Rise of Serpents

by B A Vonsik

  Rogaan simply stared at the sailor while allowing this revelation to sink in. That explains much. As the stare between them lengthened, Rogaan felt increasingly uncomfortable and answered. “Yes, Daugu was the name of Pax’s father. You described him well enough.”

  “Den ya have ya hands filled bein’ dis one’s pally,” the sailor smiled while keeping his gaze fixed on Pax lounging in the ropes. “Moody as a snapper.

  Rogaan nodded in agreement, not certain what a “snapper” was, but he guessed it something like a river shellback that would take a finger or tuck up inside its shell . . . though you never knew which before you bothered it. Or it could be a snapjaw. They often seemed moody too. Regardless, Pax took after his father in that way . . . moody and at times to a fault. Finally, someone who understands. Certain this sailor knew Pax’s father, and well, Rogaan relaxed his guard a bit. Pax’s father a sailor . . . River Folk. Who could have known? Rogaan felt as if a large puzzle piece fell into place concerning why Pax was . . . Pax.

  “Can ya tell me of Daugu?” the sailor asked of Rogaan. Immediately, Rogaan felt alarmed and fearful of answering. The scruffy Baraan put on a questioning face when noticing Rogaan’s change in demeanor. “Where be his dock?”

  Rogaan did not understand the meaning of “his dock” at first. Then came a thought that the sailor’s “dock” meant “home” or “place” for someone living on the land. Feeling accomplished for figuring out the translation made Rogaan a bit proud of himself, though the added pride did not counterbalance his sense of dread telling him of the circumstances of his friend’s . . . “pally’s” Light being darkened. Sadness welled up within Rogaan, causing his chest to tighten. I cannot do anything about the past, he scolded himself.

  “Light was taken from his father and mother by ravers.” With a sorrow-filled voice, Rogaan informed the sailor of his pally’s death. Rogaan’s thoughts went to the many and growing questions he now had of his experience on the prison island and with the Great Beyond. Are they living in the Beyond? Rogaan hoped and felt the answer was yes. “Pax and his sister, Suhd, now walk without them.”

  “Lightless . . . both of ‘em?” The sailor stared at Rogaan with a pain-filled face of disbelief. “Daugu left da river for her. Ta keep da feud from her and younglin’s day hoped ta have. Ravers? How?”

  Rogaan feared revealing too much of the deadly games played by Farratum to this sailor who he just met, telling him of his lightless pally at the hands of the Farratum Zas. Memory of the arena . . . of them, Pax’s parents, in their last breaths suffering in the jaws of the ravers, made a tightness deep in Rogaan’s chest. I cannot imagine the pain Pax . . . and Suhd must feel. So much worse for Pax, for them. Rogaan’s heart sank low with sorrow. How do I answer?

  “Son of Mithraam!” A call from somewhere above surprised Rogaan and also the sailor. The voice was familiar, but not one Rogaan considered a comfort. Anxious over more talk with this sailor, Rogaan found an escape by quickly answering his new “friend.”

  “I am here.”

  “Come forward and join me.” He called to Rogaan with a confident and commanding manner.

  “I must go.” Rogaan offered the excuse to the sailor, relieved at not having to answer more of his questions. Rogaan mounted the ladder to the forward deck and climbed.

  “Our talk of Daugu . . . I wish ta have,” the sailor called after Rogaan, now halfway up the ladder. “Keep ya head and care of tongue, son of Mithraam.”

  Rogaan climbed the stepladder with a swirling mix of relief, confusion, and unease. Keep my head and watch my tongue? Cautiously popping his head over the top rung revealed to him the forward elevated deck much as he saw it afar with three folks occupying it. Two tan-skinned warriors he knew not of with the third, the red-clad armored friend stood a head taller than the others, all carrying spears and swords. The friend had his attention on the waters off the forward sides of the Makara, poking at unseen things with a long spear while the other two stood near watching every move Rogaan made. What Rogaan thought them at far glance—Baraan Ursans—the two warriors watching him were anything but Ursan mercenaries or of the Baraan race. The pair of steely-eyed warriors wore stout green-gray eur armor of worked tanniyn hide with overlapping layers on shoulders, thighs, back, and chest. The breast and back guards at the sides were laced together in a crisscrossing pattern of stout hide cords, beautifully done and unlike any Rogaan had seen. Each wore similarly subdued hued high-laced feathered sandals with layered shin and foot guards as well as matching forearm guards. Their heads and long yellow-white hair were uncovered except for the brown-black hide headbands each wore with colorful feathers attached hanging down to the nap of their necks. At their sides, each had attached to their belts sheathed metal long knives and worked hide green-gray caps with protective cheek flaps. In their hands, each wielded a spear and a drawn sword that looked more like an ax of some kind. Their heads were a little long of skull with faces clean-shaven, thin, penetrating, radiant blue eyes making Rogaan confused at how much Baraan they were and how much of something else.

