Sand and Scrap
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1
Chris R. Sendrowski
Cover Art and Map by
Elart Estol
Dregs of the Culver Waste–Book 1–Sand and Scrap
A Pine Fire Book
1st Edition December 2015/2nd Edition June 2018/3rd Edition March 2020
ASIN: B01NCAK0WE
Published by Christopher R. Sendrowski
www.chrissendrowski.com
Dregs of the Culver Waste –Book 1–Sand and Scrap is a work of fiction.
Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Christopher R. Sendrowski
All rights reserved.
Jacket/Map Illustration: Elart Estole
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To Jonathan and Brandon. . . for taking me on my first real adventure.
Contents
Map
Prologue
1. (100 turns later)
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Continue the adventure with
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Haliden’s Fire Sample Chapters
1
2
Visit me at:
Prologue
The flames sputtered like the wings of a golden bat, warming his flesh against the tunnel’s biting cold.
I sense you, Narthax Menutee thought as he descended through the dark. Down here in the cold. And you’ve been waiting long for me.
A rock fell in the distance, the clap echoing deep throughout the unnatural tunnel.
The group froze, every eye drawn to the scorched ceiling. A thousand tons of frozen earth stood between them and the mighty Karak range above. And it takes only a breath to bring it down upon us, Menutee thought.
A frail servant boy named Belnius approached him. “It grows colder,” he whispered.
Menutee sighed as he gazed upon the boy. At only fifteen, Belnius already stood hunched beneath a frozen cloak, his once youthful gaze now distant and dim. The debt of my company, he thought.
Belnius shifted uncomfortably. His exposed flesh was snow-burnt and black, his lips a bloody horror. “We continue then?”
Menutee nodded.
Behind them, the remaining three apprentices flickered like ghosts in the meager torchlight. I fear for the future, Menutee thought as he gazed into their trembling eyes. Weak born and frail, they were of a generation nurtured in the shadows of women. And it will only get worse, Menutee thought. Inbreeding and meridium withdrawal would see to that. Even now, what remained of the once powerful lines were but a whisper of the Circle of old. But they will have to do, he thought. My army . . . my flock. A gaggle of children and cravens.
A cry rang out in the distance.
Menutee glanced over his shoulder into the yawning black. Not more than a call ago, two apprentices tried fleeing back to the surface. Haran and Otanim, he thought, both of Tower Proper. In their haste, they had fallen through a weak spot in the tunnel floor. Now they lay broken at the bottom of a hundred-foot chasm, dying a slow and agonizing death. It will be long for them, Menutee thought as the cries rang out again.
The remaining apprentices trembled atop blistered feet, their eyes widening with every scream. Perhaps this will harden them, he thought. For their sons’ sake, one can only hope.
Menutee turned to the tunnel’s icy walls. His reflection wavered in and out of existence amongst the wet ripples, a six-foot post of a man skulking beneath a damp, black cloak. Of his face, only a few pallid patches peeked from beneath a nest of oily, black hair. A far cry from the boy I once was on the Isle, he thought with a laugh.
It seemed so long ago now: his schooling, his trial. Thirty turns gone in the blink of an eye. Yet I can still taste my first dose. His teacher had awoken him at dawn, a chip of meridium trembling atop a red, velvet pillow clutched in his liver-spotted hands. A chip within a chip, Menutee thought. Barely large enough to cover one’s fingernail. But it had been strong, exposing his life force like a blossoming flower. How I yearn for that sensation again.
One of the apprentices coughed, his lungs wheezing like a broken bellows. Menutee eyed him with disdain. They were so weak, this new class, so frightened. They reminded him of lambs, all huddled together in the torchlight. The thought flooded his heart with anger. Unlike himself, they were rich born to upper houses; privilege and rank handed down like so much bread. They would never earn their chip as he had and never stand before a gyrating firestorm with only the power of the rock to save them.
But I have. And that’s why they follow me now. Sighing, Menutee rubbed his weary eyes. Winter in the Karak had been hard these past months. Ten-footfall snowdrifts plagued the southern slopes, driving the last of the summer game into the warmer valleys below. For almost three moons, his dwindling caravan had eaten nothing but pack animals and snow dogs.
Thirty men I set out with, he thought. Thirty followers, accompanied by three wagons weighed heavy with provisions, plus forty horses conscripted form Guild House Natrane. Yet now only the shredded remains await us above.
He clutched his trembling hand. He was exhausted and hungry, his nerves all but shattered. This place, this pit is my last hope, he thought. It was all he knew now, his obsession, his quest. We must find it, and soon.
He glanced down at the Isle coggle ring, which glistened upon his middle finger. It was his most prized possession, a trophy issued upon surviving the Tower Proper trials. But I am a traitor now, a pariah, he thought. He pulled the ring off and tossed it into the dark. Belongs on a better finger than mine.
