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

by Benjamin M. Piety

  Ethan continues, keeping the conversation between the three. “Obviously, someone is wrong here. If this friend of yours, Iahel, says we shouldn’t bring the brass anywhere near Carvinga, and Cadwellion wants the opposite, we can agree that Cadwellion is the one with an ulterior motive. Why risk sailing across nowhere for a war he may or may not be starting?” Ethan implores Sanet.

  Bernard suggests, “Why don’t we rid ourselves of the fragments we have? We’re the only ones who know we have them.” Ethan says nothing.

  “Iahel knows. And Logan,” Sanet states, exasperated. “Look, you can’t convince me that we shouldn’t go after this last piece. And if we hide them, who knows what those crimson men will do to find them. They could come after you or your son. They’ve already tried to send us left.”

  “Come after me? I have nothing to do with it. If anything, they’d come after Cadwellion. And who would be shnite enough to take on a ranpart?”

  “It’s decided, Ethan. I hear your protests, and I approsh your sentiment, but even if Wellion doesn’t trust me, I still trust him. I believe that reuniting this orb could end this battle. It seems mad to think Wellion would go through all this trouble not to want that as well.”

  The weonslow, having sat in quiet while Sanet and Ethan grit, reaches out, wrapping her fingers around Ethan’s hand. “I have ill news for you, Sur Mershner,” she begins. “If she attempts to go into that stonetin, you must be with her. It won’t be as simple as the others. There are tricks inside.”

  Ethan listens but doesn’t translate the weonslow’s warning. Bernard and Sanet wait. “You understand us?” The weonslow nods. “Why would I care to do that?” he asks her, continuing to leave Sanet and Bernard out of the conversation.

  “She will be sent if she travels there on her own. I don’t know anything of this other man, but it is the way of Trimod. It does not take kind to the naive. It has been foretold Sanet will be sent left in a most hideous way. And without you, Trimod may be the reason why.”

  Exasperated, Ethan rips away from the weonslow and walks out of the room. He turns into a hallway where he places his head on the wall and closes his eyes. I can’t go traipsing off across the sea. He hates the sea. And the idea of monstrous freks. He also hates the idea of leaving Mercet. But Sanet being sent? The woman who only desires to know who she is. And what if he’s sent left? How would Undess feel? How would Mercet? And why is Sanet so adamant on going? Trying to prove herself. It was a flam idea. This whole shnite plan is flam. Chasing after foretales and orbs. It’s only children’s tricks and lies.

  Sanet steps up behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Ethan looks up.

  “She says I have to go. That without me, you’d be sent left.” He pauses. Sanet has no answer. Or easy response. He continues. “I don’t trust Cadwellion. And you don’t trust these crimson men. And I don’t think either of us can trust that woman or midfrek in there.”

  “Ethan. We should be the ones who recover these pieces. When we have them, we have the control. It’s our choice. Isn’t that why you slid me that key? If we have them, we can do whatever we want. We can toss them into the sea and just let the whole thing fade away. Maybe it is all ranpart tricks. But, if it’s not. And Cadwellion is doing good. Then we’re helping him save the Land. We’re preventing war. We can’t let anyone else get them. Because you’re right. We can’t trust anyone else.” Sanet holds Ethan by the shoulders.

  “I wish I knew the right choice.”

  “I know you don’t believe these things, but ‘the Land sets its course, and we are merely its passengers. Lincoln guides our path, on Land. And upon our leavings left, let Them guide us home.’”

  “Now see here, Undess. While that’s a sweet sentiment, it’s as flat as saying Dustians.” Ethan smirks.

  Sanet shrugs him off. “I believe in doing what’s right. I was brought into this without my say. I was woken up without a memory. All I know is what I’ve been told and taught over these past seven years. What happened has to mean something. It must. Bodies don’t just wake up without a past for nothing.”

  Ethan waits. A woman without a past but with eyes on a hopeful, greater future. If only he could feel that way. It is foretold she will be sent left. “I can’t let you go alone. If you’re there and get sent, I’d never appize that.”

