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

by Brett Vonsik

  Rogaan re-entered the meal room cautiously. He expected his parents still to be sitting there, but to his surprise, they were nowhere to be seen. They usually sat every morning talking, sometimes for considerable lengths of time, discussing the day to come and things he did not understand. Three empty bowls sat on the ornate wooden table, surrounded by six matching wooden chairs, all at the center of the room. Several drinking pitchers with beads of sweat trickling down their polished silver sides sat on an ornately crafted serving table to his right. A heavy wooden door with bands of polished bronze stood to his left. It led to the cooking room. Opposite him stood the archway to the common area of the house and the front doors. Curious…it was unusual for his parents not to be here, talking. They had been acting strangely the past few days, arguing instead of just giving each other their typical looks when they did not approve of what the other was saying or doing. Rogaan hoped today would bring a return to the normal happenings about the house despite things not starting well.

  Rogaan now stood silently, listening for footfalls or voices that would give away his parents’ location and maybe more. Whispers from beyond the archway from the grand room told him what he wanted. He could not make out what they were saying, with their voices soft, but their words seemed edgy. Rogaan’s heart sank. They were arguing again. Normally, when they weren’t giving each other their looks, they discussed matters of disagreement in a debating manner, never raising their voices or speaking with disrespect. This was different. Though quiet, they spoke to each other with sharp words, disagreeing over something—what, he knew not. Despite his growing concern, Rogaan could not resist the intrigue. He needed to find out what they were arguing over, and silently crept across the tiled floor to the wall separating the rooms. Listening intently, with his breath held tight, Rogaan peered around the corner, hoping to overhear their words and to understand.

  “These tasks you ask of me make me uncertain, My One.” Sarafi spoke in a sharp whisper. “What you ask is…difficult.”

  “My One,” Mithraam spoke calmly, also in a whisper that was more like gravel being poured into a bucket. “Obey my words. Your family name will shield you.”

  “No, Mithraam!” Sarafi protested.

  “Honor my wishes, My One,” Mithraam cut her off, still in a gravelly whisper. “Time is short. I must tend to matters and will return soon.”

  Bewildered, Rogaan stood silently, uncertain what to do. Disagreeing like this profoundly was unlike them. Rogaan did not want them knowing he was spying on them, and thought to leave or make a loud entrance, but he found himself not able to resist listening further, especially since his shunir’ra might be a subject. Their arguing continued for a short while before he heard mention of his shunir’ra, though he could not make out exactly what they said about it, but it sounded favorable. Excited that his father might have changed his stance concerning his use of it, he hurriedly thought of words to speak. Try as he might, he was not able to think of a new argument his father had not already rejected. He hastily worked new points of argument that might favor his use of his shunir’ra on the Hunt. Silence filled the room and Rogaan grew alarmed. Fearing he would miss his last opportunity to use his shunir’ra, Rogaan stepped into the grand room before knowing what he was going to say.

  The grand room and main entrance loomed large, almost sixteen strides square, with the ceiling more than five strides high at its peak, supported by dark, heavy wooden beams rising from the outer walls to its apex. A massive wooden beam ran the length of the house above the inner walls, supporting a tiled wood roof. His mother’s crystal figurines hung rotating from wooden crossbeams, sparkling in the morning sunlight radiating down from two circular sun-mirrors set in the roof. From the crystals, colors danced across the room, painting walls, tapestries, furniture, rugs, and the tiled floor in a blend of soft hues. Where uncovered, half-stride sized square-cut gray stones gave the walls an impregnable look, with the stones fitted so precisely that no mortar could be seen. His father’s hand, Rogaan thought with pride. Gleaming brass hourglass plates anchored the stones together, strengthening the house as if it were a fortress. Several large shuttered windows, head-high on the left and right walls, framed the center wall and its large inset stone fireplace, where a warm orange-yellow fire burned with an occasional crackle. The flames took the chill out of the air, while giving everything a pleasant scent of mountainwoods. Books of all subjects filled hand-sculpted wood shelves framing the windows of both walls.

  Schooled by his parents in a number of subjects, Rogaan both grimaced and smiled at memories of his parents reading every word on those shelves to him. His favorites were of history, legends of the Ancients, and great battles of ages long past. Stories from the end of the Third Age, before the Cleansing and Great Leaving, were among his most favorite of those.

