by Brett Vonsik
For all his guiding of their talk, Aren discovered little to help him unravel the mystery of his taunting symbols or gain his freedom. He worked the discussion with Rogaan keeping him engaged in less intrusive subjects while slowly probing for anything that would lead to information Aren could use. The two talked on and off for what seemed to be hours, much to the concerned and jealous eye of his friend Pax. The young Baraan never spoke or tried to join them . . . likely out of fear he would provoke another tirade from his parents. But that one had signs of being both intelligent and cunning, if not protectively respectful of his family. Try he did, but Aren uncovered little else from Rogaan that he thought could help him. When Rogaan asked of Aren’s past, he answered in vague images, never giving specifics on his life in Windsong.
Four Sake guards entered the room relieving the ones watching them with a short exchange of talk. A telling of the time passing quicker than Aren expected. If my interrogation was in the morning, as I suspect, then it should be near the supper hour with this changing of the guards. The new guards came in fresh and mean, prodding in front of them what Aren suspected were other prisoners dressed in dirty tunics carrying buckets and rough cloth sacks. With all four guards pointing weapons at Rogaan, the cells were opened and cleaned after they were carefully ushered out. Chamber pots, wafting stink, were emptied into larger buckets the fouled prisoners dragged into the cell room. It was neat and orderly. Once the cells were cleaned, Aren and the others were shoved back into the cells before all left except for two guards who stolidly took up positions watching over them. Aren observed a change in demeanor of the Baraans. They had become docile. Had they succumbed and given up? The young Tellen still looked as if a fire burned just underneath his controlled mannerisms. When Aren returned he took his spot leaning against the back wall, then started asking questions of Rogaan again.
“Why didn’t you use this guard change and cell cleaning to your advantage?” Aren asked in a curious tone. “You’re more than able enough to overpower one, maybe more of the guards and gain your freedom. With the help of your Baraan friend and his father, I would think your chances good . . . given how easy these Sakes break when you hit them.”
Rogaan looked at Aren assessing him with intelligent eyes awhile before answering in a matter-of-fact tone, “Suhd and my father are in unknown hands. It would do me no good getting free to find myself in the streets and outside this place where I might be unable to learn of their fates.”
Aren smiled to himself. This one sounds confident and determined in his unwillingness to leave his family and love behind. There’s more to him than at first sight . . . He’s loyal or at least thinking on how to solve his problems.
“Silence!” One of the darkly armored guards demanded in an unfriendly tone.
Aren felt the urge to strike at the idiot with some quick-tongued insults . . . that the Baraan would likely not understand, but Rogaan’s eyes caught his with a look of “Do not press them.” Aren thought for a moment before settling back against the wall, agreeing with Rogaan that his tongue might make things worse. Prudence considered, Aren still felt the nagging urge to give out that tongue-lashing.
Not long after Aren and Rogaan were commanded into silence, footfalls and ringing chains approached from the hallway. The metal-bound wood door on his left opened. A stumbling Tellen entered the room in a ruckus of metal clanging. It was Rogaan’s father . . . Mithraam, looking a bit worked over by his exhausted face and new bruising on his arms that Aren saw through the Tellen’s soiled and gray torn tunic. Rogaan jumped to his feet, grabbing the cell bars so hard that Aren thought he bent them a little. Rogaan’s father wearily held up his hands in a palms-exposed manner that held fast his son. Two more darkly armored guards followed the old Tellen in the room escorting him into their cell. Mithraam said nothing as he plopped himself down against the cell’s bars near the door with the help of his son. After Rogaan received a reassuring yet weary squeeze on his forearm from his sitting father, the young Tellen snapped up in a fume, stepping into the point of a long dagger held out between the door bars by the biggest of the guards.
“Not smart, stoner,” the guard sneered while pushing the dagger tip a little firmer into Rogaan’s chest. “Yur next when I come back.”
Rogaan held his tongue as the guard finished locking the door before turning and walking away without a seeming care. Aren expected Rogaan to be more hotheaded and to do something dumb, but understood better his self-restraint when he saw his father’s bloodied hand grasping his son’s boot.