  Sanet smiles. “You’ve always hated the sea.”

  “And freks,” Ethan adds. “I hate the freks. Even hate cogs. Except Captain Reset—”

  Sanet pushes her finger to his lip. “I’m sure I’ve seen the worst of them, and I’m still here.”

  “I’d bargain you haven’t.”

  “Then how exciting it is.” She smiles.

  Ethan shivers at the thought.

  Chapter 25

  ACROSS THE SANDS OF YIKSHIR

  Ethan arrives back at his haynest where he dismisses the guard keeping watch over his son. The guard returns to the carriage, which departs with Sanet and Bernard on their lengthy trip back to Cadwellion’s stonetin. As the carriage disappears over a misty crest, the last words of the weonslow repeat in Ethan’s head, making for a confusing and bizarre departure that he shrugs off for other concerns. At the minor, that’s sleep.

  Stepping up to the door, he goes to open it, but it’s locked. Frustrated, he pulls his key from his jacket and tries the lock. It turns but when he attempts to open the door he finds it’s barred shut by a large piece of furniture pushed in the way. Angry and exhausted, Ethan begins to knock loudly on the door. “Undess, this is ridiculous. Open the door.”

  There’s no answer. He bangs louder. More silence.

  After a major, a shadow appears at the door. Mercet. Ethan kneels to his level, just barely able to see his face through the crack. “What did your mother do?”

  “She doesn’t want you to come inside,” Mercet whispers.

  “She’s being pretty flam right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Can you help me out?”

  A minor passes. “Maybe you shouldn’t come inside?” Mercet says as quietly as he’s able.

  “What?”

  “You make her angry. She’s not nice when you’re around.”

  Ethan hurts. Amil. “I don’t mean to make her that way, Mercet.”

  “I know, but she said she’s not happy.”

  “Are you not happy?” Ethan asks, afraid.

  “A little.”

  His heart drops. He had thought all along that his relationship with Mercet was stronger, even knowing how much Mercet hated when he and Undess fought.

  “Maybe it would be better if you weren’t here for a while,” Mercet murmurs.

  “Mercet, I’m your father.”

  The boy’s eyes start to well. “I don’t know, Daddy. I don’t like seeing her sad.”

  Ethan wants to answer, but all he really wants at the minor is to hug his son. To squeeze out the fear and sadness inside him. He reaches through the crack in the doorway, but his hand is only able to wipe Mercet’s cheek, wet with tears.

  “Single souls, my son.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  Mercet smiles for a minor before turning away and disappearing into the darkness. Ethan sits back on the porch floor. Alone. He returns his head to hands. And cries.

  He has tried to be a kind and understanding father. The thought of traveling makes him feel small and insignificant in this major, even as the Land swells with the scent of war. Even as the Land calls upon him to save it from tumbling into chaos. He would forgo the whole affair for a minor hug with his sons.

  Over the night, Ethan wanders the streets of Salsman. The city itself is of medium size, not as big as Philsburg in the west or Porsans in the north, but respectable. The defining factor of Yikshir cities is an ever-present layer of red dirt over the windows and walls and roads. For a time, Ethan follows a set of footprints, wondering who they might belong to. What troubles or joys did they have on this eve?

  For a long while, Ethan has led a
normal life. He labors and has a haynest. He has his wife and child, but when his first was sent left, it had upended their natural trajectory. When they chose Mercet a year later, it only exacerbated the divide between him and Undess. He has enjoyed his labor with Ranpart Cadwellion, who often returned from his travels with many striking and wild objects. The Land outside of Salsman is beyond Ethan’s comprehension. After leaving Quemon, Ethan lived squarely between home and Cadwellion’s stonetin, traveling only the sand seas to neighboring cities. Once he was on a kleep for a small and much needed respite, but the trip was shortened after ferocious storms nearly shattered it. Coupled with his fears of the deep sea and monstrous freks, the whole trip ahead amounted to nothing more than a constant source of anxiety and panic. Ethan was a thinker, not a traveler.

