The attack on Burnt Keep reminded Arn even more of Razaad. He could not imagine any other reason for the senseless violence—against even the unarmed servants within the stronghold—beyond a scheme of submission. It was a demonstration of power that would make even the hunters of Razaad uneasy. Of course, there had been plenty of guards. Arn had earned a few gashes, but nothing serious. On Razaad, he had never fought with an ally at both shoulders. Continue reading Arn 82
Arn kicked in the door, tremors of impact jarring his leg. The man inside charged at him with a meat knife, but Arn easily drove his new metal blade into the man’s side and shoved him aside. Moaning, the man settled down against the inverted door. Continue reading Arn 81
For weeks, Arn watched the waters of the Deep drifting past beneath the ship. Drowen’s flagship, the Horizon Prince, was twice the vessel than that of Captain Emrez—its decks rose higher than the surrounding galleons, its ram rode the waves with ornate fury, and its slaves numbers in the hundreds. When the winds were strong enough to pull their sails, the slaves were given a dozen menial tasks ranging from rope-tying to scrubbing the deck. The fleet barely stopped when encountering a rainstorm. Drowen Targahal was a force of nature. Continue reading Arn 80
“It’s time,” said the servant at Arn’s door. Arn closed it gently after a stern nod, and turned back to Massema. It was early enough in the morning that she had not finished getting ready for the day.
“Already?” she asked. Continue reading Arn 79
Arn sighed for the third time and leaned back against the wood-beam wall of Drowen’s meeting chamber. Dressed in a baggy green tunic, Arn marvelled at how far he had come. Aside from his scars, his muscles, and the occasional bubbling reminder of Gamden, little remained of the Arn that had fought his fellow tribesmen tooth and nail. But even this version of Arn was impatient when made to wait on the burly warlord’s business. Continue reading Arn 78
As gentle as the rising sun, a breeze stirred the sheets that draped Arn. His eyes crept open and the ceiling came into focus—old, sagging, wooden beams. It was good to sleep beneath wood again, he thought. He rolled to one side, away from the incessant light. In his shadow, the round shoulder of Massema lay. She was a thing of beauty in her tranquility, Arn thought—a different sort of beauty than Thalla’s ferocity. Massema would not have survived on Razaad, but Arn did not care…not anymore. Continue reading Arn 77
As the weeks went by, Gamden was around less and less. He never commented on what the guards wanted with him or where they took him. Their conversation had been more occasional since their falling out in the employment of Master Quenden, of course, but now it was even more scarce. Often, the words they exchanged were nothing more than pleasantries. Arn found himself growing eager and anxious when a few days passed without a visit from Massema. His dark metal cage was so lonely that his muscles clenched until they hurt. Continue reading Arn 76
Though Arn could not see it from his cell, a moon waned and waxed in the night skies above Starath. The month crept by slowly, and rather uneventfully. Most days—in the morning—Arn was taken to the questioning cell for Vellek’s attention. Some days, Vellek was called to handle other responsibilities, so Arn spent all day in his metal hole. Continue reading Arn 75
Massema paid Arn a few more visits, over the next few weeks, but Arn usually remained where he was and offered her only a few words in her tongue-contorting language. Arn wasn’t even speaking with Gamden these days—Gamden’s foolhardy plan to “make them important” again had only earned Arn greater imprisonment and torture. Continue reading Arn 74
“Arn?” asked the soft, feminine voice of a friendly moth. It flitted through the kaleidoscope dreamworld like an alien—a small, lost thread of reality.
Arn was busy climbing the cliff of bones. His face was bleeding freshly, as though this was the cliff of Scoa, but this cliff was populated by the bones and rotted faces of the populace of Razaad. Arn had betrayed them, according to the strong, stoic man—the one that had always been there in the dreamworld. Arn had sold them out to his captors in exchange for a brief respite from the pain. With his bloody face, Arn had told the strong man that it was worth it. Continue reading Arn 73