Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1)

by Benjamin M. Piety

  Humbly, Bernard answers, “I was just delaying going back out into the tormisand. I’m not looking forward to wading in the rain again.”

  “Ah, a bit of an explorer then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He smiles politely, creeping backward toward the exit of the chamber and putting more distance between himself and the small man on the throne.

  “It’s nice to meet you after so many years. Do you live near?”

  “So many years?” Bernard questions before continuing, “I do not. I live south of the Lothatin.” His eyes dart to either side of the room as the creshwillows look on in curiosity and hunger. “I again appize to have intruded on your haynest. It was wrong of me.”

  “What’s your curam, young man?”

  “Young man? That’s kind. My curam is Bernard.”

  “Zabjed here.”

  Bernard nods, stepping closer still to the exit.

  “Don’t you want to know why you see a black throne when all we see is a stone one?” Zabjed questions. Bernard, untrusting, fears the man in purple may be something more malevolent than he’s let on. “It’s all a riddle you know. What a man sees. The one who sees this throne as black is a valor. A Dark Valor.” Zabjed says this as he stands up and on the throne. He grins widely.

  “Sounds grim.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t have to be. I could help you see more. Help you understand why . . .”

  “While I am approshed of your kindness, I think it would be best if I’m on my way.”

  “Come now, Bernard, aren’t we all friends in Radiba? And you so graciously fed my little creshwillows. How happy they were when they came to me this morn.”

  “Of no worries. There’s no reason to let neox go to waste.”

  “That’s the Radiba spirit. Fully engage our nature.” Zabjed flops back down onto the throne, his legs slung over its side and resting on invisible arms. “Before you say anything. You should know it was not the exarmadasis.” He pauses, as if . . . sad.

  For Bernard, the words are lost against the curiosities of the unseen throne. It’s not safe here. Bernard turns to leave, attempting to gesture goodbye and feign careful respect. “A fateful sun moon then.”

  At this parting remark, Zabjed’s attitude changes and his casual tone lifts. He stands and creeps forward, waving both of his hands at Bernard. He holds up seven disparate fingers and, as he speaks, counts down on them.

  “Seven questions of war, answered by seven foretales among a half-dozen natives as mottled as the spectrum.” With this, he points to Bernard with one hand while his other remains palm out. “Their bonds to you, however, can be tallied on a solitary hand.” Four fingers. “Four objects conceal themselves, while three spheres have a purpose unknown.” Two fingers. “When a pair of plots come into debate and execution of each is at a hand, there shall be another single resolution to everything you pursue and how everything shall end.”

  At this, Bernard has no doubt that Zabjed is a protnuk, a shapeshifter who speaks in nonsense riddles to drive victims mad. Bernard ignores the midfrek’s riddle and weighs whether he should run or attempt to leave the protnuk’s nest more calmly. The scratches in the stone are the protnuk’s. He was correct to think that no tool or machinery could have made those marks, as they were created by the protnuk’s purest form: an enormous and fearsome midfrek. The sort of creature more intelligent than your normal frek, but not quite as human. And they’re often infused with tricks of word, of logic, and of the Land’s known physics. Zabjed grins, bearing previously unseen and sharpened teeth.

  “While I’ve enjoyed this friendly talk, I think it’s time I leave. Believe that we are unheard, unseen, my friend.” Bernard walks backward, afraid of turning on the protnuk. The creshwillows become restless, the protnuk appearing to draw out their aggression.

  The time comes. Bernard runs.

  Behind him, he hears the boom and roar of the protnuk transforming, he imagines, into something monstrous. He continues down the long hall, catching sight of the light and bridge ahead. In his fearful run, he kicks piles of bone, some of which knock into his shins and cut through his black jeans. A bass growl builds behind as dust and rubble tumble around him. The protnuk is in pursuit, and if there was any doubt about what it is, it roars out.

  Jame knew I’d die one day poking my head where it doesn’t belong, and here I am with death heaving behind me. Bernard tries to run faster, begging his legs to give him inches more. Finally, he exits through the first archway and arrives at the bridge. The echo of his heartbeat is unmatched by the waterfall and the thumping, rumbling of the midfrek only minors behind him, unseen in the darkness.

