Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks

by Serabian, Charles

  Lobosa awoke with clouded vision. He turned his head left, facing one of his daggers, every part of him numb and tingling. He attempted to swing his left arm towards it, but quickly realized there was no hand to grab it with, only a stump at his elbow.

  Anger fueled him. He rolled over, dragging himself by his chin, inching towards it, snatching the blade with his only hand. He looked down towards his legs, and found one was missing.

  He rolled back to the opposite side. Holding the weapon with his thumb, he pulled himself up to the top of his table, groaning loudly, his stump limbs on fire.

  Lobosa’s remaining leg propelled him upwards onto the desk in a humiliating posture, stomach down, face towards the object of his desire. In front of his nose sat the memorias filled glass. He reached his remaining trembling hand towards the thing, tipping the sphere with his fingernail once, twice, and then a third time, keeping his body upright with his chin and wavering leg, effort draining him.

  The silver haired Roiland’s attack had drained him of much more than his blood. There was no telling how many spells the false, old human had cast before Lobosa entered the room. No way to tell if he had been faking any pain. No way of telling if Lobosa had even made him feel real fear.

  But he would try again, if the master saw fit. Lobosa could feel his life slipping away, the edges of his vision becoming black nothingness.

  Now, without the master, he would die. He felt it, accepted it.

  Everburn take me… into rebirth.

  The sphere began to twirl of its own accord, faster and faster, until the sand became blacker than the blackest shadows of his dungeons. Fog began to leak from the sphere, leaking quickly into the room.

  The master knows… he’s coming - so quickly.

  Lobosa fell over onto the floor as a familiar shiver rolled up his spine. It was better, he thought, to lay prostrate on the ground in front of a god than to meet him eye to eye upon failing. The fog overcame his failing vision as it swirled up to the ceiling. A strong gust of air came through, blowing out most of the giant candles that lined his chamber walls. As he lay there, a short glimmer of hope shone in his mind’s eye. Perhaps if the master slew him, he would choose another. Lobosa could count his failings so easily now. He had not just failed one master, but his people.

  Suddenly, Lobosa felt the master was in the room. Cold gripped Lobosa’s body, his lopsided form shivering as if he were naked in a snowstorm. The shadow of a human man cast by one of the remaining lights threw its image onto the wall opposite his head. It sat in his chair, claiming the seat for himself.

  Lobosa. The voice in his head was not its usual ice tone. It was warm.

  “Master...” He bowed his head as well as he could without passing out from the pain.

  I see that my efforts were in vain. Lobosa... you have failed me.

  Lobosa could not summon the strength to apologize as desperately as he wanted to.

  You did fail. But I saved you. Were it that you could… you are brave enough to admit your mistakes.

  Lobosa swallowed thick saliva, causing his throat to knot up. “My people...”

  I have walked among your city. I have granted many of them mercy.

  Lobosa took four swallows, trying to coat his throat with saliva so that he may ask one question. “Why?”

  I ask the questions.

  Wind screeched against his face, as if the memorias were being performed on him. He looked upon the shadow again as it crawled across his chest. His vision was darker now, as if staring through a clouded spyglass.

  Someone has been poking about the northwest, just before the Spore Grounds, where some of my own secrets are guarded. And the fighting near Spine has begun. I am still too new to this land, my son.

  The master often spoke of matters that did not directly concern Lobosa, but knew that responding was his only option. He could feel consciousness slipping away, but he dared not ask for help. “Who would…”

  A brave but foolish man who came and went quickly. Someone powerful, though not as powerful as I.

  Lobosa nodded quickly in agreement. “My lord... the old man who was here...”

  The master interrupted as if Lobosa had said nothing at all.

  Do not be troubled. You are among my chosen. I only have love for my chosen. I will not abandon you. Not in your greatest time of need. Not ever. You call me master, and I must earn the title. You accept me without question. And for that, I will give you my love.

