Karadra's Shipwreck

The Island - Chapter 5

They ate and sat around the fire until it burned out and darkness descended upon the forest clearing. As the night progressed, fewer and fewer tribesmen remained with the Shaman and Arsik, who conferred for hours under the summer moon shining feebly through the nearly impenetrable canopies of Sarathorn’s jungle.

The old man bored Arsik with stories about the Great Sentinel, the ancient faith of the Creator, the creature constituting the planet itself; a Titan forged by the elements of nature, from which all races of Vitallia came forth. Trying to be on his best behavior, Arsik feigned interest occasionally, more because there was a bit of rum involved, plunder from the tribe’s victims, and Arsik needed it more than anything right then. Moreover, he felt that if he humored the old man, they would let him leave in the name of mercy or religious devotion.

He was wrong.

During the hour of the wolf, those who still sat around the fire were Arsik, the old man and two warriors – one of them the young man who’d eaten Arsik’s fingers. Arsik saved a very special place in his heart for him.

“These are Maaro and Bark, our elite warriors,” the old man gestured to the young men who sat opposite Arsik. The latter had reclined on the ground as if on a royal divan and nurtured a cup of rum. “You will travel together.”

Arsik sat up. “Together where? What kind of mission is this, old man?”

“It is a sacred mission, very significant to us. If you succeed in it, you will earn your freedom.”

Arsik brandished his mutilated hand. “Really? And why do you need me for something that important? You have your elite warriors.”

“I have been talking to you for some time about the Great Sentinel and its holy power. Well, there is a reason I am sharing this knowledge with you, Berserker, since your knowledge starts and ends with types of liquor.”

Arsik playfully wiggled his cup, finished his sip and let it drop down with an annoying, metallic clank. “I know plenty more about the Gods than you assume, old man.”

Arsik’s eyes gleamed in the dark as if journeying back in time. “I’ve heard people older than you and younger than them calling the Gods’ names while swallowed by the waves, under pieces of the rotten wood that betrayed them at sea. I’ve seen them crawling up the temple’s hill on Saraport’s Deck, begging, crying, thanking and hating whatever name you’ve read about in the holy books…” His gaze returned to the Shaman. “So, spare me the sermon. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

One of the warriors said something and the old man nodded solemnly. “You have been through a lot. I believe you. I can see it in your eyes and the eyes of the spirit that has bound itself to you. That is why I chose you. That is why I let you live.”

These last words weighed heavily on Arsik, reminding him that the very different direction this night had taken didn’t come for free.

“Then tell me what you want.”

“There is a temple nearby. Have you seen it?”

“No, but I’ve heard a bunch of stories about it. Why?”

“That temple used to belong to the Great Sentinel. Its ancient altar is a place of power and great energy. In the beginning, our tribe performed magnificent rituals there.”

“But something changed.”

“Something changed, yes…”

The warriors leaned forward, trying to follow the old man’s tale. Arsik realized they understood enough, otherwise they wouldn’t react to the narration.

“About a year ago, a creature crawled inside. It put down roots inside the temple, and our every attempt to confront it or even approach, resulted in fatalities.”

Arsik sat up straighter as a shudder racked his body. His years at sea were over; whatever he’d seen in his life in regard to monsters had been buried in the depths of the ocean and the recesses of his mind. He stayed on dry land, partly so he wouldn’t have to see anything like that again.

“What kind of creature is it?” he asked, not liking where this story was headed.

“A woman,” replied the old man and Arsik involuntarily coughed and burst into laughter. The warriors spoke brusquely and pointed at him, but the old man simply waited.

“A woman? Well, why didn’t you say so? Just tell me she hurt your feelings; I’d understand. You don’t have to present her as a monster.” He laughed and wiped at his spit with the back of his hand.

The old man’s eyes pinned him in place like daggers. “It is not a mere woman. It is a beast, created not by will as the Sentinel’s creatures were, but by a reaction to it, by need. A half-life; an abomination.”

Arsik had heard women being called worse names by various men over the years but realized the old man was being serious. “What are you talking about?”

“A Medusa.”

The old man’s words had the impact of a hammer blow. Arsik raised his brows; the warriors had recoiled at the sound of that name.

They have already seen something, he deduced. In their eyes, he identified that which he’d seen in countless young men who’d received not only a battle’s baptism of fire, but horror’s as well.