  He races across the bridge, reaching for his dagger in some useless thought he might be able to use it against what is sure to be a colossal beast. It’s then he catches sight of a figure ahead, a handsome woman with dark hair and a crossbow loaded with a flaming bolt aimed at him. No—aimed across the bridge and toward the archway.

  He turns around to catch a flash of the protnuk as it abruptly leaps into the air. Its large head is doubled in size by an oversized mouth with multiple rows of teeth the size of fists. Its two pale eyes are as angry and chilling as death. Its abdomen is covered in thick, curling purple fur, and six crooked, thrashing limbs sprout in a patternless arrangement, each bearing piercing claws.

  Bernard stumbles back as the protnuk takes a sudden flaming bolt to its abdomen. It falls backward with a loud thump, collapsing a segment of the stone bridge. It cries out in fear and anger, attempting to use its half-dozen limbs to climb back upward. Bernard stands, his footing shaken by the crumbling bridge, and uses this minary advantage to deftly draw and aim his rifle. Within minors, he cocks and unloads a double shot between the carnivorous protnuk’s eyes, slamming it backward. It loses its hold and tumbles into the darkness below. A major later, the splash of its body hits water and a distant echo crashes up the walls.

  “Come on. It won’t be down there long.”

  Bernard turns to see the woman holstering her crossbow as she waves for him to follow. Shaken, but certain she’s right, he heads toward her. Together they take the stairs, double steps, toward the exit of the tunnel. As they enter the neox chamber, Bernard stops to catch his breath and bends over with hands on knees.

  “Apory, just need a second.”

  The woman waits, watching the tunnel, her hand ready at her crossbow. “It’s wisnok. Catch your breath, old man.”

  He stands up and smiles. “You saved my life.”

  “What sort of flam body goes into a protnuk’s nest alone?”

  Bernard nods his head in agreement. How would I have known a protnuk was down there? And then he thinks. The meaningless bridge to nowhere. The odd hallway. The scratch marks. An incongruous throne. I should have known there was nothing worthwhile traveling down there for. Jame will be happy to hear that. Perhaps the routine is best for me. This kiptale of living an explorer’s life is only that: a kiptale. This thought lies reserved and withdrawn, Bernard unsure he’s ready to face its reality.

  In a minor, he mumbles, “A bored one, it seems.”

  She smirks and heads onward while Bernard quietly follows her through the narrow tunnel to the cave entrance and what remains of his frontz bed and the fire pit. The sunshine and rain outside look almost pleasant in comparison to the horrors behind them. Once again, Bernard’s explorations have gotten him in trouble and nearly sent left. With a heavy heart, he’s learned his lesson, and for the first time in over two days, he is ready to return to Jame.

  The woman pulls her hair up into a bun and lifts her green hood. “Good thing you didn’t have long hair, that protnuk would have seized it. And you’re welcome for the save.” She holds out her hand.

  “My curam is Sanet.”

  Chapter 3

  WINDS, CALMS, AND FIRES

  The hike toward Lothatin Bridge, toward home, toward Jame, a hike that distances Bernard from protnuks and exhaustive hunting, manifests itself with ephemeral bliss, sof
tened only by the constant, constant, constant rain. Using the familiar landscapes of the northern Radiba Forest, such as guide marks left on old trees and distinct growths of red and green brackleberry patches, Bernard estimates they are no more than eight hours from his haynest.

  Sanet, Bernard finds, is quiet. Her features are young yet studied, and her eyes dart from east to west with curiosity and a permanent suspicion of her surroundings. The idea of something unusual here in the tranquil forest amuses Bernard, who’s spent his entire life wandering the wood.

  “How long did you say you’ve been hunting that neox?” Bernard inquires.

  Sanet speaks without looking to him. “Off and on for a few months. I would lose it, then spend the larger part of three or four days retracing its tracks before finding it again. I’ll say it was no joy to find you sent it left so quickly.”

