The guard picked up the poker examined it and approached Mill, pointing the red, glowing tip at Mill’s face. He applied it to Mill’s neck, and as Mill shouted out with pain, Janake winced, and partly turned away. Mill then screamed, “They're attacking!”
Janake gestured for the guard to stop, and, after the poker was removed, Mill began to sputter out the words: “They’re pushing their borders winterward … expanding their territory … by destroying small Fourth Order villages … quietly … to move into the buffer zone.” He breathed heavily and could still feel the lingering pain of the burn, which he would reached out to touch if his arms weren’t restrained.
Janake frowned when he heard this, not because he didn’t believe it, but because it sounded troubling. “Honesty isn’t too hard, now is it?” he said, the frown still pulling at his mouth, “It’s interesting how torture can really disarm one’s ability to lie. Even just the slightest pain made you more honest.”
After a moment of thought, Janake gestured for the guard to take Mill away. The guard untied him from the chair, and dragged him back down the stairs and into the darkness. He was tossed into his cell and the door was again closed behind him.
Mill was, after an unknown amount of time, again woken from a sleep by the sound of the door being opened. A fleeting moment of hope crossed his mind as he thought he might be let free, but it was short-lived. Instead, another prisoner was shoved into his already cramped space.
He backed away to give the prisoner room, seating himself with his back to the wall. He could only see a silhouette of the figure, who squatted on the ground, watching him cautiously, apparently poised in a defensive posture.
Then out of the silhouette’s mouth, a women’s voice emerged, speaking in the Omnian dialect. “You’re not one of the dangerous ones are you?” she asked, “Why’d they put you here?”
“I tried to kill a man,” Mill admitted, replying to her in the Omnian dialect. It’d been so long since he’d used his first language. When the word’s spilled out of him, he was reminded of that wonderful feeling of being to express himself in his natural voice. It was like being able to walk again after having to crawl through a tunnel. The words were sincere and effortless and he liked to say them and hear them spoken.
He smiled to her, though he didn’t know if she could see him. She approached towards him tentatively and he could finally see her face as it was exposed through some dim light that leaked through a slot in the door. She had a stunning face: large, almond eyes, with a round nose and a small mouth that smiled with big red lips.
“I’m Kayla. And you’re from the Omnia too, aren’t you?” she said, “You’re not a murderer are you? I mean you’ve never actually succeeded in killing anyone, have you?”
“No, this is the first time I’ve ever tried it,” he told her, “I didn’t want to have to. And I wasn’t very good at it.”
“Why’d you do it then?” she asked. As she spoke, she began to move herself towards him, kneeling on the ground and scooting herself forward. He could see that she only wore a raggedy shirt and a pair of trousers and as she leaned forward the neck of the shirt hung open enough for him to see down to her chest.
Mill restrained himself from looking. He answered her cagily, “It was for the Omnia. For the good of the Omnia.”
She nodded her head and fell into silence at these words. When she finally spoke, she said, with grave intensity, “If you can kill someone for the Omnia, then you can kill me too. I want you to kill me.”
“Why?” Mill asked, with surprise.
“They’re going to torture me,” she replied, a genuine tremble of fear in her voice, “They’ve got me here because I know things. As you can tell, I’m from the Omnia. I’m here in Waldoon to gather information. Now they’ve caught me, and they want me to tell them everything. They’ve started the torture. Just a little bit. They pushed needles under my fingernails. They burned my skin. I have secrets I’ve held onto, for the Omnia. But the torture only gets worse. They have a machine that stretches out your body until your arms and legs are pulled out of their joints. They have one where you’re hung upside down, and they dip you in water until you almost drown before they pull you out. They’ve got spiked clubs that they’ll beat you with, burning sheets of metal they’ll press against your skin, blades to peel of your skin, and more. I don’t want to ever experience that. I’d be better dead than to live through that.”
Monday, December 10, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Aresan Clan Summary - Parts 71-80
Lipmon is only injured and is sutured by Saurek’s personal surgeon. After seeing Mill get nearly killed, Saurek decides to hasten the investigation, sending an advance party to Still Creek immediately. He climbs to the top of the tall Citadel tower where he is able to talk with God. Saurek hears God telling him that the boy is special and interprets it as a message to send armies to attack the Omnia and the Aresan Clan.
Alles and Annsi join Darma and Salles for dinner at Darma’s. Darma gets along well with Annsi, and Alles is easily persuaded to help the Sages with the issue of fortifications. He promises to speak with the Closed Table, the leaders of the thirteen tribes who confer in private and make decisions for the Omnia. After Alles and Annsi leave, Darma seduces Salles, telling him that her husband, Dorin, is infertile. Dorin will be returning the next day, which will be the first day of Madrus. She will seduce her husband and if they have a child, he’ll assume it’s his. After sex, they lay on the ground and Salles tells her about the origin of the order of Sages.
Meanwhile, Dylan-Nantes wanders the streets looking for a house to invade. He is tempted to enter Darma’s house, but, seeing the light on, he decides against it. Instead, he breaks into the house of Darma’s neighbor, enters the room of a young girl and then slits her neck after waking her.
