Primeval Origins : Paths of Anguish - Award Winning, New Epic Fantasy / Science Fiction (The Primeval Origins Saga Book 1)

by Brett Vonsik

  Glancing up, Rogaan saw his mother quietly sitting at one side of the table, watching them both with an intensity she was famous for. A shiver rippled down Rogaan’s back. Her stare unnerved him, especially when it was on him, always seeming to know his thoughts. And she made sure he knew she did know. In recent days, he found her stare on him more often than he liked, if he liked it at all. This morning her stare carried more than knowing his mind, it told him to stop pursuing this argument…and to accept his father’s decision... “with the respect and graciousness due father,” as she often scolded. Her unspoken warnings guided him well most times, when he heeded them, but this was different. He deserved to use his shunir’ra.

  “Father,” Rogaan started with a determined voice, after straightening his back and doing his best not to sound as if he were asking for permission. “My shunir’ra will best anything given me. I am of age and have right to use it…as I see things. I wish your blessing.” Rogaan avoided looking at his mother, but felt another shiver rippling down his back, and his neck hairs rose, too. Her words rang like a large bell in his head: “respect and grace.”

  “Rogaan.” Mithraam spoke calmly and firmly in his deep rumbling voice, while lightly stroking his long braided beard of black touched by gray. “Of age you are, but the Zagdu-i-Kuzu has not yet passed, making your shunir’ra forbidden.”

  “Father!” Rogaan angrily started to press his point then stopped when he caught in the corner of his vision his mother deliberately shifting in her chair. “Less argument.” His mother’s words rang loudly in his head. He began again, this time in a calm, almost even tone. “Why must I follow tellen tradition when we do not dwell in tellen lands, and I am not fully of the blood? I am half baraan, as well.” Rogaan did his best to meekly smile at his mother. She just held him with that stare. Shivers and chills ran down his back. This was not going the way Rogaan had hoped.

  “In time you will come to understand, my son, and pass on to your blood the tradition’s birthright.” Mithraam spoke solemnly and with unshakable conviction. “We do not dwell in the land of my fathers. Events beyond me and my hand will see me here at the end of my days. Regret…is not in my heart for sharing life and happiness with your mother…or you. Though, I intend you understand your heritage.”

  Frustration filled Rogaan. His arguments had little impact on his father. He wasn’t surprised, in truth. “Stubborn” was an understatement where the man was concerned, and Rogaan had a lifetime of dealing with his father’s ways. Few could hope to win an argument with him, and fewer succeeded. And there was his father’s masterful maneuvering of others to his purposes, when he so desired. Rogaan didn’t understand how his father managed it, but he seemed to have a way with people regardless of their station. This morning, Rogaan simply felt outdone by his father and grew more frustrated at the thought. Nearing desperation, Rogaan thought hard on how to convince his father he was taking his shunir’ra. Awkwardly Rogaan worked his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. How to convince him? Lost in his thoughts, Rogaan embarrassingly jumped at the touch of his mother’s fingers on his cheek. She had somehow managed to reach across the table without his noticing.

  “Rogaan.” Sarafi spoke in a soft voice that hit him with the force of a hammer striking an anvil. “Isn’t it enough your father granted you permission to join the Hunt? You have asked for years for this privilege, and now that you have it, you still ask more of your father.” His mother’s soft touch and penetrating green eyes held Rogaan completely, despite his best efforts to demonstrate to her that he was no longer affected by her strong will. After several attempts to look away, Rogaan admitted to himself that she was worse than father to argue with. Where his father would use impeccable logic and reasoning to win his arguments, his mother struck with subtle combinations of words, unspoken gestures, and emotions to get her way. Her yellow shoulder-length hair swayed about as she tilted her head in an almost planned way as she held him with that penetrating stare. Shivers. How was he ever to win an argument in this house?

