Rise of Serpents

by B A Vonsik

  “That is of little comfort,” Rogaan disappointingly commented. He wished for all the help as possible in the hours ahead. Still, he survived not one, but two Sentii. Even if they are young ones in Sentii ways. Rogaan smiled at himself and felt pride in that and for quickly getting a feel for the gift of a bow.

  Another bait fish splashed into the waters. Rogaan drew his bow again as he settled into practicing and demonstrating his impressive bow skills with a quiver and a half of arrows gone before no more bait fish were tossed to the black waters.

  The crew of the Makara settled back into their normal routines on the dark decks. If not for his dark-sight, Rogaan would not be able to see anything more of the crew than shadows beyond his arm’s length. Instead, he saw much of their goings about and preparations with ropes and hooks, ballista bolts, small catapult stones, and clay and glass jars of liquids being positioned around the ship’s decks into holders, all that appeared to be made for just this kind of work. His unease of the darkness lessoned but never disappeared as he retired to their shared cabin where Pax was asleep. Sugnis checked on them before disappearing back to the decks before Rogaan settled into a fitful attempt at sleeping the few hours before his predawn summoning.

  Chapter 13

  Shunir’ra

  The Makara creaked and moaned as it rolled slightly port, then starboard. More words of ships and sailing he learned from the crew. Surges of forward motion, ever so slight, came at even intervals in time with a drum beating somewhere below his cabin. The vibrations from footfalls and heavy objects being used or moved throughout the ship Rogaan also felt. It was in these times he cursed his sensitive Tellen perceptions. The scent of Sugnis was faint in the cabin, giving Rogaan a puzzle about whether the Tellen ever lay in his bunk this night. He guessed his mentor was about the ship learning everything possible so to take advantage of his surroundings in the coming fight. Rogaan felt guilty for not doing the same, but he needed to absorb the reality that they are about to go against a Shunned . . . the deadliest of beings in his father’s old tales, except, of course, for the Ancients themselves. How can I be in the middle of this? The unfamiliar and strange surroundings of the Makara and his cabin made it even more difficult for Rogaan to sleep. A couple of short naps and small meals in between during the night were all he managed, but restful sleep eluded him. He envied Pax on the top bunk. His light snoring told Rogaan his friend soundly slept, surprisingly, the first time in a long, long time. What gave his longtime friend the peace to sleep so soundly Rogaan could only guess at, but he was happy for Pax that he did.

  If Rogaan counted correctly the drum sessions used to keep the oarsmen rowing together, he calculated that it was near time for him to join the Vassal and his guards . . . his early-morning summoning. With begrudging trepidation of the morning and day to come, Rogaan rose and put on all his clothes, armor, and equipment. Nothing of his was to be left in the cabin, especially, he considered, if things went wrong. Which he feared would. Nothing except a filled chamber pot was left . . . except for a sleeping Pax. His friend of many years in Brigum, growing up together. Rogaan watched his friend sleep peacefully for a few moments, reflecting on their past and present situation from the cabin doorway. Pax from the poorer side of town and himself from a well-to-do stone and metalsmith. How unlikely and unwavering their friendship had been through many trials with townsfolk and families asking of and chasing after them. Pax even enjoyed playing matchmaker between his sister Suhd and Rogaan. That thought brought a smile to Rogaan. His success came late, when the forces of the world sought to cut a rift between them . . . him, Pax, and Suhd. Then, their struggles from the Valley of the Claw to the prison jails and Arena of Farratum. Their friendship started to be pulled apart. First, Suhd taken as a servant for laws broken Rogaan still did not understand. Then, in the arena, the Lights taken from Pax and Suhd’s parents. Lastly, he and Pax being sent to the prison isle to serve sentences they did not think warranted for the crimes Farratum claimed against them. At every tribulation, their friendship seemed to fracture more as Pax blamed Rogaan for his parents’ brutal plunge into the Darkness. Rogaan feared this was the last time he would see his friend, even if Pax did not consider him one any longer.

  “Live well, my longtime friend,” Rogaan spoke quietly, loud enough for Pax to hear, but not so loud to wake him. “May the Ancients smile on you and Suhd. You will always have my friendship.”

