She lies in her bed, quiet until a soft knock comes on her door. She sits up. Our duskmeal, I forgot. She wipes her face, checking herself in the mirror. Red, bloodshot eyes. When she opens the door, she’s surprised to find the woman is shorter than she as she stands without legs and moves around by her knuckles.
“Were you still hungry for a little duskmeal?”
Iahel nods. “Apory, it’s been a long day. I’ll be right there.”
The short, legless woman smiles. “Take your time, dear, there’s no rush. Though my soup doesn’t stay hot forever.” She turns and swings herself skillfully down the hall and into the barroom.
Taking a last deep breath, Iahel steps from the room, closing the door behind her.
At the table, Iahel sits with the woman, who says, “I never properly introduced myself, my curam is Gretchel.”
“Iahel.”
They shake and then eat quietly, Iahel’s mind on Gretchel’s injury. Or was she chosen this way? Is this what happened to Logan? She didn’t know much about the Misipit Valley denizens, beyond their secrecy and privacy. The mood between Gretchel and her sits between peaceful and tense.
In the end, Gretchel speaks up. “I guess you’re not from around here. I’m sure you wish to know about us, why they call us ‘twofooters’? Dreadful curam.”
“No, but you don’t have to . . .”
“Oh, it’s fine, dear, you seem kind enough.”
Iahel smiles politely.
“You see, we’re created this way. Two legs missing. At first, there were just a dozen of us. An outcast batch of children. We lived outside these canyons. In the Lands above, but others in Misipit and Carvinga were cruel. They saw us as freaks and cast us down here in the valley fogs. They called us ‘knuckledraggers.’ Or ‘twofooters.’ Carvinga folk especially hated the fact that we were what they described as deformed. They’ve spent generations choosing the best, choosing only the tallest and most fearsome. We were the opposite of their ideal form. So, they shunned us. Eventually, they were so disgusted by us that they closed their borders, outright denying anyone from entering their state, a clear violation of the Law of Passage, which is why they eventually fashioned those ghastly Tunnels. Their hate, their disgust of others, knows no limit.”
“I’ve never met a tenfooter.”
“You probably never shall. And, if you do, it’ll probably be the last folk you’ll find.”
“Are you saying that all the Misipit people are . . . like you?”
“No. There are others who are like you outside the valley, but most of us live here in the fogs. Over the generations, we’ve become proud of our form. Even proud of the term. We have our own children’s square. It’s Luckers blessed. Some, like myself, enjoy our natural state. And for most others, it’s made them great innovators. Twofooters all over have created machines most would never spend a kiptale on. This ‘mistake’ made us a strong and proud folk. We embraced who we are. And won’t allow others to drag our pride down with words or insults.”
Iahel wonders about Logan. Afraid to ask, but . . . curiosity takes over. “I had a friend who was traveling through here. He had only left a few hours before me, but I found . . . I found his legs on the road . . .” She trails off, not sure exactly what she’s asking, what answer she’s seeking. Gretchel takes another bite, letting the statement hang in the air.
“What are you asking, dear?”
“I don’t want to presume anything; I don’t know the customs here. And you can’t fault me for setting two lands together, as wrong as I might be.” Iahel remembers that she forgot her dagger in the sleeping room. Why she remembers it now, she isn’t sure.
Gretchel takes another small bite and looks to be in thought. She answers calmly, her tone shifting from kind and soft to bold and stern, filling the silence with a revelation. “There is a march on hand.”
“A march?”
Gretchel pauses again before speaking up. “Yes, dear, into Carvinga.”
The thought is wild. “But . . . why? How?”
“It’s not for me to spread. I don’t know if I double or not.”
“Isn’t that an act of war? Isn’t that illegal?”
In fact, the last major conflict Iahel remembers hearing about was one deep in the Azom state, a state in constant turmoil. Azoms are violent people, but they never take their violence into other states. The mere idea of two states going to war is outrageous. The Last War nearly eradicated everyone, and the only laws of the Land are designed specifically to avoid war. Not to mention going to fight the tenfooters? Denizens who tower over everyone else, whom no single body has met and not been sent?
