Valor shook his head. “I’ve never understood why Lobosa let you make these maps in our presence.”
Jerryl inhaled deep. “Because, Valor, they are obviously booby trapped. Each and every one of them. Besides that, my source has told me that Lobosa has also trapped the main entrance heavily. The only way out is through the ring entrances.”
Valor’s heart seemed to sink and rise, bobbing violently in an ocean of depression and curiosity. “That’s off… everything’s off. There’s no reason to close those off unless something big was happening. The fact that you and I are talking right now, for instance. Those two guards out there would normally be listening to every word we say. But they’re practically asleep.”
“How do you know that?” Jerryl asked.
“I can see their bodies moving up and down, slowly.” Valor said, staring intently at the two pairs of shoulders outside the window, lurching side to side. “I know what a man looks like from behind when sleeps. Those two are almost there.”
“Are you implying those two low level guards somehow know about the Warden’s secret plans?” Jerryl asked.
“No,” Valor said, “But they’re exhausted. Exhausted from what… I don’t know. Pulling double duty, most likely. Or loading - things.”
“What else,” Jerryl said in a whispered grumble.
“Well, I told you what Drake said. What do you make of it? Some bad magic that lives beneath the Arnaks.”
Jerryl scrubbed under his chin. “I don’t doubt it, Valor. You’ve seen the nameless things before.”
Valor nodded, resisting his body’s urge to shudder. “I have.”
“Well,” Jerryl said, “imagine what kind of magical energy it took to make those things. They aren’t natural, that much both I and others can deduce. But if Drake used geomancers, who knows what he sensed.”
Valor shook his head. “Drake said that the thing he sensed was not present all the time. He said it’s random.”
Jerryl huffed. “I don’t know Drake Redstone well, but he’s undoubtedly a liar, the way you described him. There’s little reason to trust anything he said.”
“He was telling the truth.” Valor said. “I know it.”
Jerryl looked at Valor, holding his gaze. “What?” Valor asked.
“Lobosa has continued your training in the silence?”
“Of course,” Valor said. “As usual. It’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed.”
Jerryl folded his map over a few times. “I’ve told you before not to trust those abilities. Not implicitly.” The old warrior arched over, hands sprawled onto the floor. For a man of fifty seven years, Valor did not doubt that Jerryl could crush a giant’s skull with his thumb alone. His body was chiseled like the greatest of statues, a character in an ancient painting come to life.
Jerryl’s robe came apart, revealing the brand of the Everburn on his chest.
Valor could smell the burnt flesh, and the digging of Lobosa’s hand in his hair as he forced him to watch. It was the price paid for attempting escape.
Valor shook away the memory. “I know,” he sighed, “but Drake showed all the signs of a person with nothing to hide. At least, not about that… anyways, are you sure there’s not anything besides the nameless things? Nothing you can think of? Nothing Lobosa’s ever said? The way Drake described it… sounded like pure evil.”
“No,” Jerryl responded, his cool tone matching room temperature. “Nothing. Nothing that would be so disturbing. Though I’m sure the Warden’s tampered with enough things throughout the years… these caves were built by the harmians.”
“I know.” Valor said, and somewhat sternly, in an effort to stop Jerryl before he could dive into verbal history. It didn’t work.
“Yes,” Jerryl said, “Who knows what they dabbled with. I never met a harmian that didn’t seem to have some genius within him, or her. Everything the ferals have was theirs, all repurposed. Not that they’d ever admit it. Those spears of theirs, Emberless, all of it.”
To Valor’s fortune, that was where Jerryl stopped. He wrenched back his hair, pulling it into a tighter ponytail. “Abasann… and Innith. It’s my fault they’re dead.”
Jerryl turned to him. “Abassan and Innith were good warriors, and they treated you and Orrin well, like brothers almost. But they were not ani’s, Valor. They’d done terrible things.”
Disbelief struck Valor. “I don’t… there’s no way. When they found out I was trained in the silence, they almost refused to train me.”