  The fog reached toward Lobosa, picking him up in the air. Blood rushed to his head as the fog lifted his body, tilting him upside down. Pain instantly surged through him, and his scream reached the heights of his chamber.

  It will be best if you close your eyes. Something else greatly desires to show you its love.

  As red images of death washed over his mind, bloodlust nightmares and memorias terrors, Lobosa closed his eyes, he suddenly felt that his people were doomed, and that this was the end. He did not believe the master. He felt that he was to be absorbed, and fade into nothingness.

  But then, a vision came to him.

  He saw it, and realized it fully. It was the Everburn, bathed in flame, reaching towards him, wings bursting with flames hot enough to melt the oldest stones, a shriek so loud that mountains would fault, and shatter, and split into two.

  The Everburn engulfed him, and Lobosa felt love; undying, heart rending, deep love. And with that love came a terror so great that something inside of him cracked like glass under a raging waterfall.

  He could not scream. But he did cry.

  Face to face with his god, it shrieked, swallowing him whole.

  Chapter 41

  “It’s not here. Or there... it’s not anywhere.”

  Armun stamped the sand, tasted the air, then tasted the sand, and slapped at the air.

  Valor watched as Armun ran his hands across a large rock, a feral flag marker set next to it, flapping in the wind.

  “Nothing! I passed this very marker when the ferals picked me up. The Raging Sands were still visible from here.”

  The Raging Sands, the whirlwind of trillions upon meta-trillions of tiny flying grains of skin ripping dirt, was gone. All that was left in its place was hot, summer air.

  “Did it move?” Armun thought aloud.

  Valor watched as Armun began to make odd gestures with his hands, as if beginning to weave a powerful spell, and then stopping due to a forgetful mind. Then he would scratch his beard, then his long hair, then undo his ponytail and redo it, over and over again. He went on like this for a long time.

  Valor kept turning to Iliana, meaning to ask her what Armun was doing, but every time he looked into her eyes, he saw himself neck deep in sand.

  Valor kept his mouth shut. Orrin had signed to him countless times to not provoke her, but he did not need telling. At one point she turned to look right into him, and he felt icicles in his eye centers.

  If Lobosa had gotten his hands on someone like her…

  He looked to Orrin, whose eyes never left Armun. Other than signing to him what not to do, Orrin had said few words to him. Valor wondered how long Orrin could hold a grudge.

  After watching Armun for a few more minutes, Valor grew impatient, and could tell that Orrin and even Iliana were also.

  He spoke up. “I’m not seeing how this is a problem. I mean, we’ve seen where they should have been for hours… you weren’t making a big deal of this then.”

  Armun turned, surprising Valor, while Iliana remained unmoved and stoic.

  “I know you don’t. You fail to see this problem. The Raging Sands have been here since before the ferals moved through this very ground. Almost a hundred years. It was a self sustaining, living thing of magic, creating a self contained world completely unaffected by - “

  “But it wasn’t unaffected,” Valor broke in. “People travelled through this storm from all over. Kashrii, one of the wealthiest cities in Harmenor, lies southwest of us.”

  Armun scoffed. “Kashrii is
beyond the Sands as well, but they skirt the opposite side of the Arnaks with ease.”

  Valor interjected again. “My point is, there are other ways in. If someone like you couldn’t find them… I don’t know if you just like to tell yourself that so you feel better about…”

  Armun turned sharply, his features suddenly hawkish. Valor knew he wanted to say something, but for once, he had been completely right. Armun clearly had no retort.

  Valor couldn’t help but poke the mage again, the desire to do so bubbling in his throat.

  “I’d think an Urenai’d be better at containing his emotions…”

  Armun spat out a maelstrom of words. “Emotions are not meant to be contained, young man! They are meant to be expressed! Stoicism and withheld realities turn men into monsters. Monsters! We do as we see fit, always, and nearing the end, we only do it more so.”