  Bernard laughs, rubbing the palm of his hand. Eighteen hours is hardly quick. “If it’s any consolation, that was the third one I’ve sent over the years, so I do know what a feat it can be to surmount. Your tenacity is admirable.”

  “It wasn’t tenacity. If it were any other frek, I would have given up long ago, but this one swallowed something I’ve been after.”

  “Is that why I found you leaving the cave this morn?”

  “Yes. I went looking for it in its corpse after you went to sleep. Went down in that protnuk’s nest believing, hoping, perhaps those creshwillows had taken it.”

  “Oh, so you’re not flam for going in there.” He watches Sanet smile to herself.

  “Well, like you, I didn’t know what was down there.”

  Bernard hums. “We all do things we’re unproud to claim. In any case, did they take it?”

  “No. It was a sliver of brass. So small, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to find it. And in truth, after all this, I’m just tired.”

  Bernard flushes, and a broad smile sweeps across his face. “Well, thumb to fingers, Sanet.” He picks through his pocket and pulls the small brass piece out, presenting it to her between his fingers.

  “Lincoln, you did find it.”

  “Well, one of those fur traps did and made a huge ruckus after I dressed the neox.”

  “May I?”

  Bernard doesn’t hesitate and hands her the small brass sliver. She takes it acquisitively. “I don’t know why I kept it. I was likely to throw it out.”

  “Glad you didn’t.”

  Bernard watches her happily turn it in her hand. A look of relief mingled with exhaustion spills over her. They remain quiet for a time before he breaks the silence. “You’re not going to say what it’s for?”

  “Oh, well, I’m not too certain. It’s part of a larger object, and I know there are other pieces out there, bigger ones. My employer has spent considerable time and coin looking for these, so I can only assume they’re quite valuable.” She studies and flips the sliver in the light before returning it to a small pouch attached to her belt. “I’m glad I didn’t have to send you left for it.”

  Bernard coughs. “If that was the alternative, I’m glad as well.”

  Sanet smiles to herself again as their hike returns to silence, save for the incessant rain.

  ❖❖❖

  The constancy of fog and rain give no sign of relief, a sentiment compounded by erratic periods of thunder and lightning. Bernard breaks their silence once again. “Is that why you returned to the cave? For the brass?”

  She answers plainly, if not carefully. “Yes. And no. The protnuk was disguised as a young girl when I went down there and she recited to me a riddle, stating that the man who sleeps above is the Dark Valor.”

  Bernard laughs. “Grave bent on selling that foretale, isn’t he? Did he also say it was because you saw that black throne?”

  “Black throne?” Sanet questions.

  “You didn’t see a throne down there?”

  “There was a chair, but it was made of stone, covered in green moss or something.”

  “I see,” he states. Perhaps, I’m in tiddles.

  “I’m not too well versed in Radiba freks, but I do know that protnuk riddles are only meant to send you mad,” Sanet doubles.

  “I’ve read the same. That they confuse you just enough that you’ll wander back to their nest, where they attack and feast on you in your weakened state. Supposedly, they find the blood that flows through your veins flavors the meat if it’s panic filled. That said, this protnuk didn’t seem to have much patience for me to leave and return. I’ve heard they’re fearsome, but never seen one change form like that.”

  “I’ve only read about them. Haven’t gotten to see much, if you’re wondering.” She smiles, pulling out a handful of blue brackleberries. “What did she say to you? Anything worth remembering?”

  Bernard thinks back. “It was a countdown of sorts, I assume to lull me into trance. Let me think, there were seven foretales, four mysterious things . . . two plans, a single answer? Nothing worth remembering if—”

  Sanet stops him, holding her hand out against his chest. “Speaking of.”

  Bernard looks around. “ . . . of what?”

  She nods to him, her eyes aiming above. Is that a creshwillow following us? But I thought they didn’t like the rain. He watches as she slouches, her eyes fixed on the rain-thumped canopy. She holds a finger to her lips. Bernard stands in wait, instinctively reaching for his dagger, half expecting the little frek to pounce down on them. The trees and leaves sway in the breeze as the droplets of rain and the rolling fog limit their visibility to a dozen strides.

  Nothing happens.

