The Arcane Amnesiac

By Kieran Wiesenberg

Renzo can't remember anything.

Not his last name. Not where he came from. And certainly not why he's awoken beside a dead body. Framed for a murder he knows he didn't commit, Renzo is thrust into a fantastical mystery in which the fate of a city, its surrounding forest, and his very memories all hang in the balance.

Will a lon

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kieran Wiesenberg
• Release date: Sep 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986000718

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The Arcane Amnesiac

Kieran Wiesenberg

Copyright © 2022 by Kieran Wiesenberg

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The Arcane Amnesiac is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Lindsey Nelson

Print ISBN 979-8-9860007-0-1

eBook ISBN 979-8-9860007-1-8

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For David, Kam, Ryan, and Joe

Killed Again

The dream was nice for a while; it was easy, but if Renzo ever wanted to take control, if he ever wanted any of it to be real, he knew he’d have to wake up. 

After a few moments he did, slowly, groggily, blinking and squinting as the black of sleep was replaced by a bright and painful blue. It appeared he was outside, lying down on top of something hard and uncomfortable, but then, maybe that was just the soreness. His body seemed to be racked with it, an aggressive tightness that clenched his muscles, his skin, and perhaps even his bones within its crushing grip. It was not altogether an excruciating sensation, though its sheer coverage rendered it somewhat impossible to ignore. Have I ever felt this sore? he wondered. He couldn’t quite remember, but he guessed not. Surely, no one would have been able to forget a discomfort of this caliber. It was so bad that it nearly made him miss the stench.

Nearly.

Though it came to him suddenly, Renzo suspected that it had been there all along, loitering, lurking beneath his muddled nose, waiting for the perfect moment in which to strike with its odious stink—a moment that, evidently, happened to be right now. The smell was horrible, a bit like a combination of rotting meat and burnt rubber—only somehow much, much worse. So horrible was it that, somewhat to Renzo’s surprise, it got him moving. At least a little bit.

With all the agility of a slug, Renzo began to rotate his head, woozily tilting it every which way in a series of lame attempts to locate the source of the odor. It had to be close. It was too pungent—too terrible—not to be close. After the first few head turns however, Renzo had nothing. He was just beginning to wonder if perhaps it were him who was the source of such a foul stink when, at last, he found the real culprit.

There was a dead body lying next to him.

In an instant, all of Renzo’s previous sluggishness evaporated. He came to his feet in a flash, nearly fell, staggered wildly, and eventually ended up some five feet away from where he’d started, wincing from the pain of jolting a body into action that was not ready to do so. Despite the throbbing sensation coursing through his head, neck, torso, and waist however, Renzo was hardly fazed. He was too busy staring at the…

What is that?

It was a body—that much was clear enough; a dead one—that much was even clearer. Though what it had died from, Renzo hadn’t the first clue. Its limbs were terribly thin, much thinner than a person’s should be, and dreadfully pale too. So thin and pale was this used-to-be person that Renzo might’ve even mistaken them for a skeleton, had it not been for the veins that showed, jet black and bulbous, beneath the figure’s taut white skin. The corpse was naked, its scrawny frame lying on the ground mere inches from where Renzo had laid himself, its glossy black eyes likewise watching the sky as if in demented imitation. Renzo shuddered. Just how long had he been lying there with that thing? Sleeping beside a corpse, the two of them passed out in the middle of the…street?

Pulling his eyes away from the body, Renzo took a moment to observe his surroundings. He was in the middle of a street all right, one paved with cobblestones that did well to explain the kinks in his back and leg and head. As for any other explanations however, Renzo was at a loss. The street was bordered by buildings, ones made of wood, brick, and stone. There were a lot of them. They sat close together and at varying heights and widths, which meant this was a town, or perhaps even a city. But if a town, then which town? And if a city, then which city?

Renzo frowned. The place was familiar all right. Or at least, it seemed to be. For some reason, he couldn’t quite place it. He tried to remember how he’d gotten here, tried to remember how he’d come to be passed out in the street next to a dead body, but for the life of him, he couldn’t. And the more he thought about it, the more a much more troublesome, much more unsettling realization began to sink in. It wasn’t simply that Renzo couldn’t remember what this place was or how he’d gotten there, but rather…it was that he couldn’t remember anything.

The truth of it sank in slowly, gradually, almost hesitantly—as if it was somewhat unsure of itself. And rightly so, because, obviously, obviously it couldn’t be the real truth…right? But it was, and the more Renzo thought about it, the more he tried to remember and came up empty, the realer it all became.