  Valor stared at Armun. “That has... nothing to do with what I was talking about. Or whatever you were talking about. And most likely, it has nothing to do with what my brother or Iliana have, was, or are currently thinking.” He kept moving, and Orrin jogged to keep up. Valor was beginning to understand that he was only talking to himself.

  After a few paces, he looked back, seeing that Armun had not moved, and was instead still pacing.

  Valor called out. “Alright! Alright. Alright, if I have to, I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase it into a proper question so that we can leave. Why is this a problem?” Valor continued to walk closer as he asked, noticing Armun’s change of expression, defeated and blank.

  Armun exhaled sharply, his face more satisfied, as if what he had desired all along was Valor’s interest. “As I said before, the Raging Sands was the most powerful natural occurrence of magic known. Harmenor’s craziest have all had a crack at it. And it cracked back. I was able to craft a spell, in secret, that would allow me to pass through the sands. I intended to cast it on us all, one by one, to get us through.”

  Armun picked up a handful of sand for the second time, smelled it, tossed it to the ground. “The amount of magical power used to create the Raging Sands… only a great power could quiet its strength.”

  Valor waited for someone to ask the obvious question. No one did. “l’ll ask the obvious question. Selex?”

  Armun nodded. “Selex has been on Harmenor for a long time. Much longer than I had suspected. At most I though twenty or thirty years... but if he created the Raging Sands initially, then he would have been here for at least three times that length. We know that the Sands were discovered around ninety years ago. But as to when it was - birthed - exactly… impossible to know.”

  Valor put a hand on his hilt, sighing impatiently. “So the issue is that they were gone, and only someone with strong magical power could stop it.”

  Armun lifted a finger with a look of ah! on his face. “But why get rid of it now. Does he intend to use the ferals as an army? He might, but it would be too weak of a force to pose a real threat. Especially after all that’s transpired. By itself, at least. And with Lobosa gone…”

  Valor nodded, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. “Alright. Can we leave now?”

  Iliana stepped closer to her mentor, mouth just inches away from his left ear. “You should send your sprite to Queen Lennith. Tell her what’s going on. Let that silly thing be useful.”

  Valor looked at Iliana. “You hate those things too?”

  Iliana said nothing.

  “No,” Armun said. “If we do that, she’ll act without us. It’s not within her to wait. Besides, we can’t help her unless we get back to Carnim Hale, in person.”

  Orrin picked at his nails, and began walking back towards the direction Armun had led them in.

  Iliana pointed to Valor, and then to Orrin. “Where is he going?”

  Valor stomped off after his brother. “Wherever we are supposed to be going when Armun isn’t talking. Traveling northeasterly, yes?” Valor followed in the sandy footsteps of Orrin. “Whatever’s happening, we’re not going to find out by standing around here.”

  Two weeks passed, and seemed a lifetime.

  The same routine, day in and day out, made Valor feel as if his mind was turning stale. There was barely any talking, except from Armun’s side. Both Valor and Orrin were keen and wary of Iliana and her never ending stare, and Armun seemed more than eager to pump them for information. He constantly pontificated about the disappearance of the Raging Sands, as if theorizing and word brandishing could deliver him answers.

  Ancient rock enclosures provided enough shelter for them in the night. Packs of wild animals appeared. The food they had taken from the caravann lasted them a long while, despite Orrin’s ravenous appetite. Iliana, through her magic, pulled up enough water from beneath the sand without much worry. She also extended her aura to surround all four of them, her magic cooling their skin, protecting them from the harsh sun. The burnt leaf smell of an active aura was the only thing Valor had learned to like about magic.

  Iliana and Armun hacked apart the random cacti and other plants that sprung up in patches across the desert, drinking their juices and collected water.

  When asked why they did not use more magic to quicken their journey, Armun explained that feral mages would be able to sense it, sniff it out.

  “You know that smell of dead leaves you get when magic’s about?” Armun asked.

  Valor nodded. “Yes.”

  “Imagine having a feral’s nose in this wind. They could smell us for miles around. Beasts also. I’m surprised the few predators out here have not tried to attack us. We use it only as much as we need too.”

