He was in the Warden’s true chamber. Not the same one as before, but different. The room’s enhancements told him as much. But this time, the room was better lit.
He could not tell if it was a dragon’s head or not. There were many large lizards in Harmenor, ones that were dangerous in different ways than dragons.
Armun snapped away from the strange, entrancing beauty of the sight before him, attempting to focus on his troubles. He wriggled slightly, and found that he was strapped to the chair by a confusing mess of tattered ribbons of leather, thick and pliable. He struggled for a moment, and despite their stretchy nature, there were at least forty or fifty of them, buried firmly in the chair with iron bolts and screws, deeply turned into the its wooden frame. The chair itself was also bolted down from every conceivable angle, with another batch of L - shaped iron bars and clamps. It was a mess of a constructed thing, but no doubt effective.
Do not resort to magic where you can do without, he repeated again and again. It was a mantra he had often used to keep himself calm, though he realized now that he could not longer do without.
As time seemed to stretch out, seconds feeling like hours, Armun began to realize that his mantra was nothing more than false hope. Not even the giant feral warrior he had slain earlier could escape the chair with brute force alone, lest the creature were to sever each cord with one of its sharpened razor fingernails.
For the first time, Armun wished that he had been born something else besides a human, something smaller or more lithe. An elf could perhaps slip through the makeshift thing, but only if he was an expert in body manipulation.
Armun was thankful that at least his neck was free.
Then he felt him. There were no footsteps or opening of doors, much less the closing of the one to his rear. Lobosa’s dark presence pressed Armun from behind, and he could have sworn that he heard gusts of wind. The tiny hole at the top of the room shone a little stream of light that struck some of the masks.
He turned left, and Lobosa was there. Armun was caught by surprise, breathing deeply to hide his throbbing heartbeat, turning his head slowly, pretending he had known the Warden had been there all along. The Warden stood, unflinching, unmoved. Then he moved a bit further to Armun’s right, only allowing his eyes to see him with weakened peripheral vision.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his left eye, Armun saw a claw, turning slowly. He knew it was the Warden, somehow able to be in two places at once. Hot breath molded to the sweat on his neck, the heat sticking like a warm cloth, disgusting and staggering. He heard the sound of steel unsheathe from behind him, and then the familiar dagger appeared across the tip of his chin. Lobosa gave a quick cut across Armun’s face, which stung a great deal despite the small cut.
The Warden disappeared into the darkness again.
Armun waited and waited. Lobosa was certainly still there; his dark shadow and foul breath could firmly be felt, and he doubted that Lobosa had any, or he would have sensed it. Armun let his aura out. There could be no hiding from the truth now.
Shk.
Another quick scratch, this time on his neck, just above his new-old armor.
Then nothing for a long time.
Armun looked ahead at one of the masks, staring at it. He felt it stare back.
This is the silence, he realized; an ancient form of skulkery he had not seen in ages, come back to haunt him now. He remembered the wars of his youth, and the few he had met who were trained in the silence. He remembered how quiet they were, how they could create the deafening silence that made a man’s ears ring while questioning his sanity.
Shk. A cut was applied to his forehead. The Warden’s figure fluttered right, and then left somehow.
Again the Warden shifted position while Armun was lost in his thoughts, moving directly behind him, scratching against his hairline. The mind could only last so long, Armun knew, and he could already feel himself slipping.
Hours had gone by. Armun’s face was covered in trickles of blood, as if red rain had slowly fallen upon him. He shook with the sweats, shook like the randomness of his thoughts as he struggled to focus.
Shnk.
Another cut.
Damn syllo gnats. Too many of them in here. What is this place I wonder? Again, another indication of a previous -
Shnk.
... someone else was here. The markings in the arena, never seen before. Need to come back here. Some time. When the weather’s better, and these damn syllo gnats aren’t so abundant. Have to -
Shk, shnk.
... son of a bitch. Terrifying little things... got to - oh, already did. Yes. She should be ready now. She’s had plenty of time. This desert had thousands of oases once. Oasises? Oases? Something. Oases sounds better. Gods I’m hungry.... damn. So damn hungry. Got to steal food from this place. No, we have provisions. I packed enough, but you never really -
Shnk.
He’s putting less space in between the cuts. By my count it’s been an hour since we started this. The little light beams have moved about six inches...
Shnk.
Syllo gnats... my word, they just do not give up. They just never stop... keep going. They don’t stop, I don’t stop. Don’t stop wondering... wonder all day, wonder all night, fly as the dragon and all of its might.
I do wonder what he does all day. “The Warden.” Haha... not a very good warden. As the boys said though, or at least Valor said, since the other one is mute, yes, they have become very lax. Don’t think they expected any kind of resistance really. Not from me, at least. Or maybe they did. The ones that brought me in certainly didn’t.
Shnk.
This is so interesting, the way he aligns his masks. The lizard skull is perfectly placed. It’s not maw skull. It’s not a dragon skull. If only I could take it with me. Bones would be useful. One of the hardest things there is. Where did I read it now... about them being tempered over and over from the intense heat of their own flames. Something like that. The flames move through their blood, and affects their bones in some way. Smart man, whoever figured that out. Wonder how he did it... however, whatever. Interesting.
