Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Jik’qui turned around for another whirlwind strike, but before he could raise his lead hand, Armun slashed hard across the chest, opening his mirror armor, slicing through furry muscle, warm blood covering the mirror plates.

  Blood leaked to the ground, and the feral fell to his knees. Armun stepped forward, and stabbed his opponent through the back of his unguarded neck.

  Jik’qui died silently, with a soft patter of his body against the sand.

  Armun dropped his sword to the ground. Commotion began to stir in the crowd, as guards ran around the stage yelling at one another. The confused patrons booed and cheered him at the same time, creating another discordant, awful symphony. Armun payed it no mind, and instead looked up to the towers for the one man he wanted to see; the Warden. He scanned the high pavilions, and spotted Lobosa amidst two strange jelly-like creatures, staring through his metal facemask at the scene below.

  The Warden raised his fist, and the guards on the ground below sprang into action. They growled in their strange language, leaping around as if to confuse Armun. They barked like common street dogs at him, spears lowered, crackling lightning energy arcing between the many pointed ends, enclosing Armun in an obtuse circle, twenty-three to his one, or so he counted. None challenged him directly, and as they finished assuming their formation, the energy crackled between the spears, arcing outwards, taking strange turns, energizing the sand.

  Armun knew he would regret it, but had to let it out.

  “Ugly dogs,” he said with a wry smile.

  It tingled Armun’s skin from the ground up, strands of energy lacing around his face, caressing his arms and fingers with torment. It was painful and wonderful at the same time, a paradox that lifted him off the ground mentally.

  He opened his eyes, and then realized two things. The first was that he was floating off the ground. It only lasted for a moment before he quickly collapsed on the floor. Only then did the true pain begin, muscles seizing and twitching, torment pulsing in every part of him. Even his big toes felt as if needles were stabbing through the bone.

  He then realized the second issue at hand; the ferals' spears were more powerful than he realized.

  Shock power pulsed upwards from the feral weapons, stabbing at the edges of his peripheral vision. As they came in to get him, Armun passed out.

  When Armun awoke, he found himself chained in a dark room, collared and clasped by the throat and all four limbs. The collar was heavy, heavy enough to make lifting his neck a chore. Random sunbeams that cut in through the ceiling revealed a metal plated floor, hastily clamped together by dried tar.

  He felt the Warden before he saw him, his presence being so devilish, the same as it was the first time they had met.

  Armun realized that his aura was completely extended, and that the Warden was practically bathing in it. If the feral commander could sense an aura, then it was over. Armun watched Lobosa’s eyes. Contact with one’s aura could often give the recipient a strong jolt of energy.

  “Wake up, Mister Cardiff. Roiland - Cardiff.”

  When Armun turned his eyes up, he saw a bucket in The Warden’s left hand.

  No sooner had Armun’s eyes regained focus did Lobosa toss orange liquid onto Armun’s body. Instantly Armun began to sweat, heart pounding, brains bucking against his skull like the hooves of a charger.

  Against his own rigid lungs, he tried to speak. “What - is - that?”

  The Warden dropped the bucket. Armun realized they were alone. “Something I created.” Lobosa said. “Brewed from black reed and some of the yellow wildflowers that grow around here. We use it to fuel ourselves in combat. Ferals, I mean. For humans it’s too powerful. It’s been known to make their hearts stop.”

  Lobosa kneeled down, inspecting his captive. “Not you, though. You seem to be taking it well. Odd.”

  “Did you - mean to - kill me - then?” Armun said, breathing still difficult to manage.

  The Warden gave no clue as to a true feeling on the matter. “I had a mild hunch you’d be fine.”

  Armun attempted to slow his breathing, deeply inhaling and exhaling with his stomach. It failed, and his heart only seemed to pump faster, and more sporadically. His vision was stronger, though, his hearing louder. As the Warden stepped, Armun could hear each individual nail scraping the tiny grains of sand and iron that made up the floor. Everything seemed to move more slowly.

