Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Read online

  M e m o r i a s

  Deep in the Arnaks

  by

  Charles Serabian

  Copyright © by Charles Serabian. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Names, characters, businesses, places, events or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  ISBN: 978-0-9972757-0-4

  This book is dedicated to those

  who search for freedom.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  An excerpt from Ani Gillidron’s

  War for Peace:

  When the old lords gave our monastery slaves, we treated them with Harma’s grace. They were ragged, and some had lost their minds. We did the best we could, and they were happier for it. We gave them good clothes, good tools, and good food. We were happy, together. As it turned out, one of them was a master carpenter in his life before slavery. Together, we built our monastery even higher and greater.

  One day, the old lords decided to visit us. They had heard of our now great monastery, and how beautiful it had become. This visit was not planned.

  My older brothers and sisters instructed me to hide the once-slaves in one of our many cellars. I managed to find all but two.

  When the old lords entered the monastery, they saw how well the two once-slaves were eating, and how well they were clothed. They murdered the once-slaves and monks indiscriminately, set the temple ablaze, but left our ani alive, naked, and beaten.

  I had been left alive, but by accident, no doubt. I pushed off the bookcase that held me pinned, and thanked Harma for my natural dwarven strength.

  When I found my ani, and saw the state she was in, all sense lost me. We had given shelter to Harma’s children, and she had repaid us with death.

  My ani saw the hatred in my eyes. She stood, and covered herself. I told her I’d kill them all, that I’d break their bones, and I’d make them bleed.

  She put her hands on my face, and knelt down. In that half burnt bed of destruction, she began to weep.

  “My child,” ani said, “Do not give love to death. It will not love you back.”

  She stumbled on her knee, and I realized then that she was grievously wounded. She touched my face again with her bloody hands. She spoke her final words to me, in a whisper.

  “Grow more crops. Have ten children. Run to the ocean and feel it’s breath on your face. Do not let yourself become the slave.”

  To this day, I wish I had listened. Only after I had become the slave did I realize that her final tears had been for me.

  Prologue

  THE LOOMING SHADOWS of the Arnak Mountains threatened a quick death, stabbing towards the Warden from behind as the day’s end drew closer. He signaled his troops to slowly surround the tent, and to keep a wide berth. The men already present outside the pavilion, protectors of the Warden’s benefactor and future partner, looked like multicolored statues, armed and aware. They were the Rainbow Sight; mercenary warriors of Kashrii.

  The majority was human. The majority was skilled beyond compare.

  How many of my people will I lose today? he thought instinctively. His mind snagged a single note word.

  None.

  The Warden entered the tent, pushing aside the colorful banners of the Rainbow Sight as they flapped in the unusually high winds.

  To defend himself, he had his small contingent of men, the daggers on his hips, and a small human boy. He knew appearing with too big a force would seem threatening, so he had matched Drake’s number of guards. His choice suddenly felt like a mistake when he saw how well armored they were, but pushed it aside, focusing on the business at hand.

  Closing his trade agreement with the High Merchant of Kashrii was all but finished. But a still nervousness waded in his gut like an angry bullfrog, waiting to snap its tongue at whatever came too close. It was a situation he could not fully control, but the serious needs of his people gave his thoughts tunnel vision, no matter how he tried to control it.

  Stepping onto the geometric design of the carpet beneath him, he looked down to the young boy standing at his right, who stared right back into his guarded eyes.

  “Behave, Valor.” he muttered. The boy said nothing.

  Drake Redstone, the High Merchant of Kashrii, looked up from a stack of papers, and greeted the Warden with a floppy hand, and no initial words. Drake had grown more age spots on his balding head than the last time Lobosa had seen him. What was left of his orange hair was long and greasy.

  Their relationship could still be measured in months, but something had aged Drake. Lobosa hoped it was not a deathly sickness. He needed the High Merchant alive.

  Drake wore a bulging red cape with fox fur lining, and a silk shirt split deep down the middle of his chest. It was a fashion not made for large, human males, which Drake undeniably was.

  The High Merchant said nothing, but waved in acknowledgement, instead speaking to himself. The Warden acknowledged the wave with a nod.

  The Warden’s facemask was clamped down tighter than he normally desired. But for each disability it gave him, he would not fail to alter it in his mind as a positive. To him, its tightness simply made his choked breathing more ominous. If the blood tinged scent of his mouth was as shocking to his own nostrils as it was to others, then it was worth the thumping pain in the back of his head.

  He filled his belly with air, releasing a slow exhale, stepping closer to the two guards standing midway into the tent.

  They coughed, but held it in their mouths. One shifted his weight to his heels. The Warden looked into their eyes. The shorter one seemed ready to piss himself.

