Warrior on the Edge of Memory
Book One of the Tale of Azaran
By Zackery Arbela
Copyright ©2016 Zackery Arbela
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Discover other titles by Zackery Arbela
THE NINE SUNS
Gaebrel's Gamble
Storm Over Olysi
THE LEGEND OF FENN AQUILA
The Thief Of Galadorn
Red Shadows
THE TALE OF AZARAN
Warrior on the Edge of Memory
Shadow of the Ghost Bear
Fires of Mastery
The Infinity Key
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
Night on the Isle of Tereg. Not a cloud in the sky, the night illuminated by the brilliant pin pricks of the stars and hovering in the west, the face of the Mansion. Those who found a need that night to walk about, perhaps to clear their heads or seek a moments respite from the labors of the day might find comfort staring up at the strangest of lights, a round blue-and-green striated globe, its right side disappearing into darkness, filling a full quarter of the sky. Those with particularly sharp eyes might notice the occasional flash of lightening within, an ominous sign for those who held that the great orb in the sky was really the home of whatever gods the locals gave prayer to. Astronomers of the far-away cities of Hadaraj might claim that both ideas were so much nonsense, that it was merely a world much like the one beneath their feet, if ten thousand times greater in size. They might speculate about what sort of creatures were to be found in those hidden depths, if other worlds might be found about it, gazing into the sky with eyes desperate for answers.
But Hadaraji astronomers were rare on Tereg save as slaves, their only value the labor their bodies could provide or the ransoms that were paid for their release. And most of the folk of this isle had little use for metaphysical speculations of any sort. Night was for rest, the day for work, for the manning of ships and sharpening of blades. For it was raids of blood and fire that made the men of the Isle the fear and terror of the Middle Sea. Time enough for the gods in the grave. The world belonged to the living and those strong enough to rule.
But on this night, something happened. Across the isle men were wakened by a loud booming sound coming from the heavens, a demons voice causing the walls to shake and doors to rattle. Men ran out, clutching whatever weapons they had, looking to the heavens in fear. Flashes of light high above, too far to make out any details, bursting once, twice...four times, each followed by another boom. Fearful eyes watched as something streaked across the stars, a ball of fire headed towards the west, dropping down below the horizon. A moment later a faint glow illuminated the churning sea.
Then it faded, was gone. The last echoes disappeared. Questions were asked, prayers muttered, signs of protection made. But soon it became clear that the world was not coming to an end. Swords were lowered. Men returned to their beds, hoping to get what few hours of rest were left. Come morning many would talk, much heat would be raised but little light to go with it. It would be just another thing men might tell their grandchildren of in a decade's time.
But ships would set out towards the sunrise, curious as to what the light might represent...and what riches it might mean.
He woke with a mouth full of sea water, his arms wrapped around a length of charred wood.
Waves slapped against his head, blinding him and filling his ears with the hateful sound of the sea. Every muscle and bone ached. He kicked below, shivering as the ocean drew the warmth from his body even as the hard sun above burned his face. He opened his mouth to scream, to shout for help, to cry, and instead coughed and sputtered as water sprayed out.
Waves tossed him about too and fro, until his head was spinning. He laid his head back down. Tired, so tired, he needed to close his eyes and sleep. But his arms only tightened their grip. Mastery...he wouldn't give up. It wasn't in him to die.
Then he heard voices. He looked up, saw the ship approaching, the prow bumping past floating debris and floating bodies...so many bodies...it was sailing past him. They thought he was another corpse.
He raised a hand and gave a wordless cry, more animal than man. Men on the ship looked about, then one pointed at him. Someone shouted an order in a language he didn't know. The ship turned about slowly, so slowly...the single lanteen sail pulling in. A boat was lowered and two men rowed out to him. He waved weakly, feeling the strength draining from his arms. The boat came by, and he was pulled from the water. Questions were asked in the strange tongue. He shook his head weakly, dimly aware of...something, a tickling in the back of his mind, as if the words were a puzzle to be solved.
He must have passed out for a moment, for the next he knew a rope was tied below his arms and was pulling him him. Sailors hauled him over the railing and dropped him to the deck. He coughed out a lungful of seawater at the impact, and coughed some more, curling up like an infant when men watched and laughed. He looked up, saw men standing about, roughly dressed, many with their heads wrapped with scarves or rags. Faces burned brown by the sun, arms and bodies marked with scars. Knives were thrust through belts and showed signs of use.
A pair of boots stepped before his face. He looked to their owner, a stout fellow with a graying beard and a leather face, wearing a scarlet tunic faded by the sun. Gold rings crusted his fingers and a gold hoop dangled from a nostril. A voice full of mocking authority said something. He frowned, the words bouncing about his skull, being battered into a something he could recognize.
The man laughed and said something to his crew. The first sentence was more gibberish, but then knowledge flared in his mind like a light, and with it understanding.