It’s a strange thing, to lose your memories, or most of them. For, at least in Renzo’s case, he hadn’t lost all his memories. He knew his name after all, could picture how he’d spell it, and figured that meant he could read and write well enough too. This was all but confirmed when he spied a For Rent sign in one of the neighboring buildings’ lower windows. Of course, he knew what the sign meant, was familiar with renting as a concept; only, he had no personal experience with which to relate it. This was the same for almost everything he saw, almost everything he could think of. Renzo knew well how the world worked; his only confusion was in regard to where exactly he fit within it.

He began to survey the street more closely, scanning for clues or details that might help jog his memory. He made it about ten seconds before his search was interrupted by a scream.

It had come from a woman—old, short, round faced, and about as unfamiliar to Renzo as the rest of his surroundings. She stood some ten feet away from him, frozen, a dropped bag of groceries at her feet. Of the now-escaping contents, a bright-green apple was traveling the farthest, rolling to a particular spot on the street closer to Renzo. The same spot, it seemed, on which the woman’s horrified stare was transfixed: the corpse.

Renzo couldn’t help but cringe as he laid his eyes upon that sickly hide once more. He couldn’t blame the woman for screaming at such a thing. If he was being totally honest, he was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t. Still, her shriek had drawn attention, and the way her eyes now darted from the corpse to Renzo, as if the two were somehow connected—impossible—and worse, as if Renzo were somehow responsible—definitely impossible—he wasn’t entirely convinced that it was good attention.

The third person to arrive at the scene, or fourth, if the dead one was to be counted, was a man—middle aged, mustached, and adorned with a short gray top hat. For the first few moments, his gaze was glued exclusively to the figure that lay horizontal and pale in the road before him. Soon enough however, his eyes lifted to stare at Renzo with the same look of fear as the woman whose scream had called him. He looked Renzo up and down, blinked once, and took a half step backward. The man’s face, Renzo noticed, previously a light-pink shade, was quickly turning white. With a trembling arm, he raised his gloved pointer finger to Renzo, announcing loudly: It’s…it’s him! It’s the slayer!

The what?

The slayer? came another voice from behind him, along with a shriek from someone else.

What’s going on? 

Not another!

My…my word…

In a matter of moments, the previously quiet road came alive. People seemed to come from everywhere, out of buildings, around alleyways and street corners, even emerging from thin air, or so it seemed to Renzo. It wasn’t long before a crowd had formed, a sea of eager onlookers shaped into a tight circle, each one eyeing the corpse that lay at the center, and also at the man who stood awkwardly beside it.

Renzo tried his best to slink into the mass, merge with the herd, and shift from spectated to spectator. Unfortunately, his attempt was met with a hard shove, one which sent him stumbling—and nearly falling—back into the center.

Don’t let him leave! came a shrill woman’s voice. He needs to pay for what he’s done!

Somebody call the Garrison! shouted someone else.

"Screw the Garrison! Let me at the bastard!"

No! Stay back! We don’t know what he’s capable of!

Of all the hollered things Renzo managed to catch over the din of the crowd, this last one was by far the most peculiar. What I’m capable of? What in the world could that mean?

Before Renzo had even a moment to think about it, something caught his eye that made his heart sink. The members of the mob, already a mixed bag of the horrified, stupefied, and outraged, seemed to have evolved almost exclusively to the latter. Turning round and round the perimeter of his little circle, Renzo now failed to spy any face that did not seem to be locked on to his with the utmost expression of hate etched into its features. Worse, they were closing in on him, shrinking the diameter of the ring into something eerily reminiscent of a chokehold. And, worst of all of course, was the fact that a few of them had begun to pull out knives. 

Feeling his heart jump suddenly to the top of his throat, Renzo threw his hands up on instinct. W-wait, wait, wait! I don’t—

He was stopped by the sight of the entire front-facing row of assailants freezing and backing off a half step.

Huh? But why? His eyes went wide. No— 

Renzo spun around, half expecting to catch a blade through his ribs as he did so. After all, the other side backing off like that had to have been a diversion, right?

But no.

Upon turning to the other side of the circle’s perimeter, not only was Renzo not met with a blade through the ribs, but upon his turning to face them, this row of assailants backed off a half step too. Confused, Renzo eyed their faces and found that those previously hateful expressions, while not totally dissolved, had been significantly altered, had been tinged by something else: fear.

Watch his hands! someone called. The bastard’s probably arcane!

Arcane.

