“Can we catch any luck?” Iahel whispers.
Logan looks around. “What about that way?” He points.
To their west is a closed door built along the far wall of the transept.
“I don’t know where that leads,” Sanet replies.
A single welking, this one four-armed, drags itself along without legs. It’s the only one near the door.
“It’s safer than going straight through all those other ones. We could wait them out, perhaps. Or maybe find another way?” Logan suggests.
“We shouldn’t wait; it could only get worse,” Bernard doubles.
Agreed, they plan and point their steps to sneak along the back wall. Slow and steady, watching their footing. All appears safe, until from above a welking peers down with its red discordant eyes. It screams, alerting the others, before falling to the ground.
Bernard is unable to contain himself and curses. “Shnite.”
They run toward the closed door over thirty strides away. Logan pulls his pistol and shoots at the four-armed crawling welking that is reaching out for them. His shot strikes its hand and knocks it back. Iahel reaches the door first and tears it open. Approsh Lincoln it wasn’t locked. At the rear, Logan steps through and turns to shut the door as one of the welkings thumps into it. He braces his body against the closed door and the thumping and scraping of a growing number of welkings attempting to come through. Bernard and Iahel find a nearby dresser to block the door while Sanet helps Logan hold it closed. The blockade is set, making the room safe for the major. The gang turns to see where they have landed.
The room is filled with papers, all written in an old language, the same as on the outside of the stonetin. In the back, a lesser spiral staircase ascends to the upper floors. Sanet leads them.
As they step up the stairs, Logan looks back at the door, now being pressed open as claws slide through and the welkings muscle their way in. “We’ll need to be fast.”
They double-time. At the near top of the stairs, an open walkway lines the ceiling of the cathedral. Stepping out onto this narrow path, they can see the horde of welkings gathered fifty measures below them.
“Here or farther up?” Logan asks.
“We should be going across, not up,” Sanet states, stepping out onto the walkway built with a narrow beam of wood held only by metallic rods. Each step on the old and rotting wood feels precarious. Whispering to the others, she says, “I think we should stay apart, keeping as little weight on the wood as possible.” She looks up at the ceiling within arm’s reach. “Grab here. It might relieve some of the pressure.” She reaches up and grabs ahold of a groove in the roof, moving hand over hand as she walks.
The rest follow suit. Logan watches as the welkings claw and score the door. When they are halfway out onto the wood plank, the welkings break through, bursting in and disappearing into the room below.
“It won’t be long before they’re behind us,” Logan states. They speed up despite the creaking of the wood that threatens to snap beneath them. Soon, Sanet reaches halfway across and turns west, following the nave toward the entrance. Bernard paces behind her and Iahel behind him. Logan, at the back, turns to the spiral staircase. A two-headed welking appears. It has two arms and three legs, each protruding limb marked with exaggerated fingers and claws. It screams. Shnite.
Sanet picks up her pace ahead. Logan holds the ceiling above him and begins to stomp at the wood below. It cracks as the welking steps onto the wooden path. Bernard and Iahel are farther ahead and Logan continues to stomp the plank, cracking and creaking. The welking continues closer. Stomp. Another welking appears in the upper room and begins to climb out toward them. Crack. The wood below him breaks in two, falling to the cathedral below, echoing across the chamber. This alarms more of the welkings below, who look up, vehemence pouring from their beady red eyes. They scatter; some begin to climb the walls. Prosh, they climb walls? At this, Logan turns, hurrying hand over hand to catch up.
Sanet has made it to the other side and waves for Bernard and Iahel. “Come on, come on.”
Logan is twenty or more strides away as some of the welkings scream, climb the walls, and then hang along the ceiling. With Logan only a stride or two from the others, Sanet turns into an upper front hall that leads to another spiral staircase. This one is set inside one of the front-facing towers they saw as they entered. The gang hurries down two sometimes three steps at a time, using the walls to keep balance and leap forward. Behind them, they hear the raging screams of the drum of angry welkings.