  Climbing onto the forward deck, Rogaan felt uncertain what to do. The friend had called for him, but the two staring at him seemed to have other ideas.

  “Greetings . . .” Rogaan tried to get a response out of the two. Nothing. They did not blink as they kept their unsettling stares on him. Assuming . . . Hoping the two warriors would not confront him, Rogaan guardedly stepped from the ladder and in the direction of the friend. Both the warriors moved with blinding speed to either side of him yet positioned to block his way forward while crossing their ax-swords with a ringing in front of his chest. Surprised at their aggression and quickness, Rogaan stepped back raising his bow into a guarding position. Neither of their expressions gave away any hints of malice, fear, or anything useful to Rogaan.

  “Test him,” commanded the friend without taking his eyes from the waters.

  Both warriors shifted their weight forward before moving again with blinding speed. Rogaan first felt the flat of the ax-sword from the warrior to his left strike him on his left thigh, then saw the warrior to his right jabbing to his face with the pommel of his ax-sword. Moving too quickly for him to dodge, the jab hit him solidly in the mouth, knocking Rogaan on his backside, his bow clattering to the deck off to his left. Both strikes hurt painfully, the jab drawing blood from his lips. Anger swelled within Rogaan . . . anger fed by embarrassment. The pair of warriors stepped back, then settled into casual on-guard stances. Test me? Rogaan wanted to ask what this was all about but then thought better of it. Test me.

  “All right . . .” Rogaan spoke loud enough for the three of them to hear as he rose to his feet. Assessing his opponents as Sugnis taught him, Rogaan concluded the warrior on his left was dominant by the way the other warrior kept his position relative to his companion. Rogaan decided to act against the left warrior, first, then against the one on his right. He wanted to make this quick, disabling them, so he could talk to this friend to find out why he was here and what need there was for his blood. Rogaan breathed in . . . out . . . in . . . out, calming himself, focusing his thoughts and emotions so to call forth that thing he did to make the world slow. Nothing. Frustrated, Rogaan tried again to call forth the quickness. Nothing. Looking at the warriors who now looked at him with curious eyes, Rogaan felt a swell of concern. He needed to stall them, give himself more time to call it forth. So, with a raised hand and index finger he made to make light conversation, “Just a moment . . .”

  Before he saw it coming, Rogaan felt the sandaled foot of the dominant warrior on his chest knocking him backward several steps onto the side railing of the ship before he stopped his momentum. Pain shot through his chest and back from the strike. Looking up . . . Whack! A fist across his jaw sent his head violently, painfully to the right, an agonizing punch to his right side threatened to take his air, a stinging kick to his right shin, a blow to his left arm as he tried to shield himself from the barrage of punches and kicks . . . blow after blow. Ro
gaan felt more pain and a growing fear that they would take his Light. Staggering blow after staggering blow landed all over his body making him disoriented . . . weakened. He felt his innards go ill from the remnants of the poison. Then, a blow to the side of his head hurt intensely as it drew blood. His head rang like a bell. Rogaan staggered on his feet. Fear swelled within him. Am I to die here? Testing? He caught movement on his left just before another stinging punch landed on his jaw. He saw the warrior to his right clearly moving as if almost as fast as normal . . . slower than just moments before. Rogaan blocked the warrior’s left hook with his right forearm, then hit him with a fear-fired-by-anger, left-handed pile-driving punch to his face. Rogaan sent the warrior into an upending summersault with him landing on the deck, unmoving. Felt footfalls on the wood planks behind him, Rogaan ducked a swinging punch. Then, with a twist of his hips, rotating left, Rogaan punched with his full body at gut level where he thought the footfalls would put his target. His fist hit the midsection of the dominant warrior solidly, doubling him over. Filled with anger, Rogaan struck the warrior with a left uppercut straightening him up, now leaving him standing though swaying with eyes unfocused. Angry and without mercy, Rogaan drove his right fist into the face of the defenseless warrior. His fist painfully striking an immoveable open hand that just appeared in his path before he hit its intended target. The shock of the impact numbed Rogaan’s arm to his shoulder.