Strange. More than any one he’d heard in his few minutes of consciousness, this word stuck out to Renzo. He was sure he should know what it meant. However, for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to remember. He forgave himself for the lapse in recollection. When it came to memories, he wasn’t doing all too well today, and at present, he had more pressing things to worry about.

As he turned around the circle once more, it was clear that his would-be attackers were still hesitating to get to the attacking part. They had suddenly gone much quieter too, the previous cacophony of their screams and shouts having lessened to a hushed scattering of whispered murmurs. Renzo wasn’t sure which was worse. He needed to get out of there.

Keeping his hands up, he took a step forward. Listen, I—

Again, Renzo was cut short. For, upon his stepping forward, the entire blockade—including more than a few individuals who were each much brawnier and meaner looking than Renzo—backpedaled yet again. The fear on their faces was growing now. Getting worse, it seemed, with each step Renzo took…

Hm.

Without warning, Renzo took a huge, fast step forward, raising his arms high as he did, making himself look as big as possible. Like clockwork, the mob retreated, practically toppling over as some thirty people leapt backward in unison, scrambling and falling over each other as those in the front desperately attempted to force their way to the back. Turning on his heel, Renzo gave the same exaggerated leer to the opposite side, nearly laughing as they, too, went tumbling back.

Stay back! he was shouting now. "Stay back or else I’ll…um…or else!"

The mob obeyed his command. Whatever this ruse was, whatever these people thought him capable of, it seemed to be more than enough to keep them at bay.

Just who do they think I am? he wondered, looking from one horrified face to another. Just what do they think I am?

Whatever the answer, Renzo never learned it. For, all of a sudden, the sound of hooves could be heard over the ever-dwindling whispers. And no sooner had the noise of their clopping reached Renzo’s ear than the crowd began to part, to split ever so perfectly down the middle, and made way for the riders.

There were five of them in all—tall, hooded figures on horseback who rode in a V formation and, by the looks of the V, were currently making a beeline for Renzo. The hoods they wore threw long shadows over their faces, but Renzo could tell in an instant who these people were: soldiers. As they came closer, he spied the similitude of their garments, uniforms comprised of an assortment of dark-leather pads, straps, and pouches. On each rider’s waist, two weapons sat holstered: a sword on the left and, on the right, a gun. Even more striking than these, however, was the color of their cloaks. From the tops of their spacious, shadow-filled hoods to the bottoms of their long, wind-blown capes, the riders all donned cloaks of a rich, vibrant purple. All of them, that is, except for one.

The frontmost rider was the odd one out. Along with the clashing shade of cloaks—theirs was a deep, impenetrable black—this rider set themself apart from the rest merely by magnitude. Granted, not physical magnitude, for, compared to the others of the group, this rider was actually somewhat small. Rather, then, it was more of a suggestive magnitude. Something revealed by the way they sat in their saddle, by the grace with which they commanded the great steed below them, and by the unspoken aplomb with which they led the rest of the group. For certainly, if anything was clear about this troop of mysterious individuals, it was that the one in the black cloak was the leader.

Accordingly, once the formation had come to a full stop before Renzo, they were the first to remove their hood, and it was revealed that they were a woman. 

She was old, with red hair and a squarish face that looked upon Renzo with the deepest contempt—and perhaps even a bit of disgust. Her eyes moving from Renzo to the corpse beside him and back again, the sour expression did not change much, nor did it when, after that, she lifted her gaze to the crowd at large.

What happened here? she asked. Her voice was gruff, like bricks on concrete.

It’s the slayer! called a man toward the front, shoving a long, accusatory finger in Renzo’s direction. He’s killed again!

No, Renzo began, shaking his head. I never— but his words were soon drowned by a chorus of angry cries from the mob. Above, the red-haired woman shot a glance to one of the riders behind, who, drawing the pistol from their waist, let a round off into the sky, restoring the quiet almost instantly.

The red-haired woman gave a nod, and suddenly, two of the riders were dismounting. Without a word, they quickly began to approach Renzo, and while, at first, he was glad to see that neither one was reaching for their weapons, any calm quickly abandoned him as he saw the ropes and what looked to be a burlap sack they clutched instead.

Whoa, whoa, wait a minute… he said, taking a nervous step back. Then, remembering himself, he took a confident one forward, raising his arms high and shouting, as menacingly as he could, Stay back! Stay back or else! Stay…hey, stop! Sto—

The wind was suddenly driven from his lungs as the nearer hood slammed their knee into his stomach. Unlike the throng of bystanders, it seemed these individuals were not so easily intimidated…or deceived. Gasping, choking, and clutching at his now-throbbing torso, Renzo fell forward into the arms of the other hood, who, after forcing him back to balance, began to bind his wrists. Not long after, the burlap sack was pulled over his head, and Renzo’s world was suddenly thrust into darkness. 