“Forgive my forwardness, but the idea of some march going into Carvinga seems a bit wild, don’t you think?”
“Wild or not, it’s happening. The antipathy of our folk runs generations deep. But it’s not just hatred. There are rumors about what the tenfooters are up to. What they’re hiding.”
“Hiding?”
“We’ve received letters and information that they are attempting to bring back an ardroke,” Gretchel states plainly.
At this, Iahel laughs. “An ardroke?”
Gretchel grins in kind but without humor.
The thought of a giant frek, hundreds of measures high, looming over buildings and hills—it is a terror story for children. “You can’t believe that’s true?”
“I’m just a simple woman running a tavern, but I do believe they’re up to something and that they’re attempting to disrupt the natural order. Growing themselves so tall. Why are they so secretive? What are they doing that we can’t go and see?”
“Why does it matter? It’s been over two and a half thousand years. Every state can rule themselves how they want, right? And the Law of Passage isn’t being violated since they created the Tunnels.”
“The Tunnels. That wasn’t the soul of the Law. The Laws were written to prevent war. To prevent conspiracy. To avoid collision.” Gretchel’s tone adjusts and flames, her hatred for tenfooters permeating her words.
At this, Iahel limits her outward shock and tone of accusation. “Well, I hope you’re wrong. I think an act of war is unlikely; that’s the whole point of the states. The Last War nearly destroyed everyone.”
“And if the tenfooters bring back an ardroke?”
“Apory, but I don’t believe in the stories of ardrokes.”
Gretchel looks insulted. She presses her lips together and takes the bowl from which Iahel was eating and climbs down from her chair. “I’m feeling tired. Feel free to stay up longer.”
After a minor, Iahel is left alone in the room. The Misipit denizens are simple to believe in such children’s tales, and easily tricked into a conspiracy. Iahel sips the last drops in her mug and retires to the sleeping room. Images of giant freks, of two- and tenfooters fighting, roam her kiptales.
❖❖❖
She is awakened late in the night by new noises from the barroom; when she left for bed, she was the only guest at Bluesteep. She tosses on her clothes and then presses her ear to the door, hearing only muffled sounds and whispering, none of which she can decipher. With curiosity and impatience, she opens the door and peers down the small hallway and the stairs. The fire is still lit, and a pair of shadows hang on the back wall. A conversation continues, first with Gretchel.
“Are the rumors true?”
The second voice, a man’s voice, is gruff and spotted with coughing. “Yes.”
“Luckers, I can’t believe it. After all these years, they’re finally following through. Marching into Carvinga.” There’s a long pause.
Iahel’s heart beats louder. They’re mad.
“Something is in those stonetins. Something big.”
“Of course, there is. They’re obsessed with the ardrokes.”
“If we don’t stop them, a return of ardrokes would be the end of us. Of everyone.”
“The other states won’t join. Not until it’s too late.”
“They’re afraid to face
the tenfooters,” the man adds.
There’s a pause. Gretchel’s shadow sips from her mug’s shadow. “In all my years, I’ve known no greater courage than yours, Erish.”
“But I am afraid.” He coughs. “I’m not as young as I once was and our march is not strong enough to withstand the forces of tenfooters. Even with the crimson men.”
“This war will raise awareness. This fight is important. The tenfooters will destroy us if they’re given full reign. They can’t be trusted.”
At this, they clink mugs and drink. “I have another purpose here,” Erish states after gulping down the last of his ale. “A man was on the road. A man wanted by the Victors.”
“The Victors? What are they doing with a Misipit folk?”
“He was a Radiba man. Or an Organsia man, I’m not sure. The Victors are insistent on finding him. It was part of our conditions. Part of our payment to bring him in, if he traversed the valley.”