“All things need to reveal themselves.” Mithraam spoke weakly before falling unconscious. Aren noted Rogaan’s confused look. So, the old Tellen is keeping secrets even from his son.
Chapter 15
Voices in the Shadows
Ribbons of fog crawled across the roots of creepers, laurels, and oaks blanketing the soggy bottom of the low pass. Misty tendrils reached for him as if they had sentient intent. Confused, Aren looked about and asked aloud, “What is this place? How did I get here?”
Advancing misty tendrils were almost upon him, forcing him to back away . . . away from this living fog. His sandaled feet squished in soft moist soil. Aren’s skin crawled. The air felt thick and wet, and smelled stale. Tendrils reaching out from the living fog moved in every direction, though the ones moving forward behaved as if seeking him. Aren couldn’t explain how he knew they sought him, but he did. He just knew it. He retreated southward down the pass with the misty tendrils relentlessly in pursuit. Aren’s foot caught something, a rock or a root, sending him tumbling down the pass. When he stopped rolling, he didn’t feel injured, just vulnerable lying on the ground. His heart quickened. What is chasing me? He rose and slipped on the moist earth, falling to the ground again. Panic grabbed him as he mentally calculated the mist to almost be upon him. Looking up from his prone position, Aren caught sight of the first tendril slithering its way over a large raised oak root not more than a few strides away. His heart skipped a beat. His arms and legs betrayed him as he commanded his body to rise and run. Nothing. He remained lying on the ground watching the vaporous tendrils reach out to him. They were close, almost on him. Symbols suddenly blazed from within the vapors. Those spinning tormentors formed in the tips of now a dozen vaporous tendrils an arm’s length away, calling to him, craving to touch him. Aren felt helpless as he rose to his knees just as the first vaporous tendril touched him. A shiver rippled through him at the slimy cold feel of the tendril wrapping itself around his right arm. Another took him on his left arm. Another around his waist. The slimy sensation turned to a painful burning of his flesh. Aren grunted in pain as he saw and felt those symbols being burnt into the flesh on both his arms. More tendrils advanced . . . many more. Aren realized his doom had arrived from the Pit of Kur itself. He made to scream for someone—anyone—to help him as his world plunged into a freezing darkness.
“What did you do to him?” A familiar deep voice asked out of the darkness.
“I quieted his thoughts,” an unfamiliar voice, equally as deep, answered.
“How can I be sure he is untouched by darkness?” Aren recognized the voice as Rogaan’s.
“Rogaan—” Another deep voice, familiar to Aren, sounded disappointed and chastising.
“He has much to learn,” the unfamiliar voice interrupted in a matter-of-fact tone.
Aren struggled trying to open his eyes, but his body wasn’t doing what he wanted. A swell of panic rose within him. What’s wrong with me?
“This one I know,” the unfamiliar voice said. “He’s Larcan’s young one. Aren is his name, as I recall.”
He knows me? I don’t know his voice. I’m at a disadvantage. Panic swelled again in Aren. This time it gripped his innards and wouldn’t let go. Aren felt at the voice’s complete mercy . . . at the mercy of everyone. It unnerved him. He grunted in another attempt to open his eyes. He found his arm responding, moving, but awkwardly. He rai
sed his hand to his face expecting to use his fingers to help open his eye, but found them open when he felt the sting of his touch to his right eye. I’m blind! Panic swept through Aren. “I can’t see! I’m blind!”
“You made him blind?” Rogaan spoke with a trepid anger.
“Speak with respect, Rogaan.” Aren recognized the older Tellen’s voice . . . Mithraam. “You have debt to him through me. If you had followed my guidance, you would be safe and away from here.”
“It’s only for a short time,” the unfamiliar deep voice reassured. “It happens when a mind needs calming and fights against it. Especially a troubled mind . . . as I feel he has.”
