Along an endless circular wall, storefronts are stacked on top of storefronts, each carved into the stone. Glass and neon signs flash, each competing for attention. Sex and weapons shops, bookstores and killhungs. Denizens stand outside begging passers to partake in their wares. They insult and jab, compliment and whistle. The center of the pit is populated by hundreds walking in all directions, with no order to the chaos. Barwolves is a choking point in the southern Tunnels, a hub of grand- and low-man activities. Logan takes Bernard by his mitt, leading him through the crowd. Brute acts enamored by the noise, hopping purposelessly between Bernard’s shoulders.
“Careful there,” Bernard warns as he helps balance the frek.
Behind them, Sanet walks with purpose, indifferent to the denizens and their hostile energy. “The sooner we can get a mount, the better.”
“Not a friend of Tunnelers, are you?” Logan jabs.
Before she’s able to answer, a muscled, well-oiled denizen approaches, tapping her on the shoulder. “You looking for slip?”
Sanet turns to Logan in response. “Not for me, but I’m sure this one is.”
She jerks her thumb at Logan. The large denizen scans him a minor. He approves, lifting his head to repeat the offer.
Perhaps with Sanet in play, Logan thinks before answering, “Not today.”
“Fine. You then, old man?” The denizen nods to Bernard, which puts him in a twisted state. Logan squeezes him by the hand and edges him away from the decision. And so they continue through the crowd as the man behind them calls out to any passing ear, “Looking for slip?”
On the other side of Barwolves, the neon-yellow light continues its trail northward, while a bright-green neon strip turns west, denoting the route to the Rail. Where I say goodbye, it seems. As they continue closer and closer to the turnoff, Logan’s heart skips with anticipation.
“Why don’t you come with us to pick out krakes, Logan?” Sanet suggests. Her voice soothes him.
“We get to pick our own beasts?” Bernard says, excited.
“I should head west . . .” Logan states without conviction.
Sanet grabs him by the hand and pulls him forward. “Don’t break up the gang. Plus, neither Bernard nor I have ever ridden a krake.” Her argument is flimsy at best, as krakes are the easiest of all the Land’s mounts, but her eager eyes and sensual smile coax him to stay.
“I guess I could take a small detour.”
“That’s my boy,” Sanet says, squeezing his hand before letting go. She hurries forward, wrapping her arm around Bernard.
She’s hard to read. Why drag me along? But in the end, it doesn’t matter. It is further from the inevitable.
❖❖❖
With the green neon turnoff far behind them, the three friends approach a desolate store curamed South Freks Worth It. It carries a quiet, humble façade where a broken neon sign, with only the W flashing in blue, hangs off an outstretched roof. Fluorescent lights pour out of the store’s interior as they approach the front glass door. Logan holds it for the others.
The inside reeks of death, feces, and urine. Logan passes and leads them to a counter where a portly man with bright-red hair bites his nails. They wait, as this strange friend either doesn’t see Logan or is ignoring him.
“Afternoon, my friend. We’re here to bargain for a few krakes,” Logan states.
Silence. An earnest-looking woman, no more than twenty and with short blonde hair, walks through a back room holding a sickly-looking cog. It’s green, fuzzy, and ostensibly without a face. A small obnoxious puff ball. The cog sneezes, tossing thin green hairs into the air that change into a myriad of colors ending in black.
The woman looks up from petting the cog, bored. “Welcome, travelers, can I help you?”
Logan turns. “Yes, we were hoping to bargain for a couple of krakes?”
“Oh, then I can help with that. And don’t mind Earls; he’s half-deaf and expressly hates Radibians.”
Logan turns back to Earls, who spits a fingernail to the ground.
“It’s your woodsy smell. I, luckily, don’t care for any one state over the other. Follow me.” She turns with a spin in her step and leaves through the back door. They follow.
Cages of multicolored cogs and other smaller freks line the walls of the back room. They stride through before exiting through another door leading to the back of the building. Brute acts unimpressed by the tens of useless cogs potentially staring back at them. Small obnoxious puff balls.
