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

by Benjamin M. Piety

  Ahead, every ten strides or so, a thick line marks the floor. They cross the hole by sliding carefully along a narrow ledge on the side of the pit. Though they go no more than twenty strides, it takes a few extended majors of slow and cautious footing before they find themselves safe on the other side. As they enter the black stone hall, each footstep echoes out, and to their dismay, the heat has returned. Logan examines the architecture with a mixture of fascination and fear, passing his hands over the smooth black surface. The heat emanates from it. There’s something unsettling about the stillness of this darkness. The unnatural sleekness, how quietly the space waits.

  Someone, or something, built this. But who? It wasn’t the tenfooters. They are a practical friend and wouldn’t spend time on such precision or careful architecture. The long and vacant hall provokes other questions. Why would a piece of this brass be left here? What do all these pieces form?

  They continue along, cautious of their surroundings, and are quiet, anticipating a sudden click or noise—or another monstrous frek—around each corner. Though Bernard is confident there’s going to be a protnuk down here, for the major, it’s only vacancy and emptiness that they find.

  The hall continues, wider now so that the four can walk abreast. The ceiling is designed the same as the walls, slick and black and looming ten measures above them. Ahead, the hallway curves to the west and begins to ascend.

  At first, the incline is gradual, but the farther along they trek, the steeper the slope becomes. As it rises, they find themselves once again having to step sideways, gripping the wall and pressing their backs against it, shuffling their feet, half foot by half foot. They move slowly so as not to slide into that unending pit. Which waits.

  They step sideways up the sloping hall that curves from west to east until they reach its peak, where they find a massive, placid pool of dark water sitting in the middle of a large cavern. The walls hereabouts are made of the same slick black material. A narrow path no wider than a double stride circles the pond, and on the other side, two thin lines of green neon illuminate a small doorway. Stepping up to the pool, Logan attempts to look beneath its surface while Iahel aims her neonlight into the water. Below the dark waters, dozens of enormous krakes swim about.

  “Lincoln,” Logan mumbles.

  “I’d beg to offer that these krakes are not as friendly as George and Whistlers,” Iahel says. One of the krakes, three times the size of any they’ve seen before, floats near the surface.

  “No one up for a swim then?” Logan jokes.

  Sanet sneers and walks along the path to the east, circling the pool. As they wander after her, Logan glances up toward large slits, which serve an unknown purpose, in the ceiling above them. The pool room’s heat and humidity create a muggy atmosphere, making each breath a challenge. On its other side, a raised area steps up and forms a considerable floor, and on closer inspection, it appears to resemble a quaint porch from a modern house with short, uneven railings and even two small chairs canted against either side of its doorway. The entire porch, including the seats and railings, is covered in the same slick black and reflects the two vertical green neon strips lining the door.

  They step up to the porch and its doorway, which is built into the back wall opposite the sloping hall from which they entered. Shining their neonlights through the open doorway, they find yet another turnaway, though smaller than any of the others. This hallway holds arched doorways every ten strides or so. They step in, and as they pass each open archway, they see chairs and beds inside small rooms, covered, like everything, in the smooth black stone. One room is arranged as a sleeping chamber, while another resembles something of a lounging area. Altogether, the rooms appear to create a single haynest, but as it’s currently arranged, the space feels disconnected and isolating.

  Nearing the end of the hallway, they locate a throne room. When Bernard steps in, he speaks up. “That’s it. That’s the same throne I saw in the protnuk’s nest back in Radiba.” He walks over to the high black throne and reaches a hand out. “This is unbelievable. It has that same heat.”

  Logan has never met a protnuk but knows that their tricks on the eye and senseless riddles cause friends to go mad. If Bernard believes this is the same throne, the protnuk’s enigmit may be working.

  Iahel scans the room. “Where’s this brass supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know,” Sanet answers. “I was only told it was beyond a door beneath the stonetin in the Tunnels.”

  Bernard is mesmerized by the throne, afraid to touch it. The throne is also of the same black rock. However, it looks to have been made of it, rather than covered in it. Logan looks around and notes more unrecognizable lumps and boxy shapes like those in the other rooms.

