Contents
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Forward
Dedication
... From a Sliver
Part One - BERNARD Chapter 1 - The Neox
Chapter 2 - A Protnuk's Riddle
Chapter 3 - Winds, Calms, and Fires
Chapter 4 - He Who Misses Nine but One More
Chapter 5 - Smith Tunston
Chapter 6 - An Unwelcome Drum at Bomwigs
Chapter 7 - Sanet's Confession
Part Two - LOGAN Chapter 8 - Fires Across the Lothatin
Chapter 9 - South Freks Worth It
Chapter 10 - Lust of the Demvirst
Chapter 11 - Treasures and Retaliations
Chapter 12 - Beneath the Stonetin
Chapter 13 - Into the Temple of Krakes
Chapter 14 - Crossroads
Part Three - IAHEL Chapter 15 - Left Without a Wave
Chapter 16 - Hidden within the Fog
Chapter 17 - The Twofooter's Tale
Chapter 18 - March of the Ingreves
Chapter 19 - The Man Who Lost His Legs
Chapter 20 - An Inevitable Conclusion
Chapter 21 - Into Carvinga
Part Four - ETHAN Chapter 22 - The Woman Without a Past
Chapter 23 - A Welcome Celebrations
Chapter 24 - Ethan and the Weonslow
Chapter 25 - Across the Sands of Yikshir
Chapter 26 - Johan's Blonde Sea Horsal
Chapter 27 - In the Jungle of Trimod
Chapter 28 - Monch, Broon, Soul
Part Five - SANET Chapter 29 - Cadwellion's Power
Chapter 30 - Beneath Them, Uncertainty
Chapter 31 - Prisoners of Paulo
Chapter 32 - A Battle Between Twos and Tens
Chapter 33 - The Grave of Carvin
Chapter 34 - Overture of the Dark Valor
Chapter 35 - Advent of the Roar
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Coming Soon
Book One
THE LAND OLD, UNTOUCHED
ADVENT
OF THE ROAR
a folk tale by BENJAMIN M PIETY
Approsh.
Copyright © 2018 by Benjamin M Piety
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
First Printing, 2018
ISBN 978-1984136091
An introduction to the
ADVENT OF THE ROAR
I met Bernard Babek in the strangest of ways, but despite the unusual circumstance, he welcomed me with generosity, kindness, and a compassionate smile. He was one of the bravest persons I ever had the pleasure of knowing.
He was a good man.
When we encountered each other all those years ago, Bernard's heart was heavy as an uncertain decision pressed on his thoughts. One that would have grave and lasting consequences, for him and all of those he loved. But our meeting is, perhaps, a story for another time.
This tale instead begins in the peaceful and lush green state of Radiba where Bernard lived a simple life as a night gardener. A tale set in a Land with a language and governance all its own filled with adventure in places far from home.
A tale that opens in the thick of a hunt and the brewing of a storm.
Enjoyments,
BMPx
FOR NINA
with whom there was coffee, giant pancakes, & courage
…from a sliver of brass
Part One BERNARD
Chapter 1
THE NEOX
Bernard ignores the first raindrop that hits the large frontz leaf next to his ear, and instead aims a worn, modified rifle between the shoulder blades of a neox standing only six strides in front of him. Scavenging alone in the Radiba Forest, the five-foot-tall four-legged frek rummages with a long, headless neck into a blue brackleberry bush, pressing its snout between the leaves and folding a circular mouth around a trio of seeded fruits. This peaceful major breaks when the clouds that had throughout the afternoon rumbled with distant thunder, and now hide on the upper side of a thickly branched canopy, cool and condense into a substantial rain.
As droplets hit the sizable neox’s matted brown hair, it bolts. Don’t run, you little frek, Bernard thinks. Within minors, the storm strengthens, and the rain proliferates into the crash and smash of a torrential downpour, masking the neox’s silent crosscut through trees and bramble. Bernard lifts his brown leather hood, streaming a thin rivulet of water across his face, before stepping over to the brackleberry bush, pushing it aside, and discovering a set of triangular hoofprints pressed into the fresh mud.
Hunting neox is laborious work, as not only are they quick as snips but they’re also engineered with keen senses of smell and hearing. To double, their fragile anatomy requires that their pursuer sends them left with a single round of ammunition—a single shot after hours if not days of tracking and patiently waiting for precise timing. Missing the neox means the timid frek will run thirty sometimes forty miles in a single effort; and because they’re scavengers, they don’t return to a shelter or cave or nest where a hunter could set traps. And this isn’t the worst of things; neox also never sleep and instead exist in a constant state of panicked paranoia brought on by the gentle snap of a twig, the crunch of dry leaves, or the innocence of rain. All these factors culminate into a hunt that extends beyond rational judgment, beyond a normal friend’s exhaustion, and a hunt that often ends in painful futility.
