by B A Vonsik
Sugnis was a mystery to Rogaan . . . and everyone else on the isle, it seemed. Appearing on the island less than a month after Pax and himself were delivered to this rock and just days after that first Saggis assassination attempt on him. A few days later, Sugnis took favor of Rogaan and started training him in the arts of fighting, presumably after hearing of Rogaan’s battle with the Saggis. Strange happenings, unasked for, but welcomed by Rogaan. That was almost nine months and six Saggis ago. And Rogaan no longer believed in coincidences.
“You never answered how you came to be a prisoner here,” Rogaan half-asked, half-accused Sugnis of secrets.
“No need; that’s past,” Sugnis answered without missing a bite of his fish meal.
“So then, why take me on as a fighting apprentice?” Rogaan finally asked Sugnis directly, wanting to know if someone sent him or if this was all by chance.
“You need training,” Sugnis spoke matter-of-factly. “So far, you survived by luck and brawn, and that thing you do, sometimes moving faster than the eye . . . Still, I haven’t figured that out. But fighting skills for the pits and other places . . . dung.”
“Thanks . . . I think.” Rogaan did not know how to take Sugnis’s bluntness.
“Most of the Saggis carry the mark of the Keepers of the Way,” Sugnis continued explaining the unasked questions in a manner as if talking about fish drying. “The others, one of the Black Hand and one with no marks at all.”
“So, what of the marks?” Rogaan asked.
“It tells me more than one interest wants your Light to pass to the beyond.” Sugnis held Rogaan’s eyes with his words.
“I thought they all came from the same place, the Keepers.” Rogaan felt confused as the hairs on his neck stiffened with a growing realization that his situation was more complex than he thought.
“Some are set on you taking your last breath.” Sugnis hesitated as if considering what he would next say. “Others wish you to live. The Keepers of the Way want your last breath. Know why?”
“No,” Rogaan said as he searched his memories of the teachings of his father. He talked to himself as he recalled his knowledge as if reading from a scroll or book. “The Keepers are against the Agni using temples . . . such as the Ebon Circle. They have influence in Shuruppak, mostly in the east regions with their center of power in Ur.”
Sugnis openly wore a look of confusion listening to Rogaan. “Where did that knowledge come from?”
“My father taught me.” Rogaan paused as he answered. A revelation that came to him now that he was ready to understand. He continued talking, but more to himself than answering Sugnis. “. . . many things. Maybe it is time I listened and embraced his teachings.”
The two sat silently eating the dried fish for a time until the stars shone brightly above the glowing embers of the fire pit. The numerous island tremors felt gentler against his feet and backside now that the night was full upon them. Images and words flashed before Rogaan’s mind’s eye as he fell into deep thought, reviewing his father’s teachings and the events of this past year. His teachings were full of sound knowledge and advice on a great many subjects: nature, stones and stonework, metallurgy, smithing, history of their ancestors and of the Ancients, history of the Tellens and of Shuruppak and Turil, conflicts, negotiating and influencing, and much more. The review left Rogaan impressed with how much knowledge he had been exposed to. Now . . . if he could just remember it all. Then the events and his acts in recent times he reflected on. He felt embarrassed for many of the acts he took since even before his father was taken by the authorities of Farratum and the Shuruppak nation. Painful regrets filled him too; getting his War Sworn uncle killed in Brigum while being protected by him, trusting Kardul and his band of Sharur and being betrayed by them, then becoming prisoners of Farratum, Suhd being attacked by Farratum Sakes and taken from him along with Suhd’s and Pax’s parents. Pride filled him for some of his acts such as saving Pax from the redfin in the Valley of the Claw, besting the Mornor-Skurst and Nephiliim in the Farratum prison so they no long beat on his father and that Evendiir Aren, and saving his father in the Farratum arena. Though that last came at a high price, inflicting a terrible pain in Rogaan for having not being able to save Pax and Suhd’s parents from the ravers. That pain of my failure hurts . . . terribly, but I must remind myself my pain is nothing compared to my friends’. Can . . . Will they ever forgive me?
“It’ll do you no good in tomorrow’s fight,” Sugnis offered in the dimming light of the glowing embers. His features took on a dangerous and more mysterious air in the glow.
