Rise of Serpents

by B A Vonsik

  A creaking of the door behind Aren sounded just before it slammed shut. Aren jumped at the sharp sounding of the door’s metal locks. He struggled with himself to not whirl about to see him. Instead, Aren slowly turned his shoulders while slightly craning his head and neck to see behind him, see the Subar. Standing where he could not be seen with the door open, the Baraan now stood with his hands clasped in front of him, silently looking Aren over. Aren still felt unease at the Subar’s manners. As usual, the Baraan stood patiently waiting for Aren to break the silence. Aren took several steps back toward the center of the room as he turned to face the Subar. There, the two stood silently looking at each other for a time.

  “You’re getting more confident, young Aren.” The Subar spoke first. As Aren anticipated, the Baraan was dressed in his clean, dark gray pants and a sleeveless shirt that had wide shoulders. His dark, shoulder-length hair pulled back, as usual, ended in a short tail today. He only wore his belt sash of black and red to show his allegiance . . . but to whom, Aren still didn’t know. Aren then realized he didn’t even know the Subar’s name even after a number of moon-cycles to the next Roden’ar. The Subar then, with his sharp, angular, facial features darky shadowed in the light of the room, threatened. “I’m not certain that is good for one’s wellness.”

  “We’ve been at this for months . . .” Aren answered with the obvious as he fought down his fear of the Baraan. Aren continued, seeing if he could get the Subar to reveal his intentions with this session of questioning. “We greet in silence. I talk. You ask questions that are of importance to you. I answer. You dismiss me.”

  The Subar slowly strode to one of the stools aside the small desk, then sat. He then motioned to the other stool for Aren to join him before looking to the corner of the room where the youngling female had positioned herself. He gave a command in a firm, but not unkind manner. “Suhd, fetch us cups and drink.”

  Aren silently watched as Suhd scampered from the room, closing the door behind her. Without looking at the Baraan, Aren asked, “What’s to be kept from her ears?”

  “Bolder and more perceptive,” the Subar put on a wry smile that Aren saw in his mind. “Who was that Tusaa’Ner talking to you yesterday on the tall deck?”

  “I’ve not seen him before yesterday,” Aren answered honestly. “What do you know of him?”

  “I ask the questions, young Aren.” The Subar corrected Aren with a hint of warning in his voice. “What words did he share with you?”

  “Few,” Aren answered in truth. He considered conveying his discussion with the Subar, almost as it happened with the Tusaa’Ner, but something cautioned him of doing so. “He told me not to think about leaping from the ship in search of my freedom. And that if I did somehow survive the snapjaws or worse, he’d stick me with arrows and spears, himself.”

  “Anything more?” the Subar asked with skeptical eyes as if he knew something Aren wasn’t sharing.

  “No, nothing,” Aren flatly answered.

  Silence fell on the room as the Subar appeared to contemplate Aren’s words or his next question. “What of Ganzer’s two new prisoners chained behind us? What are they that Ganzer and his aide think them valuable enough to bring along?”

  Aren kept an unchanged face at the discovery of the Subar’s true purpose for this questioning session. He wants to know what Ganzer is about. And doesn’t understand that Lucufaar is up to something unknown to his superior. Aren decided to give up some half-truths. “Ganzer thinks they hold knowledge of use on this doomed journey.”

  “Doomed?” The word slipped from the Subar’s lips. A rare event that Aren noticed by the flash of frustration on the Baraan’s face. “What do you know of where this rabble is going?”

  “To the Blood Lands,” Aren answered without hesitation. His own fatalism added to the learned knowledge from his father of the place where they journeyed. It made Aren skeptical that anyone would survive the expedition. “And we’re all going to have our lights sent into the Darkness there.”

  The Subar simply stared at Aren with a blank expression as silence fell over the room. A long moment passed. Nothing moved or breathed, except the mild creaks and moans of the ship. Even the prisoners were looking at the two while holding their breaths. Except for the Tellen with the gray-touched beard . . . who was smiling to himself.

  “You didn’t know of the destination we’re set for?” Aren asked of the Subar.