The Fourth Order advance party, led by Robair, hastily rides to Still Creek to investigate Lipmon’s story. They find, as he said, the place destroyed and in ashes. Robair discovers the remains of an animal that were sacrificed in the Omnian/Aresan style, indicating that it was they who attacked.
Mill is imprisoned in a dank dungeon. He is then brought before an interrogator, Janake, who asks him what he knows about the attack on Still Creek. Mill tells Janake what little he knows, but Janake thinks he’s holding something back. He burns him with a hot poker. To stop the torture, Mill tells Janake the Omnia attacked Still Creek as part of a plan of widespread conquest of the region. Janake returns him to his jail. A woman named Kayla who claims to be a spy from Omnia like him joins him in his jail cell. She says she has been tortured and wants to die to avoid more torture.
Alles and Annsi join Darma and Salles for dinner at Darma’s. Darma gets along well with Annsi, and Alles is easily persuaded to help the Sages with the issue of fortifications. He promises to speak with the Closed Table, the leaders of the thirteen tribes who confer in private and make decisions for the Omnia. After Alles and Annsi leave, Darma seduces Salles, telling him that her husband, Dorin, is infertile. Dorin will be returning the next day, which will be the first day of Madrus. She will seduce her husband and if they have a child, he’ll assume it’s his. After sex, they lay on the ground and Salles tells her about the origin of the order of Sages.
Meanwhile, Dylan-Nantes wanders the streets looking for a house to invade. He is tempted to enter Darma’s house, but, seeing the light on, he decides against it. Instead, he breaks into the house of Darma’s neighbor, enters the room of a young girl and then slits her neck after waking her.
The Fourth Order advance party, led by Robair, hastily rides to Still Creek to investigate Lipmon’s story. They find, as he said, the place destroyed and in ashes. Robair discovers the remains of an animal that were sacrificed in the Omnian/Aresan style, indicating that it was they who attacked.
Mill is imprisoned in a dank dungeon. He is then brought before an interrogator, Janake, who asks him what he knows about the attack on Still Creek. Mill tells Janake what little he knows, but Janake thinks he’s holding something back. He burns him with a hot poker. To stop the torture, Mill tells Janake the Omnia attacked Still Creek as part of a plan of widespread conquest of the region. Janake returns him to his jail. A woman named Kayla who claims to be a spy from Omnia like him joins him in his jail cell. She says she has been tortured and wants to die to avoid more torture.
<-- Summary of Parts 61-70 Summary of Parts 81-90 -->
You can see all parts of The Aresan Clan written so far collected here.
You can see all parts of The Aresan Clan written so far collected here.
Aresan Clan pt 80
The man, named Janake, sat opposite Mill and maintained a fixed stare, squeezing his brow together in the attitude of intense and concentrated effort. He bore nothing in his hand with which to take any notes and seemed to be concentrating in particular to inscribe everything he saw and heard onto the interior of his mind.
“For the attempted murder of one of our citizens within the holy confines of our palace, the maximum penalty is death,” Janake began, “But if you provide us with useful information, we will be able to reduce your sentence to a more bearable punishment. Do you understand?”
“More bearable punishment?” Mill asked, “What does that mean?”
“It’s not up to me to decide,” Janake shrugged his shoulders, then suggested tentatively, “But perhaps forty lashes and permanent excommunication. If your information proves valuable.”
Janake continued, “For reasons we cannot disclose, we believe that you are a member of the Omnia and that you are acting on orders provided by them. Can you either confirm or deny this information? And bear in mind that I see clearly from here every movement and expression that you make.”
The two items in Mill’s mind that were being weighed against one another—his fidelity to his homeland and his love of his own life—were far from evenly balanced. Whatever patriotism had originally led him to abandon his home and settle in this faraway land as a foreign pretender had long since evaporated, whereas his life, though he would willingly sacrifice it for something or someone who deserved it, he valued greatly. And for him in particular, as for any man who is loved, his life was not entirely his own; he refused to believe that he was free to dispose of it as he liked. He had to preserve himself for Anika. So, when Mill heard Janeke’s words, he confessed openly: “I wasn’t acting on orders. Not explicit orders, at least. I’ve never been told to kill anyone. But I provide information to the Omnia and am charged with protecting their interest. Killing Lipmon seemed in the interest of the Omnia.”
Janake nodded contemplatively as he said: “That clarifies how they were able to get an assassin this far so quickly. Then you knew what information he possessed? You knew something about this village of Still Creek-for?”
“I overheard him talking about it in Orinda-for. That’s where I’ve been living these past five years.”
“But how did you know that the Omnia was involved in the attack he described?” Janake asked, intensely furrowing his brow, “Lipmon certainly wasn’t aware it was coming from there. We haven’t even determined that fact for sure yet.”
“The courier I contact with told me an attack was coming, that they were hitting some tiny Fourth Order village nearby. I didn’t know why or even where they were attacking. When I heard Lipmon’s account, I filled in the gaps,” Mill answered. But as he gave this answer he looked, more so than in his previous responses, nervous and uncomfortable. This wasn’t due to him having something to hide, since he in fact told all he knew, but, rather, due to him having so little to say, something he feared might displease his interrogator and lead to some unpleasant consequences.