As the ring clattered into the shadows, his thoughts drifted back to the dark months since their departure. Like a barbarian horde, his caravan of devotees had plowed across the Culver, squeezing both rumor and truths from any villager who could scream. The price of my atuan, he thought.
Dust drizzled from the ceiling as the group drifted past scorched walls and yawning pitfalls. The atuan burned hot and long to get this deep, Menutee thought as black ash swirled at his feet. By his estimation, the tunnel was at least thirty footfalls tall and wide. That could only mean that the atuan was the same. Wealth beyond all imagining, he thought.
Belnius approached, his torch crackling as moisture dripped onto the flames. Menutee warmed at his presence. The boy was his most loyal acolyte; for two turns now, he’d followed him across the Culver, obeying every command no matter how harsh or bizarre. And he’ll be rewarded when the time comes, Menutee told himself.
Belnius raised his hand, bringing the group to a sudden halt. “Do you hear that?” he whisp
ered.
Menutee closed his eyes, sucking in a deep, icy breath.
“There . . . there it is again, lord.”
Thrummm . . . thrummm . . . thrummm . . .
The pulse, Menutee thought. He had sensed it atop the southern pass, an ancient heartbeat lingering at the edge of his perception. “It’s close,” he said. “Keep moving.”
The tunnel sloped down, its surface coated in black ice. “Watch your footing here,” Belnius warned as he took the lead.
Menutee pulled his cloak tight about his body. With his free hand, he thumbed the meridium chip jostling about his pocket. He had found it at the mouth of the tunnel, a charred shred of the atuan awaiting him within. As his fingers glided across its smooth, shalelike surface, his soul ached for its power.
I will be regarded as a god upon my return, he thought, his heart quickening. For few, if any, had ever laid claim to an atuan such as this. Not only would his right of passage be complete, but he would also now have enough meridium to feed an entire generation of acolytes. No longer would he be forced to scour the Isle mines for mere scraps or jockey for the protection of a more powerful clan for a simple taste. No, now he was the master of his own destiny.
As it should be, he thought. My reward for fourteen turns spent devouring the tomes. His brain recoiled at the memory. He’d spent his family’s fortune bribing his way through the Isle library. How many candles did I burn studying the celestial charts, searching the sky for star trails and showers? he wondered. How many dead ends and heartbreaks endured so that I might stand here this night before my atuan?
His friend Kytle came to mind. The boy had begun searching for his atuan during the eighteenth turn of his schooling. Guided by scraps of rumor gleamed from smoky brothels, Kytle had ventured deep into the Zarin waste, where he roamed for almost three months, baking beneath the merciless sun. In the end, though, the boy returned empty-handed. No meridium, no power. Nothing. Only to be exiled to the Isle mines, Menutee thought. A horrible price to pay for failing to find one’s atuan. He still remembered the last time he saw Kytle, toiling with the other exiles at the mouth of the Kremwala Vents. A ghost, Menutee thought. That was all that remained.
He sighed. Will that be my fate as well?
Menutee leaned against the wall and scratched at his boot. One of his remaining toes burned mercilessly. So much so that he wondered whether it, too, had the bite. For during the two-month trek through the teeth of the Karak, he’d lost both his outer right toe and both big toes to frostbite, as well as a good chunk of his right ear. A small price if we are successful, he reminded himself. But as he tried to awaken his remaining digits, he wondered whether he would feel the same when he returned home a cripple.
A breath of wind raced up the tunnel, snuffing out Menutee’s torch. As the wick smoldered, Belnius grasped his shoulder. “Don’t move!”
Menutee stood silent, his pulse quickening as the wall of black swallowed him whole. “By the gods,” he whispered. “No man should know such black.”
Belnius lit another torch, cradling its flame as it struggled to life.
Even the fire fears this void, Menutee thought as he watched the flame waiver.
One of the dying boys cried out in the distance. Instinctively, the apprentices drew closer to the torch.
Belnius leaned toward Menutee’s ear and whispered, “Should we have left them?”
“They knew the risks.”
“But to leave them . . . alive . . . down there, lord?”
“What would you have me do, eh?” Menutee hissed. “Call in the others with rope and ladder so that they might meet the same fate?” Belnius stood silent, his eyes averted to the floor. “They will be dead soon enough, if not from their wounds then certainly this cold.” And with that, Menutee took the torch from Belnius and pushed on.
He’s right, though, Menutee told himself as he negotiated the icy floor. Leaving the boys had cast a shadow on their hearts. A final nail in the coffin that was once my soul, he thought,
Another cry rang out, this time from Haran.