Jerryl shook his head. “Even the worst kinds of people are afraid of the legends of the silence, and those who know it. Trust me when I say that Abassan and Innith have done things that equal Lobosa’s own cruelty. Bad people can still fear some things.”
Valor sank into the floor, deeper, its black stone swallowing him up. “What’s going on here, Jerryl.”
“I don’t know.” Jerryl placed one of his large hands on top of Valor’s, engulfing his own, a small comfort for big worries. “But you’ll be alright,” he said, smiling at Valor.
Valor returned the gesture, placing his free hand on top of Jerryls.
Something caught Valor’s eye from outside the cell. He could see the two guards suddenly straighten, growling themselves awake. Then came footsteps.
From outside the door, Valor heard a familiar voice. “Is that how you stand at attention?”
The voice of Riffhel.
Jerryl snapped upwards, moving back towards Orrin as silently as possible.
“No, Master Riffhel.” Valor watched as one of the heads bowed, the voice saying no seemed immediately terrified, as if it wanted to say something more, but knew it could not.
“No,” he heard Riffhel say. “See that you get proper rest during your off time.”
“Yes, Master Riffhel.”
Valor moved his back upwards against the wall. The door opened, and Riffhel entered. The well groomed feral surveyed the room. The three men occupying it turned to stare at him. “Jerryl’s coming back with me.”
“Back where, exactly?” Jerryl asked.
“The Golden Sands.” Riffhel said. “He wants you there. To entertain.”
“I just returned from there.” Jerryl said. “This time is scheduled for the boys to learn. What else am I supposed to do?”
Valor studied Riffhel, watching his wolf mouth move as each word came out, looking for a hint of duplicity.
Riffhel spoke plainly. “Believe it or not, Jerryl, the Warden Commander does not tell me everything that goes through his mind.”
“Hah.” Jerryl forced a laugh. “Now that I don’t believe.”
“Believe what you want,” Riffhel said. “The boys are staying here. They’ll have their scheduled time. But we have to leave, now. The Warden’s not up to entertaining guests tonight.”
Jerryl stood, patting Orrin on the back, walking towards Riffhel. Valor watched as Jerryl moved towards the door, and caught a shift in his mentor’s figure.
The door shut loudly.
Orrin turned, watching the guards’ lock them back into their cells. The familiar jolt of storm power raced through the bars, dissipating against the black rocks above and below.
He stretched his neck, rolling his head around, jumping on the balls of his feet randomly. The freeform meditation had still shaken something loose in him, something he could not put his finger on. Even Valor seemed to still be in a new state.
“There’s no reason to take Jerryl now,” Valor said to his brother. “There’s only what, two or three days of games left? Usually he just welcomes them at the Golden Sands…” Valor ran his fingers through his wild hair, pulling through tangled knots.
Orrin signed to his brother. [ I think you’re right. There is something going on. ]
Valor smirked. “Took you long enough to come around.”
“Hello?” said a rough voice in the cell across from them.
“Hello?” It spoke again, clearer now, not so much like sand paper, but aged like a migh
ty tree, were it that trees could talk.
Valor stood up quickly, moving the bars. Orrin joined him. It was more dark than usual in the caves. They could only make out the frame of the man.
“Excuse me,” said the voice again, “Can you speak?”
Orrin looked at Valor and signed to him.
[ Fake accent, ] he signed. This man was pretending to be more highborn than his appearance gave away. Orrin could hear his vocal chords straining just slightly for extra emphasis, the vibration giving him away.
Valor nodded, and leaned in towards the voice, and said, “Not as well as you, friend. But well enough. Slave life does your vocabulary a deterrence.”
The gruff voice spoke back. “I’ve never met a slave who knew the word deterrence.”
Valor grinned.
Orrin tried to make out any distinguishing features, still waiting for his vision to adjust to the dim torchlight.
