The days passed slowly—slow as blood drying. Unlike blood though the gleam of dark sunlight that rested in the corner of Arn’s cell continued to grow. Some days, those when he started awake from the deepest mazes of the dreamworld, Arn could swear he saw a face reflected in the fiery spot—a grotesque and furious face. Continue reading Arn 72
Please read In Recent Years: Introduction before reading this post.
On a hunt during the later months of the year, a hunter of Razaad named Arn joins the charge of his hunting band against the defensive reptiles that are so valuable to their tribe. Loklar, the chief of the hunting band, gets caught by vines over a stone precipice from which there is no way out. With no one around, Arn—true to his Razaad values—slices through the vines with his knife, sending Loklar to his death. Continue reading In Recent Years: Arn
Arn heard their voices before he saw them. There were two guards coming, chatting quietly at the top of the ladder. Arn’s cell had only a small hallway beyond the metal bars. There were no neighbouring cells either.
“Should have just killed him,” came one of the muted voices.
“Nah, he’s just like us,” mumbled another.
The first voice scoffed, “He’s insane. I’m nothing like him.” Continue reading Arn 71
Arn charged—heart pounding, shins shrieking—through the foliage. The creature was after him. He was the prey, not the hunter. He had always been the prey. Sharp branches cut at his cheeks, wide leaves slapped off his shoulders. He plunged down a slope, half-sliding, half-falling, coming to rest on his feet—back slicked with mud. A growl—loud enough to fill his ears with guttural reverberation—preceded the beast. Arn took off again, fingers clutching the moss as his feet skidding this way and that. Continue reading Arn 70
They had beaten Arn surprisingly little. From the grotesquely armoured guards, he had received only two cracked ribs, bloodied lips, and a black eye. From the pot-bellied—and rather clumsy—jailor, he had received a gash to his hand from a dull knife used to tighten a screw in a shackle. And, from the sickness in my mind, Arn thought, I’ve received the worst wound of all. He had lost his freedom—what measure of it he had possessed as a slave. Continue reading Arn 69
The siege of Starath had changed little when Crar, the Merchant of Orm River, arrived by war galley. Arn only knew of his presence by a report from one of Master Quenden’s other servants. In a word, he was told it would be time “soon.” Arn had only kept training—pretending to have not heard the report. Continue reading Arn 68
As Arn had predicted, passing time was all they did in Quenden’s compound. He trained—as instructed—and he waited for the merchant known as Crar to arrive—as he had been ordered. Ships came and went, though only a sliver of the sea was visible from their position inland of Starath. The besieged city smouldered as usual, though sightings of its townspeople drew even more occasional. Arn, still learning the language of the army as quickly as he could, wondered if the people inside spoke a similar tongue, one more familiar to his own speech, or a dialect yet stranger. Continue reading Arn 67
An island of rubble showered the ocean and Arn nearly leapt to his feet. For once, blessedly, he could not remember what he had dreamt. He calmed his heartbeat—something that was quite easy for someone who was practically dead inside. He looked across the shack at the unused cot nearby. Gamden wasn’t there; it was same as the ten days prior. Arn had glimpsed him in the yard, glaring at him. Arn had only closed his eyes or looked down. Continue reading Arn 66
Arn had been sitting in the dark room for nearly an hour before he thought to examine the black walls. His calloused fingers found the rough surface oddly warm—this was metal, he realized. Like the sword he had once carried, like the plates covering some of the soldiers in the siege camp, this metal wall was smooth and seemed utterly unbreakable. He followed it to the corner and paused… had he heard something? A whisper? Or was that just the shuffle of his tattered sandals? Continue reading Arn 65
Arn awoke from a restless sleep. Nevo was calling him. The guard waited outside his shack while Arn washed up and pulled on his clothes. Gamden was already up—he’d left an hour earlier, passing Arn’s groggy senses, to help with some wall repairs to the rear of Quenden’s compound.
When Arn stuck his head out, Nevo waved him to follow. “What?” Arn asked, not moving beyond his threshold.
Nevo sighed. “Quenden wants to see you.” Continue reading Arn 64