At the ground floor, Sanet smashes open a door only to find one of the welkings in wait. This one, a six-legged frek with two claw-tipped arms, screams at her presence. Its headless neck is reminiscent of a neox’s. Without thinking, she kicks it, sending it stumbling back enough for her to pass. Bernard swings his rifle like a bat, and the welking slams into the wall, knocked prone for a major. Sufficient time to allow the gang to pass and exit.
As they run from the stonetin, they rush up the large staircase that led them down here, looking over their shoulders and watching for welkings that may follow. Halfway up, they’re still alone. No welkings in pursuit or leaving from behind the stone doors. Not taking chances, they continue to the top of the staircase where they reach the narrow and crumpled tunnel. From this perspective, Logan can see piles of rubble on either side of the restricted entrance, presumably where the first explorers pressed in. They take hands as they squeeze through, scraping their skin and faces in their haste.
On the other side, they collapse once more.
“I’m done. I’m done. Done, done. No more ventures. I’m done.” Bernard lies on his back. “Jame was right. It’s flam to want a traveler’s life.”
Logan watches Bernard take deep breaths. He grins at the truth in the words, then looks to Sanet, herself out of breath. I won’t leave her. I’m in single souls.
As they rest, a noise rustles in the shadows. They watch in anticipation. Logan, his heart barely settled, moves his hand to his pistol. “Lincoln, what next?”
From the shadow pokes Brute. He waits and stares at the frightened and exhausted gang before hopping over onto Bernard’s lap, snuggling in for a nap. Bernard, followed by the rest, bursts into relieved laughter.
“You win the day, little frek,” Bernard says as he pets and comforts the lazy creshwillow. “You win the day.”
Chapter 14
CROSSROADS
Upon returning to their glass-eyed and slithery-tongued krake mounts, Logan realizes how unexceptional they are compared with their grander brethren haunting the stonetin below. Waiting, mindless and slow, with their labored head bob and leaden scales long washed in travel grim, they present what once might have been a remarkable sight, but one that now falls entirely flat. And how so less threatening these two flamboys are. He pets Whistlers under its collar and it chortles at his touch.
Across the inlaid nook, Iahel pulls out stick and pad to finish a letter she’s writing to Earls. A letter she’s toiled and troubled over for the past few days. Bernard slings his rucksack to the ground and pulls out a slice of dried lyn to chew as George presses its slimy muzzle against him.
“Regrets, my friend, but your big brothers ate the last of our neox,” Bernard says, pushing the hungry krake off him.
In the same instant, Brute dashes underfoot to sneak his own slice of lyn. Sanet adjusts the gold krake’s halter in preparation for riding, but Iahel stands and suggests this place is as decent as any to send the two krakes back south.
“Only a few miles left to the Relights,” she notes.
And so, with Iahel’s note to Earls secured on the gold krake’s headstall, the gang each raise their right hand, palms out and fingers spread to signify a lamenting goodbye as the two krakes mosey along south—shink shink shink—disappearing into the darkness.
They set off and conversation turns to the Relights, a series of rooms intended to adjust one’s vision to the bright and white sunlight, which is altogether blind
ing after the many weeks traversing the dark and neon Tunnels. Travelers who occupy the Tunnels’ neon for more than two weeks are encouraged to spend at least twenty-four hours in the sleeping chambers to reacquaint their eyes with daylight. Each room is increasingly brighter, and travelers can rest or read papers to orient themselves to Yikshir traditions and behavior.
Sanet explains, “Yikshir bodies, I’ve noticed, are customarily ritualistic, with an order to everything they do.”
Ahead, an arched doorway greets them, and they walk inside, entering the first of the Relight rooms. Around them, other friends walk about in a muted area comparably brighter than the Tunnels themselves. In the ceiling, a semitransparent shade shields a large rounded opening to the surface. Illustrations and writings hang along the white walls, acting as a unispar invitation to the virgin-eyed Bernard, who takes each paragraph in with great fascination. He reads enthusiastic recounts of Yikshir’s history, of its competing religions, and of some of the more unfortunate tragedies the Council of Yikshir caused in order to remain in stride with the Law of Population.