“I warned you, Erish, about involving yourselves with the Victors. They bring no one any good.”
“We needed the coin and the intelligence. The Victors are the ones who confirmed our suspicions about the stonetins. About the ardrokes,” Erish says before coughing again.
“Well, what do you want from me?”
“He was taken by one of our regiments. They’re holding him closer to the border, but I’d like to transport him back here for the exchange.”
“Here? I don’t want the Victors here.”
“They’re already on their way, and we can’t drag him across the state to meet them.”
“Drag him?”
“Yes, Drax cut off his legs; he’s barely alive now.”
At this Gretchel hushes him. She begins to whisper.
They have Logan. She knows I know. Iahel closes the door. Shnite. She spins and grabs her rucksack, packing it with the few items she’d removed for the night. She puts on her boots and jacket and grabs her dagger. It is time to leave.
Pressing her ear against the door again, she listens for Gretchel and Erish. They’re approaching. Iahel locks the door and steps backward. Waiting. They won’t kill me, will they? They probably want to talk. A knock on the door.
“Iahel, dear? Are you asleep? I need to ask you something.” Gretchel’s voice trembles slightly.
Iahel looks around the room and moves to hide in the wardrobe. Too small. She’s nervous and scared. Unsure of what their motives are. Then, the sound of a key.
No time to think, Iahel. She runs to the door and holds it shut. “Hello, Gretchel. What’s going on?”
The key stops. A bit of shuffling outside the door. Gretchel replies, “Iahel, I’d like to ask you something if you wouldn’t mind. I know it’s late, dear, but it’s important.”
Iahel swallows. Why would they want to send her? If she could convince them she doesn’t know anything—
“One minor. Let me get dressed.”
She sets her sack to the side and removes her coat, both within easy reach. She keeps her boots on before returning to the door.
She unlocks it and holds it slightly open, trying to look tired and giving a fake yawn. “Is everything wisnok?”
Before her stands Gretchel and another man, a twofooter himself. He’s as tall as the ceiling, bigger than Iahel, and he slouches his shoulders. He wears two mechanical legs built with intricate pulleys, gears, rods, and wires. “Evening, sur. My curam is Erish.”
The dagger is in her hand, behind the door.
“Would you mind coming with us back to the bar?”
Iahel waits for a major. Weighing the dangers. “I’m pretty tired, can this wait until morn?”
Gretchel and Erish exchange a look before Gretchel answers, “It’s important. Please. Come with us.”
“Wisnok, give me a minor.”
Erish nods and turns away, as does Gretchel. When Erish spins, Iahel sees a holstered shotgun. Earlier that night, Gretchel had spoken about two exits. The main hall, where she had entered, and a cavern deeper in the canyon where Gretchel said she would take long walks when she didn’t want to face the fogs.
She closes the door again. To run or stay. The behaviors of the twofooters seem one of paranoia and fear. If she were to stay, they could send her left. She puts her jacket back on and grabs her rucksack, slinging it over her shoulder.
She reaches for the door handle, swallows. When she opens it, Erish stands before her with a smile. And then, out of instinct, perhaps because nothing ever went right for her, possibly because something about Erish reminds her of the way men would look at her and Jules at Greren’s, she runs from the room and pushes him against the wall. He makes a soft ooof when he hits it. She turns west, down the hall toward the back door and into the cavern. She isn’t sure how far it goes or if it leads anywhere, but she isn’t ready to be sent left tonight.
Behind her, Gretchel screams out in shock and anger. “Come back here! Why are you running?”
Iahel isn’t entirely sure. She’s thinks she’s as mad as they are as she opens the door and disappears into the darkness beyond.
Chapter 18
MARCH OF THE INGREVES
For a minor, Iahel runs in complete darkness, her arms flailing in front of her, before light illuminates the cavern walls when Erish steps into the tunnel behind her. In the minary illumination, she catches a glimpse of a division in the tunnel ahead. She chooses east, where she believes she’ll find the exit to the outer canyon. West is likely only deeper underground.
