Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1)

by Zackery Arbela

  "Raise the banner!" the captain shouted.

  Azaran wondered if they were going into battle. The odds seemed a bit against the ships favor...no. A yellow banner flew from the mast. In its center was the image of a face, serene and smiling.

  The captain went to the starboard side and raised a horn to his lips. Three blasts rang out. A moment later three blasts came from one of the approaching ships.

  Allies then. A gap opened in the line of vessels, and the ship carrying him took its place in the ranks. One ship in particular was pulled slightly ahead. Larger than the others, a wide lateen sail stitched with the same serene face. The sense of unease he felt only grew stronger at the sight.

  Then he saw the man standing on the back deck. Too far to make out details, but Azaran could see he was a tall fellow, bearded and richly dressed. Set before him was a wooden stand painted onyx black. On it sat three glowing orbs. His hand caressed the middle one.

  Without knowing how or why, Azaran sensed it's connection to the wind. This was no natural breeze, but one that was summoned to serve the fleet. The man on the lead ship commanded the wind as he commanded the vessel beneath his feet.

  "Ah, you see him!" The captain came beside Azaran. "Our lord and master."

  "Who is he?" Azaran asked.

  "You'll find out soon enough," came the captain's reply. "You'll be dying for his pleasure!"

  Chapter Two

  Another day passed. At some point a ladle of water was put to Azaran's lips, which he drank greedily. The color of the sea changed and soon flocks of birds circled the skies above.

  Then the lookout shouted landfall. To the north a craggy green line appeared on the horizon, soon resolving itself into tree-covered hills and rocky shores. Tereg, that was its name.

  The fleet shifted course, as did the wind. The southern shore of the Isle went past, until they rounded a rocky cape and shifted course northwards again. Just beyond it was a town, huddled around a half-moon bay crowded with shipping.

  In the days to come, Azaran would learn the name of the town was Otossa and it was the only settlement of note on Tereg. He would learn that this island, lying as it did in the middle of the Great Green Sea, had long been a haven for refugees, fugitives and outcasts from every shore surrounding it. That the thick pine forests covering the place were turned into ships of every size and shape, sometimes used for trade, but more recently used for war. That the Corsairs of Tereg were the scourge of every ocean who heard of them, leaving burning wrecks and pillaged towns in their wake. That pens on the town outskirts were filled with captives from across the known world. Some were kept on the isle in bondage, to work in the shipyards, sweep the muddy streets and work at hard labor so their masters could continue their pillaging. Others were sold in turn to slave traders from a dozen lands, where strong backs and broken spirits were always in demand. Those who had some value were held for ransom, waiting until their families purchased their freedom.

  He would learn all this in the future. But for now he looked on the approaching town with interest. Wide buildings of wood and stone, topped with steeply pitched roofs spread out from the harbor side. The harbor it self was divided into three great sections. Two of these were full of ships, while the third was rapidly filled up. The lead ship was the first in, the lord and master of the Isle the first off the deck, a fellow trotted behind him carrying a wooden case with the globes contained within.

  Other ships followed in due course, guided to their berths by harried pilots headed to and fro on bum boats. Eventually it was the turn of the ship carrying Azaran, guided to a perch alongside a long wooden pier. The ancient logs rammed into the water were covered with thick clusters of sea wrack and barnacles. Ropes were tossed down to the longshoreman, who tied the vessel down tight.

  The hold opened up and out came the lines of wretched captives, blinking in the sudden light and wailing as they were herded off the ship to the encouragement of whips and blows. Azaran saw the woman he'd helped among their number, stumbling down the gangplank without so much as a glance back. Slavers waited for them on the dock, placing them two by two on long wooden coffles and hauling them away to market. Azaran watched them go, disappearing into the town, headed towards whatever miserable fate awaited them. A twinge of...something flared in the back of his mind.

  It's called sympathy, said the quiet voice.