Logan follows behind Bernard, smiling and glancing over the small plaques of Yikshir propaganda. Yikshir is a place of high religion, but fortunately for you, a place of many different faiths. Does one not touch your soul? Find another! Bodies are welcome to celebrate all the various religions under the hospitality and guidance of our Leader Rockshire, a woman of distinguished intellect and empathy. Make your first stop the Wishingtim Center where Leader Rockshire or any of her abled acolytes can guide you to your exceptional place among the Yikshir Sands.
Bernard turns to Logan. “They seem to gloss over those tragedies, don’t they? A nasty way to bargain with the Population Law, if you ask me.”
“Doubled. I don’t know the whole of the story, but I believe they did try other means to curb their overpopulation. Negotiating with other states. Deportation. But it didn’t sit well with the spirit of the Law. Which is when they turned to,” he pauses, “darker methods.”
“Terrible.”
Logan nods in agreement. Bernard returns to the welcome plaques as Brute curls around his neck, twisting its head in boredom. Logan continues to read as well, finding Yikshir to be a place of sunlit darkness. A place that welcomes friends if they practice the right religions and celebrate Yikshir in the right ways. Though they claim to endorse total religious freedom, the Linconists and Dustians clearly take precedence over the lesser-known Rainmen.
Stepping into the next room, which is considerably brighter than the first Relight room, causes Logan to squint and shield his eyes from the forceful, demanding white light. This room is a sleeping chamber with two dozen beds lined against the walls, each no more than two strides apart. Mollifying music, consisting predominantly of soft beeps and hums, floats through the air from unseen origins.
Bernard’s ears perk up as he turns to the others. “Is that music?”
“Fussy noise is all that is,” Iahel responds.
Music must be rather personal to her. Over their trek through the Tunnels, she often toyed with the small timple she recovered in the Carvinga Treasures, and although she lacked skill, her demeanor often grew quiet while she played. Sometimes she teared up, but she would quickly wipe the tears away, as if embarrassed.
“Probably should rest here tonight,” Logan recommends. “There’s a librok in the back area if you’re looking to learn a bit more, Bernard, but most of it’s nonsense.”
He chooses a bed to sleep in, setting his rucksack at its foot. Iahel plops herself in a bed next to him while Bernard, ever the explorer, zealously heads for a room filled with facts and trivia on Yikshir. Sanet sets her things down on a bed next to Iahel and away from Logan. Sometimes, I think she’s purposely avoiding being around me. Pushing the thought aside, Logan lies down and finds the bed to be the softest he’s lain in in over a month. It wraps his body in instant warmth and comfort that within minors sets him fast asleep.
❖❖❖
The next morn, Bernard shakes Logan awake. “Time to head out.”
Logan squints at the bright light, and he turns to find Sanet and Iahel giggling at something.
“You were a tree in the night there, Logan,” Sanet comments, reaching out her hand to help him up.
He accepts the gesture, but not because he needs it. Packed and ready, they step into the next area, which comes after a short hall, and find that this final room is brighter still, almost unbearably so.
“Lincoln, you think the sun needed another sun here?” Bernard states, shielding his eyes.
“You’d be surprised how dark the Tunnels are. You’ve been staring at a little yellow neon for three and a half weeks,” Sanet says.
Bernard nods slowly, as if thinking about the entire trip. This room appears to be a welcoming space for the Tunnels, detailing its unispar sights, such as the krake mounts, and its different places to visit, from Barwolves Pit to the Carvinga Treasures. The Treasures are described coyly to keep the insider’s jest. A few friends enter from the other side of the large white room, and they appear to be heading into the Tunnels. Good luck to them.
“I don’t remember Relights when we came in from Radiba,” Bernard says.
Logan grins. “I think some friends will bargain you a pair of dark glasses for a few coin, but most stay at Radiba Lasts for a day or two while they adjust to the light in their own time. And because the Highlands aren’t as bright as Yikshir, most seem not to mind.”
