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

by Benjamin M. Piety

  No parents or guardians ever came to choose her, and her caretakers were around only to advise and feed and board her. They hadn’t been denizens to whom she could grow close. As for the other boys and girls in the children’s square, they often disappeared without notice. To tell them confidences or hold them accountable for the next day’s happiness would only produce spoils because, on any given morn, she’d wake to discover they were sent left in the night or taken in by a desiring family. Learning that another girl was chosen over her prickled the most, not because they were taken but because they were selected before her.

  There was Earls, who was kind to her. Perhaps the most loyal of them all; and though a shnite beast on the outside, it wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he was part cog. Soft-hearted and dim. But she knew she couldn’t spend a life with him. A widow who barely spoke. A man. But he held the Temporary, as she liked to call it. As the girls and boys did. Or Aerial. Or Ruth. Or Jules. Earls was just another Temporary even if she couldn’t shake the throbs of guilt for abandoning him. And a happy guilt for making Earls care for the ever-needy Lady Floon, Aerial’s cog. Until this minor, she had forgotten about the useless frek. For the best, perhaps. I can’t hold on to it forever.

  Over the past month, Logan had become the new Temporary. Though, like most men she meets, he is also a clueless cog inside. Tender and easy to swoon over a woman’s smile. So am I. But he is moral. And kind. He came to her rescue. Like a valor of old, a soldier for the denizens. Chivalrous as he is slow.

  Ruth stands away from her, bare chested, and sits back down. “You’re not going to leave so soon? I did appize for what happened. You do believe me?”

  Iahel spins to face Ruth and steps closer. “You did.” She kisses her, and they slip again.

  Afterward, they lie silent in the bed, with Ruth’s fingers running up and down Iahel’s arm, causing grenspimples. Iahel suddenly jumps, the thought of the demvirst overtaking her.

  Ruth sits up. “Are you wisnok?”

  Iahel nods quietly, not wanting to think on the thoughts any further. “It’s not you.” Trust is not my cloth.

  A knock. Iahel sits up and pulls on a long shirt. At the door, Bernard stands sheepishly. “Apory to bother you, friend, but is Logan here?”

  “Isn’t he in Sanet’s room?”

  “They had some grit. Logan found a letter or something. I was a little jarent when he was yelling at me about it.”

  Iahel grins, knowing how passionate and unreasonable Logan can be.

  “I’m sure he’s at duskmeal. I can meet you there in a few?”

  Bernard nods. “You’re right.” He walks away.

  Letter? Boyish troubles. She finishes her color, speaking to Ruth through the mirror. “Well, the night has set and kiptale faded, sur lady.”

  “So, you’re just going to run away again?”

  No answer.

  Ruth then stands to dress as both remain silent. The room drops in temperature, and after a major, Iahel leaves without a wave.

  ❖❖❖

  At a booth, Bernard and Iahel drink steamed green tea and munch on a basket of warm coffee sticks. Sanet appears around the corner and finds them. “Have you seen Logan?” she asks, sitting down beside Bernard. They shake their heads. “Odd boy.”

  “I think he went,” Bernard says, munching on a coffee stick.

  “Went?”

  “He said that, well, this is personal, but that you had some letter?” Bernard questions.

  Sanet’s reaction is at first one of shock, then forced confusion. “Letter?”

  “In truth, I was a little tipst, but he knocked on my door this morn in a bit of a panic, wanting me to leave with him. Saying I shouldn’t trust you because you were stalking him.”

  Sanet laughs at this and Iahel watches the two intently. Sanet’s reaction to the news of Logan is the same as Aerial’s would be whenever Iahel confronted her about overusing violet. They wear a hidden agenda.

  Bernard, with his own inner cog, shrugs it off. Sanet’s a wall. Guarded at all times. Their conversation continues, about Logan and how boyish he is. How sweet. How generous a partner he is when they slip. Sanet’s descriptions come off like calculations of her emotions. Untrue. Unreal. Unfelt. As if it is how she is supposed to talk about him. That she is resigned to be with him, being that they were just . . . available to each other, but that he didn’t mean anything and that, beyond a good slip, he was beneath her. That’s at least the tale she presents, but as they speak on Logan’s behaviors, it’s clear she’s more upset than she’s likely to admit.