  Several rust-colored long-chairs with ample padding, and two bare wooden chairs, each ornately carved and matching a wooden table between them, sat in the middle of the room. A roomy padded lounging chair of blue sat off to the right side of the fireplace -- Rogaan’s favorite, where he did most of his reading. Small stone and crystal statues of creatures and objects of legend and myth decorated tabletops and shelves. Most were his father’s, though his mother took claim of the statues of creatures both common to these lands and of legend. Three suits of burnished armor in the eur design, each ornately runed, guarded the corners of the room, along with gleaming swords and maces. All were stunning to the eye, and of his father’s hand. To Rogaan’s right, heavy wooden double doors almost three strides high dominated the house’s entry. His parents stood in its shadow, appearing small in the grand entranceway, his father a few fingers shorter than his mother in height. They both wore startled expressions directed at Rogaan as they nervously separated from an embrace.

  “Rogaan?” Sarafi spoke first, in a surprised tone. “Are...are you readied for your travels?” Recovering quickly – not to Rogaan’s surprise – her tone changed to that of a steady flow of water as she moved her words away from what she did not want him to sense or see. She tilted her head and held him with her green-eyed stare, then gently swayed her yellow hair with a deftness years of practice brought in what Rogaan assumed was an attempt to break his thoughts. Rogaan had learned her act was a reflex she resorted to out of habit when caught off guard. Her light-green morning dress -- made by her own hand -- gracefully flowed over her light-brown slender body. She was well past forty years, wife to his father for more than twenty-five of those, but appeared as a woman much younger, with only a few lines at the corners of her eyes.

  Rogaan’s father was very different physically with a powerful, stocky build, though not fat. His father had a broad chest, and muscular arms and legs chiseled from years at the forge. Rogaan attributed his father’s physique to a lifetime of working stone and metal, since other tellens appeared to carry a similar build, though not as sturdy in Rogaan’s opinion. His face was beginning to show wrinkles hinting at middle age, with lines that also seemed to come from the serious look he usually wore. The tellen very rarely smiled. Rogaan often caught his mother chiding him as being too dour for the town and the family. Rogaan just thought of his father as being ever serious and without humor. His father’s straight black beard, touched at the edges with gray, was simply braided, but not so neatly arranged as Rogaan was used to seeing, especially when he was going to be on the town. Shoulder-length top-hairs matched his beard in color, with gray at the temples, and also not as neat as Rogaan expected. He seemed in a hurry. Rogaan was uncertain how old his father was, but knew he had lived in Brigum many years before taking his mother as wife. Though, he did not have the look of a person who some in town claimed to be the oldest person in Brigum, and maybe the entire borderlands. Rogaan dismissed such talk, since there were many elders in town with plenty of gray and wrinkles to spare. They must be older than father. Seeing his father attach his dark-blue cloak as if to travel sparked Rogaan’s concern that he would not get another chance to seek permi
ssion to use his shunir’ra.

  With a sense of urgency, and without thinking, Rogaan opened his mouth, trying to work words that would not take shape. He looked from his mother to his father several times while thinking what to say, though nothing came to him that he had not already said. With a glum expression, Mithraam stood stiff-backed, making his less than two-stride height seem taller than usual, with his dark-blue cloak hanging smoothly from shoulders to his black hide boots. The cloak concealed much of his father’s charcoal-colored shirt, black pants, and reddish-brown hide belt. His braided beard just touched a silver belt buckle that bore a symbol of three overlapping circles. Rogaan was unfamiliar with the symbol. He had not seen his father wear it before today. Held in his father’s left hand was that weathered short-brimmed black hat he favored since Rogaan could remember. With a surprise, Rogaan realized his father appeared prepared for travel beyond Brigum’s walls -- something he did rarely.

  Rogaan’s eyes darted from his father to his mother and back as he considered his words. Not knowing what to say that had not already been said, he held his tongue. He hoped one of them would say something to break the awkward silence, but all they did was stare back at him. Rogan felt uncomfortable. His father’s expression changed from glum to one Rogaan was more familiar with: a stolid stone-faced stare that gave you the impression he knew something you did not.

  “My son.” Mithraam spoke in his calm, authoritative tone typical when he was to give an announcement, a proclamation, or lecture. “Be watchful. Mind the Kiuri’Ner and guard against anxiousness and carelessness when seeking to impress.”

