A few of the audience members that had managed to live sitting close to the blast watched along with Armun. A few of them screamed and yelled, some ran quickly, hoping to collect on their betting against the odds.
Armun felt no sympathy for their troubles.
He looked down at his hands, and his armor. The soot from the smoke and exploded dirt had covered up the glow, and a weight lifted off his mind. Only then did he realize that the soot had affected his vision. Armun wiped at his eyes, but only succeeded in rubbing more dirt.
Armun caught the sight of two guards, searching for him through the thick smoke. He knew they would sting him with their spears of lightning until he was unconscious.
Armun sunk both hands wrist deep into the sand, unleashing his aura into it, hoping plan c would work.
Chapter 26
Jerryl stood near the mouth of the cavern intersection, sweating from humidity and nervousness, waiting for Riffhel to arrive.
Three enforcers, who flanked him now, had brought him to the cavern from the Golden Sands. An hour had passed, with no sign of Riffhel.
Jerryl tried bury thoughts that Riffhel would not show, or that the harmian device would not work, or that they’d simply be discovered.
One thing that comforted him was that the young feral had picked the perfect time to schedule their false search for the ober deposits. There was some big duel going on in the arena with Sindarr, and Lobosa had never missed watching his prized champion fight.
He turned to the three burly enforcers that flanked him. Jerryl did not know them by name, but remembered their faces; members of Lobosa’s personal guard.
Unlike their normal red cloaks, these enforcers were draped in purple, and chitinous, layered armor protecting their bodies, the only weakness being their unguarded faces and necks.
They were big. Jerryl had to force himself to remember that, in a fight, strength does not count for everything.
But it counts for a lot, he thought. Gods they are big.
His toes felt murky in his boots, sweating straight through his socks.
He looked around. Lobosa’s men had done a surprisingly good job of lighting the cavern intersection. Torches were placed evenly apart, spreading light in a smooth transition across the floor and walls, so that the whole area was visible.
“Where is Riffhel? Damn… I was supposed to be watching the fight.” Said one of the guards.
Another chimed in. “I heard two big explosions. Sindarr must have really pulled out all the stops.”
“That’s what he does,” said the bigger one. “Can’t believe I missed it to go cave crawling… human. There better be some good ober in these the lower levels. I could use a bonus.”
The smallest guard, who was really not that small at all, spoke up. “Forget that. I just want to kill a nameless thing. Add one to my list. Where are we, even?”
“The southern quadrant,” Jerryl responded.
“That means nothing to me,” the same enforcer said gruffly.
“Then why did you ask…” said the smaller one.
Jerryl pondered how he and Riffhel would take them out. Even with Riffhel’s help, it would be a struggle. They’d need to take them by surprise, but Jerryl always walked first down the mouth of the canyons. He had done a few excavations with Riffhel, and both of them often walked shoulder to shoulder, as if they were real partners.
He sized them up again. All three carried spears. Jerryl was weaponless.
Suddenly, Riffhel appeared from the darkness of the upper tunnel mouth, cloak billowing behind him. Jerryl was never sure if ferals felt nervous, but if there was such a thing, but for humans, such was the expression Riffhel now wore.
“Good to see you, Riffhel,” said the tallest guard. “Let’s get this little expedition over with so we can - “
In one smooth motion, without any hint of aggression, Riffhel drew his dagger across the guard’s throat, spun, and tossed the same dagger into the skull of the shorter one.
Jerryl reacted more like a feral than anything else. The remaining guard stepped forward, trying in vain to stab the nimble Riffhel with his spear.
“Riffhel, why!?” he said. “Traitor! Traitor!”
Jerryl grabbed the spear in the middle just before the thrust was made, and planted his shin directly between the guards legs. The guard crumpled. Jerryl snatched away the spear and thrust it into the disabled feral’s open, dangling mouth.
Riffhel handed a longsword to Jerryl. Jerryl looked at Riffhel’s bloodshot eyes, and could smell the drunkenness on his breath.