  The letter must have been in that pad she always writes in. Her real thoughts. And Logan’s little cog heart broke when he read it, and so he went. As they finish their duskmeal, they discuss the upcoming day.

  “Are you still going west, Iahel?” Bernard asks.

  “Since I’m not too keen to return to Yikshir, and it would be exciting to see the Land beyond, I think so. Though I do hope you keep your cross to save some of that brass reward for me.”

  “I would never break it,” Sanet says, drawing an X on the east side of her chest.

  At this, they drink and eat until midmorn, laughing and sharing stories. They toast a sip for Logan.

  And then, they part ways.

  ❖❖❖

  On the road west with the sun above her, Iahel is alone and traveling again. It’s been three years since she was last on the road, on her own, and never this far west. She’s read and heard stories of the west. Of an ashen state. One with snows. With rivers. With waterfalls. In her life, she’s lived only in the smog high-rises of Niance, the red desert of Yikshir, and the dark tunnels beneath Carvinga. She is ready to see green. And water flows. Flowers. Freks of the wild beyond the endless parade of useless, domesticated cogs.

  The path beyond the Crossroads descends into a canyon, and below, a thick fog creeps around her. After a few hours, she comes upon a signpost that reads Renant, six hundred and thirty-two miles to the south, and Quemon, a hundred and forty-eight to the north. Quemon is more of the same, another Yikshir governed by politics over religion. Many discussions over which state was better could be overheard in Yikshir. The thought of hearing more of that makes her skin crawl. She chooses south. Renant is a state covered in ash, abandoned a decade ago when a volcak on the border of it and Maheet exploded. The tragedy gave Yikshir and Quemon permission to expand their populations with the influx of Renant denizens, though it was written only to be a temporary expansion.

  Beyond Renant and Maheet is Organsia, where Logan is returning to. From all accounts, Organsia is one of the most impressive states in the Land, populated with overflows of rivers and lakes and waterfalls. A near paradimo. It is also known to be one of the more modern states.

  As her trek continues, she thinks back to Ruth. Though she said goodbye, with a kiss and a hug, she feels as if she has abandoned her. For the better, I guess. But something makes her question the thought. When she left Niance at fifteen, she was ready to find a family. That was her goal, and she thought she had found it with Aerial. And being with Ruth, her first, even for just a night, made it seem like the Land was finally falling into place. But in the one-two kick of that morning, without a wave goodbye, she was alone. The Tunnels never felt like haynest, even if Earls was kind. When the demvirst took Jules, it became apparent Iahel was not to fall in single souls. Was not to have a family. And here, in the fog, she is alone again.

  In fact, the thought occurs that she might just stay in the mist. Find a hole in the canyon walls and live out the rest of her days away from getting close. From disappointment. Because there is always disappointment. Logan left her. Without asking. Without caring if she might want to follow him. Ruth left her once. And Aerial was too selfish to know that Iahel needed her. Prosh that woman. Whenever Iahel thinks too much about it, thinks too heavily, it hurts her. It hangs on her like a rucksack full of stones. She brushes off the thoughts and continues on.

  Walking in the fog is its ow
n experience, and looking over one’s shoulder or to the side leads only to curiosity and anxiety. Anything could be beyond in the fogs. Perhaps only canyon walls or a family’s haynest. The people of the Misipit Valley are rigorously private denizens, keeping to themselves and using its fog as cover. If one wanted to hide, this might be the place to do so.

  Iahel continues along for some while. Then, ahead of her, she sees a rucksack lies overturned in the brush. Her footsteps, the only sound in the fog, lead her closer until she realizes that it looks exactly like Logan’s.

  She hesitates. Looking around. Standing still and listening. The air is silent. She hunches over and looks into the rucksack, and to her shock, it is Logan’s. At this, she stands and grabs for her dagger.

  Quiet.

  Still.

  She looks around. Why would Logan leave his rucksack? She wanders the area, pressing farther into the fog to the west and then the east. Circling the bag’s position. There are too many footprints to tell which are whose.