Setting hardships through dense landscape and time aside, the neox, unlike other dangerous freks, exudes a placid temperament, minimizing the probability of a counterattack. Adding a reward of delectable and easily stored provisions, nearly a month’s worth, makes the difficult chase perhaps a touch more appealing. For centuries, many have attempted neox husbandry, but attempts to tame and domesticate these fickle beasts failed within a single generation. These elements combine to draw out even the most cynical of hunters’ desire for pride and power and braggart’s rights. And the rare appearance of these headless freks, especially for a Radibian like Bernard, is thought to bring great luck or great misfortune, hinging on the outcome of the hunt. So don’t give up now...
As night approaches, the rain continues to thump with the sound of a thick-barreled drum pounding on the overgrown canopy. This shift and hug of dark clouds fade the natural emerald forest into a sodden gloom, creating unknown figures in the surrounding trees. The howl of the storm amplifies the pressure to find the hidden neox, as Bernard believes it won’t be long before the frek steals away forever. He attempts to follow the hoofprints, but the trail begins to slosh together in the relentless pitter-patter. His instinct at this point is to light a frontz torch to illuminate the forest, but he knows this will only frighten the fearful neox even further. Instead, he waits for his eyes to adjust to the increasing darkness, relying on hope and some of that foretold neox luck.
After eighteen hours, the bit of granola Bernard had shoved in his pockets as he’d run after the neox is long gone, and his stomach rumbles in hunger. And then, with a set of prints untouched by the rain ahead, he is back on the neox’s trail. He pushes through the leaves, through the vociferous storm, beginning to wonder what in Lincoln he’s doing here.
Bernard thinks of Jame back at their haynest and of t
he likely ringing of incessant whines through the halls as Jame lies upright and alone in their master, waiting for Bernard to answer. Waiting for Bernard to come to his aid only to entreat for a mug of water or peck of food. When Bernard first caught sight of the neox the night before, without a minor’s hesitation, he stood, ran inside, grabbed a rifle and a once packed rucksack for a trip south they never took, and yelled out to Jame that he would return in a major.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Even with a pinge of guilt for Jame, coupled with the creak and groan of an aging body without proper rest, it was surprising to Bernard that the whole of the hunt had been unexpectedly moving. For some time, Bernard’s life has been an endless routine: waking up; making mornmeal; taking quiet solo treks through the forest; returning haynest to a mindless novit or tabletop game of Raising Jarjers with Jame, a game he’s notoriously terrible at; then falling asleep. Boredom and small living have become a constant companion of their—
Bernard halts.
Ahead in the forest, standing between two dark trees, the neox, its attention riveted on Bernard, its headless neck aiming in his direction. The neox waits motionlessly as if attempting to catch the slightest sound or faint scent of its pursuer.
Bernard remains still, unable to cope with an eighteen-hour loss should the neox decide to take off again. He peeks to his west and finds a nearby tree to take cover behind. The thump thump thump of rain plops against some of the bigger leaves above, marking the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The neox, uncharacteristically, steps toward Bernard. In turn, Bernard raises his gun, knowing it’s unwise to shoot the neox in its neck or one of its legs. Shooting a neox anywhere other than between its shoulder blades ruins a significant portion of the meat, which, after these endless hours, is not an acceptable outcome. If only it would pass me; I could take it out with my knife. Bernard counter steps the neox as it continues pressing forward, creating a slow motion and unintended dance through the brush while the neox’s bobbing neck remains fixed in the center of his rifle’s crosshair. Fog rolls in around them as the neox stops only under four strides away.
Bernard sinks into the wet dirt, and as he lifts his leg, his mud-covered foot produces a loud slurp. This sudden sound catches the neox’s attention, its neck craning to follow it. Why aren’t you running, little frek? Lightning illuminates the dark russet trunks around them, followed by distant reverberations of thunder, signs of a strengthening storm. The neox continues to plod closer, and as it does, the end of its neck opens, exposing a slick, salivating mouth and rows of gnarled flat teeth. Another lightning strike exposes the inside of the neox’s black throat and two piercing red eyes staring back at Bernard. The flash of this horrific absurdist sight gone as the forest reverts to darkness.
The neox pounces.
Bernard stumbles backward in shock, his arms bracing for the massive frek’s impact. It knocks him to the ground, causing him to minarily lose his breath. After a brief stagger, the neox curves its long neck toward Bernard, attempting to bite him. Bernard struggles a minor to free his hands from beneath the heavy frek and instinctively grabs for its thick, wet neck, holding the neox back as it snaps snaps at him, hot spittle dripping onto his face.
The rain continues descending on them, making it difficult to breathe without water running up his nose and into his mouth. Thunder claps. He wrestles the massive neox that fights with doubled ferociousness with each passing minor. Its behavior is erratic with an unruly, almost zealous need to devour.
The neox shifts and Bernard edges from underneath it, gaining an advantage. He reaches for his fallen rifle, which is made more difficult with the relentless snapping and the deluge dulling his senses. His heart beats wildly. This can’t be the end, not by a neox. I want to see Jame again. One hand continues to hold the neox’s chomping mouth away while the other barely fingers the rifle.
Lightning strikes.
Snap snap.
Closer.
The gun tips away.