Outside, the woman continues across the darkened dirt yard to a large pen where a drum of krakes sleep or wander about. As they approach, the green cog begins to whimper, and its coat turns a bright shade of yellow. “I’m not feeding you today, Lady Floon.” Cogs, innately one of the most submissive of all freks and chiefly dependent on their human protectors, are often curamed after weighty or ironic leadership titles. “How many did you say?”
“Two should be enough. Unless you have one that can handle both riders?”
“You’re not traveling with them?”
“Not this time.”
Logan peeks over at Sanet, who’s at the minor scanning the perimeter of the fence considering the sluggish freks. Looking himself, he’s sure this drum of beasts is supplied by concession breeders from deeper in the Tunnels. He catches sight of one that has large chunks of scales missing from its side and another who is dull with age. It looks nearly sent.
Confidently, the young woman speaks: “I would imagine most of them could handle the trip north. Assuming you’re headed to Yikshir?”
Sanet nods.
Bernard steps up and onto the fence, inspecting the roaming freks. “Where do they go once we’re done with them?”
“They eventually make their way back here. Most of the time,” she answers.
“How much?” Logan asks.
“For two? Two hundred, though you’ll need to supply their food.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue.” Logan begins to dip into his pockets, pulling out some coin, then turns to Bernard. “You have any spare?”
Bernard quickly fishes out the remaining total.
“This one looks wisnok.” Sanet points out a particularly bright gold one.
Logan agrees. “All right, the gold one there, and . . . Bernard?”
“Me? Choose? Oh, I don’t know.”
“Pick the youngest one you see,” Logan encourages. Bernard’s eyes widen, taking to the task with the utmost care, his childlike wonderment infectious.
Shuffling the nervous yellow cog to her other arm, the woman stands on one of the fence rails and points to a small purple krake in the far back. “That one’s our youngest.”
Bernard shifts his focus past the others. “I don’t see him.”
“Right there, past that older—has he been sent left?”
As she questions the old krake’s health, Logan takes notice of the young woman’s arm. Welts and bruises cover it from wrist to shoulder. “Krake bites?” Logan asks, pointing to her arm.
At this, the woman quickly hides it with the yellow cog and steps off the fence. “Oh, it’s nothing. Tunnels can be a rough bargain sometimes. Can I get you the purple one? I call him George. Been training him myself.”
Bernard nods approval.
Unimpressed by the answer about her arm, Logan drops the issue for a major. “It’s a bargain then,” he says.
The woman smiles. “Wonderful. If you will just meet me out front, I can have them ready for you in just a few majors.”
Bernard nods. “Approsh, friend.” Before hopping the fence, she sets the yellow cog on the ground, which scurries off into a deeper part of the Tunnel. As Logan and the others head back to the store, Logan’s mood heats. The girl’s demeanor comes off as jovial, but something about her feels hurt. That disgusting man inside, Earls, is an abuser.
Stepping into the main store, they find Earls still seated and oblivious. The only change from his earlier position is that he’s chewing on his other hand’s fingers
. Walking a few strides faster than Bernard and Sanet, Logan steps up to the counter, reaches over, and grabs Earls by his black suspenders. Before he can react, Logan has him on the ground and starts to punch him in the face. Sanet runs over and attempts to hold Logan off, and after a few more hits, Logan stands, giving Earls one last kick while huffing from his adrenaline.
Earls curls on his side, bleeding from mouth and nose. Through the blood, he spits, “Are you proshing flam, boy?” Before he finishes, Earls flips himself and trips Logan to the ground while pulling a dagger from his waist. He stops himself when Sanet and Bernard draw their own weapons.
“Why doesn’t everyone calm down!” Sanet calls out.
“What happened to peaceful actions, Sur Tallingstone?” Bernard jabs.
Logan narrows his eyes. Not the time, Bernard.
The young woman hurries in through the front door. “What is going on?” After seeing Earls with a dagger held midair, she calls out, “Earls, what are you doing?”
“This shnite Radibian attacked me.”
Logan stands, brushing himself off as he attempts to explain. “Apory. I don’t like seeing people abused. And I thought—”
“Abused?” Earls’s face is fractious.
Suddenly flushed, the young woman steps to Earls to help him up. “He’s not an abuser.”