  And then she sees them.

  A pair of legs covered in decomps. The little black festatars scurry and burrow into the remains of the flesh. The two legs are severed from a torso and lie in a pool of dried blood. She covers her mouth at the sight.

  They’re Logan’s.

  Chapter 17

  THE TWOFOOTER'S TALE

  The fog looms around Iahel thicker than it was minors before. Every creak and noise surrounding her gathers a newfound intensity. Her instincts kick in. She steps away from the severed legs and returns to Logan’s rucksack. Digging through, she seizes his personal effects: notes and maps, coins and pictures. There’s a portrait of a woman with wild red hair, her arm around a shorter bald man, and standing in front of them, a young boy no more than ten. Logan’s family.

  She packs the effects into her own rucksack before tossing it over her shoulder. For a major, she contemplates her direction. Perhaps return to the Crossroads and venture back with Sanet and Bernard. But they’re presumably long gone. Maybe she could retreat north, as whatever happened to Logan had likely come from, and returned to, the south.

  The dense fog reinforces each course, charging each decision with a rising threat. Whatever or whoever did this to Logan could be anywhere. The hold on her dagger tightens as she chooses, like a flamgirl, to continue south. She won’t return to the Crossroads. There is nothing for her there but Ruth, and she quickly shakes the idea. Ruth had left without a wave. I won’t let her do that to me again. As for the dangers of what waits for her ahead, no matter where she goes, dangers could loom. Rapacious freks. Violent denizens. There’s ever something or someone wanting to send a denizen left, and it is the labor of self to remain alert and at the ready. So, she ventures south.

  The wide trail continues straight for miles before splitting in a myriad of directions. The Misipit Valley is known for its twisted trails, and in a lot of ways, it reminds her of the Tunnels; but instead of a perpetual cavern overhead, there is a claustrophobia of enclosing gray fog. As she treks, the only markers that differ from one step to the next are the assorted dried shrubs and fallen dead branches. To look ahead or behind is to find the persistent curtain of fog.

  When the sun sets, Iahel’s forced to switch on her neonlight. A frontz torch would do me well now, she notes, thinking of Bernard. The turn of dusk paints the trail in a soggy gloom, aided in part by the dim and circular glow of her neon, which stops short in the obstinate gray.

  A sign ahead reading “Bluesteep Sleep” and carved in wood breaks the monotony of her dull steps. Approsh Dustian. Her pace quickens. As she draws closer to the establishment, the fog clears, revealing two small lanterns hanging on either side of Bluesteep’s small entrance door built into the brown canyon wall. Nailed to the door is an invitation for local folks to enter.

  Relieved, tired, and ready to put the day behind her, Iahel goes in.

  Everything inside is abnormally slight, even for Iahel’s petite size. So much so that she must hunch over, with her head pressed nearly to the ceiling. The barroom is no larger than an average living room, with a hearth and a hallway that leads up an eastern staircase where there are likely sleeping chambers.

  The tavern is empty except for a quiet female denizen, in her late ages, behind a counter who is flipping through a paper. As Iahel steps up, the denizen takes first notice and greets her with a gentle and welcoming smile. “Good dusk to you.”

  “Evening. I’m looking for a place to sleep.”

  “Got that for you folk. For one night only?” She retrieves a leather-bound book from under the counter.

  “Yes.”

  “Splendid then. If you could sign your curam here. It’s a coin for the night, another if you’re looking for a meal.”

  “I’ll definitely take the meal.”

  “A double splendid then. I haven’t had my duskmeal either, so you’ve arrived just in time.” The woman squeaks with enthusiasm at the prospect of having another to spend the evening with.

  After exchanging coin and key, Iahel departs for the sleeping room to drop her rucksack. She finds that the hallway and the sleeping room are smaller than usual. The bed itself would make most denizen’s feet hang over, but with Iahel’s height, she’ll sleep triple perfect. The thought brightens her mood. A place just for me.