As they cross the room, they come to the exit of the Relights and, finally, catch their first glimpse of the Yikshir Sands.
Bernard’s eyes widen at the staggering sight, his demeanor dumbstruck. Before them stretches a vast red desert with colossal redrock formations in every direction. On some of the distant redrocks, buildings and towers rise along with their peaks. Where the Tunnels exit, the coastline lies east of them, and smaller yet no less majestic redrocks line its shore. Farther out in the tranquil blue-green sea float a myriad of kleeps.
Directly north of them, a massive construction stands, with hundreds of friends wandering around on a multitude of floors. Roads and paths lead in and out of the structure: east, west, north, and south.
“The Crossroads,” Sanet points out.
“My Lincoln, this Land is ever surprising,” Bernard says in bewilderment.
At the sight of the Crossroads, Logan’s heart skips a beat. The structure, standing straightforward, still, and unassuming, acts as the point where he must make his decision. Am I leaving or am I staying? The choice at times has been as clear and clean as a Radiba tormisand, and then it falls away, muddled in and on itself.
As the choice struggles inside him, the group sets off toward the Crossroads, walking the broad path that emerges from the Tunnels.
“Where do the Crossroads lead?” Bernard asks.
Logan answers, grateful to set his mind on something else. “Well, north there is the full state of Yikshir. And to the east, way east, across that sea,” he points, “is Niance, though I believe there are a few abandoned island states along the way. And west, over there, is Misipit, which is known mostly for its winding valleys.” A small trail leads from the Crossroads downward toward what looks to be a deep canyon. “And, of course, Carvinga lies behind us.”
Looking behind them, they find the familiar neon lights glowing across the top of the Tunnels entrance, and with the flat desert around them, the stretch of Land above the entrance sits as an odd and peaceful grassland brushed by soft winds. What lies beyond those tall and quiet grasses is untold and frightening. What a mysterious state, Carvinga.
“I think we should spend one more day together, don’t you?” Sanet suggests, taking Logan by the arm.
Logan smiles, surprised and without answer.
“I’d like that, Logan. Wouldn’t you?” Bernard doubles.
Unsure and unwilling to commit to his final decision, Logan shrugs, impish and resigned. “One night wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”
Sanet squeeze
s his arm with a smile and rests her head on his shoulder, causing Logan to question why he’d ever leave her.
After a few majors, they reach the Crossroads’ main gates, a looming archway that leads into a grand general expanse populated by those seeking to bargain. Vendors and friends call out to them for any number of sleeping rooms and offers to visit their killhungs to drink and eat or partake in a bit of uncouth amusement.
The gang pace through the carved redrock Crossroads and bargain for a set of sleeping rooms, one each for Bernard and Iahel and one for Sanet, who convinces Logan to share it with her. Now she wants to bring me in, a fiddle and tease.
After dropping off their belongings, the gang decides to meet at Logan’s favorite killhung in the Crossroads: Radnicks. Served by handsome friends, it’s a place where the younger crowd goes for a bit of relaxation and drink, where the air carries recklessness and boisterous screaming at any of the many sanctioned fights playing out on stages built throughout the enormous tavern. On this morn, a tournament of thickset women spans across the dozen or so stages, where friends of all backgrounds dress in colored patterned capes to share solidarity with their chosen champion.
“I learned that the length of those capes denotes their place within their religion. That the longer the cape, the more important the wearer is to the cause,” Bernard recalls from his readings.
Sanet nods politely at his boalerboy observation. Around them, most capes stretch below a friend’s shoulder, though some fall as far as the waist. An older friend has a cape draped down and along the floor, his hair just as long.
They are soon seated in a long booth and met by an exceptionally handsome server, who welcomes them to Radnicks. When Iahel catches sight of her, she looks altogether enamored while at the same time taken aback by shock. Logan decides against inquiring further. They order a couple of grilled lyn sandwiches with side orders of garon chips and double rounds of Crossroads Ale, the local brew.
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 16