  “Yes,” the Subar replied calmly with a face that matched his tone. “Though I did not know you held so much knowledge of the lands. Do tell.”

  Aren now felt uncomfortable at having to recall much of what his father taught him on the subject and that he would need to take care of his words and not give too much away. “The Blood Lands are the place of our legends. They speak of the mountainous lands being the home of the Ancients, our gods in the living flesh . . . where no others are permitted to dwell until their return again to rule over us—”

  “Common knowledge to even younglings,” the Subar interrupted with an impatience he seldom displayed. “If no others are allowed to dwell, then what is to take our Lights? Do not the Ancients dwell within the temples scattered across our lands here in Shuruppak and elsewhere?”

  Aren felt embarrassed at never having thought of these questions. Good questions, he only admitted to himself while he sought answers in his head. He fell silent as he searched.

  “Speak of something uncommon, even rare, that gives you confidence in our doom,” the Subar calmly demanded as he broke in, interrupting Aren’s thoughts.

  “The Blood Lands, named so by King Darak in 2036, five hundred and more years ago, after those of Shuruppak ventured into the Twins Mountains seeking adventure and riches and power.” Aren recited as well as his memory could recall, and his memory was near perfect. “They found blood and death both for the adventures and for Shuruppak in the days that followed as punishments for defying the Ancient decrees. The Twins Mountains, called the ‘Bond Heaven-Earth,’ the Dur’Anki by some and by others the Roden’ar for the ceremony surrounding it, by those long ago, are forbidden to mortals . . . so decreed by the Ancients before leaving humanity to this world. Their reasons unknown. The Ancients’ decrees engraved in stone at the gates of Vaikuntaars, over two thousand years ago, lay the foundation of all laws. Dangerous mountains, north and west, protect that within the Dur’Anki from those seeking that of the Ancients. Guarding at the south, Patalas, the Forbidden Forest, stands, impenetrable, unpassable to all but the dead. The Sea of Mists, protector of all within, destroying by rock and tooth and whispers, those seeking the lands from the dangerous waters to the east. Only Anza, on the river Dukkha that feeds the river Ur, allows passage into the forbidden. In the lands looms Tsae’Phon, the ‘Prison of No Return,’ where ancient gods seeking the destruction of the earth and us remain chained within the Bottomless Pit. And Vaikuntaars, the ‘City of the Dead’ . . . The ‘Throne of the Ancients,’ where guarded lays hidden powers made unto humanity for the End of Days, when gods and mortals alike will be called upon to defend this world together. And the Watchers of the lands, ‘Sentinels of the Dur’Anki,’ Keepers of the Returning Light, in lands north and south, stand the Sentii, created by the gods, for the gods, to guard all that is of the Ancients.”

  “Uncommon,” the Subar almost sounded complimentary. “I should have expected such from you. Your words speak from the ancient clay tablets, not the parchments read these days with lost meanings and dangerous softening of the decrees.”

  Aren hadn’t expected the Subar to be so well read given their previous meetings and interchanges. Aren had considered him only a foe with a usefulness to him in gaining his freedom, a foe with unrelenting curiosity seeking the weaknesses of others and an almost brutal way of conducting manipulations.

  “I see where your confidence in our doom is of source,” the Subar concluded.

  The door to the room creaked open, revealing the young female, Suhd, standing in the doorway with a large red bottle held
against her lithe body in one hand and two unfilled cups by their handles in her other hand. Aren suddenly found himself thirsty as the Subar motioned for her to enter. Suhd quickly complied, handing a cup to the Subar, then filling it. Aren noticed the Subar now wore a red jeweled signet ring on his right hand. That’s new. Aren noted too, Suhd seeming completely subservient to the Baraan sitting across from him. In truth, she appeared almost pleased to comply with his commands. Aren eagerly accepted the other cup from her, then allowed her to fill it before drinking almost half of it. Red berry ale that Aren found pleasant to both his nose and tongue. When Suhd didn’t immediately retreat from them, the Subar gave her a quizzical glance that should have sent her to the corner she previously stood waiting to be called upon.