“There’s no reason to defend him.”
“You can prosh off, friend.” Earls spits out the term.
The woman interrupts. “While I appize the gesture, Earls is harmless.”
Earls wipes the blood from his nose before it drips into his mouth. “I should break your face.” And then to himself, “Harmless . . .”
Logan holds back. “Apory. I made a judgment.”
Earls says, “You some vigilante?”
“No. I only assumed.” Emotions held prisoner by fears will manifest in the queerest of ways. The Victors’ encroachment as his wants remain unanswered. The sight of his sent father’s body, cracked open in two, bloodstained. Sent left, then alone. His mother oblivious in her haynest. Never knowing the truth. There is no truth.
Resigned, the woman states, “Earls isn’t my only employer.”
Sanet steps in and addresses the two shopkeepers. “Logan here gives his sincere appize. Seems he’s a desperate single-souls sort. Here’s another hundred for your troubles.” Earls takes the coin. Sanet turns. “We have clearly overstayed our welcome here.”
Logan’s demeanor turns sheepish as the gang exits, followed by the young woman.
Outside, the gold and purple krakes stand ready near a post. The young woman assists them on, starting with Bernard. She then says to Logan, “I am approshed of the gesture. Logan, is it?”
He nods. “And apory for my temper. I can’t say it’s the first time I’ve gotten myself into trouble with it. Setting a bad example for my friend.” He eyes Bernard.
The young woman smiles and helps Sanet onto the krake. “It doesn’t go unnoticed. In truth . . .” She pauses as she supervises Sanet into the saddle. “If I were to tell you who my other employer is—”
Logan stops her. “No friend should bear those marks without their enjoyments.”
The woman rubs her arm, smiling a little. “I know, Logan. I know.”
“I want you to know, you can tell me.”
She looks back to the shop. “Could you meet me at Greren and Tapsters, tonight? You can take a room in the Co-Ed Hall and I’ll find you there. I would understand if you . . .”
Logan interrupts. “We’ll be there.”
“And my curam is Iahel.” She nods quietly before dismissing herself and hurrying back into the shop. Logan turns back to the krakes and unhooks them.
Sanet eyes him as he does. “Greren and Tapsters? It’s obvious who she is, Logan. Those marks are part of her job.”
“Not if she’s receiving them without consent,” Logan grits.
“There’s no law down here that keeps her there. She’s welcome to leave whenever she likes.”
Logan thinks of the Victors. Of the pressures of debt. Of consequences. There’s never true lawlessness, regardless of any Radibian or Carvingian attempts. There’s always a way of things. An order between friends. A ranking of classes. “We don’t know the whole story.” He mounts the gold krake behind Sanet and thrusts his hips to guide it down the Tunnels, north of Barwolves Pit.
Bernard, having mounting experience with getwishes, follows behind on George. “I assume, then, you’re not going back to the Rail?”
“Those ventures will wait for tomorrow’s rise.”
“You’re quite the hero, aren’t you?” Sanet responds, pushing her hips back into his.
❖❖❖
A mile and a half north of South Freks Worth It, they take a western turn off the main thoroughfare and into a red-neon tunnel where the imposing façade of Greren and Tapsters waits in rest. Down the red path, the climate is mired in a wet, thick stickiness as denizens crawl in the shadows. Reverberations of soft moans and angry grunts emanate from unseen balconies overhead. With her still seated in front of him, Logan whispers softly in Sanet’s ear, “If anything, since we’ll have a room . . .” She almost immediately ribs him in the stomach. Reeling back with a grunt, Logan laughs. “Just a silsong suggestion.”
“I think you know my answer to every question of this affair. We’re in full tiddles to help this girl, especially here. A girl who might be luring us into a trap.”
Logan finds her suspicions dampening. “I’ve known friends who enjoy suffering marks like hers. She’s not one of them.”
No response. Unable to see Sanet’s reaction, Logan wonders what’s causing her hesitation to help the young girl. Even if she is right, he couldn’t allow Iahel to continue potentially to suffer, especially when she asked him so explicitly.
