It pulls and drags itself from the depths, emanating a dread that seeps into the soul, leaving Sanet motionless, overwhelmed with panic. The monstrous head of the ardroke, now appearing from underground as Carvin’s chamber continues to shatter and collapse in on itself, also swirls in this matted fur, dripping with what looks to be caked mud. Its long worm mouth can barely hold in rows and rows of barbed yellow and black fangs. A purple tongue slithers across its lips as if it were its own living beast.
And then there are the eyes: one a vacant gray with thick blue veins pulsing with its heartbeat; the other the brass orb set perfectly in its socket. The orb that must have been shattered years ago to prevent its return. The ground smashes open even more, revealing two other arms, which it uses to complete its emancipation from the grave. It opens its mouth, issuing a raucous bay that steals down Sanet’s gaping throat and leaves a toxic knot within her stomach. It is death. It is the end of all things.
Running in all directions away from the stonetin, the crowd shrieks and bawls, the noise swelling erratically as Carvin unfolds itself and stretches upright, striking the stonetin roof and launching a pair of twofooters to the grasses below.
Released upon the Land, the four-armed ardroke stands a thousand feet high, towering above even the stonetin. A young crimson boy next to Sanet falls to the ground as he crawls backward while attempting to gawk upward. The ardroke steps forward, stomping down among the crowd, crushing twofooters and crimson men alike. The crunch of bones and wet splattering carry through the air, drowned only by the cries of panic. One of its four arms reaches down and rips from the root a nearby tree as if it were a flimsy branch stuck in the dirt. Carvin then tosses it aside, slamming it against more of the fleeing crowd. More sent.
To Sanet’s west, a gang of tenfooters fires guns at the ardroke, their bullets pelting the thick, matted fur—but the act is futile. They’re unable to distract the frek from its forward course. Sanet turns her head to locate Bernard, gone within the crowd.
She continues to be pressed away from the stonetin, hands and wisps of yelling voices passing by her. She’s caught in the rattled current, forced to run and glance over her shoulder. Ahead, a small tenfooter child is shrieking, standing in a trail made from the recent fleeing of the tenfooters. As she passes the young tenfooter, her instinct is to protect him. He reaches out his arms, needing someone to save him. But no one claims the small child. Something kicks inside Sanet, and without hesitation she turns back and grabs the little one, who stands three feet tall and impossibly thin.
In her arms, the child hugs around her neck, squeezing, and cries in her ear. The tenfooter’s soft and furry arms brush against her skin. Turning back, she sees Carvin has now begun reaching out for various bodies, grabbing and crushing them in its great hands, bones snapping like twigs before it tosses them in its mouth, masticates, and swallows them. It bellows again before the escaping mob, causing some to collapse to their knees in a paralyzing fear.
Sanet squeezes the tenfooter in her arms, her eyes scanning the various bodies, hoping to find someone looking for the youth. She can feel her shoulder soaking with his tears, and his whimpers and sniffles hammer in her ear. She squeezes him harder. Where is Bernard? The farther she makes her way from the stonetin, the thinner the crowd becomes. She calls out. “Bernard? Bernard, where are you?” And then she looks backward, toward the ardroke’s large flat foot, and sees Bernard and Brute running toward it. She starts forward—toward my friend—but stops and looks around when she hears a familiar voice.
“Sanet!” Ethan calls from the crowd. “Sanet, what is he doing?”
She looks back and sees Bernard reach the frek’s foot and jump onto it, Brute following behind him. Lincoln, what is he doing? She screams out, stepping forward, “Bernard, stop!”
Her sight is hampered by whiffs of smoke and dust, but she can’t help but watch as Bernard unsheathes his dagger and stabs the beast while pulling himself up using the knife and clumps of its fur to climb its east leg. Brute, too, climbs the beast as if it were a tree.
“What is he doing?” Ethan yells once more.
Some of the others turn to see this small old man ascending the ankle of the ardroke, now nearly twenty feet up.