Janake, though, interpreted the nervousness unfavorably. He turned around to look at the instruments of torture that sat behind him in the shadows unused and said, “I don’t like to use those machines back there. I genuinely feel the pain of others when they are tortured. I can’t help it. But I need information and, if you don’t give it to me, if I sense that you are lying, that you are holding something back, we will have to resort to it. Do you understand?”
“They don’t tell me any more than I need to,” Mill said now growing even more nervous, “They only told me this much because it was happening in my vicinity. They’d prefer I knew as little as possible. It’s a liability.”
Janake sighed with disappointment and then gestured for the guard, telling him, “Grab that metal poker back there,” pointing towards a blunt, handled rod lying on the table. “Put it in the flame to heat it up,” Janake instructed, indicating the large flame of the lamp that illuminated the room. The guard strode forward and did as he was told.
As the poker heated up within the flame, Janeke looked at Mill with fixed, intent eyes and waited, unmoving, for him to speak. In Mill’s mind he scrambled for an answer, some plausible lie to say that would convince his interlocutor that he was being cooperative.
“For the attempted murder of one of our citizens within the holy confines of our palace, the maximum penalty is death,” Janake began, “But if you provide us with useful information, we will be able to reduce your sentence to a more bearable punishment. Do you understand?”
“More bearable punishment?” Mill asked, “What does that mean?”
“It’s not up to me to decide,” Janake shrugged his shoulders, then suggested tentatively, “But perhaps forty lashes and permanent excommunication. If your information proves valuable.”
Janake continued, “For reasons we cannot disclose, we believe that you are a member of the Omnia and that you are acting on orders provided by them. Can you either confirm or deny this information? And bear in mind that I see clearly from here every movement and expression that you make.”
The two items in Mill’s mind that were being weighed against one another—his fidelity to his homeland and his love of his own life—were far from evenly balanced. Whatever patriotism had originally led him to abandon his home and settle in this faraway land as a foreign pretender had long since evaporated, whereas his life, though he would willingly sacrifice it for something or someone who deserved it, he valued greatly. And for him in particular, as for any man who is loved, his life was not entirely his own; he refused to believe that he was free to dispose of it as he liked. He had to preserve himself for Anika. So, when Mill heard Janeke’s words, he confessed openly: “I wasn’t acting on orders. Not explicit orders, at least. I’ve never been told to kill anyone. But I provide information to the Omnia and am charged with protecting their interest. Killing Lipmon seemed in the interest of the Omnia.”
Janake nodded contemplatively as he said: “That clarifies how they were able to get an assassin this far so quickly. Then you knew what information he possessed? You knew something about this village of Still Creek-for?”
“I overheard him talking about it in Orinda-for. That’s where I’ve been living these past five years.”
“But how did you know that the Omnia was involved in the attack he described?” Janake asked, intensely furrowing his brow, “Lipmon certainly wasn’t aware it was coming from there. We haven’t even determined that fact for sure yet.”
“The courier I contact with told me an attack was coming, that they were hitting some tiny Fourth Order village nearby. I didn’t know why or even where they were attacking. When I heard Lipmon’s account, I filled in the gaps,” Mill answered. But as he gave this answer he looked, more so than in his previous responses, nervous and uncomfortable. This wasn’t due to him having something to hide, since he in fact told all he knew, but, rather, due to him having so little to say, something he feared might displease his interrogator and lead to some unpleasant consequences.
Janake, though, interpreted the nervousness unfavorably. He turned around to look at the instruments of torture that sat behind him in the shadows unused and said, “I don’t like to use those machines back there. I genuinely feel the pain of others when they are tortured. I can’t help it. But I need information and, if you don’t give it to me, if I sense that you are lying, that you are holding something back, we will have to resort to it. Do you understand?”
“They don’t tell me any more than I need to,” Mill said now growing even more nervous, “They only told me this much because it was happening in my vicinity. They’d prefer I knew as little as possible. It’s a liability.”
Janake sighed with disappointment and then gestured for the guard, telling him, “Grab that metal poker back there,” pointing towards a blunt, handled rod lying on the table. “Put it in the flame to heat it up,” Janake instructed, indicating the large flame of the lamp that illuminated the room. The guard strode forward and did as he was told.
As the poker heated up within the flame, Janeke looked at Mill with fixed, intent eyes and waited, unmoving, for him to speak. In Mill’s mind he scrambled for an answer, some plausible lie to say that would convince his interlocutor that he was being cooperative.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Aresan Clan pt 79
The day before, after being knocked out, Mill had awoken while being dragged by two guards, carrying him by his arms down a set of stairs. His hands had been tied behind his back by a piece of hemp rope that pinched so hard against his wrist that it hurt and his head was sore from the blow that had been struck there.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he had been dragged through a dark, dank hallway, where had been audible the sound of water dripping through the ceiling into stinking troughs of water mixed with human excrement and blood, the sound of rats scurrying away from the new arrivals, and the sound of the plaintive wails of prisoners left in agony in this underground prison.
A wooden door had been opened before him and he had been shoved through, landing on the ground before it closed behind him. “What about these ropes?” he had shouted to the guards, but there was no response.