  “Enough!” came the even-toned command from the red-clad warrior. A big warrior a full head taller than Rogaan towered over them.

  As the hairs on Rogaan’s nape and arms bristled and the hair on his head itched almost painfully, he looked astonishingly at his fist in the friend’s grasp. An eerie, multicolored vapor slithered around both their hands as Rogaan’s arm tingled and started shaking. He jerked his hand back before he realized he desired it so. His skin felt as if biters crawled all over just before he shook uncontrollably head to toe. He knew it was only agonizing moments, the shaking, but it felt longer. With a willful effort, Rogaan forced the pain into the back of his mind making it endurable.

  “That Tellen instructed you in open-hand better than expected,” the red-clad, chiseled-faced warrior stated. “You can also endure punishment.”

  “What? Why?” Confused and fighting through the fog of pain, Rogaan barely managed the simple words from his mouth.

  “What?” The red-clad friend asked rhetorically. “You’re of the Blood!”

  “I do not understand.” Still confused about what was happening and in pain, Rogaan spoke with his teeth just short of grinding them to their roots.

  “Your blood is of the Brothers.” The chiseled faced, short, yellow-bearded friend stated as if his words should be enough of an answer. The big Baraan . . . No, this one is something else . . . not quite a Baraan, but akin . . . regarded Rogaan with his tilted, radiant green eyes for a few moments before glancing at his companions.

  Near, the swaying warrior appeared to have recovered and swayed no longer. His brown face looked composed as his blue eyes regarded Rogaan with curiosity, lacking any hint of anger. It was then, Rogaan realized he felt anger at them for the beating he received. The warrior took up a guarding stance, feet spread shoulder-width apart, hands on sheathed weapons, his spear now laying on the deck. He stood stolid after backing a few steps away from Rogaan at a hand gesture from the red-clad friend.

  “Roga of the Blood An . . .” the red-clad warrior turned away before taking up again his position next to the forward railing where his long spear lay across the rail, his back to Rogaan. “Ancient is the bloodline of your father . . . if he is your father. Mithra of the Clan Am. I don’t recall giving the Bloodsign to that line. Is he not, Mithra of the Clan An . . . a chosen bloodline of the Turil Tellens?”

  “Those are his relatives . . . from Turil . . . They are of the Clan An.” Pains melted away as Rogaan offered memories of his cousins visiting Father in Brigum some years ago. What they were about, Rogaan never understood, but visit they did . . . with much revelry. Rogaan briefly spoke of the closeness his cousins had for each other and his father, in the hopes to convince this friend that Mithraam was indeed his father.

  “The clans work not in that manner, youngling,” the red-clad warrior offered with a stern tone that carried in it . . . irritation. “And neither does the Bloodsign blessed upon the Clan An. To be your father, he must be of the Clan An. Or you have another father.”

  “I have only known him as Mithraam . . . my father,” Rogaan replied.

  “Interrupt me no more, youngling,” the red-clad warrior reprimanded. “My thoughts are becoming clear. Yes. Much is unknown still; yet, I can use this new knowledge.”

  Rogaan felt indignant at being reprimanded when there was no call for it. And his simmering anger at the others for making on him so many bruises grew with every painful movement. The warrior lying on the deck stirred. Who are they? What do they want of me? Rogaan wanted the guessing to stop and to have answers.

  “My gratitude for you saving me from the island . . .” Rogaan offered words for his and Pax’s and Sugnis’s rescue as a gesture of his appreciation before demanding answer. “I have questions for you.”