The footsteps behind her gain speed. “Why are you running, girl?” Erish cries out.
In the pitch-black, Iahel courses through the tunnel, her hand running against the rough rock wall, leading her along blindly. And then she feels the air lighten. Escape. She quickens her step as the sound of Erish fades behind her; he likely took the west tunnel. After a forty stride, moonlight beams into the tunnel. She sighs with relief as she exits into the night.
Outside, she studies both directions and chooses to run west, away from the Bluesteep entrance. The night fog strangles the sights ahead, with each gigantic footstep echoing across the canyon and foretelling her exact location. She glances over her shoulder every few steps, fearing the sight of Erish. Her side begins to burn, her breathing heavy, uncontrollable. The farther she runs, the less her adrenaline carries her. She gives in and stops, bent over with hands on her knees, taking long deep breaths and exhales that release in shakes. A major passes before she collects herself. Staring back into the fog neither gives her a break in relief nor causes her more fear. Instead of running farther, she stumbles to the side of the road and hides behind a large brackleberry bush that stretches along the canyon wall. From this perspective, the fog hides a sizable portion of the road. She tries to calm herself, to silence her breath, and since she’s unable to see anything, she closes her eyes to listen.
In the distance: the din of footsteps.
She covers her mouth as panic rises again inside, in harmony with the fear of what Erish may do if he finds her. A flash of Logan’s amputated legs looms in her mind. She grabs her upper thigh as if she can feel a sharp passing phantom slice. When his steps draw closer, she opens her eyes.
Ahead, silhouetted in the moonlit fog, Erish jogs past her. “Come out, girl. You’re only making this worse.”
She breathes in and holds the breath, her heart thumping against her chest, giving her away. A tear rolls down her cheek. But instead of turning to her, Erish continues forward, his footsteps diminishing across the valley.
As the still and quiet settle around her, her mind races. Logan is still alive. For a minor, feelings of relief and panic conflict. All that she knows is to run. And that running should carry her as far away as it can. Away from anyone she knows. Away from anyone who could hurt her. Anyone she could get close to. And to double on, on no green Land would she want to be near something as mad as a war. A real and violent war—not a skirmish between rival cities or a little street violence. But all-out, the-end-of-everything war.
But who are you, Iahel? You are no rescuer. You are no heroine. But when the sun rises, prosh, when the sun rises, she has to find him. She must. At the very least, she has to know she couldn’t have done something to save him. She has to know a rescue would have been hopeless. The thought raises grenspimples.
Until the sun rises, she needs rest. Pushing herself deeper into the bush and throwing a shirt over her head, Iahel closes her eyes, knowing the day ahead inevitably brings an arduous charge. With Erish long gone, her heart finally calms. Her breathing becomes manageable. Sleep, however, is impossible.
After what feels a week’s length, the sun begins to peer through the fog and brush. Jarjers sing as they pass in the sky above her. In her small travels, she’s only heard the melody of the Radiba jarjers. Each of these state’s flying freks carry hums and melodies that offer a spirit of the area. Radiba’s swell with a hopeful, quiet tune. Whenever she and Jules would emerge from the Tunnels for a day or two, the jarjer’s song carried an almost peaceful tranquility to the trees and looming Highland. Listening now, the song of the Misipit Valley jarjers offers only lonesomeness and paranoia.
Iahel stands, her body aching from the impossible position she placed herself in overnight. She rolls her neck and steps back out onto the road, her ears attuning to its noise. Quiet. Unsure of where to go or how she would even find Logan, she listens to her instinct to instead track Erish. Perhaps he’ll lead her to wherever Logan is being held. But for how long?
She starts by heading west where Erish disappeared only a few hours ago. Since nothing much can be seen around her, she focuses on the road below and the dirt where the most recent of many boot prints have traveled. She walks with soft steps, aware that anyone could be in any place.
Advent of the Roar Page 20