  “Here’s another hall.” Sanet points to the back of the throne room to the east, toward a small and narrow corridor, nearly hidden in the black wall. She walks over and disappears around a corner. Bernard follows. Iahel and Logan take the rear.

  Down this hall, barely wide enough for a single friend, another room sits on its own, this one smaller than the others, with built-in bookshelves covered in the black stone.

  Inspecting the shelves, Sanet says, “I wonder if it’s buried under this rock?”

  “Under it?” Bernard questions.

  “Doesn’t it look like this whole temple is covered in black stone? It’s overgrown with it, like some sort of mold.”

  “Do you think we should try to dig it out?” Iahel asks.

  “I don’t have any other ideas. This room is the only one left. Unless we’re missing something.”

  “I’ll double on that; I hope it’s underneath this stone. Not sure I’m keen on learning it’s lost down in that pool with all the krakes,” Bernard doubles.

  “Let’s hope not.” Sanet steps up to one of the bookshelves, unsheathes her dagger, and taps the stone. It clinks and echoes in the small room. She then throws her weight into it, attempting to chip away bits of rock. It does nothing, leaving no mark of her effort. She looks around.

  Logan pulls his pistol and points it at the bookshelf. “Stand back.”

  The three step aside, and he pulls the trigger. The blast booms through the room, causing everyone to clasp their ears. When the sound diminishes, Logan studies the impact to find the bullet lodged in the stone as if he had merely pressed it in, but no other residual marks. “Well then.”

  “I wonder . . .”

  Bernard removes his rucksack and pulls out a frontz-leaf torch and lights it. The room comes into full view as each of them shields their eyes from the sudden bright light. Sanet and Iahel turn off their neonlights.

  “That is an excellent match,” Iahel remarks.

  Bernard tips the torch toward the bookshelf, and the stone glistens and sweats. With curiosity, he touches the stone with the fire. The black rock retreats, producing a high-pitched hissing sound.

  Sanet steps over. “Lincoln, it’s working.” As the rock clears, the shelf’s contents come into view, books on history and biology. With renewed excitement, Sanet scans the room, rubbing her fingers over pieces of furniture. “Try here.”

  As soon as Bernard leaves the shelf, the stone returns, closing back over the books. He walks over and tilts the torch onto a flat surface behind the desk, and the stone recedes, revealing a painting. It’s a nude scene of a woman pushing away from long and fearsome arms. Bernard waves the torch around the picture to show the whole scene. The woman is being attacked by prominent friends covered in brown hair, twice her size. “Tenfooters.”

  “Try over here.” Iahel guesses at a spot.

  Bernard walks over and tries an area lower and against a side wall.

  “Looks like a trophy case. Earls had one that was fashioned in the same shape.”

  Bernard touches the stone as the others watch. As the black oozes aside, hissing, glass replaces it, and behind, objects rest quietly on display. Small figurines posed in fighting stances. Metal coins pressed in ancient styles. And then, a large fra
gment of brass, shaped like a pointed wedge about the size of a fist.

  “That’s definitely larger than what you found, Sanet,” Bernard observes.

  Iahel’s eyes widen. “This is exciting.”

  They all smile at the find. Lucky souls, we are.

  Shink. Shink. Shink.

  Logan turns. “Krake.” They position themselves in anticipation. Shink. Shink. “Any suggestions, Iahel?”

  “It’s probably hungry.”

  “I only have a little neox left. Hopefully enough,” Bernard says.

  Iahel nods, her eyes showing she hopes the same. The rattle of the krake’s scales grows louder. Closer. Bernard hands the torch to Logan while he rifles through his rucksack, pulling out and unwrapping the last of his neox meat. The room has grown considerably hotter since the torch has touched the walls around them, which are sweating and beginning to melt.

  “We should grab that brass and get out of here,” Logan says.

  Shink. Shink. Shink.

  Iahel turns to the others, “That krake sounds like it’s in the throne room. Can it fit down the hall?”

  “Logan, help me get the brass,” Sanet says. “Bernard, go with Iahel and see if that neox meat keeps it occupied.”