  Then the sailors were untying the ropes and chains holding him to the mast. Pain flared in his limbs as blood flowed back in. He winced at the feeling, stumbling slightly as he came down to the deck. A collar snapped about his neck. The captain kept the lead tight in his meaty paw and led Azaran down the gangplank to the dock.

  Waiting at the bottom was a tall, obese fellow wearing only a loin cloth. Rolls of fat bulged over it. Insect bites marred his flesh and bare scalp. A small boy standing behind him held up a ragged parasol over his head.

  "Master Lugdal!"

  "Captain," Lugdal replied irritably, scratching one of the bites. "I'm here, as requested. What do you want?"

  "Business, as always." The captain yanked Azaran forward. "For the pit. He should be useful."

  Lugdal looked over Azaran as he might a bull at market. "Prime bit of beef," he said grudgingly. "He might last a day. What do you want for him?"

  "Three weights gold."

  "And my mother to suck your cock! Try one and a half."

  "I wouldn't take that if you tossed in your mother and virgin sister for free. Four and a half."

  Ludgal approached Azaran, grabbed his arms, his thigh and belly, grunting at the hard muscle. "Fit enough. What's your name, scum?"

  Azaran said nothing, looking past Lugdal at the town.

  "Hey!" Ludgal slapped his face. Azaran frowned, barely feeling the strike. "Your name!"

  "He speaks our tongue," said the Captain. "You, whatever your name is! Answer him."

  Azaran said nothing.

  Lugdal shook his head. "Is he soft in the head, then? I have no use for an idiot, no matter how hard he looks."

  "He spoke well enough on the ship..." The captain reddened. He turned about and punched Azaran hard in the gut, cursing again as pain shot up his arm. He stepped away, shaking a sprained wrist. Azaran for his part didn't even feel it. "Bastard shit! I'll cut it out of your hide..."

  "Hold." Lugdal scratched his chin. "What the hell...captain, you're a lying son of a sow, but I'm short on warm bodies at the moment. Three and a quarter, take it or walk."

  "Three and quarter." The captain seemed displeased. But he nodded. "Done."

  Lugdal took the chain. "I'll have the coin sent around this evening. And have a care for that wrist. Come along you..."

  Lugdal tossed the chain halter to one of his guards. He waddled away from the ship, the folds of fat about his body vibrating with each step. Behind him came the small boy, struggling mightily to keep the parasol above his master's head. Waiting for him at the foot of the pier was a litter borne by four burly bearers, each with an iron collar about his neck similar to the one about Azaran's.

  The guard yanked the chain. Azaran followed, bare feet on the wooden pier, squinting at the sun. The boy gawked at him as he went by. He took note of the ships at dock or anchored out in the bay. At least two hundred was his guess, from small fishing smacks manned by a handful of men to great galleys powered by multiple banks of oars. All flew the same flag of the serene man on the gold background.

  He entered the town, the guard following after the litter and Azaran following the guard. The smell hit him first, a unique stench of seaweed, fish, mud, shit and perfume, the one sign above all others that a place was inhabited by people in sufficient numbers where sewage and its removal was a pressing concern. By the looks – and stench – of it, the good people of Otossa didn't think a matter of great import. The town seemed to have been grown from the muddy harbor side. Low wooden buildings supported by wooden pillars supported steeply pitched roofs of thatch with smoke coming from holes cut in the top. The walls of all were cove
red in thick layers of whitewash, often decorated with crude images to break the monotony.

  The people were a varied lot, drawn from every surrounding shore and beyond. Every man and woman on the isle could trace their descent to someone who came here seeking refuge or brought against their will. Wars on shores to north and south, east and west resulted in arrivals to Tereg adding their numbers to the mix. He saw this in the faces crowding the muddy streets, fair to brown in color, blond and black haired, their voices speaking in any one of a hundred tongues. Men went about their business armed, women kept their eyes down and scurried on as quickly as they could. Gangs of shouting children ran to and fro.