  The long night passes as Ethan’s thoughts drift across his past, his future, and the present. Before long, the sun peeks over the crest, and he can see that the stonetin is only a mile away. He approaches it and is greeted by the entrance guards, who take him in, escorting him to his sleeping room. It’s not long before Ethan falls into a kiptaleless sleep.

  ❖❖❖

  A knock wakes him. As his eyes flutter open, Sanet walks in with a round of mornmeal. “Late night?” she says as she sets the tray down.

  Ethan props himself up and quickly grabs for a coffee stick. The hot food goes down well and comforts what feels like a drinkless hangover. “A terrible night.” He takes another bite.

  “Bernard and I were going to spend the morn packing and resupplying before heading out. You don’t have to go. I know that weonslow believes you should, but I know we’ll be fine.”

  Ethan’s thoughts return to Mercet, and how Undess had turned their son against him. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “If things aren’t going well at haynest, perhaps some time away would make it better?” Sanet suggests.

  The idea, as simple as it is, is true. “I still hate the sea.” Ethan smirks.

  Sanet stands. “Well, I’ll have the guard put together a bag for you just in case.”

  She leaves and Ethan looks around the room. Sparse and cool. Stone brick walls twenty feet high. Red and orange tapestries outlining the city of Salsman. He leaves bed and looks out the tall, thin windows and across the yard below. The green grass grows in opposition to the red sands outside the stonetin. Mercet wanders into his mind again, and Ethan wants to wallow. Like Undess . . .

  He stops himself. He shakes his head and hands, waking himself up. The mood has to change. He starts to run in place. You’re young. You have much to learn, much to do. If that older guy can hang with Sanet, so can I. Ethan knows that he has to approach these new circumstances without somberness but with excitement. There is nothing he can do at this major with his haynest life. Instead, he should put his time into his labor, into stopping whatever the crimson men had started.

  He turns, still running in place, and finds Amil staring at him. “You’re up in the mood, today.”

  Ethan stops, blushing. Amil walks over to a dresser and starts to pull out clothing.

  “I’m trying.”

  She continues to pack as she talks. “So, you’re leaving with Sanet?” A quiet concern drips across her question.

  “I am.” Ethan takes a deep breath. “Amil, I need to ask a favor of you. Something, you can’t share with anyone else.”

  “Of course.” She turns, her face bright and young and eager.

  “There’s something stirring. And I’m not sure it’s real or not, but I’m afraid that Mercet could be in danger, should things escalate.”

  Without him saying another word, Amil walks over to him. “Mercet is in safe arms. As Rainmen watch, so shall I. My cross to you.” She kisses his nose.

  ❖❖❖

  By an hour past the full sun, the three are settled into a carriage. They decide to head toward the northern gates and hire a horsal to travel across the wavering sands to the ports in the city of Porsans. There they hope to secure a kleep to sail east across the Merurro Sea and to the island state of Trimod. After waving their goodbyes to the guards, who seem more saddened by Sanet’s departure than by Ethan’s, they set off.

  At the gates, Ethan rents a larger horsal to carry not only the three of them but also their equipment and luggage for the few weeks’ journey at sea. This frek looks friendly enough, giving them plenty of room to lie down for rest. The journey to Porsans, which isn’t more than a full day and full night’s ride, should pass without a stop.

  The horsal plods down the winding switchback of the redrock, and after an hour’s time, the gang hits the sand of the coast. Sitting under a comfortable shade, Ethan looks back at the city above and toward Cadwellion’s stonetin, which stands with an unnerving defiance against battered rock walls. Bernard’s little frek, Brute, bounces around and on occasion decides to sit on Ethan’s lap. Brute is an unusual frek. It seems to have a personality beyond the loyal, mindless following of colored cogs.

  “Seems to like you,” Bernard states. Ethan looks down and pets the creshwillow, who purrs on his lap.

  Salsman becomes a small speck in the distant south when the sun sets against the sand’s crest to the west. With the moon a slim crescent, the sand turns black in shadow, and high above an endless, white-dotted blanket develops. With Ethan’s every passing glance, more and more stars appear in the night sky. As he listens to Sanet and Bernard converse about someone curamed Sur Taron and erupt into titters, Ethan is rocked off to sleep with the aid of the softly blowing breeze and swaying steps of the quiet horsal.