  Bernard nods at her instruction and leaves the room with Iahel. Logan, meanwhile, tilts the torch back toward the trophy case and once again reveals the glass case and the brass wedge. After a large enough hole opens, Sanet smashes the glass with the hilt of her dagger. It shatters, and she reaches in, grabbing for the brass. As she pulls away, her forearm touches a bit of the heated stone, and she screams in pain, dropping the brass back into the case. She falls backward holding her arm. Logan drops the torch onto the case and turns to Sanet.

  “Are you wisnok?”

  Unable to speak from the pain, she shows Logan her injury. Her skin is burned away nearly to the bone.

  “Prosh.” She points to the case.

  Logan turns and sees the walls have quickly gone up in flames, the black stone melting even faster. He grabs Sanet and pulls her away. “Get to Bernard; I’ll get the brass.”

  She nods and hurries away, holding her arm.

  He turns back. He pulls from his rucksack a leather water bag, twists its cap, and pours the contents over the fire, extinguishing it into blue smoke. Without hesitation, he holds his breath and steps into the hot steam and reaches past the shattered glass. Through eyes stinging from the smoke, he catches a glimpse of the brass wedge and pulls it out. The back of his hand scrapes a piece of black stone oozing back to form, which burns layers of his skin. In pain, he retracts his arm, tosses the brass across the room, then falls to his knees. The room has returned to darkness. He’s temporarily blinded, but in a minor he sees the dim glow of Iahel’s neonlight down the hall and stands, breathing through his mouth, grabs the brass, and packs it into his rucksack.

  He finds Sanet and the others. They’re across the throne room, sneaking toward the exit. In the middle of the room, an enormous krake is sprawled out tearing into the neox meat. Logan holds his breath as he slips along the wall. The krake looks up at him, and Logan stops. It stands and stares.

  Remaining still, Logan sees in his periphery the other three at the exit hall. Bernard reaches into his bag and tosses a new piece of meat across the room opposite of Logan. The krake turns its neck to the landed meat, and as it does, Logan runs.

  Once he reaches the others, they all run through the hall of doors toward the pool.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes,” Logan says.

  Sanet’s eyes show she approves.

  Anything for you.

  Quickly returning to the humid pool room, they find several krakes walking along the path and others swimming around in the dark waters with a growing sense of agitation. The room has brightened considerably since they left. Upon looking up, they see the slits in the ceiling have opened into large circular vents to the surface. As they watch, a shadow appears in the light of one of the holes, followed by a scream. The screaming friend looks to have been pushed and is now falling toward them. As the shadow drops, it appears to be a tenfooter, easily identified by his large size and hair-covered body. They catch a glimpse of his arms tied behind his back just before he crashes into the water with a tremendous crack, producing a splash that juts up and onto the path. Krakes swim from underneath the fallen tenfooter, attacking him as he squirms and tries to swim away. The attempt to fight them off is unsuccessful.

  “It’s . . . an execution pit,” Logan states in a skipped breath.

  After a minor, another tenfooter screams, falling from above. The few krakes walking along the path slink back into the water, clearing the gang’s eastern path. Behind them, the enormous krake from the throne room rattles toward them.

  “Time to go.”

  They creep along the edge of the pool as three more tenfooters, tied together this time, splash and smash into the water and are quickly devoured by the swimming krakes. At this point, it’s a feeding frenzy, and the krake from the throne room drops into the water for its own taste, ripping the head from one of the already sent tenfooters. Ahead of the gang, another krake blocks their path. Bernard, in front, yanks his rifle free as he runs, aims at it, and pulls the trigger. Its scaled head shakes off the shot, and it retreats into the pool unharmed.

  “Good show, Bernard.”

  They hurry forth, making their way back toward the sloping hall. “Careful, friends. If we slip, there’s that pit below to who knows where,” Bernard warns.

  Nodding in agreement, they each press against the wall, gingerly feeling along the floor, which is slick with splashed water. Behind them, they hear a cacophony of screams just as the light from above the pool darkens temporarily.

  “Hold on!” Logan calls out.

  Just barely out of sight, a huge ball of tenfooters roped together crashes into the pool, sending a massive wave up and over the path, down the sloping hall. The water hits them, and Sanet, still clutching her injured arm, slips. Logan reaches out to grab her but instead falls forward with her. They fumble and slide with the water. They hear Bernard and Iahel scream after them. Logan and Sanet slide down the hall, curving around the edge.