  Two groups in particular stood out to Azaran's eye. The Corsairs swaggered about, fearing none and feared by everyone. Gold sashes about their waists marked their status, the curved swords and daggers thrust through them the means by which it would be protected. Thousands of them crowded Otossa, and the town had grown rich on the plunder they brought in. Merchants of every nation and race bought and sold stolen silk and incense, plundered weapons of fine steel, everything that came off the boats. Gold flowed from their coffers into the pockets of the pirates, who would soon empty them in the many brothels and wine sinks that crowded every corner.

  Among the plunder brought in from across the sea were slaves. They also stood out, everywhere part of the background until they all but faded into it. Iron or leather collars wrapped their necks as they went about their masters business. Gangs of men labored in the streets, sweeping away the days dung and filth, strained their backs building yet another house or shop. Many were taken from the ships to massive holding pens on the eastern end of town, separated by age, sex, physical condition and comeliness, held until a ship from some other land far from the one they called home came to take them away to a life of servitude.

  This was Tereg in those days. A refuge for fugitives, a haven and stronghold for pirates, a crossroads in the middle of the Great Green Sea where the plunder of one hand became the legal goods of another. To Azaran it was a fascinating sight. Everything was new, fresh to his eyes. Several times he stopped, staring at a man selling strange twisting sculptures that seemed to be both man and beast, looking at a woman parading on a balcony wearing only the briefest strips of silk, at a man standing on a corner playing a discordant tune on a long double-stemmed flute. The guard leading him shouted at him each time, yanking the chain before striking him several times with the lash clutched in his other hand. Azaran barely felt the first and ignored the second, continuing on his way eventually, staring at the guards back, noting absently that the studded leather the man wore was almost in his size.

  Never turn your back on a threat. The voice from the past spoke. A man who turns away from a living enemy earns his grave.

  Killing him is not necessary. So said the silent passenger in the back of his mind.

  Azaran pondered the words of both, wondering yet again where they came from? Memories coming back, or something else? Either way the silent passenger had the right of it. He could kill the guard in an instant, could think of three ways to do it with the chain alone and be gone before anyone was the wiser. But to what purpose? He knew nothing of this place, or the world beyond. Flee and he would be hunted, and there would be no answers found in that. Better to go along with this fat fellow Lugdal, maybe something along the way would spark a recollection, something that spoke of his past.

  "Move!" The lash came down again. Azaran ignored the stripe of pain across his shoulders.

  There was an upwards slope away from the harbor edge, growing more steep perhaps a hundred yards in. Rickety houses clustered along the eastern side of a hill. At the top was a large wood and stone building painted in garish colors, flying above it was a flag of the serene man much larger than all the others, the eyes picked out in jewels, the smile in silver thread that brilliantly reflected the sun. A long line of men made their way up a wide path to the front door, slaves behind them bearing gifts of increasing value. The home of the ruler of this place, Azaran reckoned. He had no memory of the world, but could guess well how things worked.

  Below the stronghold was a more curious structure. Half dug out of the hillside was a large earthen pit lined with logs. Raised embankments on the sides provided seating of a sort. The floor was covered with sand. To the south of it was a long low building made of stone with iron bars on the windows. The litter skirted the pit and stopped before the doors to this place, which flew open at his approach. Several more guards in leather jerkins came out, greeting Lugdal by name.

  Lugdal glanced back and Azaran. "Fresh meat," he said. "Toss him in with the others. They die on the morrow."

  The litter moved on, headed to a large house on the opposite side of the pit. Azaran was led into the holding pen, ducking his head through the door. A narrow passage went down the center, with cells on either side. All were filled with men, the ones on the right fierce looking, the ones on the left fearful. The guard led him down to the last cell on the left, unlocked the door and shoved him in.

  "In you go, meat! Enjoy the night, 'twill be thy last!" The guard laughed as he fixed the chain to a ring on the wall and left, slamming the door shut.

  Azaran rubbed his neck. The collar was chafing a bit. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies and death. Moldy straw was on the ground and his bare feet squelched in something that he didn't want to look all to closely at.