  Lobosa kneeled, and began picking through Armun’s hair. “I underestimated you. Though killing Stoney was nothing compared to killing Jik’qui. I thought we were clear on the meaning of what an exhibition match entails?”

  Lobosa snapped back Armun’s head, facemask to drenched, orange face.

  Armun knew he had to say something. “If I - was supposed to fake it - then your - Jik’qui - was definitely not aware - he killed the battle master.”

  Lobosa drug a nail against the wall, the screeching sound silencing Armun. “That idiot should have moved out of the way… Jik’qui was a bit reckless, I’ll agree. He hates humans. I’m curious, you are old for a human. Certainly, not for us ferals. What is your age, human?”

  “Too old - to be doing - this…”

  “As I said,” Lobosa’s hand shot forward into Armun’s scalp, fingernails digging deep. Armun could feel blood being drawn. “True, perhaps. Perhaps not so. I may have use for you. While you were out, I did some rearranging of the fight schedule. If you survive this next match, it will either be a miracle, or skill. There are only those two options.”

  Lobosa kicked Armun hard in the chest, sending his heart beat higher once again, just when he had managed to bring it down. “Do you desire freedom, Roiland?”

  Armun nodded yes.

  “Good,” Lobosa said. “Then you’ll keep fighting until you show me your true strength.”

  A door opened in the darkness, the lines of its rigid edges forming like brush strokes. Lobosa quickly exited, and Gakkamon, the man who had unintentionally saved his life before, walked in, bringing food and water. He set it before Armun’s feet, and then unchained Armun’s hands, but leaving the prison bracers on.

  Every time Armun felt release, he had the urge to unleash a magical fury upon his captors, and every time the urge grew stronger. He knew, however, that in this next match, he would have no choice but to use magic.

  He knows I’m not ordinary. Couldn’t have followed my plans anyways.

  “Eat,” the old warrior commanded, pointing at the plate, nudging it harshly with one long finger. “We will not let you die, yet.”

  Armun looked up at Gakkamon. He looked a great deal like the one he had fought in the ring just moments ago. He supposed that all ferals of enforcer rank or above looked the same; big, brawny, and with bigger weapons.

  “I’m sure dying would please you more.”

  “You’re suffering would please me, yes. You killed one of us out there. If somehow you make it through this day alive, there will be many of us, waiting in the dark. Of course, if you kill your next opponent, I doubt they’ll follow through on it.”

  Gakkamon opened his chest, stretching his arms to the unseeable sun, muscles constricting. Armun could even see them through the feral’s fur. It was not fear he felt then, but jealousy.

  To be young again...

  “Old man,” Gakkamon spoke, “You are brave, and powerful. I don’t know what secrets you have up your sleeve. But if you don’t want to die, you’ll unlock those secrets. I cannot say much - but your next opponent is strong. Wild.”

  Armun looked up at his captor, noting the emphasis on the word burn. Was he to fight a mage? Or was there something else to the hint?

  Moreover, why is he giving me hints?

  Armun looked down at his food, chewing slowly. “You are Gakkamon, correct?”

  “Indeed.”

  Armun swallowed. “Gakkamon… I can’t help but feel we have some things in common.”

  Gakkamon smiled. “Oh yes. Same sire, I’m sure, though I’ve never seen a feral’s arm skin. Y
ou would be the first.”

  Armun shoved some warm bread into his mouth. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to be the first at something. Tell me, Gakkamon, since you obviously hold some position of power amongst your people. I’ve also noticed a sickness among them.”

  Gakkamon put his hands behind his back. “What you see are the effects of bloodlust. Normally I’d ignore your question, but I can tell you already know the answer. It is a curse the flame seers are attempting to rectify.”

  Armun lifted a tired finger. “Tell me… do your flame seers preach sacrifice at any cost? The cost of one’s sanity? Or their family?”

  Gakkamon huffed and folded his arms. “I’d strongly suggest you make no mention of what my people have had to do to survive. You’d better remove the mark from the reason it was made.”