“What?” Rogaan asked in a manner trying to play dumb about his thoughts that his mood reflected visibly on his face and by the way he held himself. An observation of his mother she let be known to Rogaan every time he gave away his mood to the rest of the world.
“That loathing and guilt you carry,” Sugnis answered flatly.
“It is deserved,” Rogaan replied just as flat.
“He’ll kill you when you lose focus like you did today,” Sugnis explained. “Your focus has to be completely on the Saggis, to kill him or he surely will kill you in the pit. You fill yourself with loathing and guilt often enough out of the clear sky, but when your angry friend is in eyesight, you lose focus every time and get moody. You can’t let that happen tomorrow. You should ask your friend to stay away from the fight.”
“I do not talk to Pax much these days,” Rogaan reflected with a sulk. “He blames me for his life in ruins, and he is right to do so and will not let me get more than a few words out before he off and disappears into the shadows.”
“Then, let him be angry,” Sugnis counseled. “You have more important things ahead of you.”
Rogaan looked to Sugnis with a surprised and questioning face. How callus! What does he mean by that? Rogaan exchanged stares with Sugnis for long moments before he averted his eyes to the dirt at his high-ankle sandals. He understood Sugnis’s counsel and found himself agreeing with it but found it hard to do with his heavy heart.
“Then off with you,” Sugnis ordered with a quick wave of his hand. “Get rest and be ready at sunrise to fight the most dangerous Saggis yet.”
Rogaan continued sitting on the rock he had been using as a stool looking at Sugnis with a dumb expression wondering at his fighting mentor’s dismissal. Sugnis nodded to Rogaan, then crawled into his cave, his hole in the ground, but not from Rogaan’s night eyes. He watched Sugnis fiddle with his bed of ferns before lying down, then scratching himself in his nether region and finally settling off to sleep with his hands on a long dagger and another weapon he did not know what.
Rogaan stood up to start his journey back to his hovel before realizing he had to negotiate Sugnis’s trip-cords to get out of camp. This must be another test . . . to see if I watched with care his disarming and resetting of the cords. Rogaan considered just staying safe within the cords for the night, but then thought better of that with Sugnis dismissing him. So, off he went focused on the trip-cords and how to get out of camp without embarrassing himself. At least, he had something else to think about instead of brooding in his guilt or on the hovel with its unsavory group of prisoners he shared space with . . . and Pax.
Chapter 2
Friends and Foes
“The hovel . . . home,” Rogaan spoke to himself in a deeply depressed tone as he stood in the main street of his hovel trying to swat away the buzzing biters he could not ignore. He felt it too. He did not want to be here, but to be outside a hovel all night long was spitting in the face of death. An unsecured shelter here was extremely dangerous, causing all the more wonder at Sugnis and his almost comfortable camp. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself he and Pax did not have the skills to endure the isle alone and that frustrated Rogaan. Well past a half year he and Pax called this place home and the unfriendly, ragged condemned within. More as a clan among other competing clans, with smaller clans within the clan. Living and getting along in the hovel was complex and something Rogaan found s
urprisingly difficult. Most of the condemned deserved it, in his mind. They were selfish and ruthless as a bunch, though there were exceptions. Unfortunately, the exceptions rarely lived long. Rogaan sighed heavily.
A strong mix of odors of discarded fish and shell-walkers remains, sweat-stained clothes, unwashed bodies, and buckets of waste dumped just outside the living spaces, all turned Rogaan’s innards. He felt his stomach rise into his throat. Bad taste. He swallowed hard. A bite from a buzzing biter frustrated him as he slapped himself, killing the offender. What I would do for some blue flower paste, Rogaan said to himself. He did not want to be here. Unintelligible low voices carried on the light breeze, mostly due to the unwanted buzzing about his head. A half-moon dominated the almost cloudless sky over the small, ragged structures of salvaged timbers, wood, and rocks. Everyone did the best they could, given the circumstances. Small fires, a handful of them, in their usual places in front of some of the “dwellings” told Rogaan tonight was going to be quiet. The largest of fires burning within a circle of stones to the northwest on his left as he entered the hovel’s main street, if it could be called that, gave Rogaan some solace. The flames were dying down with few folks standing around its illuminations and warmth, telling Rogaan those using the fire were no longer tending it and most likely had retreated to their dwellings just beyond the flames for the night. That area had the largest dwellings and is where Kirral ruled his parts of the island from.