“I was worried how that was going to go down. When I said to bring Lobosa’s most loyal, I didn’t mean his biggest.”
Riffhel didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled the harmian device out from a satchel on his back. Jerryl stared at it. Riffhel also pulled some thick, soft leaves from the same pouch, and handed some to Jerryl, who noticed the leaves were covered in soot.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Leaves from the troll jungle east. Combined with soot, they hide your scent from most things. One of our well kept secrets. Rub it all over yourself.”
Jerryl silently did as he was told.
Riffhel stayed silent, and held up the device. It was shaped like two, obsidian cubes of a glasslike substance, hardened together, with gears in the middle, connected by interlocking teeth. Their exact configuration muddled by the unclear substance.
Jerryl moved behind a large crag, watching Riffhel slowly move towards the center of the cavern, where the sound would echo the loudest and most evenly.
Riffhel cranked the device, turning the cubes two pieces in opposite directions. The winding seemed difficult to Jerryl, as Riffhel was putting his whole body into the motion. Then, slowly, holding both parts of the cube together, Riffhel gingerly placed the cube onto the ground.
Riffhel pounced towards Jerryl. “Move over,” he growled. To their luck, the crag was spacious enough for both of their big bodies to hide in. Jerryl slid in until his body pressed firmly into his side of the hole.
The sound of the crank toy unwinding became the siren call to the death of thousands. The device made three slowly, rising ticktick sounds, which grew in loudness, sounding more like a grinding of the gears than separate ticks, as if giant locusts were rubbing their legs together.
It took little time before Jerryl heard the sound of screeching, a bloodletting noise, the sound of something hideous dying, the sound of a soul being torn from its body.
Jerryl wanted to put his hands around his ears, but knew it would do no good. This was the second time he had heard the device. Jerryl knew the sound would not leave him for whatever time he had left on Harmenor. Looking at Riffhel’s snarl, he assumed the young feral had similar thoughts.
The first time the device was used had been by accident. That first time, they had been higher up in the caves. At the depth they were currently, Jerryl knew it would call more. Many more.
Nothing happened for a long while. The screeching continued for an amount of time that Jerryl preferred not to remember. Its utterance was random. Sometimes in short bursts, sometimes long, drawn out howls.
Then they heard a new sound.
But first, they heard the device again, and the nameless things mimicked it.
It was just one at first. Then two. Then four. Then twelve.
At twelve, Jerryl had to cover his ears again, lips pulled tightly into a grimace.
Riffhel jumped from their hole quickly, picked up the device, and before Jerryl could protest, tossed it hard up the cavern where they came from as it continued to wail, then returned to his place in the crag.
“Riffhel,” Jerry whispered harshly. “Was that honestly your plan?”
Riffhel held up a finger to silence him. A shadow fell over their hiding crevice, and both men pressed themselves tighter into its sharp folds.
The screams were not as much, but what followed was the crackling and creaking of countless joints and limbs, their shadow
s crossing over Jerryl’s vision like thin trees. He remembered how he used to run through Grey Fog Forest as a boy, and how the light rays used to cut through, shadow then sun, shadow then sun, shadow then sun.
Somewhere between a half hour to an hour later, the shadows and screeching had become faint.
Both men crawled out from the crag. The cavern intersection looked as if nothing had happened, but Jerryl knew the dangers of unseen terrors, and that the worst was just beginning.
He unsheathed the longsword from his hip. It shone brilliantly in the light, and was of good quality.. “A decent sword. Too bad it’s from Kashrii.”
He saw Riffhel almost crack a smile. “Stick to the shadows,” The feral said.
Jerryl held out his hand again, this time more assertively. “I hope to see you again.”
Riffhel took it, but seemed reluctant. Through a choked voice, he forced out his words. “I doubt myself.”