Shnk.
Agh, syllo gnat, my forehead. Right above the eye. It’s bleeding now. Bleeding fast. Just rolling on down my temple.
Syllo gnats.
Syllo gnats.
... gnats.
Shnk.
... little bastards. Where’s the lights? Those tiny little things.
Armun looked around for the tiny dots of sun light, which had moved a great deal. The sun was most likely far to the west now. In a few hours it would set completely. It might be dark.
It might be dark now.
Chapter 29
Jerryl moved swiftly, weaving in and out behind the shadows of the nameless things. He tried his best not to look at them. Every now and then he caught a flash of a long arm, fingers as long as short swords, legs two or three times the length of any man. He caught a quick sight of one face; tortured, horrifying, as if molded permanently into shape, its features pulled down as if drawn by meat hooks.
He was careful not to slip on the wet, moldy, mossy portions, created by aquifers that leaked water through the rock. He stopped at a few to take a drink, unsure of when next he would be able to eat or rest.
Focusing upon his mission helped to quell his fears of the nameless things, and to block out the spine shivering, skin tingling noises the nameless things made.
The half an hour spent following the spider-like creatures seemed to stretch on forever. Occasionally he’d close his eyes, envisioning the way to Lobosa’s main chamber. He had been taken there so many times that he’d memorized the steps, the one place he needed no map to get to.
Once the Warden was dead, he would need to free his boys. He stifled a laugh, knowing how angry Valor would be that he didn’t get to kill the Warden himself.
There were no checkpoints along the route back up, and no guards to warn the people above.
The moment Jerryl saw torchlig
ht, cresting the hill of rock until the ground became flat again, the noise of battle began instantaneously.
Jerryl covered his ears, plastering his big hands around them, but even that was not enough to block out the shrieks of the nameless things, and the cries of those killed by the monsters.
With ears still covered, he moved behind a large rock, able to peak down a small divide where the rock had been split.
He saw the nameless things tearing through feral guards and slaves alike, though they soon turned their aggression moreso towards the ferals, as they were the only ones attacking.
One commanding enforcer yelled to the ferals. “Hit them hard! Drive them back!”
A moment later, Jerryl was sure he heard that same enforcer yell out for his life, but the continued shrieks blocked out his certainty. He tried not to look directly at the nameless things, but there were so many, a hundred, then another hundred, big bodies forming into an undulating mass, the ferals drowning in them the way an ant would do in a swath of river reeds. The white pullers attempted to throw magic fire upon the nameless things. It seemed to stun them, but only for a moment. Even the biggest fireballs had no more effect than medium sized rocks thrown against a Scarlett Ring gladiator.
Slowly the mass of nameless things began to push towards the eastern tunnels, spiders with stronger legs.
Jerryl eyed a group of slaves, huddled into a corner, fifty or sixty terrified bodies. Some had their pick axes raised in self-defense. He ran to them, looking at the faces on the crowd. He found one that seemed to have some semblance of sanity, a young woman with short hair, clothes tattered, eyes wide. “You,” he said, grabbing the woman by her collar. “Do you want to die? Or do you want to fight?”
The woman stared him in the eye, slack jawed. Jerryl could tell she was gripped by fear, and he intended to snap her away from it.
“Which one is it!?” He yelled over the sound of exploding flame and the shrieks of the nameless things.
“I…” the woman stammered. “What are they..?”
“Listen to me.” Jerryl said. “Listen! All of you!”
The crowd turned towards him as he spoke, but never completely removing their eyes from the nameless things as their bodies shook.
“This is it! If you want any chance at living, you’ve got to fight! You’ve got to fight now! There will never be another time! Never!”
Some of the men and women, those, who seemed stronger in mind, moved towards him.
Yes, Jerryl thought. Yes!
Before Jerryl could answer, a young man with a shaved head, no more than fifteen, moved towards him.
“Don’t listen to him,” said the young man, stepping in front of Jerryl. “That’s Jerryl. He works for the Warden. I’ve seen him before! He’s just gonna get us all killed!”
The woman pulled away. The huddled crowd turned to him, looking back and forth between their scuffle and the murder spree occurring just feet in front of them.
“Hey!” A feral enforcer called to him. “You! You come here.”
Jerryl turned, and the enforcer dropped down to all fours, pounding the ground towards him.
Jerryl looked at the boy who had called him out, noticing the pickaxe in his left hand. Jerryl grabbed it. The boy protested with a shout of “Hey!”
Jerryl turned to meet the enforcer, who leapt forward. Predictably, as he’d seen them do before, the enforcer swiped with both claws at his head, body sailing over Jerryl’s as he ducked.
Jerryl ducked the first swipe and parried the second, the sharp end of his pickaxe impaling the feral’s hand, striking it to the floor.
“Geyah!” The enforcer cried.
With one clean stroke, Jerryl moved the pickaxe from the enforcer’s hand to its head, and the feral dropped to the ground, dead in an instant.