“Where are you from?” Valor asked. The new prisoner walked forward, revealing his frame. Still somewhat shrouded, even to Orrin’s keen eyes, he felt frightened at the man’s visual similarity to Jerryl. Everything about him was simply big. The remnants of his clothes looked like they had been shred by a thousand arrows. He could see long, silver hair.
Orrin felt there was something familiar about this man. Perhaps he just had one of those faces, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something was recognizable about the stranger.
The old man shook his head as sand swirled off in a dusty cloud. “Where am I?” He asked frightfully.
“Prison,” Valor said. Orrin could hear the man cough violently under his arms. “Under the Arnaks.”
“Why...”
Orrin listened as Valor launched into a halfway decent impression of Jerryl. “Many years ago, the ferals were driven southwest during civil war, and for a few centuries they - ”
“I know. I know all that. I know that!” A sense of frustration was obvious in the stranger’s voice. It was then that the old man slumped down, disappearing into the back of his cell.
Valor raised his hand in his own metaphor for a handshake, the best one he could do behind their magical bars. The old man nodded towards him, and raised a hand towards Orrin, who returned that gesture like a young child.
A harsh whimper came from somewhere in the darkness, interrupting them, the sound of a whimpering dog. “What’s your number?” Valor asked. The man looked around what little was visible of the walls. “I can’t... I don’t seem to have been given one. They must have forgotten.”
“They’re not giving out numbers anymore.”
“I’m sorry?” the old man called out.
“Prisoners get a number usually. ”
“Oh. I see.”
Orrin signed to him. [ Ask about cuffs. Ask him anything. ]
Valor nodded to his brother. “Did they give you any cuffs?”
The old man returned to the light. “No. Well, at first they did. But they just put me - walked me here.”
Valor signed, [ No cuffs, Orrin. He’s the first I’ve seen with no cuffs. ]
“What about these cuffs?” asked the stranger.
“Mostly all of us have’em. Especially strong people.”
“Oh,” said Armun, “I see... what purpose do they serve?”
“Ah,” Valor said quietly. With quickness, he flung his arm across the bars, and crackling sparks of light fell softly onto the ground.
Frightened prisoners appeared with shocked faces in cells far to Orrin’s right. They faded in a near instant as the sparks disappeared. In that short light, Orrin could see the old man’s face, a face that did not match the voice. He appeared as he imagined a farmer would; tan skin, sun wrinkles, a stern jaw.
The old man wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“These cuffs keep us in. It’s repurposed harmian magic, same as most everything in here. The bars are magically sealed. You, however, can touch yours. Even standing this close we can feel it throughout our bodies.” Valor stuck his fingers underneath the cuff on his left hand, scratching an itch.
The old man started to pace.“Thank you for talking to me.”
Valor shrugged. “Not much else to do. Gets boring down here. From?”
“From? Oh - where I’m from. Spade country.”, the old man responded.
“Ah. Regular farm type?”
“Not so regular now,” the old man said shortly. “Heard of the Spade Kingdom?”
Valor laughed. “Of course! Most patrons of this fine establishment are human, so… we’ve got all comers.”
“Are there nobles in here?” the old man replied. “People of - status?”
“Oh no,” Valor responded. “You look old enough and smart enough to know that most people with money can avoid being locked up in places like this. And why lock up anyone with money when they can fund places like this? Have you met many nobles?”
Orrin watched the old man begin to pace. “Only a few… any military folks in here?”
“I’m not sure.” Valor walked a few paces in his cell, then thought. Valor looked at Orrin, still sitting and thinking.
Valor signed, [ Time to prod. What should I ask him? ]
Orrin shrugged, signing back. [ I don’t know. He looks way to strong to be a farmer though. He asked about military people. Ask him if he served. ] Orrin knew he had to tell his brother to ask questions in a specific way to get his own questions answered.
Valor nodded. “Hope whatever king and queen they report to die of a shit fever.”