Logan directs the krakes toward the grand entrance of Greren and Tapsters, the curam flashing in tall, dark-red letters across the tunnel’s back wall. Across from them, on the purple krake George, Bernard is lost in the hypnotic view of the building.
Forty-four steps lead to the double-door entrance that stands twenty measures high and glistens in the bright neon light. Each side of the staircase flows with a looping fountain of black water cascading down along ornately curved steps, while two statues, carved on either side of the doors, loom over them. The west figure embodies an idealized male body, and the east, a voluptuous woman. Both are nude, with flawless exaggerated features.
“Erotic,” Sanet says sarcastically.
Denizens enter and exit through the doors, some with shame, others with unabashed hubris. Before going inside, Logan ties the two krakes to a post near the east wall and Bernard feeds them torn pieces of neox. They eat happily, licking Bernard in approsh.
Inside, a massive foyer greets them. Large, wide staircases lead in three directions: to the west, east, and rear of the room. In its center, a thin, bored-looking man wearing a red leather jacket with nothing underneath welcomes them from behind an embellished circular desk. “Looking?”
Logan approaches. “For a single room only.”
Eyeing the three, he says, “The Co-Ed Halls are straight back. Thirty coins each.” Sanet steps up and places a hundred on the counter. He takes it. “We don’t give change here, denizen.”
“Of course you don’t.”
The man smiles without baring teeth. He turns to a drawer and pulls out a small box. “Your room key.” And then, as if routine: “A fateful moon sun to each of you.”
Sanet seizes the box, and the three walk around the desk toward the staircase in the back of the foyer. From the west staircase, the sounds of men howling and kissing each other carry through the foyer, while to their east, two women, barely halfway up the stairs, slip naked.
“Never have I ever,” Bernard titters.
Climbing the back staircase, they find a warren of hallways and doors. Men and women alike laugh and run, kiss and intertwine. Some are dressed in top-line garments, while others wear ripped cl
othes or nothing at all. As they pass different rooms, moans of pleasure, screams of pain, and other sounds not as distinguishable float about.
“I think I’ve seen more tits in the last five minutes than I’ve seen my entire life,” Bernard declares after a gaggle of naked girls race past down the hall.
“Everyone here’s high on green,” Logan suggests.
“Pretty sure it’s not green they’re on.” Sanet stops at one of the doors, opens the box, and pulls out a small, flat chrome key. She presses it into a slot, which quickly swallows it. The door pops open, and she holds it as Logan and Bernard enter.
The room is modest, with a single three-person bed and a simple wooden dresser its only furnishings. The relief room is as large as the room itself and has a spacious glass shower at its center, lit overhead by a dim neon strip bent in a cartoonish phallic shape.
Sanet flops onto the bed and props herself on her elbows. “Now what, Dread Copla?”
Logan walks across the room and looks out a window that overlooks the main foyer and back side of the circular desk. The thin man in red leather wisecracks over the counter, giggling with a pair of jarent women. He scratches his bare ass.
“I’m sure if she asks, it won’t be hard to find us,” Logan says, looking back at the others.
Bernard sits on the bed next to Sanet. “What an odd Land this is.”
“Well, in truth, this isn’t a part of the Land to compare. This is just the sewers.” As Sanet speaks, a muted cackle of mirth slams against the room’s door, followed by a high-pitched woman’s voice: “You going to slip me, Sur Taron? Is Sur Taron going to show me how he slips?” After looking at each other a minor, the three friends burst into a fit of muffled laughter, trying to keep each other quiet. They fail.
❖❖❖
Hours drip by. Bernard lies fast asleep in the bed, and to a dim and yellow light, Sanet writes in secret in her pad. Logan stands at the window, observing the denizens as they leave and arrive below. From the silence, a knock at the door. Sanet looks up from her writing as Logan steps across the room. He pauses for Sanet to place herself around the corner, hand on her dagger, before reaching for the knob. The noises of the hall have not waned in the subsequent hours, and as Logan opens the door, bits of arguing and curses carry through the air. It’s then Logan catches sight of the short blonde girl standing before him. Iahel barges inside and shuts the door behind her.
Advent of the Roar Page 10