Shnite! The neox thrusts itself forward, throwing off Bernard’s hold. He rolls the neox toward the rifle, finally wrapping his hand around the weapon. The neox stands and shakes itself in the rain, bending its neck to attack. It opens its mouth, emitting a silent roar, as it is unable to produce sounds. The minor, guided by hateful rain, turns surreal.
Bernard faces the neox, and in a flash of lightning, its red glowering eyes become visible once more down inside its throat. With the butt of his rifle and one sharp motion, he bats the neox across its neck. The frek slams against a nearby tree, dropping noiselessly to the ground. The intensity of the fight draws still as the rains continue around them. Bernard takes deep exhausted breaths as he reaches for a knife carried in his waist belt and, without hesitation, stabs the unconscious neox between its shoulder blades.
❖❖❖
It takes over an hour to find a nearby station at which to rest, as the dragging of the neox and the constant miserable rain slow his pace considerably. Ahead, Bernard encounters a small cave carved out long ago from a lesser hillside in the forest. Inside, he plops the muddy neox down before starting a fire from some hideaway flint and steel.
Now a bed to sleep in. He scans the small cave, hoping for one already assembled by other passing travelers, but the cave lies vacant and undiscovered. Instead, he’ll need to gather large frontz leaves fallen from the upper canopy and fold them into a makeshift sleeping pad. The raging storm outside will make this quite the chore, and Bernard considers just sleeping on the hard surface. After stomping the dirt, however, he thinks better of it. He’s wet already, and a good night’s rest far outweighs a reluctance to face the rain. And so, he sets out.
Many majors later, he returns with a few dozen wet frontz leaves, most for the bed, but a few he’ll use for torches to explore deeper into the cave and for a bit of wrapping for the neox once he finishes dressing it. He sits cross-legged and begins folding the leaves vertically, laying each, almost six feet long, on the cavern floor before slicing them across the middle to their centerfold. He takes another and repeats the process, placing this new doubled leaf between the first. With every third or fourth layer, Bernard fastens first the top, then the bottom halves together. In this way, he continues, back and forth and back and forth, folding and cutting until he’s fashioned a woven bed, thirty layers thick. He sets the tied frontz leaf pile close to the fire to desiccate while he continues his other tasks.
The soft crackle of flames serves as a nice respite, coaxing Bernard’s eyes to sag with fatigue as cold water drips from his black jeans and brown leather jacket. He reaches up to squeeze the rain from his long hair but abruptly remembers it’s no longer there. Jame had insisted on giving him a haircut only a few days before he’d taken off after the neox, commenting that his long tail of hair would get caught on something or send him left in some terrible way. He’s as nervous as a neox. His cropped scalp feels queer in his hand, like a young boy’s, though a quick glance at his wrinkled skin contrasts the thought.
Across the fire, the stiff corpse of the neox waits. Bernard knows it won’t be long before its sent stench draws in decomps, a swarm of little clicking, clumping black festatars, that even a raging storm cannot prevent from arriving.
Taking a few more frontz leaves and wrapping them around a thick handheld branch, Bernard lights a makeshift torch, turning to the inner cave and exposing a small tunnel. He steps over to it, the walls glittering in the golden-yellow torchlight, and as he continues through, the path grades downward ever so slightly, and the sound of the storm fades. After he walks a few hundred strides, the route opens into a large, round chamber.
The light of his torch flickers across the room, and upon closer examination the walls exhibit a rough natural stone with hints of faded crystalline rock. A few thick stalactites hang above him, and one looks to be a perfect hanging post for the neox. Bernard points the torch down a pair of outlier paths on the other side of the room, revealing nothing but long tunnels of darkness.
Innate curiosity charges him to explore each of them, but he knows that the distraction will only cost him the neox. Grudgingly, he returns through the narrow tunnel to his modest fire flickering in the night. He checks on the bed, almost dry from the heat of the flames. Sleep becomes a hungry frek. Rain spills along the upper mouth of the cave like an erratic waterfall as he drags the neox on the long trudge back to the inner room.
Endless majors later, sweating, tired, and half asleep, he drops the neox and sets his torch on the ground, lighting the cave. He pulls a silver anchor from his waist belt and attaches it to the tip of his rifle. With careful aim, the crosshair focused on his chosen stalactite, he pulls the trigger, hearing a sharp thunk as the anchor penetrates the stone. He pulls out a silk rope, already looped with a small metal stub, and tosses it into the air near the secured anchor. It misses at first, but after another try, it catches on a magnetic attraction with a crisp shink. He flicks the line in his hand until the metal stub falls through a tiny hole in the anchor. It sinks, and he takes the fallen end, yanking back on each side as hard as he’s able to test its hold. It does.
Bernard digs through his bag, pulls out a small peg, and then hammers it into the dirt with the butt of his rifle. He then drags the neox over, tying the hanging rope around its neck like a noose. The knot here will need to be extra secure, as there’s no head to catch the loop if it starts to slide. Confident the neox is ready, he pulls on the rope, grunting and cursing as he lifts the massive and cumbersome frek.
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 1