  A small oil lamp lights the room and the modest wardrobe where a mirror hangs. Iahel sets her rucksack at the foot of the bed before falling back onto it. At this temporary pause, she’s immediately invaded by her avoided thoughts on where she’ll go from here and what happened to Logan. Neither question is answerable. Though she has only known Logan for a few weeks, he is someone she quickly grew fond of. Someone she would want to know better. A good friend, the Radibian might say. He is different from most of the men she’s met in her life, who operated on rough or aggressive or dim behaviors.

  Thoughts of Logan being sent left lead to the forgotten and suppressed memories of Jules. The most handsome girl she’s ever met. Maybe not more so than Ruth . . . She had met Jules at Greren and Tapsters after Iahel had wandered up the women-only staircase. In the private hallways, she passed by every form of girl. Young and old. Nude or elegantly dressed. Some in tuxedos, some in decadent costumes or dresses. In her ogling and aimless amble, she bumped and shouldered Jules, who fell to the floor. Jules, at the time, had been tipst, barely able to walk. Iahel attempted to lift her up, giving her appize, when she instead fell atop Jules. They kissed there, rolling to the side of the hall. Any care of another woman around them watching hadn’t mattered. Jules’s lips, skin, and breasts had felt precious and beautiful and endless.

  The next few months passed in minors and became one of the happiest times in Iahel’s life. When the coin between them ran out, Iahel and Jules grew desperate to stay at the grewst and so decided to bargain as exhibitions for paying onlookers. At first, they found other women who would watch them, but it wasn’t enough to sustain all the ale and food and room they consumed. So, eventually, they ventured over to the Co-Ed Halls but found the brutishness of hungry men nearly overpowering. Many times, they had to fight off the unwanted advances of turned-on men, and whenever they discussed leaving, the coin they were receiving made staying another week, another month, worth the hardship.

  After nearly six months, they met Earls, who had recently been widowed and who agreed to give them the right balance of coin and personal freedom. He’d never wanted to touch them, and the worst thing about him was the loud masturbatory sounds he’d make watching them. Over time, it became more charming than repulsive. A game emerged between them to see who could get him to groan the loudest. He fell in single souls with them, inviting them to labor together at his frek shop mainly taking care of the older and sickly krakes that travelers would bargain for to traverse the Tunnels.

  As the next year passed, life in the Tunnels was perfect. Iahel, for the first time in her short life, felt at peace. She had a family. Once every few months, Jules and Iahel would take the short trek south to
spend a few days in the Radiba sunlight and keep their eyes healthy. But inevitably they loved their lives at Greren and Tapsters, and with Earls.

  Then the demvirst arrived. It’s unclear when the unknowable frek slunk into the den, or if it had always been there, but the mood of the whole grewst changed. The lusts of everyone intensified, sometimes unbearably, and the gentle freedom the grewst provided began to feel heavy. Like an addiction. Spending more than a day away hurt. One’s hands would begin to shake, and a nervous sweat would come. Jules had taken it worse than Iahel, and it wasn’t long before she and Iahel “disappeared into the darkness.” To experience “the greater pleasures,” as denizens called it. And they had been. During the day, while Iahel labored with Earls, tending to the krakes, her mind would return to the grewst. To the demvirst. To the sharp yet erotic crack of whips.

  When Jules was consumed by the demvirst, Iahel had wanted to run, as many did, but the demvirst’s power, its lust, convinced its priced that it was too dominant to destroy. Too fearsome to escape. The thought of being sent left wasn’t the worst of things. The worst would have been to never feel its pleasures again. Iahel and the others had all been internally captured. All she wanted was to leave. It was her natural mood. To leave that which was not her own. And nothing was ever her own. Her body had refused to listen. And she hated that frek.

  Then Logan saved her. In so many ways, she owed him for that. At these recollections, Iahel begins to cry. It rolls over her, because everyone she’s ever known, everyone she’s ever wanted to know, is gone. Taken from her. Aerial. Jules. Logan. Why did she leave Ruth? She could have been happy. And her heart skips at the thought of Earls. How unhappy he must be now without her. How lonely. He had to know how she felt. That she couldn’t stay. Not with the memory of the demvirst so close. The memories of Jules.