Silence filled the air for a long moment. Aren feared somehow they all vanished . . . or worse, planned to harm him in his weakness. Maybe this new voice took them . . . maybe killed them or worse. Am I next? What’s to become of me? I can’t see. Anxiety at being totally helpless, sightless, rapidly grew into a storm. Fear gripped his innards in a way he never felt before. Aren reached out at the only one he thought might give him aid. He found the strong forearm of the young Tellen and grabbed it with all his strength. “Help me . . . Rogaan.”
“Do fix him,” Rogaan demanded with a still trepid voice.
Aren heard what could have been a low growl, but from nothing he knew of. His skin prickled as he felt his sweat wet his chest and neck. Then, with an angry tone, he heard Rogaan speak more forcefully, “He’s helpless and looks to have suffered much already. Cure what you did to him.”
“Rogaan . . .” Mithraam spoke with a hint of anger and a lot of disappointment. “Speak carefully.”
“His sight will return without another touch of the stone,” the deep voice spoke with authority. “I hold Rogaan in no debt, my friend. At least none, yet. Besides, it’s refreshing to hear bold words make demands of me these days instead of the usual cowering and groveling displayed by those who speak with me.”
A ripple of fear shot up Aren’s spine, almost as if from a bolt of lightning. Sweat now soaked his chest, arms, neck, and brow. “Touch of the stone” . . . no . . . He couldn’t have meant he used Agni powers on me! Cowering . . . groveling . . . Who is this one, and what did he do to me? A fog appeared to Aren’s eyes. He no longer lived in pitch blackness. The fog grew into a hazy light . . . no, two. They blurred, along with multiple dark-moving shadows. The lights came into focus and for a moment hurt his eyes, causing him to blink tears away. The shadows too came into focus. One was Rogaan who Aren strangely felt thankful to see. The other two were Mithraam and . . . no! Fear overwhelmed Aren, shaking him head to toes as his breath escaped him. Moments passed before Aren could think. Am I still alive? He asked himself. He remained unmoving as he stared at the living legend kneeling in front of him . . . “the one who cannot die” . . . the “Right-hand of Darkness.”
“See what I speak of, ol’ friend . . .” The “Right-hand of Darkness” talked with an off-sense of humor as he inspected Aren as if prey he wished to ensure was lightless. “Cowering. He’ll be himself in a little time.”
The dangerous warrior gracefully turned his attention back to Mithraam. Relief rolled over Aren that his eyes were no longer on him. The Baraan was big, though lean with muscles rippling under a heavily scarred tan-colored skin. His strong jaw was accentuated by a short, trimmed beard under his combed short black hair. He wore dark clothing; boots to short-sleeved shirt, making him difficult to see with any detail in the poor light of the underworld of the arena prison. Aren looked for, but wasn’t able to see, any weapons the warrior carried. Stories of him told by his father always had him with weapons . . . lots of them. Where are they? The warrior’s gaze, with those piercing green eyes, seemed to take in everything, periodically sweeping over him, giving Aren a deep chill, making him wish those eyes looked somewhere else.
“Are you able to sit up?” Rogaan’s question intruded on Aren’s doom-filled world, annoying him for some reason. Aren fought the urge to lash out at Rogaan for breaking into his terror. Aren then realized the thought to lash out was driven by his fear of the Dark Ax. Aren swallowed hard, then took in a small breath, then a chest full of air before exhaling long. His wits were returning to him, if only a little at a time. I’m still alive.
“Yes.” Aren almost whispered, not wanting anyone else to hear him speak. He raised himself up with Rogaan’s help. Aren found himself with his back leaning against the stone wall of the prison cell.
“You look terrible.” Rogaan half smiled at Aren. He wasn’t sure how to read the Tellen, but he seemed friendly. “Dark dreams had you tussling as you slept. You spoke of fog, arms reaching at you, and the mark of the Evil One.”
“Mark of the Evil One?” Aren repeated not wanting to believe he spoke His name. He nervously looked about the cell waiting for ill to befall him for simply speaking the name . . . twice. Why would I speak of His mark? For that matter, what mark?