“...half an idiot, by the looks of it. Can't even tell me his name.”
“My name,” said the man from the sea, staggering to his feet, “is Azaran.”
"So, he does speak!" The captain of the ship looked down on him with a a laugh. "And what else can it tell? Where are you from? You are not of Tereg, despite speaking our tongue."
"Where am I from... "Azaran repeated the words.
"What bitch spawned you into this world of water and dust, and what stinking shit hole did she call home?"
"I...don't know." Azaran frowned trying to remember, reaching back into his memories and finding nothing beyond waking up in the ocean clinging to a wooden spar. Not how he got there, how he ended up. The sea...nothing. Emptiness.
"He's playing a game, captain!" said one of the crew. "Cut it out of his hide!"
"Shut it," came the captains reply. Then to Azaran, “Bugger all you don't know. "
"I don't know. I can't remember anything." His eyes widened at the horror. "I can't remember anything but my name."
"Well now, that is a story." The captain shook his head. Haven't heard that one before."
"It's the truth, I swear..."
"Doesn't
matter to me." He looked at the man from the sea. Tall, olive skinned, a few inches over six feet, lean and well muscled. Squarish face with dark brown eyes filled with worry. The clothes on his body were little more than rags. The batches of torso glimpsed through them showed lines of runes branded into the skin, the pain of which caused the captain to wince at the thought. “I've already forgotten your name. Once we get to the isle the only thing you'll answer to is slave! Throw him in the hold, we'll sell the wretch with the others."
Azaran's arms were forced behind his back, manacles clamped about his wrists. The pirates hauled him down into the crowded ship's hold, ignoring his shouted questions. Chained to the bulkheads and long wooden rails along the center were lines of men and women, miserable and half starved, their faces masks of bleak despair.
The Teregi dragged him to a patch along a bulkhead and fixed the manacles to a rusty iron ring embedded in the side. One of them slapped the back of his head and laughed.
The pirates left. Azaran glanced at his fellow inmates. They stared back, not a one saying anything. He sat down, leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes, falling back to blissful unconsciousness.
"Shut up, filthy bitch!"
The harsh voice pulled Azaran back to the world of the waking. It was night, judging from the lack of light coming in through the few openings in the hull. He wiped the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, turning his head to a sound of weeping mingled with more curses.
"That's right, open those sweet gates to Old Jekk! Be a good girl and he'll treat you right..." Words trailed off, replaced by the sound of some grunting, more beast than man, along with the stifled whimpers of a woman trying her best not to scream. He looked over. One of the pirates was crouched behind a female captive. He had her bent down like a dog, the rags of her dress pushed up above her waist, his own trousers at his knees.
Not my problem... Azaran looked at the other slaves. They were asleep, or doing their best not to appear otherwise. He could do the same, he didn't know the woman, didn't know any of these people.
But you won't, said a quiet voice in the back of his mind, at once foreign and familiar, a silent passenger speaking from the depths. And he knew that it was right.
Muscles flexed as he pulled against the chain. As he did, several of the brands along his chest glowed with a soft blue light. His body filled with energy, with strength. The iron ring squealed free from the bulkhead in a cloud of rust and wood.
He stood and moved across the hold, feet stepping lightly as a cat over the prone bodies of the captives. None of them said a word. The rapist was too busy having his fun to notice the danger until too late, when Azaran hauled him into the air, wrapping the chains around his neck and twisting.
Swift and fast, said another voice in his head, a different one, coming from behind the locked door of his past. Once you commit to an action, see it to the end. The man barely had time to scream before his neck broke.
Azaran let go, suddenly shocked at what he'd just done, how easily it happened. He killed without a thought, without hesitation....
Some screamed, a slave, shocked at the sight of the killing. Commotion spread through the hold. A door banged open and a pair of pirates came in. "What the bloody hell is going on," roared one. Then he saw his dead comrade. "You bastard!"
They rushed in, then flew back as Azaran punch them both with enough force to stun a mule. More pirates rushed into the hold and piled on top of him, pulling him down, forcing his arms behind his back.
I can kill them all, Azaran realized with shock as the blows rained down on him. It would be so easy...
They dumped the dead man on deck, front side down. The captain found himself looking into the fellows face anyway, seeing as how his head was twisted almost completely around. The look on Old Jekk's face would have been comical under different circumstances.
The captain shifted his faze towards Azaran. "You did this?"
Azaran nodded. Yellowing bruises covered his torso, seemingly fading before the eyes of those who watched.
"Was the wench being spiked a friend or kin?"
Azaran shrugged. "He was keeping me awake."
The captain snorted. "And you snapped his neck like a twig for that?"
"Kill him, Captain!" said one of the sailors standing nearby. "The son of a bitch cut Jekk down from behind like a coward...