  “I will mind your words, Father,” Rogaan answered honestly, a bit off balance from his father’s unexpected concern. “But success will be more certain and safer....”

  “Rogaan!” Mithraam scorned with a raised hand. “No! We will not speak of it again. I must go and can delay no longer.” Mithraam glanced to his wife, who softened his stern expression and mood. “My Son, be watchful and mindful of those near, and take no chances when hunting prey. The Wilds are dangerous.”

  “I will,” Rogaan replied, frustrated and disappointed. “Where do you travel?” Rogaan was curious and wanted to know what drew his father away and, in truth, he hoped to walk with him, even if for a short distance, so that he might speak of his shunir’ra, again.

  “That is my affair,” Mithraam answered dispassionately. “I must go. I will return by Hunt’s end.” Mithraam hurried out the doors without ceremony or speaking further words, letting in a burst of chilled air hinted with dung, causing Mother to wrap herself tightly in her arms and wrinkle her nose. Rogaan hurried to follow, almost leaping to his mother’s side before bending slightly to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. When he turned to bound after his father, a tug on his sleeve held him as if a large weight. He could have easily broken his mother’s hold, but her firm yet gentle grasp held him fast for reasons more of love, trust, and respect than of physical strength.

  “Rogaan.” She spoke softly. “Do not follow. Repeatedly you’ve asked, and each time his answer is unchanged. More strife will be your only answer if you pursue.”

  “Mother,” Rogaan huffed. “I do not understand Father. We are not in tellen lands. I respect his wishes for me to learn the ways, but I am of age.”

  “You are too stubborn,” Sarafi stated flatly. “As is your father. He is to blame for this. You both will be my darkening with this unrelenting head-butting. Now, heed your father’s wishes, as will I. When you return, the Zagdu-i-Kuzu will be done and this matter will be no more. Then you both will be free to invent a new concern to argue over.”

  Sarafi gently straightened Rogaan’s collar. “Do well. Remain on guard to keep from injury. Follow your heart.”

  “I will,” Rogaan promised with curiosity, then slumped, glum and defeated. Rogaan grumbled a sigh before giving his mother a kiss on the cheek then stepping from the house. Rogaan stopped on the porch to wrinkle his nose at the heavy odor of animal dung and blood. His father had masterfully built their home to keep a gentle flow of air moving through the structure cooling and warming as needed. The home’s design also, thankfully, kept much of the rank odor from the town’s slaughter yard at bay with a burning fireplace and scented oil lamps. Rogaan glanced about the budding shrubs surrounding the porch, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun beginning to crest the mountain ridges to the northeast. He looked to the paved stone street, seeking his father, but nowhere was he to be found. Rogaan still hoped to ask his father just one more time, despite his mother’s wishes. Unfortunately, she had delayed him long enough for his father to disappear.

  Resigned that he would not get his wish, Rogaan looked for Pax and soon caught a shadow at the corner of the covered porch off to his right. So typical of Pax, Rogaan mused, hiding from eyes until he wants to be noticed. Rogaan looked back at his mother, who wore a forced smile, then bounded down the porch steps onto the lightly traveled street of the early hour.

  Chapter 2

  Hunt Talk

  Rogaan met Pax on the street in front of his house with an exchange of wordless glances before they started north to the meat house. Rogaan noticed Pax purposely looking everywhere except toward Mother. In truth, Rogaan did not wish to spy his mother’s face, nor her disapproving eyes. She just did not like Pax. Rogaan was frustrated at that, but said nothing, since it would do no good in changing her mind. The sky was dotted with wispy clouds sliding away on a gentle breeze. Left behind was dew glistening in the rays of the rising sun on everything, including the street’s weather-worn paving stones, making footfalls slick and a little treacherous. Rogaan’s boots slid a bit with each step, forcing him to walk slower than he wanted. Pax did not seem to suffer from the slick stones, and walked as casually as ever. Warmth struck Rogaan’s right cheek as the sun broke almost fully on the high ridges to the northeast, making him squint from the sudden brilliance.