  The feral leader turned his gaze back towards Redstone.

  So fat, Lobosa thought.

  Drake’s lips parted slowly. “One moment, Warden.” His voice was filled with pretension. The High Merchant shuffled in his seat. It creaked, begging to be set free.

  The Warden turned towards a full-length mirror, its corners held by tiny lion heads, molded from solid gold. He looked at the burns on his mask, and the wavy flecks of metal scratches that he had received from past encounters. The designs were still prominent; harsh, deep lines that traced around the eyes, front fangs and nose, accentuating th
e most dangerous of his features.

  The Warden’s mask alone had been enough in the past, and the only thing man-like about him was that ferals could stand on two legs. The clawed feet, black fur, and sharp hands did not do him any favors in the realm of politics, despite his constant attempts to keep well groomed.

  Lobosa remembered his sire’s advice from long ago; that appearances were no shield against swords and arrows and catapults.

  Lobosa took the time to look around the pavilion, taking in Drake’s ostentatious display of belongings. The chairs were made from Yah’gah trees, their identity given away by the golden hue of its burnished wood. The marquee above was sewn together with silk from the great spiders of the Antherisi woods. The pottery and dishwares were from Drake’s native country, as were the colors, which were many. The Warden couldn’t help but snicker at the ostentatious array of nonsense. The rainbow display hurt his sensitive eyes.

  Kashrii was the largest of the desert kingdoms. It exported everything and anything, whether the clearest jewels or the softest fabrics. His spies told him that the cities vermillion squares were never short of customers, pleasures, or pains.

  The Warden’s spies had also educated him in Drake’s history of violence. After eliminating Kashrii’s leaders, the Table of Sand, he robbed their families’ blind with every legal technicality known to human law. Then he bought everyone of importance; the whores, the killers, the judges.

  “I see you took notice of the Yah’gah chairs.” Drake said, grumbling.

  The Warden turned to him. “I did. Excellent wood.”

  “The best,” Drake said. “I like the smell. The emeralds in the armrest are a nice touch, don’t you think?”

  The Warden feigned a nod of interest, stepping to the right so he could see the glistening emerald in the center of the chair’s swirled arm.

  He didn’t want Yah’gah wood, or emeralds. He wanted bread without mold, and good materials to weave clothes and rebuild homes. He needed cattle for milk and meat, and books so that his people could learn, and if Drake ever stopped drafting amendments to their agreement, he could finally get his wish, and be rid of the red haired snake.

  Starving wolves, he thought. Redstone had called his people that once, almost causing them to come to blows. It was racist. It was not a lie.

  Lobosa blew a few dry puffs of air from his cheeks. True warriors were becoming scarce, but not among his people. Since the bloom had spread to all of Harmenor, there had been peace. People now had the time to think about art, societal structure, and the color of their bedsheets. It will break, he thought.

  “Warden,” Drake said in a haze of tipsiness. “Please sit, relax. You brought one of the boys, I see? Where’s the other?”

  The Warden took his seat, and Valor stood at his side. He looked at the boy, checking his posture, the tilt of his head, the angle of the arm and its readiness to draw.

  Although a long bath had not cleansed Valor of his prison dirt, the boy looked less greasy than Drake. His nearly black hair was the only thing wild about him. Other than his sword being a bit off kilter, Valor was nearly perfect, so long as he behaved.

  Drake inhaled sharply before speaking, nearly ripping a pen from one page of many. “The bloom seems to have infected people with a disease of the mind. A disease of thinking too much. It seems anyone with money to spare wants to do business, as if they knew anything about business, of any kind. They don’t. But I’ll oblige them.”

  Redstone waved towards himself. A young courier approached hesitantly. The Warden could feel his terror. The boy took the papers the High Merchant had just signed, hands shaking, then whisked himself through the entrance, running into the desert.

  Drake pointed to two chairs, angled within a tight triangle. The larger one looked to be a small travel throne, ornately carved of dark wood. Rubies adorned the top, placed in the pattern of Kashrii’s symbol, a scorpion with a flowered rose for a tail, instead of a stinger.

  “I made these myself…” Drake said with pomp. “Everyone needs a hobby, you know.”

  The Warden withheld a sigh. He can’t make art and he can’t fight.

  “None of them interest me, Warden. We make enough off of them in your Ring of Scarlett… never should have agreed to meet with any of them. My only interest is in their money.”

  Drake paused, slurping some water. “Not nearly as intriguing as you and your people. Want to know why? It’s because you’re tough as nails. No whimsy about your kind. You’re survivors.”

  The Warden gave no hint of the difficulty of him or his people. Nodding and the bare minimum of words would continue to be his method of choice.