  “Wake up.”

  Sanet shakes Ethan. He opens his eyes and sees her and Bernard both standing. The horsal has stopped. In the distance, three getwishes head toward them. The dark night makes it difficult to discern who’s riding, but their trajectory appears to be straight for them.

  “Who are they?”

  “Crimson men, if I had to guess,” Bernard answers.

  Ethan sits up completely at the answer. He’s never been in a fight before. When Mercet would come home with a blue eye or bruise, Ethan’s response was to “always inform the adults,” advice he’s sure has led to even further humiliations.

  The three riders grow closer as Sanet raises her crossbow and Bernard his rifle. Ethan remembers when Sanet first trained with the guards to use a crossbow. How quickly she excelled at it, how impressive she was. As if she had done it before.

  “Stop there,” Bernard calls out.

  The three shadowed figures slow to a stop a hundred strides away. The one in the middle screams across the sands, “Give us the brass and we’ll leave you wisnok.”

  Ethan’s heart skips. I’ve barely left the city, and I’m already being sent.

  “Pretty sure you could ask your compatriots if they’re wisnok,” Sanet retorts.

  “Don’t antagonize them,” Ethan pleads in a whisper.

  At this, the three whip the reins of their getwishes and plod forward again. Steady. Cautious.

  “We said don’t move,” Sanet calls out.

  Steady. Cautious.

  Bernard takes a step and cocks his rifle exaggeratedly. Ethan’s eyes vault between the three men and Sanet and Bernard. Steady. Cautious. As they get closer still, he catches the crimson men raising their weapons.

  “Get down.”

  The voice comes from Sanet, who’s shifted her weight and swung her bow toward Ethan. Without hesitation, Ethan cowers and hears the shunk of her bolt crossing over him. He turns to see a fourth crimson man shot, a flaming bolt flickering from his chest, and sprawled across the sands. Gunshots ring out, and the horsal rears on its side, tossing the three and all their luggage to the ground. Bernard grabs Ethan, pulling him with ease out of gun range and behind the overturned, sent horsal. Shnite, he’s strong.

  “Come out, you bastards!” one of them shouts.

  Sanet responds by standing and unloading another bolt, which is followed by a scream. “One left,” she says.

  “Don’t send
them all,” Ethan stammers. “They have information.”

  Bernard holds his gun with a nervous shake. He takes a breath, then screams across the horsal at the remaining man. “No more shooting. Let’s talk.” The man answers by shooting the horsal with a reverberating thud. Bernard turns. “Not sure he’s going to talk.”

  Ethan tries shouting. “Look, we have two pieces. How about we give you one of them? You’re not leaving empty-handed . . .” As the flam words pour out, Ethan quiets Bernard’s and Sanet’s confused faces. “I’m just keeping him talking,” he whispers.

  “Kind offer. But I’d just as well have both,” the man calls out.

  “Let’s not send each other left out here in the sands. Why don’t we discuss this calmly?” Ethan calls out.

  “Oh, shut your face.” The man shoots twice more, the weapon’s report followed by the one-two thud at their backs.

  “He’s out.”

  Bernard looks to Sanet, who confirms. In step, they both spin from cover and shoot. The man shrieks. Alone behind the horsal, Ethan peers around the corner before stepping out to see the last crimson man on the sand holding his knee and bleeding out.

  Sanet moves toward him, reassuring, “You’ll be wisnok, don’t piss in the mud.” The man spits up at her. Sanet wipes her face. “You’re all raised in sweetening, I gather?”

  Ethan and Bernard join her. The man, defeated, turns his head away as Sanet begins treating his wound. Ethan turns and searches the overturned luggage to find wraps for the man’s leg. As he does, he notices each of the mounts has been sent. I guess we’re walking.

  Returning, Ethan speaks to the man. “The morrow’s going to be fun. Approsh to you.”