Menutee flinched at the sound. A boy of twelve, Haran was barely old enough to pleasure himself, let alone understand his dark appointment. Yet still he followed me, Menutee thought. Just like the others. Even now, what remained of his flock stood freezing in the snow above them, only a few barrels of salted horse and dog left to sustain them. Few would survive the return journey. And of those, only a handful would remain whole. But Haran was of Circle blood. Son to Charger Mendrain of the Dilback Clan, he thought. The father will be much to deal with upon our return.
“Sire,” Belnius whispered. “Look!”
Menutee froze. A hundred footfalls down the tunnel, a gentle glow throbbed in the dark. By the gods, he thought as he stepped into the ethereal light.
The meteor stretched from floor to ceiling, a great, black hulk contrasting sharply against the Karak’s gray granite.
Menutee took in a deep breath. The air smelled charged, alive. This is it.
Slowly, he approached the rock. When he was within arm’s reach, he bit down on his glove and pulled it free. “Bring the others,” he said.
Belnius smiled. “The excavators as well?”
Menutee nodded. “Just don’t speak of its size.”
Belnius bowed. “Very well, Master.”
The apprentices watched in horror as Belnius ran back toward the surface.
“Why is he leaving us?” a boy named Rud whispered.
“Be quiet,” the boy beside him hissed.
Menutee raised his bare hand and closed his eyes. He could feel the meridium’s familiar charge tickling his fingertips and spine. None have ever known an atuan such as this, he told himself. With such power, he could change the face of the planet, master both the weather and seasons. The Menutee line would be the most respected clan in the Isle, if not the world.
We become the gods now.
Slowly, he placed his hand on the atuan’s surface. You’re not like the others, he thought as a surge of energy pulsed through his flesh. It felt good, invigorating even. But within seconds, it grew more powerful.
Too powerful.
Pain burst beneath his flesh, coiling through veins and muscle. He opened his mouth to scream, but his lips would no longer move. And when he tried to pull back, his muscles remained locked in place.
“Master?” Rud shouted, stepping forward. The other two apprentices cowered behind him, their eyes wide with horror.
Menutee heard Rud calling his name, but when he tried to reply, nothing came out.
“Prepare for us,” a voice said. “Prepare for our coming.”
Menutee snarled as burning agony slammed into his skull. Seconds later, a deafening roar overwhelmed his conscience, like a thousand voices coalescing into a single maddening din.
Horrified, Rud reached out and took hold of his master’s shoulder. But when he tried to pull him free, Menutee remained anchored to the atuan. “Stave!” Rud screamed over his shoulder. “By the gods, I need help!”
Stave stood silent, a great blot of moisture blossoming across his pants.
“STAVE!” Rud cried again. “FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, HELP ME!”
Trembling, Stave forced himself forward. But after only a few steps, a layer of ice began creeping up his arm. “Forget this!” he shouted before running back up the tunnel.
Rud’s heart shot into his throat. “STAVE!” he cried. But the boy was already gone.
The remaining two apprentices watched in horror as ice crept over Menutee’s body.
“W—what now, Jarma?” one of the boys stammered.
Jarma, a frail, redheaded apprentice, stood wide-eyed, his teeth chattering violently. “I—I d—don’t kn—know.”
A loud crack erupted inside the atuan. Moments later, the rock split in two, and a blinding white light flooded the tunnel.
Jarma staggered backward. “G—Gil?” he whispered. “D—do you s—see th—that?”
Gil froze. Not more t
han a few footfalls away, a creature as black as shadow stood scanning the tunnel with a pair of glowing orange eyes.
“Gil!” Jarma hissed. “We should run!”
But when Gil tried to turn, his legs remained anchored to the floor.
Menutee strained every muscle, struggling to break from his icy tomb. Both his arms and legs were completely frozen, and he could feel the ice creeping toward his mouth. I must not fear, he told himself, remembering his training. I must be strong. He closed his eyes, focusing on his heart rate. It took a few moments, but finally he relaxed his muscles and opened his eyes.
The black shadow stood silent, watching him. Neither man nor animal, it bore no discernible features, save for the two legs upon which it stood.
In blur of wild motion, it lunged forward and grasped Menutee by the forehead.
“Who calls upon us?” it hissed.
Menutee tried to speak, but his lips were frozen shut.
“Who awakens us before the seeding?” It reached out a sackcloth black claw and squeezed Menutee’s forehead.
Searing pain instantly burned into his skull, as thousands upon thousands of alien memories flooded his conscience. In one, he was an insect crawling across a plain of orange ice; the next, an ethereal form drifting through blue and purple clouds. On and on it went, a maelstrom of images and sensations burning into his soul as thousands of voices cried out to him, begging and pleading.
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