“You look worse now than when you woke,” Rogaan said in a kind and concerned way. “Are you ill?”
Aren didn’t understand why Rogaan attended to him. Why would a Tellen care anything of an Evendiir . . . me? Aren’s experience with Tellens left him with a suffering image of them being overconfident, boasting of their own deeds, and denigrating others, especially Evendiir. And they smelled bad. “I’m not ill, but I should be.”
“Drink this then.” Rogaan held up a cup of water to Aren’s lips after he took it from a bucket that wasn’t present in their cell earlier. “He brought us water after he put the guards to sleep. He never touched them. They just fell over.”
Aren froze. More Agni powers. He felt his skin crawl at the thought of the power touching him. He shivered visibly, and he spilled some of the water from his cup before taking a drink. The ground shook as well. At first, Aren thought it was the power, but soon realized it was the ground itself. Another earth-shaking. Ignoring the tremor, Rogaan gave Aren a skeptical look, then waited for him to finish his water before motioning for another. Aren waved away another cup. His stomach did feel ill after all. He rested his head back against the wall, then fell into deep thoughts. Agni powers . . . My father studies them, others use them . . . some to do good . . . some for their ends. Dangerous . . . no matter what the intent. Dangerous to everyone around, and more so to oneself. Aren recalled his father’s teaching concerning the Spirit of the Stone overtaking a person touching an Agni stone, overtaking . . . replacing the Light in their own body with that from the stone . . . Their Light never to be heard from again. The new “person” would look like the old person while suffering mannerisms both new and old. Most go crazy, and they either run off or are dealt with by locals . . . getting imprisoned or killed. No . . . no Agni stone for me. Spinning symbols flashed in Aren’s mind, then disappeared a moment later. He felt disoriented and sick in the stomach.
Aren felt himself getting shook. He looked up to see Rogaan again, now with a deepening crinkled brow and with concern in his eyes. His lips moved, but Aren couldn’t hear him at first. Rogaan’s lips moved again. “Wake up.”
The Tellen turned to his father and the “right hand of death” after another failed attempt to get Aren to respond. Aren could hear him, but his body felt unable to respond. Rogaan spoke again to the others. “I said he is not well. Can you heal him . . . undo what you did to him?”
A dark figure entered Aren’s blurred vision, looking him over for what he didn’t know. Is this the “right hand of death” . . . the dark warrior . . . Dark Ax? Fear swelled up inside of Aren. The dark warrior then laid his left hand on Aren’s chest. A chill streamed through Aren touching him everywhere. It turned to a tingle, then to a burning of his flesh. Aren felt himself shake uncontrollably, then go limp. Whatever was done to him was painful and left him exhausted. Through it all, Aren’s mind kept awareness of what was happening to him, but he couldn’t get his arms or legs or anything else to move as he wanted. His frustration grew into panic, without any way to ex
press it.
“Nothing wrong with him physically that some good sleep and a few meals won’t fix,” the dark warrior spoke to the others from somewhere above Aren.
Another chill racked Aren. This one cold instead of painful. A euphoric sensation passed over him, leaving Aren unsettled, mostly that his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. The dark warrior’s blurred image looked to be focusing, concentrating. Aren felt another touch to his chest. Pain seared his mind and his body worse. He convulsed as he struggled for breath. Nothing. Aren tried to inhale again, uncertain if air entered his lungs. He felt light-headed. The “right hand of death” touched me with Agni powers again . . . I’m doomed. Aren’s blurred sight suddenly went dark. He could still hear voices as if listening to dull echoes. Now, his chest stung. What’s happening to me? Air burst into his lungs taking the sting away, giving him much relief. His eyesight started to return, the darkness pushed back by the dim lantern light of the cell room.
“Something is troubling his thoughts I have little experience with,” the dark warrior stated with a hint of concern, or maybe curiosity. “It has a firm hold on his mind.”
“Would he be able to help this young one?” Mithraam asked.