Jerryl gripped the young feral by his arm, meeting him eye to eye. “But you took the step… here’s what I want you to do. Hold in your mind a single thought. The reason you did this, that firm reason I told you to find the other day. The reason you killed these men, and colluded with the enemy, and brought out the nameless things. I know inside of you that reason exists, even if you haven’t yet put it into words. Do that; now. Before you leave this cavern, do that. And think nothing else. Push away all thoughts, except for that one. Then charge forward. And don’t look back.”
With that said, Jerryl turned, crouched and running low to the ground. He held his sword at the ready, charging forward in a low stance. He did not look back. He had his single thought.
I’m going to kill Lobosa.
Chapter 27
As Roiland Cardiff’s unconscious body descended beyond the gate, Lobosa watched and considered, nails digging into the beautiful wooden armrests, splinters poking the tips of his fingers. Lobosa’s sharp eyes allowed him to barely make out the figures of his men hoisting away the limp body of the old soldier onto the platform beyond the north gate, shocked into submission. He had hoped that the brothers would come up with some snarky quip about Sindarr so that he could freely vent his frustration upon them, but they gave him nothing.
He believed Sindarr would win. But he had not. Lobosa was not sure how, or why, but it was not even a close fight. How many others could tell that, though, remained to be seen.
Though plain for those still in the Scarlett Ring to see was Sindarr’s cremated remains, slowly spreading across the sand in a southwesterly direction.
He turned towards Gakkamon, addressing him quietly. “Usher out the crowd, now. Take the boys back to their cells, and see that the nobles are happy at the Golden Sands. The three of you,” he said, pointing to his other enforcers, “get the nobles and everyone, I mean everyone, out of my ring. And do it calmly. Then, assess the damages.” All five ferals bowed and saluted, then left for their tasks. Valor and Orrin cast blank stares towards him, which he disregarded, turning back to the wreckage of the ring.
Lobosa leapt over the tower’s spiked ledge, scraping the sides for leverage. He used several foot holes he had made for himself, for moments exactly like this. Before reaching the level of the spectators, he pushed off with his powerful legs, exploding into a sharp roll. The smoke was more pungent than he expected, and he almost choked on it.
Lobosa pulled the side straps on his mask, clamping it harder onto his snout. He stepped lightly towards Sindarr’s charred cloak, kicking through it, breaking what was left of his old pupil’s lower body without care.
He dug his snout deep into the dirt, picking up a handful to his nostrils. The scent of magic was everywhere, but whatever spell Roiland used had to have left some other type of trace somewhere.
Looking to the spectators, he noted those who were being escorted away, but not before meeting several enforcers and moneychangers at each exit. No one ever left without paying their debts. For a few seconds, he watched his men. Not one was out of place, and despite the disaster before him, he found pride in that.
Lobosa knew he had to contain his anger for now, and that whatever he felt would pale in comparison to his people learning of Sindarr’s fate. Though he had been an oddity, the people loved him. Sindarr had also been loyal, as far as Lobosa knew. The destruction he could wage on the battlefield was worth all the issues and baggage he brought.
The Warden waved away some smoke, and looked down at Sindarr’s remains. He saw his dead mage’s arm, a skeletal hand clutching a bleached white, cracked bone.
Lobosa pulled out the bone and raised it to his nose. Its smell was one of burnt flesh and marrow combined; a smell he enjoyed, except this time it brought a feeling he had not contained in years. The bone also contained another scent, buried underneath the hints of smoke and black skies; it was the smell of dead autumn leaves. The smell of magic.
Curiosity rose in the Warden. Sindarr had been correct. Roiland Cardiff was a mage, something that had been obvious during the match. There was no way the human could have survived Sindarr’s initial assault unless he had magical skill.
Curiosity turned into a mild excitement. Lobosa turned back towards the makeshift spear-bone. He sniffed it up and down, inhaling the unmistakable scent of magic; the scent of burnt, autumn leaves. That symptom alone remained, wafting off of the bone. He sniffed again a few more times, this time catching whiffs of blood. Like the remaining scales of armor that hung from Sindarr’s skeleton, the bone was not just warm from the suns rays, but extremely hot to the touch. Lobosa could feel the skin of his wrinkled, grey palms burning as he gripped it. Suddenly, the smell disappeared. He sniffed again and again.