  “The one named . . . Ganzeer, I think his name . . .” Suhd spoke nervously, as if overstepping her boundaries while choosing words carefully trying to omit some words spoken to her without changing the meaning of the message she was to present, “instructed me to ask you to allow him the . . . use of his eresikim when you are done . . . questioning him.”

  Facial expressions flashing from one to the next by the Subar told Aren that this wasn’t a new conflict between this Baraan and the advisor to the Za. A dark mood settled on the Subar after a few moments of what Aren thought was him considering words to send back to the advisor.

  Suddenly, the ship shuddered once, twice, then listed right a little, then righted itself as it moved up and down several times. Yells broke out from the crew all along the main deck as the ship moved strangely. As soon as the movements eased, the Subar rose to his feet with the help of the stout mast, then stiffly walked to the door looking out upon the deck. Aren also rose, unsteady with the deck under him again listing now to the left as the ship seemed to also rotate in the opposite direction. Aren regretted the drink as his stomach protested the unusual movements. I need to see more than this room. He bolted past the Subar and onto the main deck. Chaos! The crew ran this way and that grabbing ropes to long arms and sails while others fought the ship’s motion with oars and long poles. A pale sky of the predawn allowed Aren to see beyond the ship’s rails. They were no longer on the Ner River. It was retreating behind them, the mouth of which feeding into a massive waterway causing the merging waters to be unsettled. By Kur . . . more than unsettled! Aren corrected himself as the ship heaved upward at the bow, then plunged downward, leaving him suspended in the air until the deck rose again, slamming him painfully flat to the wood. “Oomph.”

  There, Aren lay on the deck until the ship settled to a more normal and kinder motion. When he rose, the Subar was gone from the doorway. He, like many of the guardsmen and many the crew, was at the rails looking at the extensive expanse of water in what appeared to be a massive river, unlike any river Aren ever saw. Joining the others at the rail, Aren gazed with awe at waters that almost stretched farther than the eye could see, to a far shore marches away.

  “The Ur River,” one of the crew spoke its name with reverence as several guardsmen beyond him gave tribute to the waters from their sickened stomachs. “Dangerous waters filled with mu’luzuh and mu’usumgal.”

  “Water-thieves and water-dragons . . .” Aren translated the ancient words and wished he hadn’t. “We’re doomed. Even before we get to the Blood Lands.”

  “We will not have our Lights taken from us on these waters,” the Subar stated with a confidence Aren thought unfounded. He then pointed to a pair of small islands in the middle of the Ur. “It could be graver for you, young Aren. You should be sharing pain with your Tellen friend there, surviving the eKur’Idagu, and it’s truly terrible snapjaws and water-dragons . . . the mu’usumgals.”

  Aren looked on at the small, rocky islands . . . the Prison of the Water Land or River Land or Island, depending on the translation of the old tongue. The closest of the two small islands had several stone towers flying the colors of Padusan, green on black, and Farratum, red on deep blue, acting as sentinels in the dawning light as the expedition’s ships passed on swift currents and building winds from upriver. From the west the wind blows, I think. Aren drew on his book knowledge of maps trying to place himself on the Ur River, in his mind. Looking out over the watery expanse, Aren viewed a multitude of slippery black backs and fins both moderately sized and huge, breaching the surface of the waves, sometimes exposing their white underbellies as the water-dragons blew the wet from their nostrils before submerging back into the dark depths. Dangerous currents in more than one manner, he concluded.

  He felt little for that Tellen, Rogaan, and his friend, Pax. They brought him near disaster months ago in the jails below the arena and in that cursed pit of death with ravers trying to kill him and everything else. Dangerous times the recent past, he reflected. Surprised he survived the arena, his thoughts turned to what was ahead, the unknown of the waters of the Ur and the Blood Lands. Aren felt certain the dangers ahead were greater and that they would all be lightless before this adventure’s end. It was then, Aren wished for the Tellen to accompany them . . . or that Dark Ax, who saved them all in the arena. Only to end up as prisoners and servants for the undeserving, Aren added in his thoughts accompanying a suppressed flare of anger and indignation. I’ll have my revenge.