  “Speak not in that manner to your—” The dominant warrior standing in his green-gray eur armor lashed out in an indigent tone at Rogaan before being cut off by the red-clad warrior’s gleaming metallic left arm and open hand raised signaling “silence.” All did fall silent for an awkward moment. Questions burned within Rogaan, but the body language of the friend and the attitude of his companion gave him pause in pressing further. In the silence, the second warrior companion lying on the deck staggered to his feet before taking up a guarding stance with spear pointing tall. His brown face just as neutral as his companion’s, but with a hint of anger peeking through.

  “I accept his ignorance.” The red-clad warrior spoke not to Rogaan but to his companions. “And his impudence this time. He’s of the confused in this land, not knowing his place.”

  The confused? Rogaan felt more so now than ever. What is this one babbling about? Rogaan just wanted to know what was going on with so many seemingly pulling his strings as masters would their puppets. His questions . . . he felt he must ask. Rogaan started off in a demanding tone before he decided to tread more carefully and softened it. “Why am I here?”

  “The only question with significance,” the friend spoke still with his back to Rogaan but offered no further answers.

  “Why do you need my . . . blood?” Rogaan asked more carefully, fearful of what the answer might be.

  “That is . . . complicated,” the red-clad warrior stated in an even tone, as if contemplating something as he answered. An awkward silence fell between them as the red-clad warrior raised his long spear to his shoulder height, poised to strike at something below.

  “I want to understand . . . Why did you save me?” Rogaan pressed.

  “Which occasion?” the friend asked what seemed like an honest question.

  Rogaan was caught off guard by it. Which one does he ask about? The Brigum Hunt . . . in the Valley of the Claw, or on his return to Brigum near Coiner’s Quarter, or in the streets of Brigum when he and Pax were hopelessly outnumbered by Kantus and his gang and the Brigum Tusaa’Ner, or on the prison isle . . . the ekur’Idagu, or from the Beyond this morning? Were there other times? Rogaan started wondering.

  “You have been keeping me from the consequences of those seeking me harm,” Rogaan admitted to himself and openly, unsettling his sense of pride as he spoke the words.

  “Many interests are involved,” the red-clad warrior informed. “Some wish you dead and no longer a threat. Some want you as theirs to use. Surprisingly, you bested much of what they sent after you. I aided when there was need.”

  “Threat? Me?” Rogaan repeated, then turned his surprise into a question.

  “To all held important by them,” the red-clad warrior answered, his armor making dull, almost metallic sounds when his arm guards touched as
he speared something in the waters below. He appeared in thought before speaking again. “You and the others . . . all keys.”

  “The prison isle . . . the Beyond?” Rogaan answered the ‘friends’ previous question . . . which one, after thinking about all the occasions. “I did fall. I was being taken . . . to the Beyond. You did pull me back to . . . here.”

  “Why,” the red-clad friend stated as if answering a question, cutting off more of Rogaan’s words. He poked at something again, below in the water with his long spear. “Your blood and the blood of the others are the keys needed to unseal my kingdom. A great irony, my kin made entering Vaikuntaars impossible without your kind working together, with me, as if that would make right the earth.”

  “How can this be?” Rogaan asked with much surprise, even a degree of shock. He felt confused before. Now, Rogaan felt lost. Vaikuntaars . . . The forbidden City of the Dead, in the Blood Lands, was how his father described it when teaching ancient history. “How can my blood be a key to open . . . the City of the Dead.”

  “Yes, the City of the Dead . . .” the friend sounded amused. “Not of the Dead, but of the Self-banished. And a vault protecting . . . items of power that can be used against this world. I must secure it before he does.”

  “I still do not understand how my blood is special or important,” Rogaan said with a bit of frustration and much denial.

  “Yours and the blood of other bloodlines must be freshly spilt upon the altar before the Citadel of Vaikuntaars to unlock its seals.” The red-clad warrior struck hard at something in the water below and out of sight from Rogaan’s vantage spot. “Only then can Vaikuntaars’ portal be opened, and the citadel be restored to its former glory.”

  Rogaan did not like the sound of “spilt blood” and “altars” and the blood being his. He quickly decided he wanted nothing of this, as it would mean his death. Shivers shot up and down his back. How do I decline this “offer” to be used in such a manner? Then, it struck him . . . Who was “he” that this “friend” spoke of? And despite Rogaan fearing the answer, he just needed to know for certain who this friend is. “Who is this ‘he’ you speak of? And who are you that I would sacrifice my life for?”