Another gang of tenfooters fire a round of shots at the frek, this time aiming for its head. One shot hits inside its mouth, and the ardroke reacts, spinning wildly. It howls, causing everyone to cover their ears and hunch over. Sanet steps backward, brushing and attempting to comfort and console the young tenfooter she embraces. Ethan has taken her by the elbow and guides her backward. Carvin steps forward again, lit only by the surrounding grass fires and blackening pink sky. She ducks from the elevated frek as it passes her and others and looks up in time to witness Bernard on the back of the ardroke’s long leg. Brute is farther up. That man is mad. I encouraged a madman. Others notice Bernard and point and call out to him.
A small gang of twofooters are enamored with the looming ardroke standing before them. They call out to it as if it were their god: “O’ Carvin! Your ascension is our blessing!”
The ardroke doesn’t acknowledge them but instead steps past, and on, the worshippers below. It ambles along the prairie, grabbing at trees and grasses, howling at the air. Sanet, with her eyes fixed on Bernard, attempts to chase the ardroke, following the downed grasses of its footsteps. Ethan is behind her, along with others who are bewitched by the frek. Still others run in the reverse direction, dread seething among them.
Bernard and Brute continue upward, provoking no reaction from the ardroke. Its massive body must be unable to feel Bernard’s grabbing and stabbing along its upper back. And then tenfooters emerge from the grasses ahead, discharging cannons they’d pulled to the battle. The cannonballs merely brush the ardroke’s arm. One cannonball nearly hits Bernard. Shnite, be careful. Carvin turns, causing Sanet to lose sight of Bernard. It reaches down with one of its four arms and grabs a cannon, crushing it in its hand.
The line of tenfooters at the cannons offers an unexpected sight: Iahel sits upon one’s shoulders and yells. Is she calling out orders? For the duration of their travels through the Tunnels, she thought of Iahel as meek. A follower. Someone ready to fade into the shadows of her own personal space. Seeing her among the tenfooters is odd. And inspiring.
Carvin howls again, and the tenfooters cower before it. It spins. “It seems me,” she says aloud, “I’m going to be sent. My child!” And without thinking, she grabs for her stomach and squeezes the tenfooter in her arms. The ardroke glares at Sanet and the crowd surrounding her before commencing to stomp toward them. My sending has come.
Sanet steps backward before turning and running, her grasp firm on the tenfooter child, whose cry has grown to a wail. The ground beneath her reverberates with each footstep smashing down behind her. It’s above me. It’s crashing down around me. There’s nothing left in anything. From the corner of her eye, she sees the ardroke’s hand reach forward to a passing tenfooter and crimson man, who both screech, breath stolen, as they’re lifted and yanked backward. Ethan is ahead of her, running for his life. He should be in Yikshir reading to his son. To his remaining child.
The ardroke’s hand returns, reaching for her.
“Ethan, turn off the path!”
Without a minor’s pause, both she and Ethan roll sideways and leap out of the way as the brush of Carvin’s hand misses her and instead claims a twofooter. Sanet, flat on her back, turns and watches as the ardroke lobs the twofooter down its throat, spitting out its mechanical legs. There’s nothing left in anything. The small tenfooter has fallen from her arms and attempts to help Sanet back to her feet while still crying out for its mother.
And there is Bernard, climbing along the frek’s neck, which the ardroke senses. Bernard and Brute continue, hand over hand, paw over paw, as quick as they can, gripping the ardroke’s facial fur and drawing closer to their destination: the brass eye.
The closer Bernard gets, the more the ardroke begins swiping at
its face, though its arms are unable to reach, able only to swipe past them. At each swipe, Bernard swings his arm out and slices into the ardroke’s finger. It responds with a howl and shakes its hand. Brute, the fearless frek, leaps from the ardroke’s face onto its upper eastern hand. It bites and scratches and scrambles around, distracting the ardroke, giving Bernard time to advance once more toward the brass eye.
The whole of this insane sight, of a small man and a red creshwillow climbing on this mountainous ardroke, has now caught everyone’s attention. Carvin has completely stopped and is solely motivated to remove its two intruders. Sanet stands firm, biting her lip. You have this. The crowd itself waits in silence. Ethan steps up beside her and grabs her shoulder. The child tenfooter reaches out to be picked up again as the three watch breathlessly.
And then Bernard reaches the brass eye, bracing one hand against its eyelid and pulling the other hand back.