  Humans are truly reaching for the highest peaks of greed, he thought, nose hairs twitching at the aroma of spice in the pavilion. It’s fortunate in a way that we have nothing of value.

  He stared at the shadows of both his men and the Rainbow Sight. The tent was surrounded by them, tall and hulking, armored only by thick cloth and boiled leather, flexed into scales. They bore dark skin, bordering on night black, contrasting starkly with Drake’s glistening, pinkish tone. He sniffed, catching the scent of white elk leather.

  “Here here, friends. Please. Please drink. This young man must have a thirst in need of quenching.”

  The Warden held his hand over Valor’s cup. “He is in training.”

  Drake’s mouth turned to a deep frown. “It’s hot out Warden. Come now, a boy his age will wither. I don’t care how strong he is.”

  Valor silently turned to look at Drake, eyes like glass, the expression of a blank mask.

  “Well…” Drake said. Valor had unsettled him. Lobosa couldn’t help but feel proud.

  Drake broke the tension and clapped his hands, suddenly giddy. “You can never stop learning. Never. Is the boy your protégé? Will I be lucky enough to see him fight in the ring?”

  The Warden nodded his head with a slight tip to the side. “Perhaps.”

  He cringed as Drake attempted to talk while sucking down fresh clam meat.

  If I am a shadow of the monster he is...

  Drake slurped another chunky piece as he began again. “I’m happy with our deal, Warden, and I never use that word unless I mean it.”

  “As am I.” Lobosa said the words, but he wasn’t happy. There was a consistent urge to play his trump card and end the charade of the begging, poor leader, but his councilors back in Emberless would wring him dry for it. He remembered what Seer Getta had told him.

  Be the steam that turns the fire to cinders. Don’t be the inferno. Become the slow burn.

  Drake cleared his throat. “I’m happy tensions were kept to a minimum between our peoples. Yours carved out the path, and mine put the road together. We’re a decent team.”

  Lobosa spoke. “I’m concerned these secret roads aren’t hidden well enough.”

  Drake furrowed his brow. “They are. As if even the Spades would come this far. Anyways - you’ve crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s, as have I. But I asked you here to discuss the addendum.”

  “May I read it?”

  Drake assented. “Of course, Warden.” The High Merchant snapped his fingers. A servant circled around from the back of the pavilion, placing the three-inch thick scroll in the Warden’s palm with his own trembling hand.

  The Warden read it through, completely, for what must have been the hundredth time.

  When he was done, he went back to the new addendum and triple checked it. The addendum was, as expected, nonsense. All that was included was a simple change of passage in order to skirt the Gorabund Desert’s more dangerous parts.

  Valor stood silent. Lobosa watched him. He could feel no breath in and out of the boy’s nose, nor see any bulge in his stomach from the in and out of air. Pride came to him again in a quick flash.

  Drake sat patiently the entire time, only saying anything when it was clear the Warden was at the end. “A slight change in the path to avoid an area often troubled by ivory maws.”

  “Excel
lent,” hewhispered.

  Drake continued. “We’ll continue to help facilitate, through your growing connections and our existing ones, the flow of slaves to the Arnaks…” Drake looked around the room, wary of both Lobosa’s men and his own.

  “We don’t need to discuss the finer details,” the Warden said. “We’ve been over them a thousand times. Two important matters have not been discussed, however. One is the secrecy of those that come to watch the fights. Specifically their travel arrangements. My spies have their ways, but I will need your assistance in this as well if we are both to profit.”

  “Of course,” Redstone responded swiftly.

  The Warden folded one arm across the other. “Good,” he said. “The second issue is the cap on what my people can handle. As of now, we have the magical means to keep them… sedated, in a sense. As far as real numbers are concerned, twenty thousand is our maximum. We currently sit at around half that number. Anymore than that and things will become unmanageable. However, to produce ober at the degree you and my other purveyors wish to purchase, I need to balance that number.”

  Drake nodded as the Warden continued to talk. “I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Should an issue arise, such as a mass breakout, I need your word that you and your Rainbow Sight will help quell any uprising, and replace what was lost.”

  Drake rubbed his face. “Undoubtedly. The ober you sent me is stronger than anything I’ve ever come across. If you can produce that in real quantity for me and my buyers… you could kill all your slaves and I’d gladly replace each and every one.”

  “On that note,” said the Warden, holding his hand out towards Valor. Valor reached inside of a pouch on his right hip, pulling out a handful of squares of ober, cut perfectly to two inches on each side. He handed them to the Warden, who handed them to Redstone.

  Redstone’s eyes lit up like glossy candles. “Ah… are these samples different from before?” Drake held up each black, marbled piece to his eyes.

  “Oh!” Redstone said, dropping the piece he held onto his lap. “It pulsed!” Drake picked it up from his lap.