  "Hey! Fresh meat!" The call came from across the passageway. He looked over, saw a burly fellow with wild hair leering at him. Tattoos on his face gave him the appearance of a snarling beast, an effect increased when he smiled to reveal teeth filed to points. "You got a pretty face," he said with a slight lisp. "Maybe I kiss it tomorrow, before I cut it off your head!"

  "Why would you want to kiss me?" Azaran asked back, honestly puzzled at the idea. Only laughter greeted him, along with more vile remarks:

  "Pretty boy gonna die fast tomorrow!"

  "You look like my Pappa...right before I cut out his heart!"

  "Best kill yourself now, boy! 'Cause I'm gonna tear your guts out with my bare hands."

  Shaking his head, Azaran turned his back on the others. He found a spot on the floor somewhat drier than the others and sat down, back against the wall. He closed his eyes, hoping for a moments peace...

  His head ducked to the side. A pebble bounced of the wall, accompanied by general laughter from across the way. “You'll be seeing me in your nightmares, meat!” said pointy-teeth.

  Azaran met his gaze calmly. There were at least three different ways he might cause the fellow injury from behind the bars of his own cage. Then he found himself wondering how he knew that...

  “They won't let you sleep. They never let the new men sleep.”

  A pile of rags and straw rustled in a corner. “They want you weak tomorrow,” said the man lying beneath. “Easier to kill.”

  Azaran blinked. He saw no one else in the cell coming in. “Why do they want to kill me?”

  “Because they will be killed otherwise.” The man stood, knocking off the last bits of straw. He was a tall fellow in his fourth decade, hair and beard streaked with gray, his body thin from hunger and hard labor. About his feet were a pair of leg irons that clinked with each movement of his body. He was fair skinned, though burned by the sun. His eyes were blue and despite the circumstances were serene.

  “When men must live as beasts, fear becomes their master. Those fellows are afraid to die and that makes them cruel.” The man then clapped a fist across his chest. Some symbol of greeting. “Forgive my manners. I am called Segovac. Once of the Colamnac clan of Eburrea...now alas somewhat reduced in circumstances. And whom do I share this cell with on this night?” He held out his hand.

  “Azaran.” He stared at the hand for a long moment, wondering what he was supposed to do.

  Segovac slowly lowered it. “And what land do you hail from?”

  “From...I don't know.”

  “And a far land
it is, the realm of I Don't Know.” He noted the blank look on Azaran's face. “That was a joke.”

  “Right.” Azaran wasn't sure what to say next.

  Further conversation was forestalled by a stone whipping through the bars, missing Segovac by inches.

  “Hey, graybeard!” shouted one of the fellow across the way. “Got anything to say before tomorrow, when I rip you limb from limb?”

  “Yes.” Segovac turned to face them, a slight smile on his face. “Cut your wine with water flavored with lemon juice. It adds a sharp accent to the drink.”

  The thugs and killers glanced at each other, puzzled looks on their faces. Then more stones and bits of offal flew across the way. Segovac ducked, grunting as one struck him in the back.

  Azaran reached out, catching one of the stones as it flew by. He paused a moment, then hurled it back the way it came, through the bars of his cell, across the corridor and through the bars of the cell on the other side. One of the men howled in anger as as the stone struck him in the eye. He fell back, howling in pain.

  The door to the holding pen banged open and two guards stumped in. “What in hellfire is this noise!” one of them hollered.

  “My eye!” The injured man pressed up against the bars. “That bastard hit my eye.”

  “Did he? Aw, let mama have a look...” The guard slammed a wooden club against the bars, sending the fellow back with a yelp.

  “Now listen up!” The guard snarled. “I hear so much as a fart from this place, my sword will be going up someone's shit-stained ass and he can take the sand tomorrow with blood leaking out the backside! On my word!”

  The guards left, slamming the door shut behind them. The men in the other cell gave Azaran hard looks filled with the promise of death on the morrow but were quiet from now on.

  Azaran sat back down, back to the wall. He glanced at Segovac. “You all right?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Just a bruise. I collect them, it seems,” Segovac replied, speaking quietly. After a moment's pause, he added, “ My thanks.”