With an almighty grunt, he punches the ardroke in its eye.
The ting of impact is heard a minor later ringing across the grassland. The act makes little sense at first until someone from the crowd cries out, “He’s cracking its eye!” The words cause Sanet to step unconsciously forward as Bernard punches the ardroke’s eye again. It howls again, spinning wildly in place before falling to its knees. Bernard loses his grip, falls back, and hangs loosely from the ardroke’s eyelid. Brute, halfway down Carvin’s lower arm, falls to the ground, limp.
“Bernard!” Sanet screams out.
“Bernard!” another shouts.
And then everyone begins to bellow in unison, in support and encouragement. Bernard recovers and without pause punches the ardroke’s eye again—and this time, a light radiates from the cracks. Bernard shields himself.
“Bernard!” the crowd screams again.
Bernard punches the eye a fourth time and, at this, totally dismantles the orb, sending pieces flying out. The force tosses Bernard backward, down and down and down, before he clumps, like a snapped wooden staff, to the ground.
“Bernard!” Sanet shrieks, running toward him, Ethan close behind.
The rest of the crowd rushes forward. Above them, the ardroke sways for a major before falling backward and crashing to the ground and releasing a tremendous boom as dirt and dust billow out.
Sanet reaches Bernard and, setting the small tenfooter down, pulls him to the side, pushing through the agitated crowd and holding him in her arms. “Bernard, are you wisnok? Bernard, say something.”
There’s nothing to his expression but emptiness. Stillness. The crowd grows, gathering around them.
“Stand back! Stand. Back!” Ethan demands, stepping through. He kneels before Bernard, whose head gushes blood. He checks his pulse and holds two fingers over his mouth, then looks up at Sanet. “He’s still breathing.”
“Lincoln, you brave beast.” She squeezes Bernard’s arms. “You shnite little beast, why’d you do that?”
There is no answer.
“Carvin’s dead. That man sent an ardroke left!” a tenfooter yells out.
“His curam is Bernard!” another shouts.
Sanet continues to hold Bernard tight while Ethan squeezes and rubs Bernard’s forearm. His face, wrinkled and spotted, looks worn. Old. The Dark Valor called. The Dark Valor answered.
“We’ll need to get him somewhere calm and quiet,” Sanet says to Ethan.
Ethan stands. “Does anyone have somewhere we can rest this hero?”
A tenfooter steps forward from the crowd. “My haynest is near.” She raises her hand. At this, the small tenfooter near Sanet calls out for its mother. When the tenfooter sees her child, she hurries forward, taking the little body in her arms. Sanet, for a minor, feels unexpectedly abandoned.
“Wisnok. We need to carry him there,” Ethan states.
“I’ll help!” yells a twofooter.
“I will as well,” calls out another, a young crimson man.
“We need a bed to carry him,” says another—Iahel. Her eyes are bloodshot with tears.
The crowd works together to find a flat surface to place Bernard on, and after a few majors, he’s lifted into the air and carried away by Sanet, Ethan, Iahel, the tenfooter mother, and a crimson man. A twofooter has found Brute and places the tiny frek on top of Bernard. Both remain still. As they transport Bernard, the crowd reaches out to touch him, sending a prayer and approsh over him. Dustians. Lincolns. Rainmen. Or simply, sympathy for a friend. A whisper for the Dark Valor. Sanet catches Ethan’s eyes, filled with tears.
“I’ll carry you, my friend,” he says quietly.
The crowd travels for a few miles through the fire and grasslands in uncommon silence and with unknown camaraderie before reaching a small haynest.
Inside, Bernard is set to rest in an oversized bed. Sanet wipes his brow of sweat and dirt and blood. She stands and walks over to the window to witness the crowd outside staring up at her. The Land united. In some twisted way, Wellion made everything happen the way he wanted. She steps back into the room and waits for Bernard to wake. Ethan sits quietly at his side while Brute lies motionless next to him.
Chapter 35
ADVENT OF THE ROAR
The smell of garons fill the house. Sanet pulls a roasted lyn from the oven, setting it aside to cool. Mercet enters the kitchen flying his Yantak toy through the air with a series of loops along imaginary hills and valleys. He stops after smelling the warm lyn and looks it over. “Duskmeal’s ready?”