Suddenly, a furry hand gripped his throat from behind, kicking out the back of his knee.
“You…” the owner of the hand spun him, belonging to a white puller, her face caked in blood, mind clearly bathed in bloodlust. “You’re going to be mine.”
The white puller thrust him down to the ground. Jerryl gurgled as she choked him. “You’re white death will be mine… mine for the taking.” The feral raised her hand, madness in her eyes, fingers placed on the bridge of Jerryl’s nose.
For a moment, he felt it; the searing smashed together pain of the white death. His eyes closed as he felt his brain, his organs, his entire being felt as if it was funneling in between his eyes. In that second, he felt a pain so intense that he instantly hoped for death.
And then that second was over. His eyes burst open, and everything fell back into place. He huffed, breathing hard.
The young boy who had called him out picked him up by his arms. “Are you alright?” he said over the continuing sounds of battle. Jerryl looked on the ground to his right, and saw the white puller with a large stone where her head should have been.
Jerryl wiped away the sweat that had formed on his brow. “I’m fine, boy. I’m fine.”
The boy muttered frantically. “What do we do? What do we do!?”
Jerryl looked around for a weapon, seeing that many had scattered to the ground where the nameless things had attacked. The evil things had pressed the ferals back to the eastern tunnels. He found a longsword that had clattered to the ground, thrown away by its owner.
He snatched it, running back towards the crowd. “Everyone! Listen to me. Unless you want to spend the rest of your lives being beaten, tortured, shitting in buckets, or staring into the eyes of these dogs as they do whatever they please… then you’ll follow me.”
An older man in the group called out to him. “The boy said you work for the Warden. Why should we believe you!?”
Jerryl shouted louder. “It’s true. I did. But I’m no freer than anyone here. Like you all, I lie awake at night, wondering if I’ll make it through tomorrow. I would like to see any man or woman here tell me there has not been something they’ve done in this place, a terrible thing, a horrible thing they would not have done if they weren’t trapped here by the Warden?”
No one said a word.
Jerryl stared into each of them, waiting a long time for any response. When none came, he spoke again. “Now - you can follow me, and perhaps, die. Or, you can die for sure. What say you!?”
Slowly but surely, the faces in the crowd grew stern and cold.
“What say you!?” he asked again.
Some in the crowd cried out, others jumped up and down as if shaking away loose dirt, freeing them of their filthy bonds.
“First we free the others! Follow me!”
He didn’t wait for anyone to agree. Jerryl ran, pumping his legs, heading towards the northwestern tunnels, to the upper prison levels to free more slaves, leaving the ferals to their fate with the nameless things. Their howls and screams only fueled the blood running through his legs. He did not look back to see who followed him, but the rush of footsteps told him what he wanted to hear.
The energy of determination flooded his old body. A few ferals tried to stop them, but were quickly overwhelmed by the rush of bodies, using their pick axes to poke holes in their captors over and over, then quickly rejoining the charging mass.
He looked back, watching the path carved by the nameless things as they pushed through the tunnels leading to Emberless. Soon the ferals would be dealing with more than they could handle.
Jerryl tried to focus on his mission. Killing Lobosa. But the image of the Warden dead was constantly replaced in his mind’s eye by the faces of Orrin and Valor. He had no time to go for them. Not yet. Their cell was too deep into the lower depths. Freeing them first would risk his small band being squeezed between a rock wall and a mass of feral spears.
He repeated his plan over and over again to himself.
First, free more. Second, push towards Lobosa’s chambers and Emberless.
Then finally finish it.
Soon, boys.
Chapter 30
Some time went
by. Armun did not know how much, but it was enough to allow paranoia and the creeps to drip away from his insides. For whatever reason, the Warden had chosen to stop.
His body shook with the chills, leftover sweat dripping down the tip of his nose.
Armun tried to lift his left hand, but felt something poking him in the back. He dropped the hand, and the sensation went away. He reenacted the motion a few more times, and realized that the straps were connected to a pully somewhere on the chair’s backside. When he pulled upon the straps, something sharp, most likely spikes, poked him close to the spine. If he struggled too hard, there’d be holes in him. Simple, but effective.
He turned again and saw the Warden, arms folded, leaning in front of him. Armun let go of a staccato huffing breath, as if he had suddenly been tossed into a winter gale. Armun assumed then that this is how it ends. He had enjoyed some peace in the final years of his life.
He thought about the faces he’d seen in the arena, baying for his death, people he actually knew or had known, desiring his blood to spill out before them.
Guilt built deep in his bowels, turning to knives in his stomach.
It never ends for people like them, he thought. Evil lives.
The Warden reached behind his seat, revealing a full cup of water. He stepped around his table and lifted it to Armun’s lips. Armun instinctively blew into it softly, a test for visible poisons, but it mattered not. If death were meant for him, he would accept it.
Armun was unsure of Lobosa’s new intentions, sipping the water, noticing Lobosa’s oddly content face. Clearly the silence had not given the Warden his desired result, though Armun now feared Lobosa would come back with something more disturbing. Clearly, he was as precise with a weapon as he was with the mind.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 27