Rogaan’s eyes now had adapted for his moonlit surrounds. Months in the dark made his eyes sharper at night and able to see farther than he could have ever believed. Still, the dark remained uncomfortable to him, and he could not get himself not to jump at unexpected sounds. Too many things jumping out at a person, Rogaan whispered his thoughts to himself to make the dark not so empty. Shadowy figures slunk back into the deeper blackness as Rogaan made his way down the dirt and rock street lined with makeshift shacks, most without a proper roof to keep the rains out. Buzzing came and went from his ears as flying biters kept at him, taking his blood occasionally with a painful sting. At the only cross-roads of streets in the hovel, with the main street continuing ahead to the cliffs and Ur River, the shacks got smaller as you walked closer to the water, but this part of the main street held the most fires in front of the shacks and with the most folks visible in the firelight. As to the street off to his right, it ended in the worst of the shacks, all a wonder at how they continued to stand looking like a tangle of timbers. A single, moderate-sized fire burned in front of the shacks at the very end of this street with a small throng of folks surrounding it.
Almost undetectable tremors vibrated under him. If not at least half Tellen, he doubted he would have noticed them. As Rogaan turned to enter the smaller street, more shadow-engulfed figures moved briskly between buildings as others he could make out either sat or stood at the entrance doors of their shacks, stolidly watching him.
Rogaan found himself standing in front of the shack he and Pax shared. It was a destroyed pile of broken timbers when they first arrived. He immediately put this father’s teachings to use in building up the place. He and Pax and a third fellow made it sturdy and a shack besting all the others in the hovel. They became friendly, the three of them, as they achieved in making this place a little easier to bear. That was a lesson learned, as the others in the hovel burned it down in a fit of envy and jealousy and with his and Pax’s third in it. Pax’s mood swung again to deep brooding and blamed Rogaan for almost everything as they set to bury the poor fellow, then rebuilding the shack. By intent, the rebuilt shack took on an outward appearance more run-down than the rest on the street. Rogaan, now, stood hesitating before entering the poor-looking structure. He worried that a newcomer was within, freshly off the ship, or one placed there by Urgallis or Kirral. It was common for Urgallis to purposely send newcomers to dwell in his and Pax’s shack, some of whom were sent there to kill. Another lesson learned. Strangely, Kirral seemed to tolerate this behavior, managing in some manner to use it in barter with Urgallis.
Rogaan stepped inside the dark standing structure with great trepidation. Not for who might be there . . . those were mere lessons, but that Pax might be inside and that his friendship with Pax still stood in shambles. Upon passing through the door from the street, light from a cooking fire escaping through tiny spaces between stacked rocks. The light illuminated the small entranceway. Pax must be in inside. The shack took on an improved appearance inside, with timbers, wood planks, tree branches, fist-round tree trunks, and rocks stoutly building upon one another making the structure strong and visibly appealing. The small entranceway opened to a room almost four strides wide by five long. The cook pit near the center of the room gave off welcomed light and warmth. All the almost amateurish furniture around the room, three stools, several desks, two cabinets, one for him and one for Pax, were all made by Rogaan’s hands. One can only do so much with flint rocks and a metal bar, Rogaan justified his less-than-high-quality work. Occupying the desktops and cabinets were baskets, also woven by Rogaan, and some by Pax, from the ground vines plentiful on the island. They were filled with scraps of everything edible that he and Pax could find. In truth, most of the scrounging was Pax’s doing. Over the cook fire hung their only metal pot with a stew bubbling of what smelled like fish or shell-walkers and herbs. It was about the only meal they could leave unattended without attracting attention from the others around the hovel. No sign of Pax. Rogaan felt both relieved and yet disappointed.
He cautiously moved through the doorway on the left side of the room entering a small sleeping area that, to Rogaan’s relief, looked undisturbed. A stone wash bowl at the side of his bed, also of Rogaan’s hand, sat filled with water. He removed his filthy tunic, tossing it into a large basket hanging from the wall before washing the dirt and stink from the pit and the grease from the meal eaten with Sugnis. Returning to the main room, Rogaan spied a shadow of a figure perched high on the entrance wall crouching. Rogaan realized he had passed underneath him without noticing.
