbers and the clattering of chains saw the platform rise to his father’s doom. Rogaan suddenly hoped his father would still be standing at the pit’s edge. The moment passed with profound disappointment and a stunned realization . . . I am never to see Father again.
Chapter 23
Arena
Tears welled up in Rogaan’s eyes, and he found it increasingly hard to breathe as he helplessly watched the platform take his father away from him. What am I to do? He asked himself. Rogaan looked around the refuse filling the pit floor for anything that might help him that he missed from one of his many previous surveys. Nothing caught his eye. He then looked at the wall again. It has to have imperfections I can use as hand- and footholds. The wall offered none. Rogaan’s frustration grew, along with his desperation.
“I can see the fire in you, young one.” Uril spoke with conviction. Rogaan gave him a heated sideways glance as his tears streaked his grimy cheeks. Uril wore a serious face. “Take all that you feel into battle. Make it favor you. Make them fear you and your rage.”
Rogaan felt undeniable pain building into anger, and his anger into rage. It was unlike anything he felt in all of his life. He wanted all to pay for their transgressions . . . taking his father’s Light and Father from him and his mother. His rage grew more by the moment. How much, Rogaan did not care as long as it was enough. He welcomed it. He wanted revenge and wanted the whole world to feel his pain. Feel the loss.
“What’s this nonsense you’re telling the youngling?” Sinthrie half-asked, half-accused the War Sworn.
“It’s the warrior’s way, Merchant,” Uril scolded.
“He’s to get himself and us killed before it’s our time,” Sinthrie continued his complaining.
“Keep your thoughts silent!” Rogaan growled at Sinthrie. He wanted to unleash his pain, even if on the arrogant and frightened merchant.
Rogaan started to pace the pit, kicking refuse out of his way as he went. How to get out of this pit . . . up to the arena . . . Nothing. The walls were smooth, made so to keep one from doing what was in his head. Rogaan growled at no one. His
rage needed releasing. His head and chest felt about to explode with such force as to collapse this whole chamber. He looked up to howl at the world. He stopped. A rope dangled from the platform’s open trap door. The end hung not more than three strides above his head. How did that get there? Rogaan leaped for it. It was out of his reach. He leaped again. Still, it remained beyond him.
“Come here.” Rogaan growled at Sinthrie.
Sinthrie shook his head no as he stepped back. Rogaan felt his rage focus on Sinthrie and readied himself to unleash it when a hand pressed on his shoulder. Rogaan whirled about ready to unleash his rage at whoever dared touch him. He found the War Sworn standing in front of him.
“Make them fear you.” Uril interwove his fingers and held his self-made stirrup just at knee height.
Rogaan nodded to the War Sworn before planting his right boot into Uril’s hands, then together, they launched Rogaan upward. A loud snap below echoed in the pit as Rogaan grabbed the rope in his reaching left hand. Hanging by one arm and looking down, he found Uril on the floor withering in agony in the filth with his leg at an odd angle. Rogaan had no room in his heart for sentiment . . . only anger . . . rage. He climbed with everything he had, his rage willing him up the rope. Hand over hand he heaved himself upward without pause. They must answer for their treachery.
Rogaan firmly focused on the rope and only the rope. Hand over hand. Hand over hand. He neared the trap door when he heard shouting below. He looked down finding a handful of Tusaa’Ner readying crossbows as their commander pointed up to him. Hand over hand, Rogaan quickly heaved himself through the square wood channel to the trap door and into the blinding brightness of a midday sun.