Nothing. As strong as it had been, the smell was now gone.
Lobosa tossed the bone aside, watching it roll and disappear back into the dirt. He traced the steps of the fight, marveling at the human’s power and speed. Even as he had watched the fight, he could not believe how easily Sindarr was outmaneuvered. Twin Dragon’s Breath, the technique Sindarr had worked so hard to learn, had been his downfall.
He wanted to believe that Sindarr had forced the human to use magic to defeat him. Though the mysterious Roiland did lose on that end, the outcome was less than desirable. Sindarr had fought desperately, but was always on the back foot.
Is he a spy? Lobosa thought. Perhaps the human was the master’s way of keeping him on his toes. It was not implausible that the master would send someone to test him. Perhaps there was a lesson to learn? To keep his subordinate in line?
A chill rose up his spine. A cool, afternoon wind had begun to float in and out of the ring. If Roiland Cardiff was the master’s spy, then it was a test he’d failed, and it was a failure he would answer for in multiple ways, at multiple times.
Lobosa turned towards the northern gate, its doors still open just a crack. One of his enforcers jumped outward from within them, running to the Warden on all fours.
“Where shall we take the human, commander?” asked the enforcer.
Lobosa moved close to his enforcer. “To my chambers. Restrain him heavily. Use the head strap. I will be there soon.”
The guard leapt back towards one of the many small doors that lined the walls of the ring. It had been many years since Lobosa had needed to perform the white death.
With his training and the occasional assistance from the master, he had pried many secrets from the spies and wayward travelers that crossed into his borders. To this day, he counted two hundred and ninety six that had been placed in the head strap.
He would find Roiland’s purpose, and suck his mind dry of all the knowledge and power he commanded. Sindarr was dead, but he now hoped he had a more powerful weapon to replace the young feral with.
Lobosa did hope, though, that this Roiland Cardiff would resist. If he was lucky, the human would be brave, a warrior of his own caliber, with the mental strength of a monk of Mount Zei.
Perhaps, he thought, this one human, I can turn.
Chapter 28
T
he following moments were lost in pieces to Armun, coming and going, in and out like a beating heart, a thousand times slowed. He felt his body sway side to side at the walls of the prison caves, or at least, he was fairly certain they were walls, though they seemed to be attempting to inhale his body. He shifted his fading vision to the ceiling, ears perking up at some droplets of slime that hit the floor.
This soon faded to black.
It came back in another wave, and he saw nothing but darkness, and heard nothing but the scraping of Feral feet, and felt nothing but the scraping feral claws into his armor, dirty nails of filth digging into his arms and legs like a hundred carnivorous beetles biting his skin.
And then his vision faded.
It came back once more. The sting of nails and claws returned, as did the slithering sight that lay upon the ceiling above him. He turned his head from side to side as much as he was able, surveying the disgusting, crawling vision.
Tentacles faded in and out of the white torch light that sporadically flickered. Large, mucus ridden eyes opened, and a strange juice fell in pitter-pattter rhythms on the floor. Armun was too dazed and confused to feel afraid, his body still affected by the power of the enforcer’s lightning spears. Before long, he faded back into a black dream.
When he awoke again, his blurred vision came together slowly. It seemed at first that there were many faces looking towards him, surrounded by a strange crowd of floating heads.
As the white torch light further revealed the truth, he realized that what he was looking at were masks, and higher up, the mounted heads of wild beasts. Some of these he had seen, like the giant tigers of the eastern lands, or the shells of the mountain turtles from oceans beyond. Some he did not know, but had perhaps read about long ago. The masks created a swirling pattern that arched to the ceiling’s highest point, leading to a suspended, skeletal lizard head, casting its eye socket shadows against the floor below him.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 26