The room in which he sat was almost completely black, but he had been able see the outlines of the space, and it was a tiny room, with a low, arched roof that he could almost touch his head to when he stood up and walls close enough to one another that he could probably touch both of them at once if he could stand up and spread his arms out.
But he hadn’t been able spread his arms out, since they had been tied behind his back and had been growing more sore and cramped as they remained in that position. As he had sat upon the floor, he had tried to extract his wrists from the bonds by pulling at the ropes, but he had been unsuccessful. He had tried to pick at the knots with his fingers, but, even after much effort, he had been unable to make progress.
He next had attempted to try and bring his hands from his back to his front. This had proved both painful and difficult. As he had sat upon the ground he had tried to push his wrists around his buttocks without success. He had then rolled onto his back, curling his body and stooping his shoulders to the point of great discomfort and still had only just barely been able to squeeze the rope around. Now his wrists had been linked just below his knees and he had had to somehow squeeze his legs through. This part had been easier, but no less unpleasant. As before, he had pushed the flexibility of his muscles as far he could and had only just made it. He had pressed his knees against his chest and then, one at a time, had pushed the rope over his heel and then over his toes, straining with what little strength he had. One leg had come through first, then the other.
Now he finally had had his bound wrists in front of him. He had continued to pick at the knots, but now with his ability to use his teeth to bite into the tough, scratchy material, he had been able to make some progress. Gradually the knots had loosened until the ropes finally fell to the ground. His wrists were sore and purple with bruises.
With no concept of day or night, but tired from his long exertion, Mill had lain on the ground, resting his head upon his hands as a pillow and fell to sleep.
He woke up what he presumed to be the next day to a guard kicking him in the stomach. “Get up!” the guard shouted at him as his foot impressed itself firmly in his stomach. Mill woke with a wheezing gasp, but leapt to his feet as fast as he could to avoid any further abuse.
The guard led the way back up the long flight of spiraling stairs, which gradually emerged into daylight. Around a corner and down a hall, Mill was shoved into another room, an interior room devoid of decorations or of windows. The light in the room came from a large, coal-burning lamp that hung on the wall and produced a prodigious flame. It illuminated a single man in a white robe who sat in the room and the machines of torture behind him. Mill could see a large wheel, and a flat bench that a person was apparently tied to and laid upon, as well as a table full of hand-held tools for the cutting, poking, pinching and burning of flesh.
Mill was put into a chair, where his arms were pulled behind him then tied to one another and to the chair.
The man who sat opposite immediately began to speak as the guard retreated into the background. “I hate going down into the dungeon,” the man confessed, “So, I brought you up here instead. What I’d like is for you to, perhaps, clarify some questions we have about your activities.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he had been dragged through a dark, dank hallway, where had been audible the sound of water dripping through the ceiling into stinking troughs of water mixed with human excrement and blood, the sound of rats scurrying away from the new arrivals, and the sound of the plaintive wails of prisoners left in agony in this underground prison.
A wooden door had been opened before him and he had been shoved through, landing on the ground before it closed behind him. “What about these ropes?” he had shouted to the guards, but there was no response.
The room in which he sat was almost completely black, but he had been able see the outlines of the space, and it was a tiny room, with a low, arched roof that he could almost touch his head to when he stood up and walls close enough to one another that he could probably touch both of them at once if he could stand up and spread his arms out.
But he hadn’t been able spread his arms out, since they had been tied behind his back and had been growing more sore and cramped as they remained in that position. As he had sat upon the floor, he had tried to extract his wrists from the bonds by pulling at the ropes, but he had been unsuccessful. He had tried to pick at the knots with his fingers, but, even after much effort, he had been unable to make progress.
He next had attempted to try and bring his hands from his back to his front. This had proved both painful and difficult. As he had sat upon the ground he had tried to push his wrists around his buttocks without success. He had then rolled onto his back, curling his body and stooping his shoulders to the point of great discomfort and still had only just barely been able to squeeze the rope around. Now his wrists had been linked just below his knees and he had had to somehow squeeze his legs through. This part had been easier, but no less unpleasant. As before, he had pushed the flexibility of his muscles as far he could and had only just made it. He had pressed his knees against his chest and then, one at a time, had pushed the rope over his heel and then over his toes, straining with what little strength he had. One leg had come through first, then the other.
Now he finally had had his bound wrists in front of him. He had continued to pick at the knots, but now with his ability to use his teeth to bite into the tough, scratchy material, he had been able to make some progress. Gradually the knots had loosened until the ropes finally fell to the ground. His wrists were sore and purple with bruises.
With no concept of day or night, but tired from his long exertion, Mill had lain on the ground, resting his head upon his hands as a pillow and fell to sleep.
He woke up what he presumed to be the next day to a guard kicking him in the stomach. “Get up!” the guard shouted at him as his foot impressed itself firmly in his stomach. Mill woke with a wheezing gasp, but leapt to his feet as fast as he could to avoid any further abuse.