  Stepping from the cabin with tear-filled eyes, leaving his still-snoring friend to himself, Rogaan made his way to the aft deck. A breeze smelling slightly of salt and heavily of decay struck him when stepping from the narrow cabin’s hallway. Also, on the breeze was a slight hint of burning oils, though he saw nothing burning about the ship. No lights at all. The night was almost pitch black, but his Tellen-sight afforded him a view as if the sky were with a half moon. Rogaan immediately tried to get a sense of where everyone was and the condition of the Makara. Her sails were full but not straining. The oarsmen and their drum below were working at a brisk pace. Sailors on the decks forward were all in hide and piecemeal metal armors standing at what Rogaan took for assigned positions. Most carried short swords or long daggers. Some had spears. Others carried crossbows.

  Two catapults on each side of the lowest deck ahead were set in their positions with sailors tending them. On the deck where he stood, one to a side were placed heavy ballista with cocked bolts and tended to by two sailors each. In the high nest, up the main sail’s heavy timber pole, Rogaan made out one sailor performing lookout tasks. Yes. The Makara’s crew is quite a capable bunch, Rogaan admitted if only to himself. His hopes to survive the morning rose for a moment, and then just slightly in his thinking, before thoughts of the Shunned filled his head, dashing such folly. He murmured to himself before setting off to join the Vassal, “This is a bad idea.”

  On his way forward, Rogaan spied Sugnis watching him from the center main deck next to the timber mast, atop the roof of the cabins and storerooms. Sugnis also fully equipped for conflict, appearing not to have left anything behind in the cabin. The Sentii had eyes on him, watching him overtly as if he were a threat. As Rogaan walked, Sugnis gave him that look of his telling Rogaan to take great care in the words he spoke and actions taken.

  After several sets of steps and ladders, Rogaan found himself on the forward deck of the Makara with the Sentii guardians of the Vassal glaring at him without really looking as if they were watching him. What is all that about? Rogaan pondered a moment before putting it to the back of his thoughts and stepping forward. He walked past the Sentii without them challenging him. He nodded at them. They just stared back. A twinge of angst uncomfortably shot through Rogaan. He did not feel safe around the Sentii. And he suspected they did not trust or respect him. Turning his back to them took some effort, but he needed to take a position to the right of the Vassal, who was still at the forward railing spearing threats to the ship. As to the Vassal, he showed no signs of tiring and his focus was . . . extraordinary. Obsessive, even.

  “Rested well, young Roga of the Blood An?” the Vassal asked without taking his attention from the dark waters.

  “No,” Rogaan answered honestly. “Sleep did not find me this night.”

  “I see you befriended the Blood-Bow.” A smile from the Vassal hinted to some victory or confirmed wager. “The finest bow of the Sentii. Made of three types of trees native to the Blood Lands. Light to carry, good as a staff weapon when unstrung, consistent in accuracy dry or wet, and strong delivering arrows. Though not as strong as your metal bow.”

  “Finest bow of Sentii making . . .” Rogaan repeated the Vassal’s words just to make sure he heard him correctly. “Yes. It is well balanced and powerful. No. It is not a match for my shunir’ra.”

  “I understand your shunir’ra was made by your hands.” The Vassal made more of a statement then asked a question, but Rogaan felt he sought him to reply.

  “Yes, with a little help from my father,” Rogaan answered, emphasizing his father’s
assistance.

  “And your father’s imur’gisa?” The Vassal tread in unfamiliar territory for Rogaan. “Was it not what Farratum sought because of . . . unpaid taxes? Petty fools.”

  “As I understand such things,” Rogaan answered with bitter memories of the Tusaa’Ner and Sakes jailing him, his friends, Pax and Suhd’s parents, and his father. Then there was the Arena. His anger flared at those memories. “It was the source of troubles that set all of us on this . . . cruel path. Farratum authorities claimed Father withheld payment of required taxes on objects of value. Said he hid it from them. The rod was not his to own. It belongs to his clan from Turil. They left it with him when I was much younger after they visited us in Brigum. There was a ceremony about it before his Tellen kinsmen left.”

  “That fills in that piece of the tale.” The Vassal seemed satisfied.