  “I’m surprised we haven’t seen a single feral.” Valor said.

  Armun nodded his ascent.

  At night, they took great effort to find caves or ridges, hunting wild dogs and critters, carving up desert trees for their nutrient rich insides. Iliana pointed out that they had been lucky not to encounter any sandstorms. According to Armun, it was the end of the summer months, and changing winds from the north would eventually sweep down and cause them to occur. Valor hoped they were still a few weeks out.

  Each day they found another vacant feral outpost, marked with symbols of the Everburn, sandy floors littered with their spears. The outposts were nothing more than sinkholes that had been filled in, as if the ivory maws had ripped through the ground and devoured each forts’ inhabitants in a single swallow. The only things left were some broken pieces of wood and, depending on the size of the fortifications, large barricades comprised of sharpened logs.

  They spent the night in the broken outposts, wherever they were found.

  Armun shook his head in disbelief one such night, as the four huddled around a small fire, taking shelter in a toppled over guard tower. “This is number three,” he said. “Ivory maws haven’t been this active in decades. They’re the only things that could have done this.”

  Orrin signed to Armun, and Valor translated his words.

  “Orrin says there was a rumor that Lobosa somehow had the ivory maws under his control. With him dead, that control might have been lost.”

  Iliana shifted on the creaky wood floor. “The beast masters controlled most of them.”

  Orrin signed again, and Valor brought his brother’s words to sound.

  “No reason Lobosa couldn’t have bought them.”

  Armun shook his head. “As a young Urenai, I negotiated land treaties between them and the Spade Kingdom. I can’t imagine them dealing with someone like Lobosa. Money isn’t a part of their culture.”

  Valor popped a slice of dried fruit into his mouth. “A matter of currency, no matter of price.”

  Armun nodded his head. Valor realized he had just recited a lesson of the silence, and prayed Armun had not heard it. It was a saying common enough, in different words and other languages. He knew his tongue had tired, the same as his body, crossing the Gorabund.

  “Have you ever met Drake Redstone?” Valor asked Armun, changing the subject.

  Armun scrunched
his brow with thought. “The High Merchant of Kashrii? No. Though I’ve heard enough to dislike him. I have no doubt he was instrumental in the feral’s success, however.”

  Valor nodded. “There was an accident a few days before you arrived. Some Bulthin’s got loose… Drake was there, and disappeared in the commotion. Found him in a storage room. When I brought him back, he was talking about some sort of evil… power… underneath the Arnaks.”

  No one said a word for a long time. Armun stared into the fire. “Interesting,” was all the old Urenai said.

  Armun had not been at a loss for words since they left the ferals behind. Valor watched him, the tranquility getting under his skin. The old man’s eyes never once left the fire.

  Another three days of travel brought them to their first signs of civilization.

  A’tashi villages, bathed in splendorous colors, full of life.

  Valor’s stomach gurgled hard as the smell of fresh food wafted into his nose, causing his feet to move just a bit faster.

  The mishmash of huts dotted the landscape like half buried hives, populated by vagabond tribes of humans. Their makeshift towns were without feral scouts or the signs of ivory maws. Valor scanned the horizon, looking for the familiar vision of sand that had been bumped or swirled from underneath. No signs showed themselves.

  Homes made from dried clay and deep wells dipped in and out of the dunes. More piles of wet clay stuck up out of the ground like large, abandoned anthills.

  “These are the a’tashi,” Armun said. “Don’t ask me what it translates too. I can speak their language - Iliana speaks it better. Valor… please. Don’t take this the wrong way, but… try not to say much. At all.”

  Valor shrugged. “I’ve met a’tashi before. But you’ll get no argument from me.”

  The a’tashi men wore long beards, faces rugged as canyons. There seemed to be a sorting system of the types of men, accorded to them by the twists or braids in their beards. The guards wore no adornments, but the craftsmen and other traders had bows, interlocking braids, or colored beads connecting them.