“From the look in your eyes, I assume you already know what that is.”

Arsik rested his forehead in his hands. “I am guessing you don’t mean those annoying little sea creatures[1] that cling on your skin in the water, do you?” He paused and then went on. “I know it has venomous snakes in place of hair and that it can somehow turn you into stone.”

“Among other things,” the old man conceded.

“Other things?” Arsik squealed.

“Oftentimes, these monsters possess traces of magic. They are Sentinel’s children, you see; bastard children, but its children nonetheless.”

Arsik leaned sharply towards him. “And what do you think I am? What do you suppose I can do against monsters and magic, huh? Have you completely lost your mind? You’d better burn me alive here and now.”

Unsettled by Arsik’s outburst, Maaro exchanged a torrent of words with the old man and Bark. After a while, he stopped.

“Stone is a gentler death than fire, young man, I guarantee you that. And no, we would not burn you. We would eat you alive, and that is exactly what we are going to do if you do not help us.”

Arsik gulped as he witnessed those last words dispelling the prestige and grace of a supposedly pious man.

“You killed two of ours, two good warriors, without difficulty, I am told. You will take their place in battle. You will pay for two lives with the life of the Medusa.”

“You drive a hard bargain, old man,” Arsik said and rubbed his temples. The anger felt like little sparks flickering between his eyebrows. He hadn’t experienced it all night, he noticed; an unprecedented stretch of time without it.

“You will not be alone in this sacred battle, Berserker. These two will come with you and fight on your side.”

Arsik’s eyes bulged. “Wouldn’t it be better if they hadn’t eaten my hand then?”

Maaro stared right at him with a half-smile.

“We were not aware of it then,” said the old man.

“Aware of what?”

“That you are a Berserker. That you carry the spirit.”

Arsik sprung up. “Enough with that name already. Get it out of your head, old man, I don’t have any spirit inside me except one: the drinkable kind!”

The old man slowly rose to his feet, followed by the two warriors.

“You are wrong, but it does not matter. This spirit will give you the victory we have been seeking for so long. The Sentinel sent you here, to us, tonight. It is a sign, young man.”

A bad night at dice, a loose-lipped w***e and a particularly ruthless bandit sent me here, but that’s a long story.

“Where is the temple?”

“Close.”

“When must we go?”

“Now.”

“Now? How? Where? With what?”

“You will be given your weapons. One of them even has a rune carved on it – that will prove useful. We have more weapons should you need them.”

“Spears and blowguns? Immensely helpful; no, thanks. And what are we supposed to do with the magic and the whole turning-into-stone issue, old man?”

“Pray.”

Arsik sputtered. “What? That’s all? There’s no secret weapon? No information? No potion, anything?”

Maaro said something and pointed at his eyes.

“We believe that the source of the curse is in her eyes,” the old man explained, “a common knowledge concerning Medusas, after all. Such accounts abound in the books of the great seafarer, Mascardi Berio. Avoid looking at her.”

“Avoid…” Arsik laughed. “I see your battle experience is tantamount to that concerning spirits. How in the world am I supposed to fight someone I can’t see, huh?”

He received no reply.

Arsik looked around him. Smoke from the dying fires hovered in the clearing. The tribe slept in tents under the star-studded sky as the dawn slowly crept in after an endless, nightmarish night.

“I imagine I’ll find out once I get there,” he said, resigned, and dusted himself off. “I will need some rest and my weapons and food, and that f*****g salve or whatever it was you put on my hand.”

“You will have it,” the old man granted.

“And I need your word, in front of everyone –or these two, anyway– in the name of your faith or whatever else you want; when I kill her, I am free. Completely free, did you hear me?”

“You have my word, in the name of the Sentinel,” the old man assured him. “Rest now, Berserker. You leave at dawn.”

The warriors ‒who had been watching Arsik during the conversation‒ nodded their agreement to the instructions their Shaman gave them, turning around and hurrying away right after. Before the old man could depart as well, Arsik whistled at him, causing him to pause.

“I’m going to need one last thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Rum. Lots of it,” said Arsik and headed to his tent to prepare himself.

***

Before he succumbed to sleep, he found himself ruminating on the words of a man he’d met a long time ago, when he’d been transferring prisoners to the island of Sing, in one of the kingdom’s old carrier boats. One of the prisoners, a man named Veltys, was a Geomancer and had been talking Arsik’s ear off all through the ride to the prison island.