  “What tale?” Rogaan asked. Not understanding how any of this fit together with him being jailed, Pax’s parents now lightless, and now them about to fight with a Shunned.

  “Before my . . . the Ancients departed this world,” the Vassal started into an explanation carefully choosing his words and what he revealed, “they sealed Vaikuntaars by lock like none before. Stone obelisks requiring the use of keys . . . the rods . . . your father’s clan’s imur’gisa, the family treasure entrusted to the An bloodline, is one of them. Along with other Sentii clans, one each from the major races . . . the Baraans, the Evendiir, the Mornor-Skurst, and the Tellens, were all sent out into the world, away from Vaikuntaars and the Sentii. It was anticipated the wandering races would mingle with those of their kind not of Sentii heritage and become forgetful of their long ties to their gods. That they would grow apart along racial divides and not easily collude with each other against the Ancients and their Sentii protectors. At a future time, when a great need was at hand, the races, the old clans of the Sentii wandering about in the world, would find themselves brought together to open the City of the Council . . . Vaikuntaars. The rods are the Isell-Dingiir, the Keys of the Gods, requiring a blood sacrifice by each rod-bearer at the obelisk. Only then will the seals open, releasing the barrier keeping me . . . all from the city.”

  Rogaan stood slack-jawed listening to the Vassal’s words explaining that all of this and his family was tied closely to the Ancients and happenings thousands of years ago. Rogaan thought first to deny it all, but too much had happened to him . . . He had seen and experienced far too much to question the words of this Vassal as to Vaikuntaars, the Gatekeeper to the Realms of Heaven, but he wanted to. Then, his memory of his mother describing the rod as the Isell-Dingiir, just before he found himself out of Brigum and on the run, caused him to exhale in defeat of his denials. Mother also knew. She was part of all this. Rogaan felt betrayed and then doomed to fulfill his expected part in this grand scheme. Still, he did not understand what was driving this great need. He saw none of it in his experience. “What is this great need?”

  “Would you see the world with the Shunned ruling from the City of the Council and wielding the powers of the Ra’Sakti?” the Vassal asked simply.

  “I know little of either to make a judgment,” Rogaan replied. “Though anything with the Shunned ruling does not appeal to me.”

  “Then you understand, young Roga of the Blood An.” The Vassal now wore a confirming smile while referring to Rogaan by some formal . . . something. It started to bother Rogaan. Partly, because it more than hinted at responsibilities not willingly taken on by him and that it firmly secured Rogaan’s ties with things ancient and frightening. “This Shunned has forced the gathering of Sentii blood to protect the world from him and his kind. I see it in your eyes.”

  “What?” Rogaan suddenly felt guilt. For what he did not know.

  “Your disbelief or desire to disbelieve,” the Vassal counseled.

  “It is all much to take in,” Rogaan replied while looking into the dark expanse of the night, broken only by three tiny points of light far into the depths of the darkness.

  “When your father accepted his family treasure, he accepted the charge of rod-bearer, bearer of the Isell-Dingiir for the Blood Clan An.” The Vassal sounded as if he were proclaiming a great honor. “When he masterfully removed the black stone from his imur’gisa and placed it into your shunir’ra, and you somehow became bonded to it, he passed on the bearer-ship to you.”

  “What?” In a tone so flat Rogaan asked, truly in disbelief . . . and his body now tingling from head to toe with a feeling both cold and warm, causing his everything to shake. Rogaan found himself unable to breathe as he gripped the railing to keep himself upright.

  “Breathe, young Roga of the Blood An.” The Vassal attempted to calm him.

  “That is not helping . . .” Rogaan shot back through gritted teeth as he endured the painful sensations. Then, with tear-filled eyes, he asked questions he never considered or knew existed in his mind before now. “Me . . . rod-bearer? It was enough that Father took on this obligation. How could he . . . Why would he do this to me?”

  “To keep the Shunned from obtaining unstoppable powers and ruling over all with his dark-metal fist.” The Vassal spoke as if all his words were obvious and rational to think. “Luntanus Alum thinks your father is the blood key he holds. The key as a rod is still needed to work the obelisk, but one that no longer holds the Powers to unseal Vaikuntaars.”