"While Jekk was spiking the merchandise? Aye, a real hero that one. He cut that wench's value in half. No one pays full price for ruined quim! Toss this shit over the side."
Two men hauled away the body. The captain glared at the sailor who spoke. "You were on watch, Ashal. I said when we raised sail, no one messes with the cargo, especially them that has tits up top and a lack of manly parts below. You heard me say it, did you now?"
"Aye..."
"And you know that if Jekk hadn't his neck broke by this fellow, I'd have tossed him over the side with a slit throat."
No answer at that. The Captain spat over the railing. "Seems to me you be derelict in your duties, Ashal."
The other sailors stepped away from Ashal as if he were a plague carrier. "Captain, I..."
"You be in my bad graces at the moment. How's about a chance to get on my good side?"
"What do I have to do?" Ashal asked, pale with fear.
The captain jutted his chin at Azaran. "Draw your knife, Ashal and cut this swine down."
Ashal grinned. "Gladly, captain." He pulled the curved dagger from his belt and turned to face Azaran. The blade swished back and forth as the pirate tensed for a strike.
Azaran found himself shifting his stance, left foot forward, right behind, weight balanced in between. The eyes, came the voice from the past. They lead the body. Where the eyes point, the attack will follow. He watched the man's face, body relaxed and limber, hands raising up before him, the chains dangling below.
Ashal howled some battle cry and lunged in. Azaran stepped aside, the blade stabbing harmlessly past. One hand wrapped about the back of his wrist, the other placed across the front his fingers. Azaran shifted his stance, twisting Ashal's wrist down and inward with almost no effort, using the man's momentum against him. Ashal's shout ended in a squeal as his own dagger stabbed into his gut, his hand still about the hilt.
Azaran stepped back and let the body fall. The other sailors watched Ashal fall, then shouted at once. Several of them pulled blades and attacked. Azaran seemed to glide across the ground, jabbing an elbow into the face of one while striking the other in the back of the head. Both went down, their weapons clattering away.
More shouting, more pirates closing in, then halting at the bellowed order. "Enough!"
The captain glared at the dead man, then looked at Azaran. "Turn around," he said.
Azaran looked behind. A sailor stood there with a bow, arrow nocked to the string and pulled back to his ear.
"Put Ashal over the side,” the captain ordered. “He can feed the sharks with Jekk. As for this one..." He looked at Azaran again, a greedy smile on his face. "Tie him to the mast. Load him down with chains. We'll give him to the Pit."
Laughter at that from the crew. "Aye," said one, "best use for him."
"Don't die, slave!" said another. “I'll be putting my money on you come the next match!"
The bow remained trained on Azaran, while more sailors took by the arm. He did not resist as they marched him to the lone mast, stood quietly as lines of rope were wrapped about his body, along several heavy chains, until he could barely move so much as an inch. One of the sailors spat in his face when done. Azaran said nothing.
The wind picked up, filling the sails, cooling the sweat pooling on his exposed skin. He sighed with relief, taking stock of the situation.
He remembered nothing before that horrible moment when he woke in the sea, on the verge of drowning. Only his name and nothing beyond. Yet in the day that followed, he'd learned several things. He could understand the language of these pirates after hearing them speak for only a moment. He appare
ntly had the strength to rip iron rings free from the walls. He healed quickly. Possibly the runes on his chest had something to do with both.
And he could kill – quickly, easily, as he might draw breath. Someone in his past taught Azaran how to do this. Human life was so...fragile. He snapped that rapists neck as he might a wooden splinter. He killed that other man with his own weapon. And he felt...nothing. No fear, no remorse. No sense of horror, all the things he somehow knew an ordinary man would feel upon taking another man's life.
It made him afraid, this apparent lack of restraint. Who was he, that he could kill without a second thought? Who taught him these things? Where did he come from? He needed to know, he needed it as a man dying of thirst needed a drink of water.
One thing was clear. Azaran wouldn't find any answers on this ship. He knew somehow, with absolute certainty, that he could kill every man on this ship. Create nothing but dead bodies from bow to stern. But that wouldn't help him in the least. Corpses couldn't give answers.
But...they spoke of an Isle they were headed to. There would be other people there. Maybe they would have answers. No point in killing the pirates, they were headed where he wanted to go.
So he closed his eyes and slept. The sun beat down on his head, but Azaran didn't let that bother him. He could endure it. He could endure anything.
Shouts woke him. He opened his eyes and saw it was dusk. The blue face of the Mansion stood out against the dark blue and orange on the horizon. But something felt off...the wind. It blew, strong and steady from the south, and carried within it...something. He couldn't say what it might have been except it made his skin tingle, like the wind that came before a storm.
"South!" came the lookouts shout from above. "I see them coming from the south."
He turned to the right. Against the horizon, a line of ships, at least fifty strong. Sails filled with wind pulled them forward, the sea foaming against their prows.
Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1) Page 1