  After a major, Sanet gives up her watch and looks to Bernard. “I guess it knows we’re watching. Luckily they only pursue the sent.” She stands straight again, shaking off a bit of rain pooled on her green hood’s crown. “We should find a spot to rest for the night. The sun’s almost at crest.” Though they were close to his haynest, she was right. No reason to trek through the forest at night.

  “I think there’s a shelter tree we could rest in ahead.”

  She nods and they carry on. After another half mile, they find a carved-out tree trunk large enough for four friends to sleep in. Shelter trees like this one were engineered as final-ditch safety points should tormisand squalls arise while anyone traversed the Radiba Forest, though the rhythm of a tormisand is well enough known these days that they’re likely used only to aid weary travelers or a passing hunter.

  Pushing aside a bit of false brush, they step inside. Here, a pair of prefabricated frontz beds hangs in a corner that, for their single night’s rest, should suffice. As Bernard assembles them, Sanet ignites a small fire in a pit formed at the center of the trunk. The tree has been hollowed out ten measures above with ventilation holes cut near the top to allow smoke from the fire to escape.

  Finishing and placing the beds, Bernard takes a couple of slices of neox from a larger chunk and sets them on a metal round he unpacks from his rucksack, then places the round atop the fire. He sprinkles a bit of seasoning from a small tin and lets the meat fry in its own juice, filling the room with a delightful aroma. “Have you had neox before?”

  Sanet shakes her head. “I’ve not had the pleasure. And if it’s the one I’ve been after, I’m sure it’ll taste all the better.”

  “You’re in for a treat; there’s nothing like it.” He watches the meat, flipping it after a few majors as it makes a distinctive and appetizing sizzle. It’s then that the creshwillow, the same as the one that followed Bernard around on his first night in the cave, appears. It stands wet and pitiful at the small opening in the trunk, and although creshwillows by nature are skittish freks, this one acts determined to intrude. At the sight, Sanet reaches for a small dagger on her waist.

  “Hold on, Sanet. It’s hungry.” Bernard looks down at the creshwillow, who’s motionless at the opening, rain pattering down behind him. “Come on, Brute.”

  “Brute?”

  “He doesn’t look like a brute to you?” Bernard smiles.

  The cresh
willow doesn’t hesitate and hops its way toward the fire, staying closer to Bernard than to Sanet, who sits back with judging eyes resting on the creshwillow. After gaining a bit of confidence, it snuggles in close to Bernard.

  When the meat finishes cooking, Bernard cuts the steak for the two of them, handing over a third, smaller portion to the little creshwillow. Sanet speaks up, “I’ve read they multiply in the hundreds. You bring one into your haynest, and you’re soon to be overwhelmed by them.”

  Bernard looks down at the creshwillow, who doesn’t seem particularly interested in a fully cooked slice of meat. It taps it with its paws, tearing it apart and slurping a bit of the rare blood remaining inside. “He seems wisnok. Are you, Brute?” The creshwillow looks up, responding to its new curam. “I think it wants raw meat.” Bernard leans back to his rucksack and takes out a bit more of the neox, slices a small portion, a fattier, bloodier piece, and tosses it to Brute, who instantly digs in. “There you go.”

  “I’ll never understand Radibians.”

  “Us nature folk? No reason not to enjoy and use the Land around you. Where are you from?”

  “Yikshir Sands.” Sanet takes her first bite. “Lincoln, this is good.” She quickly takes another. And then a third.

  Bernard beams. “Yikshir? You don’t look like you’re from the desert, though I’ve never actually been to Yikshir. Never had a reason to leave the state myself, and the one time I did, I ended up toe to toe with a tenfooter.”

  “And lived?”

  “Just.” He grins.

  Sanet asks with a mouthful of food, “Do you find yourself always on the edge of being sent?” A bit of food falls out of her mouth, and she catches it with the back of her hand. “Apory. Hungry.”

  “I guess curiosity has always been my weakness. I can’t turn away from a path I haven’t visited before. Or at least I think that’s the way of it.”

  “I can say I’m full of curiosity but was told not to turn down darkened paths unless I’m looking to be sent.”