  A mix of pitched and flat-roofed houses, many with open-air walkways splitting them, lined the street to the right. Most were of mortared stone construction, with a few newer houses made of modestly colored bricks. All were meager in size, and Rogaan knew from a life living nearby that they sheltered several families each, all of modest means, huddling together to afford the roof over their heads. On his left, carefully kept cedar trees and shrubs just beginning to show new growth surrounded his home’s gray stone walls, a dark-stained wooden porch, and a pitched red-clay tiled roof. His home was larger than any near, and appeared fit more for an ensi governing over the town, or a coiner, or maybe even a law-maker, instead of a well-to-do stone- and metal-crafter.

  “Bow?” Pax asked with a wry smirk.

  “Salting the wound, huh?” Rogaan grumbled back.

  “No worry,” Pax tried to sound apologetic, but failed. “Kantus not give ya respect anyways, even if ya had it.”

  “His is not the respect I seek.” Rogaan spit back, with more anger than he intended. “To prove myself before the Hunt Master and Kiuri’Ner is what I need if I am to gain their favor.” Pax gave Rogaan a knowing smile that left Rogaan feeling guilty. He quibbled, “Well, a little respect from Kantus and his Band would do, too.”

  “Would no count on it,” Pax stated flatly, then chuckled quietly with that wry smile. Rogaan envied Pax. He never appeared bothered by anything, including things said poorly of him. There were many in the town who did not care for Pax or his family, with them being new to Brigum as of only a handful of years ago. Just as many town folk found it difficult to trust Pax because of the mystery surrounding him and his family. They were not an open lot, and keeping them a mystery was something Pax worked hard at fostering. So Pax went on without a bother, keeping on with whatever he was about. He even kept on when pretty young lasses turned down his bold advances, or the less-frequent polite request to share a dance or a kiss. Rogaan found himself often wishing to be more like his friend in such things, instead of being mired in his own concerns of what others thought of him.

/>   They stopped at the corner of his family’s property, where a side street from the left merged with the main. It too was paved with well-fitted cobblestones, though worn smooth with years of traffic. A small tremor shook the tree and vibrated the stones beneath his feet, a normal event these days that he almost did not notice anymore. Next to his house, an old cedar tree vaulted twenty strides up. It marked the edge of family land, with the meat house and its surrounding pens just to the north of the intersection. A ruckus of chirps, clicks, and high-pitched shrieks filled the dawn from pens packed with small, feathered, two-footed tanniyn of different colors, some fighting for territory and breeding rights, while most just pecked at the ground searching for food. The odor of dung and blood hung heavy in the air, making Rogaan’s nose wrinkle more than before…if that was possible. The coming day’s warmth would worsen the smell, Rogaan predicted, and he thanked the Ancients for the east wind that usually carried the pungent odors away from his home. Unfortunately that same wind laid thick the stench of rotting flesh and blood into the west reaches of Brigum, where Pax and many other families less with coin lived.

  The tanniyn kept for slaughter served as food for many in Brigum. Most numerous were two-legged, a stride long and half as tall, animals of dark green body feathers with long slender emerald tail feathers, and a thin red stripes of feathers running the length of their backs, head to tail. Red stripeis were easy to keep, with their unfinicky appetites for plants and crunchy biters -- so Rogaan was told by the meat house workers. Rogaan considered reds good eating, and the town folk seemed to agree with him. The other tanniyns kept by the meat house were held in cages next to the building. They were tough and powerful two-legged animals, two strides long, leapers, touting sharp teeth, powerful three-fingered foreclaws and a nasty sickle claw on each foot. These green and red-brown, feathered leapers were a handful, and dangerous -- always agitated, so it seemed, with a nasty disposition and seemingly unquenchable thirst to spill their handler’s blood. Rogaan shivered at that thought, and from his memories watching them from the safety of the town walls looking over the town’s dump on the far north side of Brigum. Leapers killed other animals and sometimes each other, with great speed and viciousness, and almost always in packs. As dangerous as they were to keep, many in town considered a serving of leaper a delicacy and as such they brought a good price, making them profitable. Rogaan smiled as he recalled mornings and sometimes late afternoons spent with the town guard on the wall killing leapers with bow, some at distances more than one hundred fifty strides. Not an easy thing to do against such-sized targets, which moved like the wind. Rogaan gained a reputation as an excellent shot among many in the town’s guard, and he hoped it would gain him favor with the Kiuri’Ner.