Notify the Premier, came the gruff voice of the red-haired woman. Tell him we’ve caught the slayer.

Formal Introductions

Renzo cringed as the sack was torn from his head. What followed his confrontation with the hooded riders had been a long, dark, and disorienting trip through the seemingly labyrinthine streets of the strange city. At some point, he’d felt the warm breeze of the day cease, replaced by a stale humidity that could only be indoors. From there, he’d been led through a series of rooms and hallways—or at least, what he suspected were rooms and hallways—and down a number of stairwells—which, surely, must have been stairwells—all of which echoed loudly with the hard, clattering footsteps of those who escorted him. Eventually, he was pushed into a chair, and the rope that bound his wrists was replaced by a pair of heavy shackles. After this, there had been a number of retreating footsteps, the closing of a door, and finally, a silence. The last of these went on for so long that Renzo began to think that he had been left alone. But then the sack was torn from his head, and pitch black was replaced suddenly, and violently, with dazzling white.

After a considerable amount of squinting and blinking, his eyes adjusted, enough to make out what lay around him, and also to see that of this, there was not much. The room was a small and square one, large enough to accommodate the chair he sat in, the table in front of it, and perhaps even adjacent chairs on either side, but that was about it. Above, hanging ever so brightly from the ceiling, was a lamp. Well, really it was a singular bulb dangling somewhat precariously from a thin cord, but to Renzo’s black-accustomed eyes, it might as well have been the sun. Thankfully, his vision soon acclimated, and the bulb’s once-blinding ray gradually shifted to a light that, really, Renzo realized, was not that bright at all. Indeed, while its overhead position may have done well to illuminate his shackled wrists, as well as the chains that bound those to the table, its yellow shine failed to permeate the entirety of the room, leaving its corners, as well as much of the space before him, steeped in darkness. Of the immediate attributes of the space, that about covered it.

Then, of course, there were the strangers.

There were two of them; they sat across from Renzo, just far enough away from the table that the light did not reach them, leaving much of their still silhouettes concealed in shadow. Studying their unmoving, unspeaking, and perhaps even unbreathing figures, Renzo could not help but notice that, unlike his own, the strangers’ wrists were not chained to the table. From this, a perturbing delineation was made clear: whoever these people were, it seemed Renzo was now their prisoner.

Who are you? was the question that broke the silence. It had come from the stranger on the left, a man’s voice: smooth and cold.

My name is Renzo, Renzo said after a moment. Then, hesitantly, he asked, Who are you?

We’ll be asking the questions, snapped the stranger on the right, a gruff female voice that Renzo recognized. It was the red-haired leader of the riders. What were you doing in the street today? she asked from the blackness.

Renzo swallowed, then looked down at his hands. I…I don’t know.

Did you kill him?

Renzo looked up. What?

The dead bastard in the street. Did you kill him?

No, Renzo said, shaking his head. No, I—

Then what were you doing lying next to him?

I don’t… Renzo shook his head again. I don’t remember. Listen, please—

His words were cut off by the sudden slam of a fist on the other end of the table.

Enough, the woman spat, leaning in close, and Renzo noticed that her red-haired scalp had begun to gray at the roots. Either you tell us the truth, or I force it out of you.

Now, now, Agala, came the man beside her. He placed a richly bejeweled hand on hers. Let’s hear him out. A second, equally decadent hand emerged from the shadows, interlaced with the first, and sat down casually on the tabletop. The rest of the man remained in the darkness. So, you don’t remember why you were lying in the street today? The man’s tone was cordial enough, though Renzo thought he sensed something beneath it. Something lethal.

No, Renzo said adamantly. Then, nervously, I don’t…I don’t remember anything.

There was a pause. Nothing at all?

Renzo shook his head.

The red-haired woman, Agala, snorted. What a load. You knew your name, didn’t you?

But that’s it! Renzo insisted. Everything else is just…gone.

Another pause. Although he could not see them, Renzo sensed the man’s eyes from the blackness. They were watching him. Studying him.

If privacy is your concern, I can assure you that we are well beyond the reach of any prying eyes and ears. As for General Rathburn here—he gestured a slender hand to Agala—she is one of my most trusted colleagues. Any message for me is safe with her.

Renzo shook his head. Message? I…

Go on, the man said. It’s all right.

"No, you don’t understand. I’m not—I don’t have a message."