  The old mage assented with a hand wave. “No judgement. Though... being locked in chains can make it difficult for a man to keep an open mind… I’ve often found.” Armun picked up a raw carrot stick, chewing on it loudly. “I feel you and I have a lot more in common than you’d be willing to admit.”

  The burly feral lowered his gaze. “It’s not impossible that we share some similarities. But you are just a human.”

  Armun nodded. “Well... for blood in the moon.”

  Gakkamon turned towards the door, grunting and snarling so strongly that Armun could see his lungs pulsating in his ribs, and his fur vibrating, hot breath steaming higher and higher. “You’re lucky I’m not drowning in bloodlust. I would also strongly suggest you keep any knowledge you have of our people’s words to yourself.”

  Armun sneaked in a final comment before the door closed. “Interesting that you would tell me something to help keep me alive.”

  Gakkamon left without response, but not before turning to stare at Armun as the door slowly creaked to meet its seams.

  “ Fleud’rin gashh, kav’ri expli’ floregh.”

  Armun repeated the translation in his mind.

  Blood in the moon. Within the fire’s rebirth.

  Armun thought of another saying while surveying his depressing surroundings, but couldn’t remember it fully.

  In the... in the field... without a plow? In the field without a plow? Or was it sow...

  It took a whole minute of this internal debate before he realized his stomach was still growling. He pulled the remainder of his food towards him. Fresh fruit, some more oat bread, and a handful of roasted pork, which he assumed was leftovers from the nobles plate.

  He recognized the fruit as one he did not know the name of, but remembered it from the troll wars.

  Not just the time, but the place, he thought.

  This was troll fruit. The name also came back to him.

  Culli.

  He recognized the culli fruit’s star shaped body, remembering a time when he was swathed in dirt and magical camouflage, culli hanging in bunches of twelve or fourteen, often times exploding in the heat of battle from a mages spell, splattering his face. He had lived on them in those dark days.

  The sweet, delicious flavor did not help to quell the awful memories that had turned to nightmares. Less and less of them occurred as the years went by, now only serving as strange jolts of remembrance, as if reminding him that evil still existed, and here he was, experiencing it for real, instead of in the dreamscape.

  After leaving this place, though, they’ll be replaced with new ones...

  Just as he had finished his plate, an enforcer walked in. This one had shorter hair and a smaller waist, not as well groomed as Gakkamon.

  It was strange, however, to see a feral with only as much fur as a real wolf would have.

  Almost human...

  Armun imagined himself tugging on it.

  The short enforcer dropped the recognizable shapes of armor on the floor. It shone even in the darkness of the cell.

  “Put it on. You’ve got fifteen. Then we’ll take you back out. Understand?”

  Armun nodded, playing out some false fear.

  “The Warden Commander said to answer your questions.” He grunted, obviously not caring to answer any. Armun looked at the armor.

  “I have just one. How long until my next match?”

  The wolf man grunted again. “You made a big affair of the last one. The commander’s been keepin’em on the edge o’their seats for a while. Soon.”

  “With a mage?” he asked.

  “Yes.” the feral enforcer was clearly growing impatient. “You said one.”

  Armun quickly shook his head, and the enforcer undid his shackles. “This room is surrounded. Try to escape if you want, but our mages will blast you the second you come through that door. Dead as it gets.” The enforcer then worked the triple lock on the irons around his ankles, and felt the familiar weightlessness of a normal body.

  Just before the enforcer left, Armun noticed something was missing.

  “No weapon?” he asked casually.

  “The Warden said no. So no.”

  He knows, Armun thought. He must have sensed my aura, though I didn’t sense one on him..?

  The enforcer left the room, though his shadow did not leave the cracks beneath the door.

  Armun waited a few seconds, and then leapt at the armor, wasting no time in putting it on.

  He had recognized it the moment the guard dropped it. The name of the armor was just on the tip of his tongue. It was Laranuan, that much he remembered. Armun had never had the privilege to wear it, since most sets had been destroyed after the war.

  Only twenty of these suits were ever made.