Veltys’s expertise lay in nature. He could recite the name of every herb in existence, classify them according to climate, attributes, rareness and other traits; he could predict the weather, natural disasters, sea storms and high tides, the outbreaks of Sentinel’s natural occurrences; and all these through the signs he read in the flight of winged creatures, in the animals’ movements, in the smell of the air and other omens the Geomancers learned to interpret – the Trident’s islands brimmed with those.

Each island ‒apart from Sarathorn, which lay at the edge of the Gods’ known world‒ was defined by a special phenomenon. Ayaton was the island of ceaseless rain. Loriax was the island of thunder, constantly hammered by lightning and storms. Akra was the island of the legendary monster Serperia, one of Sentinel’s mythical children, that no seafarer ever succeeded in slaying, not even Mascardi Berio himself. Sing was the prison island, and then there was the Cross, the Tooth and so many other special places directly connected to the Sentinel, the Titan at the center of the world. Arsik had visited all of these islands, mainly during his years as a crewmember in the royal fleet – and then, of course, there was Sarathorn.

Sarathorn wasn’t identified by a specific weather anomaly or a monster –apart from the natives and the jungle– but it was closer to the Vespia Sea than any other island and that was enough.

The Vespia Sea constituted a special chapter in every sailor’s logbook – the black page of seafaring, the forbidden destination, the route everyone steered clear of. It stretched to the west of the islands, south of the dead lands of the Orkandus kingdom, and it was known as the gravesite of the seas. Innumerous vessels had ended up shipwrecking there. Its waves devoured them and spewed the bones and souls of their crews to the surface. There was no explanation; there was nothing – only fear and stories and whispers, about a shadow that dwelled in the deep and pulled everything living towards it.

The Geomancer had spoken about it too but offered no more information than the average captain. No one knew anything beyond the Sea Lord’s orders, the declaration that forbid all ships from crossing the Vespia Sea, hence only pirates and retired navy men dared attempt the fateful route.

Arsik remembered the Geomancer’s stories now, what he’d told him about the monsters of this world. Each monster created by the Sentinel was characterized by a Cycle, as the Geomancers and the Druids had defined it. A Half Cycle meant the monsters slept during the summer months and awoke in the winter, while a Full Cycle meant the monsters never hibernated. Those who did hibernate, retreated into tunnels deep under the ground, so they could feel the Sentinel’s warmth whence they came from. When they awoke from their slumber, they returned to the surface.

Arsik now wondered which Cycle Medusa belonged to, if she was occasionally awake or if he was so unlucky again that this particular b***h was always awake – or maybe she’d built her own tunnel inside the temple and did whatever she liked. These thoughts reminded him that he had taken a liking to that old Geomancer. He hadn’t been able to understand why he was transporting him to such a cruel and inescapable prison like the Sing.

Arsik recalled that place with disgust. It had definitely been the most miserable time of his life, visiting that barren land, transporting prisoners to their final destination. The only thing existing on the island apart from the prison and the sparse, depressing settlement, was the Temple of Nothing.

The Temple of Nothing wasn’t precisely a temple, but a statue, in front of which all prisoners passed before they were led to their cells. The statue had no arms, no head, no features. It had nothing, reminding those who passed it that, from then on, they too would have nothing – that they were leaving the life of Virtue behind and entered a life of imprisonment and Nothing. A horrible ritual… but more horrible still, was the man who performed it.

The supposed priest of Nothing belonged to the tribe of the Sirakrat, and he, like the statue, had no arms. His name was Zerrika and was believed to be the most accursed Sirakrat in existence. He was the last stop between the outside world and the prison. Arsik had cursed his job and his life every time he saw him and left as quickly as he could for the next mission.

Zerrika sickened him. Not only did the tribe of the Sirakrat maintain the tradition and the ability to draw power by inflicting pain on themselves, either by cutting themselves with blades or whipping themselves, or even hurting themselves using their fingernails or sharp stones; this particular Sirakrat, with his intentional lack of arms, had risen to another level of insanity and abhorrence. Arsik spat on him and on the barbaric faith of the Sacred Blood as well.

These were the last thoughts in his head before his brief rest. The time for the answers he hoped to find was drawing near.

Fast.

[1] Translator’s note: In Greek, “medusa” is another word for “jellyfish”.