  “Though I am not Tellen,” Sarafi continued in a soft, now motherly tone, “I respect the traditions your father holds true, and see importance in your learning and living by them. The Zagdu-i-Kuzu is the defining tradition for tellens, and you must embrace it, as it’s your ascension from child-apprentice to craftsman. Your shunir’ra defines you in the ceremony, and using it before will lessen you in the Tellen World.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Rogaan replied with a frustrated scowl. He wanted badly to use his shunir’ra so the other younglings joining the Hunt would see his skill in working the finest metals -- and to impress them, maybe even awe them at the power of his blue steel bow. Maybe then they would stop their taunting and quarreling. More importantly, he wanted the Kiuri’Ner to see his bow and his skill with it, so he might be favored in the upcoming selection for this year’s Kiuri’Ner apprentices. All his efforts would be lost if he wasn’t picked. He needed to be selected. Not knowing the words or how to say them that would change their minds, Rogaan ineptly replied to his parents, “But...I...I wish.... Neither of you understands.”

  “Yes, we do…understand.” For a moment, sorrow filled his mother’s eyes.

  “My son.” Mithraam’s voice was calm and soft…soft for him, that is. His words sounded more like a long horn blowing deeply its warning than like a person, even when he whispered. “Saddened we are for your troubles of youth. Our eyes were not blind to Brigum’s unkindness. Your desire to demonstrate your worth and have all see you with better eyes will be lost on them.”

  “That is but half my desire, Father.” Rogaan was calm, with only a hint of frustration in his voice now, and with eyes focused again on the empty bowl before him. He and his father argued many times about his desire to not follow the ways of metal-making, and to become a Kiuri’Ner. Rogaan’s reasons were simple. The entire town revered the Kiuri’Ner and the protection they provided the people. They were looked upon as noble and good -- not even the son of Brigum’s magistrate, Kantus, would dare speak badly of them. In becoming a Kiuri’Ner, Rogaan would have the town’s respect -- or at least its silence. Either would do to satisfy him. “I seek favor and to become an apprentice of the Kiuri’Ner…and they regard the bow well.”

  “Rogaan.” Mithraam’s tone became almost exasperated. “We spoke of this...I thought no more. The Kiuri’Ner are but blades in the struggles of Shuruppak. You will be called to brandish that blade and made to fight against your blood. This cannot pass.”

  “The Kiuri’Ner spoke,” Rogaan replied quickly. “Those of Brigum are simple protectors of the people and the mines…no more.”

  “If you are found in the ranks of the Kiuri’Ner...” Mithraam explained, but with great hesitation, which Rogaan thought odd for his father. “They will make use of you...and the force of unseen hands will maneuver family.”

  “Your beliefs about the Kiuri’Ner are unfounded,” Rogaan replied hotly, though as respectful as he could muster. “They are of honor and without masters.” Rogaan was certain his father was wrong where the Kiuri’Ner were concerned. They patrolled the woodlands and the perimeter of Brigum, protecting its people and caravans traveling the roads. They were not soldiers of Farratum, or even Shuruppak. They were the protectors of Brigum. Rogaan grew excited in the moment; his heart beat faster. His arguments might finally reach his father -- though his father’s words puzzled him. Rogaan paused to think on them. He realized his father spoke not of the Kiuri’Ner being used by faces unknown, but the both of them Me? Father? Alarmed and curious, Rogaan asked. “Why would we be used?”

  “This talk has carried on too long,” Sarafi broke in. Put off balance by her declaration, Rogaan wasn’t ready for the “discussion” to end. He had not gotten what he wanted, and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by that stare. Shivers. “Respect your father’s wishes, my son, and go without your shunir’ra. Now, ready yourself, or you will miss what you sought and be left behind. Besides, your friend must be waiting for you
.”

  “But...” Rogaan protested.

  “Enough!” Sarafi snapped in a stern tone that made it clear nothing more was to be said. “Rogaan. Ready yourself for your…adventure.” Sarafi then shooed him on his way with a brisk wave of her hands and that penetrating stare that followed him as he reluctantly retreated from the table and under the archway leading to the resting rooms.

  Taking leave of his parents without further protest, Rogaan walked slowly in the hope that he might overhear bits of the conversation they would likely strike up. Silence. Only his booted footfalls on the hallway’s rust-red stone tiles echoed. A mirrored wall lamp bathed the hallway with enough light for Rogaan to make out the mortar-less, tight-fitting wall stones. The precision stonework was of his father’s hand before Rogaan’s birth. The skill had been taught to Rogaan, along with metalsmithing, throughout his youth. While he found smithing enjoyable, Rogaan just never found “stoning” interesting, though he admired his father’s skill at it.