Orrin made a familiar movement, dragging his fingers down his face. He pushed Valor and signed, [ Do you not know how to ask questions without being insulting? ]
Valor stepped out of arm’s reach of his brother. The new slave showed no sign of the harsh words affecting him. Was he a military defector? A murderer? Or perhaps, just a man who lost his way.
Orrin watched their new friend walk, scratch his lip, pull his hair back.
That walk and those muscles. He’s done service.
The old man cleared his throat and spit. “Are you from somewhere other than here?”
“We were born here.” Valor said. Orrin tapped him on the shoulder. [ Don’t say too much. Be discreet. ] Valor waved his brother off, signing, [ I know, I know... ]
Valor met his brother halfway, and allowed some quiet to build between the three of them. He watched the big man pull off both boots, dumping sand out from the inside, a personal record of his travels, now lost.
When next conversation began, the old man spoke first. “What’s going on here? I always thought ferals rejected humans, even as slaves.”
Valor stepped closer to the bars. “More or less,” he said, “They do. But here we are. Can’t pass up free labor. Would you if you were them?”
The old man shuddered. For some reason Orrin thought it was a forced movement. “I don’t know,” He said. “I’ve only heard about ferals second hand.”
Valor stretched his arms to the ceiling. “I’ll be straight with you. You seem strong, so... they’ll put you in the mines. If you’re strong as you look, they might make you fight.”
The old man gave him nothing in response.
Valor looked at his brother before speaking again. “There are other things here too, friend. Bad things that will make you go mad. Should you feel something like this approach, don’t accept it. Don’t look at it, whatever it may be.”
Their new friend moved towards the bars. “Will you help me?” he asked in a whisper.
Valor stretched his arms again, feigning disinterest. He turned to look at Orrin. Orrin nodded yes.
“Sure,” Valor said. “We’ve got nothing but time down here. And you seem honest. For now, just look out for others.
“Anything else?”
“No.” Valor said. “Well, yes. If you are unlucky enough to be in the Warden’s presence, don’t look at him. Go on about your work. Even if he gets in your face.”
There was a long silence before the old man spoke again. He ap
peared once more at the front of his cell. “My name is Cardiff. Roiland Cardiff.”
“I’m Valor. This is my brother, Orrin.” Orrin turned into the torchlight and waved.
“Well… wonderful.”
Armun knew it was night, but only because his aura could sense it. The guard’s came around once every hour, lighting braziers high above them. He watched the brothers go about their separate tasks, studying their choices. They were built like fighters, though the bigger one seemed to read and write a great deal.
A smart boy, he thought. A pity he’s here.
The skinnier one, the one who had spoken, spent some time in what appeared to be meditation. He tried to read as well.
A few stray sounds occurred, but nothing out of the ordinary, or stranger than Armun had yet heard. A cold air passed by his face, a strange gust of of wind. Armun looked around for a hole, though he knew there were none. Scratches on the ground echoed across the prison.
Some time in the night, two guards appeared, one carrying a small torch. The shorter one dropped what looked like a rectangular box at first, but as it was thrown onto the ground, it was revealed to be clothing.
“Put this on, now,” said the feral who threw it. Armun stood and quickly stripped off his clothes, hiding his knife in his boot with a practiced hand. He changed swiftly.
“Put your old clothes on the floor. Out here. Throw them out here.”
Armun did so in a fastidious manner. He filled an old blood soaked hole with his finger. He never knew that simple cotton clothes could be designed for torture, as coarse fibers poked into his genitals.
The guards disappeared, leaving him his boots, and the thought of why they didn’t bother to check them.
Of all things not to check, he wondered.
Armun stepped back, hitting one of the iron plates bolted to the floor, tripping, dropping the knife. It skittered across the floor to the cell in front of him.
He froze, becoming still enough to slip into his own shadow, fear caught on his breath. After a few minutes, when there was neither sight nor sound of guards, he allowed himself to relax. A wave of stupidity washed over him.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 14