  “Curse you, you insufferable Evendiir!” The loud and unhappy voice of Ganzer startled Aren, causing him to bolt upright from his position, elbows having been leaning on the rails. The dark-haired advisor to the Za was looking out over the rail from the ship’s rear elevated deck near the Za’s cabins. “That’s right. You. Come, immediately. Time is short.”

  Chapter 10

  Loathed Reflections

  Small, choppy waves formed on the waters of the Ur making unsettling the movements of the ship Makara as its crew feverishly worked triangular sails to capture the smallest winds, adding to their rowing oars speeding them eastward on the river for reasons still a mystery to Rogaan. Water-beast frequently breached the water’s surface left and right of the ship taking in a breath before again submerging, their shadows under the waves Rogaan could make out faintly before disappearing into the unknown depths of the Ur’s waters. Most of the creatures were of size dangerous to anyone unfortunate to be in the waters, and some frightfully massive, almost matching in length the ship itself. All were eerily dark in color and difficult to see in these waters as they passed by and under the ship, mu’usumgals, the water-dragons.

  The Makara steered almost the center of the huge river, if the waters could be called that instead of a sea, with several marches distant to the shores on both sides of the vessel. Sleeker than the three ships Rogaan saw early at dawn, the Makara looked to be a built for swift transport of cargos and thieving from others given the ballista mounts about the decks and the hooking ropes coiled at even intervals along both sides of the vessel. Her five sails appeared to Rogaan like large, collapsible hand-fans, were now full open catching the wind with varying success. The main deck had in the middle of it an elevated platform that served as the roof of enclosed rooms. A single, stout mast rose, with sails full, from its center to a height of twelve strides. Aft, the decks rising two times were filled with crew dressed in all sorts of clothing and garb meant for easy movements. Two mast poles with lightly filled sails projected up from the stern decks, both to heights less than the main deck mast. On the highest stern deck stood the blue-hued-dressed commander of the Makara, Saalar, if Rogaan remembered his name correctly during the quick introductions when he came aboard. On each side of Saalar stood an Evendiir female who seemed to be giving the commander guidance on sail configurations and more concerning the operations of the Makara. Forward on the main deck, upwardly projected another mast pole with its sail deployed. It too was shorter than the center mast. Beyond that rose a single deck with yet another raised sail mast standing shorter still. At the forward most bow, standing on a platform half-surrounded by railing was the red-clad armored mystery . . . the tall stranger with a long spear in hand thrusting down into the waters at water-dragons swimmin
g too close to the Makara. Two Ursan, in a style of eur armor unfamiliar to Rogaan, were armed with spears, swords, and bows guarding the red-clad spearman. The three were alone as the crew of the ship seemed to take paths avoiding them.

  Rogaan’s thoughts turned inward, troubled as he recalled that moment on the island, suffering terribly from the poison . . . when his body lost its battle, his Light separating from flesh and rising to the Beyond as if on a gentle wind . . . it . . . He was drawn upward. Serenity is how best Rogaan recalled the fleeting memory . . . that feeling, as the calling of the Lights invited his Light to join them. The material world mattering to him less and less with each passing moment. Then, that calm voice from nowhere . . . everywhere, saying something about . . . time, just before the silver cord went taunt. The intangible cord tethering him, his Light, to the below, holding him separated from both body and ascendance . . . the Beyond, adrift somewhere between worlds. Hands of the tall manifester then laid upon his body, first cleansing much of the poison-tainted blood, then taking hold the silver cord and drawing him, his Light, back into his repaired body. Rogaan held the dreamlike memory of the experience with confusion, profoundly confusing feelings. What lays beyond?

  “Serious thoughts?” a familiar, deep, grumbling voice asked.

  Surprised at not smelling his fellow Tellen approaching from the rear cabins, Rogaan sought a reason for it. The wind must be in his favor. Satisfied with the wind, Rogaan again returned to his thoughts focused on earlier happenings. He did not know what to make of it all on the island . . . mostly of this morning but was not about to share it. They will think me mad. His thoughts wondered all over, asking the same question . . . Was I . . . lightless . . . truly dead? His Tellen mentor would think him not right in the head if he confided in him. So, Rogaan chose to take their talking in other directions.