  Disappointed that his parents would not speak of any secrets, Rogaan quickened his pace, hurrying to his room so he could ready himself and not miss the Hunt Talk…without his shunir’ra. A few steps down the hall, Rogaan found himself in front of a brass-bound, heavy oak door ornately engraved with a mountain surrounded by a forest. The door was stained dark, and lacquered such that to the average eye it appeared to be a mirror, the first of three in the hallway. Everything of this father’s hand spoke magnificence and quality. And his father was insistent that they keep with the tellen tradition of parents passing on to their children their knowledge and skills. For Rogaan, that meant learning woodworking, stoneworking, and metalsmithing. And Rogaan held his crafting skills superior to most found on the streets of Brigum and equal to those exchanged between private hands. Still, Rogaan conceded his father’s hand far surpassed his own, as evident in the door before him and everything else about the house.

  Opening the door, Rogaan was struck by the heavy scent of flowers, blended with the faint odor of animal dung and blood, the latter two drifting in from the meat house pens to the north through his open window, and the flowers from his mother’s garden just outside. A lit oil stand lamp with reflecting mirrors illuminated his neatly arranged room. It was in the only condition his mother would allow. “Clean and kept is the way of this house, or hungry you will go,” she had scolded him, more often than he could honestly remember. The few times he had tested her, he found himself hungry until he put everything in order. He did not know who was the tougher, his father in the smithy or his mother elsewhere around the house.

  His room was comfortably large, almost six strides square, with a pair of shuttered windows on the far wall and a cooling vent in the exposed pitched roof above. A cool breeze flowing from the open windows and door, rising to the vent, prickled his skin, making his hair stand on end. The vent was not necessary this time of year, but in the hot, dry season it was worth its weight in gems. In his windows, Rogaan caught the beginning hint of blue in the morning sky, with golden highlights on a few wispy clouds touching the nearby mountain peaks. Hastily, he gathered his clothing from under his neatly made bed. The bed, desk, chair, and a clothing cabinet were all made of heavy wood, ornately carved with symbols telling epic stories, in the tellen fashion, and lacquered to a glossy finish. All had been by his father’s hand when he was just a knee-high, but they looked just recently made.

  Rogaan collected his things from around the room then shoved them into a green-and-tan striped hide carry pack, with traveling clothes and camp equipment filling up most of the space. Hard brick soap, just in case he had a need to bathe, and salt scrub for his teeth he tucked into a side pocket. “I’m forgetting something,” he told himself. He looked around the room in search of the something, not wanting to leave anything behind that he might need. A sparkle from the shelf nearest the door caught his eye. The first rays of the dawn sun reflecting off the polished metal wind vane in the back yard bathed the shelf and brightened the room. Scintillating colors radiating from a crystal figurine mesmerized Rogaan for a moment, drawing him to it and inspect it. The hand-tall figurine was of a female tellen dressed in eur battle armor and holding a sword-like weapon high in victory...or defiance? Rogaan was unclear about that point of the ancient tale, though he preferred victory.

  The figurine was bathed in a sparkling of soft rainbows as he moved it about, inspecting it, the colors reminding him of his unsettled dreams last night and the fitful sleep that came with them. Normally he slept soundly and did not remember his dreams as he had when he awoke this morning, with their vividness leaving him wondering if they were somehow real. Though now, he found the details fading. The figurine was a gift from an old clan friend of his father from many years ago when a small group of tellens traveled from Kilan, the capital of Turil and the Tellen Nation, to visit his father here in Brigum. Rogaan never understood their purpose, nor could he remember the name of the clan friend, but the lack of kinship between the “friend” and his father remained etched in his memory. They were more adversarial than friendly.