The guard led the way back up the long flight of spiraling stairs, which gradually emerged into daylight. Around a corner and down a hall, Mill was shoved into another room, an interior room devoid of decorations or of windows. The light in the room came from a large, coal-burning lamp that hung on the wall and produced a prodigious flame. It illuminated a single man in a white robe who sat in the room and the machines of torture behind him. Mill could see a large wheel, and a flat bench that a person was apparently tied to and laid upon, as well as a table full of hand-held tools for the cutting, poking, pinching and burning of flesh.
Mill was put into a chair, where his arms were pulled behind him then tied to one another and to the chair.
The man who sat opposite immediately began to speak as the guard retreated into the background. “I hate going down into the dungeon,” the man confessed, “So, I brought you up here instead. What I’d like is for you to, perhaps, clarify some questions we have about your activities.”
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Aresan Clan pt 78
In the early morning hours, some traces of dew still remained on the grass, which the horses’ hooves swept away as they galloped down the road connecting Waldoon and Still Creek. This road was little more than a half-grown-over dirt path that wound through the mountains and into the valley of Still Creek. Nonetheless, this was all that the Fourth Order advance party had to use to guide them there, since it was a place none of them would ever have any reason to know how to find.
Their leader, a pale, scruff man named Robair, led the way galloping on his horse, his long black hair bouncing with the horse’s stride. Four other mounted scouts followed behind him, each of them hunched forward as their horses advanced at a full gallop, making the greatest haste to reach their destination. He had told his men discouragingly when they first departed from Waldoon, “This is all a waste of time.” As they neared the village, on the verge of coming into sight of it, he repeated this same complaint over and over again to himself. “This is a huge waste of time. It’s all the delusions of some backwater, ignorant country peasant, sending us off to capture clouds,” he said, reciting a familiar maxim.
Once the village began to come into view and Robair could see the destruction, his mouth dropped in shock. Much of the harvest was still left in the field, but it had been eaten into by the black jaws of the fire. It was evident how far the fire had reached before it had burned itself out, since it formed a wavy and imperfect circle, in the center of which were the charred remains of the village.
As they got closer, he could start to see the footprint of the village stamped into the ground, the lines of tiny streets between the buildings and the wreckage of the buildings themselves, mostly just piles of ash blown away into the wind and bits of blackened wood. The only part untouched was the mound where the child had sat and by which a small creek flowed.
Robair and his four men brought their horses to a stop at the edge of the village. The place sounded of death. A hollow wind blew through it and all that was left when this died down was silence. Not even the quiet sounds of the forest—the birds and the insects—were audible in this desolate place.
“Search for anything that might give us hard evidence that the Omnia or the Aresan Clan were here,” Robair told his men as they dismounted and started to walk into the village.
As the men dug through the rubble, they found many human remains—the bodies black and shrunken by the fire. Bits of metal and leather could be found among the debris, but they could find no weapons or pieces of clothing that appeared to be from the Omnia or the Aresans.
“Nothing,” Robair’s men reported to him as he sat at the edge of town and oversaw this activity.
Robair finally dismounted himself and walked into the village to assist them. He pushed through the rubble, in search of a knife or a sword or even just a spear point that might point Summerward.
He was unsuccessful, until he pushed aside a large chunk of roof from one of the houses and noticed a burned and blackened goat among some human remains. It was something he wouldn’t have otherwise thought anything of. Surely some of their animals might have been killed in the blaze, but he decided to ask his men, “Did you find any livestock?”
All his men unanimously replied in the negative. If they could, the livestock would’ve all fled from the fire, or the attacking soldiers probably would’ve captured them. Perhaps this goat had been lame or tied up, or already dead.
Then Robair looked at the legs. The legs were all pinched together, almost as if they had been tied. If it were tied with a rope, the rope would probably have burned in the fire. Robair kneeled down to examine the legs more closely. And that’s when he saw it: the scanty, charred remains of a rope wrapped around the legs. The goat had been tied up and thrown into the fire as a ritual offering to god.
“The people of Still Creek weren’t into animal sacrifices were they?” Robair asked his men. They simply shrugged their shoulders and one of them replied, ‘If they’re part of the Order, they shouldn’t have been.”
“Any of the Itinerant tribes?” Robair asked.
“They’d consider that the height of wastefulness,” a soldier replied.
“But the Aresan Clan and some of the tribes of the Omnia are. There the only ones aren’t they?” Robair said to himself, and then he loudly announced, “I think I found some evidence.”
Their leader, a pale, scruff man named Robair, led the way galloping on his horse, his long black hair bouncing with the horse’s stride. Four other mounted scouts followed behind him, each of them hunched forward as their horses advanced at a full gallop, making the greatest haste to reach their destination. He had told his men discouragingly when they first departed from Waldoon, “This is all a waste of time.” As they neared the village, on the verge of coming into sight of it, he repeated this same complaint over and over again to himself. “This is a huge waste of time. It’s all the delusions of some backwater, ignorant country peasant, sending us off to capture clouds,” he said, reciting a familiar maxim.
Once the village began to come into view and Robair could see the destruction, his mouth dropped in shock. Much of the harvest was still left in the field, but it had been eaten into by the black jaws of the fire. It was evident how far the fire had reached before it had burned itself out, since it formed a wavy and imperfect circle, in the center of which were the charred remains of the village.