  The armor appeared braided and laced, silver strands binding the individual pieces. It flowed together, and was slightly more form fitting than your average armor. Its colors were of the forest in the night. Dark green, black, grey, blue, and violet hues flowed between each individual piece. The materials were some kind of leather with what felt like infinite flexibility. The bracers and shin guards combined a light metal with leather, though the metal could only be felt, not seen. Along the edges of the armor were motifs of trees and branches that extended similar to veins, a random but yet sensical array of elements that, despite his tiredness, he couldn’t help but admire. The chest piece was blank.

  Armun counted the pieces several times.

  Full chest guard, leg guards, shin guards, boots, bracers, gloves, pauldrons.... no helmet. Damn. Everything but.

  He would have to make do without, which in an arena style fight would be as dangerous as standing face first into a cannon.

  Knowledge truly is the greatest weapon, he thought, smiling to himself. Armun grabbed the tan tunic and pants, putting them on quickly, fumbling with the looseness of them. Even his muscular body could not fill them out completely, though the forest leathers seemed to suck onto his skin, closing the gaps. He only cared that they were free of blood, and clean for use. Next, he put on the chest piece. Once it was fitted, the armor began to glow.

  “Damn, damn, damn...” he muttered.

  Armun tried to cover it up with his hands. He had no idea how the armor was supposed to work, only what the Laranuans who crafted it had told him. He quickly snapped on each piece, which took very little effort; the armor appeared to want to connect with him.

  The lights began to glow brighter. He stepped back against the wall of the cell, trying to be as still as possible. Slowly, the glow began to lessen, sputtering out to a stop.

  He heard talking from outside the thick door, and realized his fifteen minutes had passed. It didn’t matter now. He only felt sorry for whomever it was he was about to fight.

  Armun looked himself over with a mixture of admiration and continual surprise.

  He imagined the look on the Warden’s face, once he realized how poorly he’d thought this through.

  Chapter 23

  Lobosa stood above the lightproof, ten-foot tall metal box that held his new mysterious fighter, hidden in a small pocket of curved limestone just outside the Scarlett Ring. He turned to Sindarr, who
se eyes had lit up with what was either virile excitement or the Everburn’s grace.

  “Did you touch his aura? Does he have one?” Lobosa asked.

  Sindarr was wordless. The beautiful feral pulled back his long hair, pushing it away from his eyes. “Commander…” he began.

  Lobosa huffed. “Sindarr, I don’t have time for your oddity, not today. How strong is he?”

  Sindarr made a very humanistic, pouting expression at the Warden..

  “Sindarr…” Lobosa growled.

  The young feral mage growled back. “Alright, alright - I don’t know. There’s something truly magnificent about him, but I couldn’t touch his aura long enough to know what. He’s strong. Physically, for sure. Magically - he might be as strong as I am. His aura, it’s so… graceful. His aura - it has a pulse. Almost a… like a ghost with a pulse.”

  Sindarr paused for a long moment, and the Warden grew impatient again. “What do you mean, it has a pulse?”

  “A heartbeat.” Sindarr, suddenly excited, wrapped his arms around himself, cloak flapping in a warm breeze. “Oh, Everburn’s love, it was breathtaking.” Sindarr shuddered, speaking through chattered teeth. “It was like my own aura was being stretched and sucked in, and then i heard the thump, and it let me go. He let me go. He…”

  Sindarr turned sharply towards Lobosa. “He fights no one but me.”

  Lobosa nodded. “Of course, Sindarr. It’s already been arranged; schedule has been changed and everything. Leave for your gate as soon as possible.”

  Sindarr took Lobosa’s hands and kissed them. Lobosa recoiled instinctively. He had allowed Sindarr his penchant for extravagance and weirdness, but never when it was directed at him. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Warden.”

  Lobosa gripped his daggers, speaking more so to interrupt his own thoughts than Sindarr’s. “I’m… sorry about your brother. We will send him to the Everburn with the highest of honors.”

  Sindarr grew quiet again, his nervous energy abated, acquiescent to the mystery fighter in the chained down metal box, hands holding each elbow. Lobosa spoke again, a bit louder. “Your brother, Sindarr..?”