  Scintillating colors drew Rogaan’s attention deep into the crystal figurine. It was said to be a statue of the tellen Lahamu, Our Lady of Battles and a legendary Sentii of the Third Age. Rogaan recalled the tale of Ursa-ne-Ursa ...first warrior of warriors in the war against the One Whose Name Was Unmade. The tale was a favorite of his father’s, and told to Rogaan since he could remember. She was the great symbol of courage and bravery in tellen clans and thought of as almost god-like, to judge by the way his father described her exploits. As the legend was told, Lahamu, under command of the Ancients, led a clan of Sentii against the Unmade One’s forces in the end days of the Third Age. She led the Sentii in epic battles and was said to have died in the last battle of the Shiarush War, but only after defeating the Unmade One’s Shunned warriors. A powerful and nasty lot desiring all that was Ancient…and Agni.

  “Good dawn.” A quick-paced voice announced itself from one of the open windows. Surprised…startled, Rogaan snapped a look at the window where he found his friend, Pax, lazily hanging on the windowsill with a broad, toothy grin of slightly yellow teeth.

  “So,” Pax continued with an air of anticipation. “Talk him into lettin’ ya carry it on da Hunt?”

  “No,” Rogaan grumbled. He deliberately avoided looking at Pax’s frown while walking to his desk before shoving a few remaining items into his carry pack. “He is as stubborn as expected, and gave my words little consideration.”

  “Ya takin’ it anyway?” Pax asked, with a slight hint of hope in his up-to-no-good smile. Rogaan looked at Pax, who was still lazily hanging on the windowsill with both arms, elbows out and shoulder-high. Pax’s short-cropped black hair was as usual uncombed and a little oily. Rogaan suspected Pax wore his hair in that manner to spite everyone, especially his parents, since he often played with it, straightening it out. This morning Pax wore blue face paint that contrasted sharply with his light-brown skin. A crude blue shape of a great wyrmm, possibly one of legend, stretched from his forehead to right cheek. He always seemed to want to draw attention to himself in public, possibly to make up for lacking it at home…or so he hinted occasionally. Rogaan suddenly felt comfort in his parents’ wanting to know every aspect of his life and always knowing, somehow, when to pull him back from making a big mistake. Pax was one of those mistakes, so his mother told him. She disapproved of Pax’s friendship and his’ rebellious nature, fearing Rogaan would follow him in style and attitude. Not that he would. Not able to get Rogaan to end the friendship, she chastised Pax, severely, at almost every opportunity, and would certainly do so today if she saw him.

  “Only a fool would act against my father,” Rogaan said, defeated and a little angry. “He is as thick as stone…unbending. And Mother silenced talk of it.” Rogaan finished his grumbling by sealing his carry pack with a firm tug on its drawstrings. Swinging his pack over his shoulder, he started for the door then stopped, looking back at Pax. “Best you stand wher
e Mother cannot see. Her disapproval of you…your face paint will be firm, even if it washes off with rock soap and a good scrub.”

  “That not be all she disapproves of.” Sarcasm was thick in Pax’s words. “No more tongue-lashin’ like she gave me. I be waitin’ out front.”

  In a blink, Pax disappeared. How did he do that? Rogaan wondered? There one moment and gone the next. With a shake of his head in wonder, he pushed Pax and his nimble ways to the back of his thoughts then trudged from his room for the front door. A little sunlight reflecting from polished brass mirrors mounted in the ceiling precisely every four strides pushed back the gloom of the pre-dawn hallway. Rogaan felt uneasy in darkness, despite possessing some of the famed tellen dark sight. He had always felt uneasy in the darkness. It had a way of putting him on edge and making him irritable, or so his mother said. The warmth of the light had the opposite effect. It made him feel at ease, even as a knee-high, and because of that his father made great efforts to brighten the house as much as possible, day and night. Oil lamps with silver mounted reflecting mirrors just above Rogaan’s eye level were on every wall. They burned smokeless oil with a scent of meadow lily at night, illuminating every room and hall. The pleasant scent of the burning oil lingered in the cool dawn air. Ceiling mirrors would fully replace the oil lamps once the sun rose high enough to light the house well through them. Despite the brightening hallway, Rogaan remained glum, and wasn’t looking forward to another needed talk with his father about his shunir’ra.