As they got closer, he could start to see the footprint of the village stamped into the ground, the lines of tiny streets between the buildings and the wreckage of the buildings themselves, mostly just piles of ash blown away into the wind and bits of blackened wood. The only part untouched was the mound where the child had sat and by which a small creek flowed.
Robair and his four men brought their horses to a stop at the edge of the village. The place sounded of death. A hollow wind blew through it and all that was left when this died down was silence. Not even the quiet sounds of the forest—the birds and the insects—were audible in this desolate place.
“Search for anything that might give us hard evidence that the Omnia or the Aresan Clan were here,” Robair told his men as they dismounted and started to walk into the village.
As the men dug through the rubble, they found many human remains—the bodies black and shrunken by the fire. Bits of metal and leather could be found among the debris, but they could find no weapons or pieces of clothing that appeared to be from the Omnia or the Aresans.
“Nothing,” Robair’s men reported to him as he sat at the edge of town and oversaw this activity.
Robair finally dismounted himself and walked into the village to assist them. He pushed through the rubble, in search of a knife or a sword or even just a spear point that might point Summerward.
He was unsuccessful, until he pushed aside a large chunk of roof from one of the houses and noticed a burned and blackened goat among some human remains. It was something he wouldn’t have otherwise thought anything of. Surely some of their animals might have been killed in the blaze, but he decided to ask his men, “Did you find any livestock?”
All his men unanimously replied in the negative. If they could, the livestock would’ve all fled from the fire, or the attacking soldiers probably would’ve captured them. Perhaps this goat had been lame or tied up, or already dead.
Then Robair looked at the legs. The legs were all pinched together, almost as if they had been tied. If it were tied with a rope, the rope would probably have burned in the fire. Robair kneeled down to examine the legs more closely. And that’s when he saw it: the scanty, charred remains of a rope wrapped around the legs. The goat had been tied up and thrown into the fire as a ritual offering to god.
“The people of Still Creek weren’t into animal sacrifices were they?” Robair asked his men. They simply shrugged their shoulders and one of them replied, ‘If they’re part of the Order, they shouldn’t have been.”
“Any of the Itinerant tribes?” Robair asked.
“They’d consider that the height of wastefulness,” a soldier replied.
“But the Aresan Clan and some of the tribes of the Omnia are. There the only ones aren’t they?” Robair said to himself, and then he loudly announced, “I think I found some evidence.”
Monday, December 3, 2012
Aresan Clan pt 77
Dylan-Nantes regarded his knife with some pleasure, admiring it for having been able to pull off what he half-regarded as a magical feat. After he stepped through the window into a dark and empty room, he kept this magical instrument drawn and began to explore.
The interior of this large home was completely dark, with only the dimmest traces of light peaking in from outside. He could hear nothing except the occasional distant sound of a person passing by on the street outside and the gentle swaying of the wind. He crept up the wooden staircase, and each step squeaked under his pressure as he ascended. He randomly decided to follow the hallway to the right at the top of the stairs and when he reached the first door he opened it slowly. Its hinges squeaked and he had to move the door slowly. Inside the room he saw a large and luxurious bed with a red quilt spread over the top. Beneath the quilt two long person-mounds were visible, the two heads buried in the feather pillows and breathing slowly. He turned away. He would prefer to enter a room in which only a single person were present.
There were several other doors in the hallway, which either didn’t lead to rooms or were empty. When he reached the next occupied bedroom he found a somewhat smaller room with a teenage girl wrapped beneath sumptuous sheets and breathing the slow breath of sleep. He entered the room silently and closed the door behind him.
As he approached her, he noticed a piece of turquoise hung around her neck upon a chain. The stone was a piece of the sky meant to keep her close to god, to protect her from Death. “It’s not working,” he thought to himself with a smile. Then he realized, “No, that’s not quite true. After I kill her, Anan, from heaven, will still be able to save this girl from Death,” recalling what he knew of the theology of the Omnians and the Aresan Clan, “When her body is meat, God will reach down his hand and lead that part of her is still not dead into heaven. Or so they believe.”
To restrain her and keep her from moving, he laid his entire body on top of her, putting his two legs on either side of her legs and pinching them together while he planted his elbows on either side of her arms. The girl immediately woke, and he planted one hand firmly on her mouth and with his other he held his knife to her neck. She could smell the filthy hand that was on her mouth, redolent of soil and blood, even taste it on her lips. “Silence,” he whispered to her in Omnian, with his thick accent, “Or die.”
The girl looked up at him with wide panicked eyes. From so close up, Dylan-Nante could see the lustrous green of those eyes composed of many flecks of color; he could see the short lines of yellow color extending outward from the now large black pupil in the center like the corona of the sun. And while he watched those eyes, he pushed the edge of the knife into her neck and cut a furrow through her skin. Her whole body squirmed: her legs tried to kick, her hands to free themselves, and her mouth to scream. But he held her in place and watched the panic growing in her eyes—the pupils growing even wider and the color disappearing from them. The blood squirted from her neck in spurts and poured down onto her sheets, and she grew weaker, her muffled screams less forceful, her kicks losing their power. Finally, her body began to relax: her legs no longer kicked; her scream faded into silence; and her eyes, previously fixed upon him, slid to the side without the motive force to hold them in place.