“It is.”
“Yum.” He smiles before returning to flying his toy farther along and out the other side of the room.
It’s when she’s alone again that Sanet senses an incredible sting. She massages her stomach and calls out for Ethan. “I think it’s coming.”
Ethan races into the room. “Really? Are you wisnok? Are you ready?”
“No.” Sanet shakes her head. “Is there a choice?”
“Don’t think so.” Ethan reaches out and takes her by the arm, leading her down the hall into a spare sleeping room.
Mercet joins them as they make their way over to bed. “I thought we were about to have duskmeal.”
“I think someone else is coming before that. Can you get me the blanket and that pot of water? The one we talked about?” Ethan asks calmly.
Sanet’s stomach begins to cramp more than it ever has before. She groans. “Lincoln, I’m not ready. I’m not ready, Ethan.”
“You’re ready. You’ve been through worse,” Ethan says, calming her as she lies on her back and he props her feet up.
Bernard enters the room, Brute on his shoulder, wearing his usual leather garb. He smiles and sets Sanet’s mood at ease. Wellion might have wanted to call her his daughter, but seeing Bernard now, stoic and calm, protective and unreserved is as close to having her father walking in as anyone else.
“You trying to have this baby without me?”
Holding back tears, she jests, “You’re welcome to have it.” Sanet grits her teeth while Bernard steps forward and takes her hand.
“I wouldn’t dare steal that joy from you.” He sits by her side.
Mercet returns with blankets and a small pot of water and sets them down next to Ethan.
“Mercet, now go wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Because, I don’t want you to see this.”
“But I want to.”
“Mercet, please. Go.”
Mercet rolls his eyes and stomps out of the room. Pain hits Sanet in her lower back and stomach. She squeezes Bernard’s hand.
“Sanet, this is where you’ll need to breathe. In through the nose.” Sanet breathes in. “Out through the mouth.” She breathes out. “Remember. Re—in . . . and then—lax out. Re. Lax. In. Out.”
She concentrates. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. More pain shoots up her back, and she squeezes Bernard’s hand, his fingers solid as stones, but in this instance unusually warm. “Apory.”
“You can’t hurt me. Squeeze all you l
ike.” Bernard smiles, patting her hand.
She grits her teeth again. Re. Lax. Re. Lax.
“Wisnok, Sanet, relax. Do not push yet. Be calm and safe and still.”
Sanet continues to breathe. Ethan watches her below. She starts to feel a little nauseous, the room spinning, her legs shaking. They continue to wait, breathing and talking. The time passes. And passes. Breathing and breathing. Bernard attempts to bring up Sur Taron again. Sanet laughs and then snarls at him. Breathing in—
“Wisnok, Sanet, now push.”
At this, Sanet’s eyes widen, not ready, her whole body numb. She squeezes Bernard’s hand and screams out, pushing. Sweat pours down her forehead and Bernard massages her hand with the ease and tenderness of a father. Her hips feel as if they’re being torn apart. She pushes and breathes, Ethan giving her the rhythm.
“Follow me. Breathe. Push. That’s right.”
She continues, the room fading into black.
“Stay with me, Sanet. Push. Push.”
Pressure. Tearing. Ripping. Stretching—
And then the entire pain is gone, followed immediately by the scream of a newborn. Sanet begins to cry, looking over to Bernard, who also has tears in his eyes. Ethan takes the baby, wipes it down, and cuts a long cord. After a few minutes, he walks over with it, wrinkled and small, and hands it to Sanet.
“Grats on your new baby boy.”
Sanet looks down at him, shocked and awed. He has a thin layer of black hair, and his face looks as if it were a baby-faced Logan. She wipes it as he whines, eyes closed, and wiggles his hand. Mercet sneaks back into the room and walks over to them.
“It’s a boy?” Mercet asks. Sanet nods. “What’s his curam?”
“This is Jame,” she says.
At the curam, Bernard squeezes her arm. He kisses Sanet on the forehead, and in the quiet, he breathes, “You’re kind.” With those words, he nods and leaves the room wiping his eyes.
“Can I hold him?” Mercet asks.
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 40