“You are getting better at hiding,” Rogaan spoke to the shadow as he inspected the stew pot. He spoke with confidence, but inside, Rogaan was nervous, not knowing how things would transpire in talking with him. “I did not see you this time.”
A slight thud, more a vibration he sensed through the floor than heard, told Rogaan the shadow had returned to the ground. The stew looked almost appetizing.
“Urgallis be after ya head again.” Pax offered news with little emotion, not hinting away where he stood concerning it.
“When is he not?” Rogaan asked with a mixed hint of honesty and cynicism.
“Dis Saggis, Urgallis be spotting big odds ta him,” Pax added.
Rogaan took in this new information adding it to his stack of why Urgallis did anything. Heavy odds against me. Urgallis either must know something, or his hatred of me has blinded him. Still, better to be cautious. Rogaan stirred the stew with a wood spoon he had made months ago. “What do you think?”
“What matter of me opinion?” Pax spoke snarky.
“I trust your thoughts, ol’ friend,” Rogaan spoke honestly, but almost held his breath in anticipation of Pax’s response to “friend.” He continued to stir the stew slowly to occupy his attention away from Pax. Silence filled the room for a time before Pax took a step toward the front door, then stopped to speak something, but did not, then moved toward the door again.
“I would be dead without your stone, yesterday,” Rogaan spoke loud enough to make sure Pax heard him. Pax’s footfalls stopped. If not for his old friend Pax throwing a stone striking the assassin’s head and knocking him out, Rogaan would have suffered the Saggis’s bone blade yesterday morning while sitting atop a rock pile on the eastern side of the island, preoccupied in thought waiting for the dawn to replace the dark early-morning sky.
“Friendship died with me parents,” Pax said in a harsh way that had some practice to it as he stood in the doorway looking at the floor under his dark soft-hide boots. Rogaan
’s heart felt that stabbing pain sink into him once more. Losing the friendship he and Pax had would have been difficult under normal living conditions, a crippling anguish for Rogaan to endure. On this island, the loss could mean both of their Lights. “Da stone ta da Saggis’s head be just practice. I no like killin’ in da back, unless it be me doin’ it. He be gettin’ da chance ta look ya in da eye before killin’.”
Pax silently stepped to the door dressed in gray and black-veined pants and tunic, stopping before opening it. “I be watchin’ dis Saggis prepare for ya. He be good at da figthin’ moves. He be good at killin’. Best one, so far.”
In a blink and before Rogaan could say a word, Pax was gone, leaving Rogaan with the stew prepared for him. Why does he cook like this? Where Pax went at night, Rogaan could only guess. He almost as often stayed out for the night as he stayed in his bed. The few times he tried following Pax, it ended with Rogaan alone in the dark after only a short time. Pax easily made himself invisible in the dark, even to Rogaan’s improving eyes. Pax is getting good at disappearing, Rogaan noted before agreeing with himself skills of any sort were beneficial for a fellow to have out here.
Shivers of guilt washed over Rogaan as he looked at the stew his angry friend made for him and the unwanted life he made for Pax. A guilty conscience driving him, Rogaan ate some of the stew before planning to wash, again, then go to bed. With a small grimace, he swallowed the fish and shell-walker meats, along with an unfamiliar, bitter-tasting herb. “Pax still cannot cook.”
A knock at the front door drew Rogaan’s attention from Pax’s poor-tasting stew. He just sat in place listening, unsure he heard it. Nobody knocks around here. Rogaan tried to dismiss what he thought he heard. Another knock, louder and more forceful this time. Rogaan cautiously stood and approached the door. He opened the wood plank door, also of his making, more cautiously than he approached it. Standing at the door, looking about to hit it with all his might, was an Ursan he knew by sight from the pits but not by name. Dressed in a padded tunic of worked snapjaw hides and high-strapped sandals and with a dagger tucked in his cloth belt, the Ursan stood confidently. His height slightly taller than Rogaan, though slenderer in build, made for an active brawling and blade style of fighting which Rogaan watched many times over the months. This Ursan Rogaan considered far better than himself in all manners of pit battling.