Dylan-Nantes stood up this point and again admired his knife with fascination, his own totem of divine power. “Don’t worry, Anan will save you from Death,” Dylan-Nantes whispered, as some sort of prayer over her dead body, “He’ll save you from becoming another member of the armies of Death, or whatever it is you people here believe.”
He then took the necklace as a souvenir and turned around and quietly snuck out of the house the way he came in.
The interior of this large home was completely dark, with only the dimmest traces of light peaking in from outside. He could hear nothing except the occasional distant sound of a person passing by on the street outside and the gentle swaying of the wind. He crept up the wooden staircase, and each step squeaked under his pressure as he ascended. He randomly decided to follow the hallway to the right at the top of the stairs and when he reached the first door he opened it slowly. Its hinges squeaked and he had to move the door slowly. Inside the room he saw a large and luxurious bed with a red quilt spread over the top. Beneath the quilt two long person-mounds were visible, the two heads buried in the feather pillows and breathing slowly. He turned away. He would prefer to enter a room in which only a single person were present.
There were several other doors in the hallway, which either didn’t lead to rooms or were empty. When he reached the next occupied bedroom he found a somewhat smaller room with a teenage girl wrapped beneath sumptuous sheets and breathing the slow breath of sleep. He entered the room silently and closed the door behind him.
As he approached her, he noticed a piece of turquoise hung around her neck upon a chain. The stone was a piece of the sky meant to keep her close to god, to protect her from Death. “It’s not working,” he thought to himself with a smile. Then he realized, “No, that’s not quite true. After I kill her, Anan, from heaven, will still be able to save this girl from Death,” recalling what he knew of the theology of the Omnians and the Aresan Clan, “When her body is meat, God will reach down his hand and lead that part of her is still not dead into heaven. Or so they believe.”
To restrain her and keep her from moving, he laid his entire body on top of her, putting his two legs on either side of her legs and pinching them together while he planted his elbows on either side of her arms. The girl immediately woke, and he planted one hand firmly on her mouth and with his other he held his knife to her neck. She could smell the filthy hand that was on her mouth, redolent of soil and blood, even taste it on her lips. “Silence,” he whispered to her in Omnian, with his thick accent, “Or die.”
The girl looked up at him with wide panicked eyes. From so close up, Dylan-Nante could see the lustrous green of those eyes composed of many flecks of color; he could see the short lines of yellow color extending outward from the now large black pupil in the center like the corona of the sun. And while he watched those eyes, he pushed the edge of the knife into her neck and cut a furrow through her skin. Her whole body squirmed: her legs tried to kick, her hands to free themselves, and her mouth to scream. But he held her in place and watched the panic growing in her eyes—the pupils growing even wider and the color disappearing from them. The blood squirted from her neck in spurts and poured down onto her sheets, and she grew weaker, her muffled screams less forceful, her kicks losing their power. Finally, her body began to relax: her legs no longer kicked; her scream faded into silence; and her eyes, previously fixed upon him, slid to the side without the motive force to hold them in place.
Dylan-Nantes stood up this point and again admired his knife with fascination, his own totem of divine power. “Don’t worry, Anan will save you from Death,” Dylan-Nantes whispered, as some sort of prayer over her dead body, “He’ll save you from becoming another member of the armies of Death, or whatever it is you people here believe.”
He then took the necklace as a souvenir and turned around and quietly snuck out of the house the way he came in.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Aresan Clan pt 76
By the time dusk had ended and the city of Lamosa was fully wrapped in darkness, Dylan-Nantes started to think that, for a man who’d spent his entire life exploring the world of mountains and forest, he’d gotten a handle on the city. He’d only just arrived early that morning, had paid a visit to Premier Anders and had spent the rest of the day exploring. Though, perhaps wandering would be the more appropriate term, since he’d explored entirely without method, frequently coming upon forks and picking his path entirely at random. He’d spent the day carving out a meandering and irregular circle through the heart of the city, and now found himself in Darma’s neighborhood, wherein, for the first time that day, he’d decided to loiter.
He was supposed to return to his tribe immediately and he wouldn’t normally hesitate to escape into the fresh air of the wilderness, but he wanted to take advantage of a final chance to amuse himself before he left. The city didn’t have the virtues of the forest: the streets stank of too many humans pushed together, and it was almost impossible to find a place to escape from the eyes of the omnipresent persons and be entirely alone with oneself. Like Erek-Monte he thought to himself that someday, if he could, he would bring this whole city crashing down and let the forests reclaim it, as they had reclaimed the ruins of the ancient cities long ago destroyed and left behind.
The neighborhood that he’d ended up within, he could clearly tell, was one of the wealthier in the city. It contrasted sharply from some of the poorer one’s he’d passed through. For one, the sidewalks were paved with stone instead of dirt and were cleaner. The tenants here also usually had servants in attendance and they glittered and shone in the daylight with nice clothing and jewelry. Most noticeably, the houses were larger, made of more durable materials such as stone and brick, and usually had walls around them, with enclosed well-tended gardens.