  “Powers . . .?” Rogaan felt confused, again.

  “The black stone in your shunir’ra . . .” the Vassal hinted as if this too should be obvious. When Rogaan did not make the connection he sought, he continued his explanation. “The Agni of the Isell-Dingiir is the true key to the seals of Vaikuntaars and is now part of your shunir’ra and bonded to you.”

  Rogaan dropped to a knee as he maintained a solid grip on the railing. Breath escaped him as he felt adrift, his head swimming in an endless expanse of nothingness. All his fears and joys and desires . . . Everything was gone. He felt numb . . . felt nothing as his mind tried its best to understand . . . accept all that he was told. Rogaan felt an alien hand on his shoulder and neck, something almost metallic, then the hairs his body over felt as if they all straightened at the same time as a wave rippled through him, causing him to shake and convulse painfully as a foul taste filled his mouth before disappearing. It felt as if it lasted a long time, but it was over in a moment. Rogaan opened his eyes to find himself on hands and knees on the deck. His head swam and spun for a few moments before becoming calm. The horrible taste in his mouth gone. It surprised him that he felt better than before the touch of the hand. Rogaan stood up with almost a bound. I feel stronger . . . more alive. Looking at the Vassal, he asked, “What did you do to me?”

  “Far less than I desired . . .” the Vassal stated. “The powers of the Agni can be felt by those sensitive to it. Your skin and hair tell you when the powers are manifesting near you. The Shunned can feel it at long distances, so I used very little of the power to cleanse you of the last of the poison and to help you with more vitality.”

  Rogaan stood with a well-being he had not felt in a long time. He felt stronger and more alert and without worries than since before he left Brigum. These Agni and their powers are not just the doom of the world the old tales tell of. They can be made to do for the good of things. Rogaan looked at the Vassal. He put on a red helm taking a moment to settle it in place. When he lowered his hands, a slight glow following his armor’s lines leading to entwined serpent symbols on his breast plate and helm all glowed red, then went dark.

  “Is your armor . . . Agni—” Rogaan tried to sound intelligent about asking his question.

  “No.” The Vassal cut him off. His voice sounding off, reverberating a little and muffled, as if talking distant from a container. “It is something else.”

  “My thanks for doing what you did to me—” Rogaan expressed his gratitude to the Vassal for healing him.

  “I have need of you at your best.” The Vassal cut him off again before pointing beyond the bow of the Makara. “We appro
ach the ships. See the lanterns lit on their decks and in some of their exterior cabins? They do not know we approach. Good.”

  Rogaan followed the Vassal’s gauntleted fingers forward. The glowing lanterns were tiny, specks, but clear to his vision. Spots in the darkness got larger. Wanting to know how this battle would end before it got within an arm’s length of him, Rogaan asked the Vassal, “How are you going to sink them?”

  “Not before we find them,” the Vassal’s muffled voice answered cryptically. His red helm had an open vertical center slit in front under two slanted slits over his eyes. The Vassal’s eyes were covered by a clear “glass” was the best Rogaan could describe it. On the glass, Rogaan saw tiny symbols moving about that he could not make out.

  “Who?” Rogaan asked as he tried to keep from looking at the Vassal’s eye slits to figure out what those tiny symbols meant.

  “Not who . . . what.” The Vassal became more focused on the ships by the moment. He appeared to be looking for something, even from this distance. The Vassal looked down in his helm, closing his eyes, and raised his left hand toward the flotilla. He seemed to be . . . feeling for something. When his hand lowered and helm raised again, he spoke. “I have need of your services, young Roga of the Blood An.”

  Rogaan wished the Vassal would stop with the formal title when addressing him. It was not necessary to keep reminding him of his bloodline and the bonds forced upon him. Sugnis’s unspoken words of counsel filled his head, “. . . care of your words and actions. Especially with this one.”

  “What can I do?” Rogaan asked honestly, though his knees and legs felt weak.

  “I feel the Isell-Dingiir and their Agnis,” the Vassal answered without taking his focus off the flotilla, “though I cannot separate them. I need you to find your shunir’ra.”

  “I do not know how to find my shunir’ra,” Rogaan replied, almost sounding as a protest.