  Logan screams, “Push yourself to the side! That pit only opens in the center!”

  Sanet nods, turning her focus to in front of her.

  I can’t lose her. I won’t lose her. Unable to get ahold of her, he instead takes his own advice and attempts to guide his body as close as he can to the wall. Around the final corner, they slide feet first. The path levels out as Logan calls, “Here it is!”

  The pit ahead waits for them. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Logan and Sanet press to the wall, the sides of the pit not as wide as he remembers, but it seems safe. Hopefully safe. The hole approaches, and they both lean up toward the wall as their speed slows. Logan holds his breath, feeling the open air at his back as he crosses past. They slam—ooof!—into the wall, unharmed. Before he’s able to breathe in relief, he looks back to see Bernard and Iahel, tumbling down and out of control. Logan screams, “Push yourself to the edge of the wall!” Shnite, not Bernard.

  Bernard turns, catching Logan’s eyes; he’s fallen face first and straight toward the center of the pit. Logan immediately crawls to the edge, reaching his hand out. “Sanet grab me.”

  Sanet doesn’t hesitate and reaches out with her good arm to Logan’s leg. He braces himself as Bernard flies toward him. He’ll never make it. Bernard grabs Iahel by the forearm. He reaches out his other hand toward Logan, coming in fast.

  Bernard screams, “Move, Logan!”

  Logan rolls to the side as Bernard flies from the water slide and across the pit, reaching out to the other side’s edge. It cracks on his impact and against the strength of his grip, but somehow, he holds on, his mitt having created deep-fingered valleys in the stone.

  Logan crawls back and, grabbing Bernard’s arm, pulls him up. Heavy. Sanet wraps her arm around Logan’s chest and pulls
with him. Bernard assists, lifting himself and Iahel by his fingers. With an effort run purely on adrenaline, they pull everyone up, and all four collapse in exhaustion and heavy breathing. They remain this way for an extended major, calming under the release of pressure and stress. Logan closes his eyes, the pain on the back of his hand pulsing.

  Iahel speaks first. “Ten thousand coin. Worth it for ten thousand an ounce.”

  They laugh.

  After a few more majors, they sit up and assess their wounds. Sanet takes the most time. Logan pulls from his sack a bandage kit to tend to her. He clasps her arm and rests it on his knee as he slowly wraps her forearm. “We’ll need to get this looked at by a nurse soon.”

  “Good thing we’re almost at the Crossroads.” Bernard stands.

  “Look out.” Iahel screams, pointing. And then, down the water slide, they see a krake come tumbling toward them. It snaps and twists hysterically. The gang stands away but watches as the krake, too large to pass the narrow side paths, falls into the hole. Its wail fades as it falls, but no sound of it hitting bottom reaches them.

  Bernard looks up from the darkness below. “Remind me to send my deepest approsh to Smith Tunston for these mitts.”

  Logan, turning back to Sanet, finishes the bandage. “Are you wisnok?”

  She looks at him and nods. And kisses him. “Approsh for staying back for the brass.”

  At first, thoughts of the demvirst, of his troubles with the woman back at Tapsters and Greren, flood back. But Sanet’s touch is gentle and more maternal than that of an aggressive lover.

  He blushes. “You’re welcome.” I can’t leave Sanet now. I’ll suffer the wrath of the Victors. But we can survive them together. If she’ll have me. He smiles at the thought.

  Logan reaches into his rucksack and pulls out the brass wedge, big and sharp in his hand. Sanet takes it, turning it in examination before placing it in her own rucksack. “Well, enough ventures for one day?” They all agree and gather their bags, leaving through the door into the chamber beneath the stonetin.

  They ascend the staircase and squeeze back through the two headed statue into the cathedral, where dozens of welkings crawl throughout the nave, stopping their trek. Every welking is different in form. Some walk on two legs or three. Others have multiple arms or none at all. There are ones with two heads and ones with none. All deformations of freks spread before them. They’re friends long sent and mutated by a foul air.