That’s it. There was a harsh scraping sound as General Agala Rathburn pushed her chair back from the table. Before she could stand, however, the man’s voice filled the room like a clap of thunder.

"Sit," he said.

It was dark, so Renzo could not tell for sure, but if he had to guess, he’d wager that the red-haired general had obeyed his command. Had he not already been sitting himself, Renzo wagered he would have too.

There was a moment of silence, but eventually, inevitably, the room was filled with the grinding squeal of a chair being pulled back in. Thank you, the man said once it had stopped, and though his tone was pleasant, a portion of that thunder seemed to remain, lurking, ever present.

Now, Renzo, I believe I have awarded you much patience. He lifted a thumb, letting it circle around a ring on the opposite knuckle. "However, you should know that my patience only stretches so far. So if you wish for General Rathburn here to remain seated—which you should, assuming you value the continued functionality of your arms and legs—then I suggest you start talking. Now."

Renzo’s heart began to make itself known. Listen, he pleaded, I don’t know what any of this is about. I don’t have a message. Or at least, if I had one, I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything. The only things I know for sure are my name and…

And?

And that I didn’t kill him.

Of course, Renzo was lying. Without his memories, he had no way of knowing that he had or hadn’t killed anybody. Still, there seemed to be some part of him that knew anyway. Some part of him that went even deeper than memory. Renzo wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be. Right?

A bored sigh came from the opposite end of the table.

Of course you didn’t kill him, Renzo, the man said, and with this he leaned forward, far enough that his pale, slender face finally came into the light. "I did."

Renzo’s eyes widened. Partly in response to the man’s words, partly due to his appearance. He was a wicked-looking sort. Long, oily locks fell behind crooked features and a wide, heinous grin. One look at that awful face, and Renzo didn’t have to take this self-proclaimed killer’s word for it. He could see it in his eyes.

Y-you killed him? Renzo stammered. "But…why?"

A frown flitted over the man’s face. "You know why. However, if you insist on playing this little amnesia game, I suppose I will too. Shall we start with formal introductions?"

Sarker, come on; you don’t have to—

"Agala, please!" the man shouted, making Renzo jump. When it was clear the general had no more objections, he continued.

My name is Sarker Krund, he said. I am the Premier of Gollkirk, and for the past eight months, bodies have been appearing in my city’s streets. Emerging, it would seem, from thin air. Eight times now they’ve come, each one alone but for the stench that accompanies them. Each one, that is, but for the most recent. The Premier raised an eyebrow. "This time you came along too. Now, do you really expect me not to take that as a message? He leaned his body farther across the table. What’s your game, amnesiac? What’s he trying to tell me?"

Renzo hadn’t a clue what or who the man before him was referring to, but it didn’t matter much. He’d stopped listening. Eight times? he asked, staring absently at a spot near the center of the table.

Excuse me?

Renzo’s eyes shot up, locked with Sarker’s. Eight times this has happened? Images of the corpse were shooting through his head now. To think that whatever happened to it had been the result of another human, and worse, that it had happened multiple times was enough to make Renzo angry. In fact, it was enough to make him furious.

The energy in the room had shifted. Subtly, but enough for Renzo to notice. At first, he thought it might just be him, but a change in the Premier’s expression confirmed that everyone in the room had felt it, and as if on cue, Rathburn spoke up.

Sarker? asked the general, voice uncharacteristically uncertain. 

I see it, replied the Premier, but Renzo still wasn’t listening.

A flame seemed to have come alive within him, a heat emanating from his deepest parts. It was small now, a flickering candle in the pit of his stomach, but it was growing. He could feel it. Soon it would be full; soon it would be everywhere.

Tell us who you are, and what you want now, came Sarker’s booming voice. Only, what had once seemed a large and intimidating cadence was now but a shadow. A feeble, irritable thing that grated on Renzo’s ears and did well to stoke the flames, ever rising, within him.

"I already told you who I am, Renzo growled, hardly recognizing his own voice for the hatred that had seeped into it. And the only thing I want is to be out of these damn chains!"

With this, Renzo slammed his fists down onto the table, and the chain snapped. Not only this, but the entire table seemed to move, to bend…to go concave. 

Wha—?

His eyes were pulled upward by the sound of a chair squealing against the ground. Rathburn had gotten up again, only this time, she was not approaching him. When Renzo had slammed his fists on the table, he’d clipped the light on the upswing, and as its hanging bulb now swung back and forth, casting its shine in erratic patterns all around the room, he saw that the general had moved to the corner, a look of fear on her face.

The light had illuminated Sarker