It was into one of these walled gardens that Dylan-Nantes decided to venture into. Compared to infiltrating the compound of the Premier’s Private House this would be rather easy to accomplish. He waited as the only person in sight, a lantern-bearing pedestrian, disappeared, and then leapt up to grab the top of this wall. It was barbed in the form of jagged rocks poking out of the top of the wall, but Dylan-Nantes was able to resist the pain and pull himself on top. There in front of him stood the magisterial abode of Dorin and his wife Darma, a sprawling multi-story home with a columned portico, many shuttered windows and a flower-lined garden around it.
Once he dropped into the garden, he began to walk around the exterior of the house, in search of a way to break inside. As he saw it more closely, he realized, with increasing certainty, that it would the perfect type of house to enter uninvited: the house veritably flaunted the wealth and luxury of its occupants.
But disappointment soon overwhelmed him when he circled around to the back side and noticed a light glowing from within. It was on the first floor, and he could see it through the cracks of a window that had been shuttered from the inside. Light betokened still-awake occupants, and still-awake occupants betokened danger to himself if he were to enter without permission.
He waited impatiently, hoping that perhaps the occupants were mere moments from departing for bed, opening the way for his undisturbed entrance, but the light persisted. Finally, he gave up, heaving himself painfully over the wall and walking to the nearest neighbor, an equally stately house with a similar wall and garden. This house, he discovered as he circled around it, was completely dark and probably entirely asleep. Not the faintest trace of light leaked through any of its many windows. Though part of him felt that he was settling by choosing this house and that the last house would be significantly more amusing, he advanced forward anyways.
Dylan-Nantes stepped up to one of the windows, currently secured by a pair of ornately inscribed wood shutters, that he moved towards and examined closely. He was not unfamiliar with shutters like these and pulled a knife from one of his sheaths and inserted it into a gap in the center of the shutters, feeling around. When the knife caught some sort of impediment (which he figured was the hook that held the shutter closed), he pushed at it and moved the knife around until the impediment was cleared. Dylan-Nantes was then able to pull the shutters towards him and open the window.
He was supposed to return to his tribe immediately and he wouldn’t normally hesitate to escape into the fresh air of the wilderness, but he wanted to take advantage of a final chance to amuse himself before he left. The city didn’t have the virtues of the forest: the streets stank of too many humans pushed together, and it was almost impossible to find a place to escape from the eyes of the omnipresent persons and be entirely alone with oneself. Like Erek-Monte he thought to himself that someday, if he could, he would bring this whole city crashing down and let the forests reclaim it, as they had reclaimed the ruins of the ancient cities long ago destroyed and left behind.
The neighborhood that he’d ended up within, he could clearly tell, was one of the wealthier in the city. It contrasted sharply from some of the poorer one’s he’d passed through. For one, the sidewalks were paved with stone instead of dirt and were cleaner. The tenants here also usually had servants in attendance and they glittered and shone in the daylight with nice clothing and jewelry. Most noticeably, the houses were larger, made of more durable materials such as stone and brick, and usually had walls around them, with enclosed well-tended gardens.
It was into one of these walled gardens that Dylan-Nantes decided to venture into. Compared to infiltrating the compound of the Premier’s Private House this would be rather easy to accomplish. He waited as the only person in sight, a lantern-bearing pedestrian, disappeared, and then leapt up to grab the top of this wall. It was barbed in the form of jagged rocks poking out of the top of the wall, but Dylan-Nantes was able to resist the pain and pull himself on top. There in front of him stood the magisterial abode of Dorin and his wife Darma, a sprawling multi-story home with a columned portico, many shuttered windows and a flower-lined garden around it.
Once he dropped into the garden, he began to walk around the exterior of the house, in search of a way to break inside. As he saw it more closely, he realized, with increasing certainty, that it would the perfect type of house to enter uninvited: the house veritably flaunted the wealth and luxury of its occupants.
But disappointment soon overwhelmed him when he circled around to the back side and noticed a light glowing from within. It was on the first floor, and he could see it through the cracks of a window that had been shuttered from the inside. Light betokened still-awake occupants, and still-awake occupants betokened danger to himself if he were to enter without permission.
He waited impatiently, hoping that perhaps the occupants were mere moments from departing for bed, opening the way for his undisturbed entrance, but the light persisted. Finally, he gave up, heaving himself painfully over the wall and walking to the nearest neighbor, an equally stately house with a similar wall and garden. This house, he discovered as he circled around it, was completely dark and probably entirely asleep. Not the faintest trace of light leaked through any of its many windows. Though part of him felt that he was settling by choosing this house and that the last house would be significantly more amusing, he advanced forward anyways.
Dylan-Nantes stepped up to one of the windows, currently secured by a pair of ornately inscribed wood shutters, that he moved towards and examined closely. He was not unfamiliar with shutters like these and pulled a knife from one of his sheaths and inserted it into a gap in the center of the shutters, feeling around. When the knife caught some sort of impediment (which he figured was the hook that held the shutter closed), he pushed at it and moved the knife around until the impediment was cleared. Dylan-Nantes was then able to pull the shutters towards him and open the window.
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