Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  “Cast out, eh?” Nicodemus said. “What was your offense?”

  Harold closed his ledger and pulled the collar back over his scar. “I . . . I was deemed unfit by my clan head after my second quarter of schooling.”

  “Many are unfit for the Order. That doesn’t stop murderers and cravens from swallowing their chip. Tell me . . . who did you deny?”

  Harold sighed. He could still remember Master Brinal’s hand on his thigh, the sharp, stitch-covered flesh moving slowly toward his genitals. And I still remember his nose breaking beneath my knuckles.

  Harold’s stomach turned. “I don’t wish to speak of it.”

  “Very well, cast out. Fetch us some leaded drapes. We move unseen on my run.”

  Harold tucked his ledger back beneath the bench. Grant me the will of strength, the resolve of life, and the breath of god, he prayed, remembering the Circle mantra. He started to climb down from his seat, but Nicodemus grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Waxguard. There are eyes on even our leftovers here.”

  Harold bowed his head. “As I said, I will not shame you.”

  “No. You will not.”

  The plunderer stood within a ring of workers, shouting and cheering as his scorp circled a baby nagra.

  “Well,” Michael mumbled to himself. “Must be my lucky day.” He stood concealed in a shaded alley at the far end of the merchant lines. From his position, he could see his cask sitting beside the plunderer’s feet, its surface glistening in the fading sunlight.

  “He’s a cheat, that one,” a voice whispered behind him.

  Michael turned. The same stumpy merchant he had seen hawking sewage water earlier that day stood hunched beneath a massive backpack, his adreena-stained eyes yellow and watering.

  “Who?” Michael asked.

  “Jard, that there fella posing as a scrapper. A thief of the worst breed. Bought himself some adreena dust with that water coinage he’s been flaunting. Fed it to that black bastard scorp. You can tell by the yellow fluid dripping from the critter’s nostrils.” The merchant chuckled then. “Got the thing so numbed it wouldn’t feel a boot heel if it crushed its spine.”

  Shouts echoed across the field as the nagra shot into the air. Like a bear trap, its massive jaws snapped wildly before it finally burrowed back beneath the sand. Enraged, the scorp circled where the nagra had landed, its claws snapping hungrily atop the freshly turned sand.

  Michael inched closer. He had never seen a nagra before, and the sight took him by surprise. By the gods, it could swallow a man whole.

  A patch of sand trembled to the left of the scorp. Tensing, the scorp inched forward and slammed its stingers deep into the sand. Moments later, the nagra burst into the air, twitching and writhing as steam erupted from its leathery, brown flesh.

  The stumpy merchant laughed. “See? Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

  Michael watched as angry men tossed coinage at the nagra’s burning corpse.

  “Water, fella?” the merchant asked.

  Michael cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

  The merchant shrugged. “One man’s piss is another man’s paradise.” With that said, he raised his cup and moved off into the sunlight. “Fresh water,” he shouted. “Twelve coinage for a sip of paradise. Come on, all. Sip from Nimrada’s cup . . .”

  Michael turned back to Jard. The plunderer now stood over his water cask counting his winnings. When he was through, he walked over to the scorp and crushed it beneath his boot heel. The creature sputtered yellow fluid, its legs curling in on itself as Jard mashed it deep into the sand.

  “I hear death in your thoughts,” a new voice whispered behind Michael.

  Startled, Michael turned. An adreena stick glowed in a dark corner of the alley, illuminating the gob’s watering, yellow eyes.

  “Mind your own, gob,” Michael said.

  “But what of our debt, boy?” He tossed the smoke aside and approached. “Whether blood or coin, you decide.”

  Michael laughed. “I don’t owe you scrap, gob.”

  The gob lunged forward and grasped Michael’s arm. As he squeezed, his nails pierced the laptane suit. “You fouled me back there,” he hissed. “You owe me much and more, I say.” Michael felt something sharp poke him in the stomach. When he looked down, he saw a blade pressed against his suit.

  “What has he that you hunt?” the gob asked. “Tell me! Tell me, or I’ll spill your guts here and now!”

  Michael swallowed. “My cask and coinage. Stolen not more than a day ago.”

  “Would you have it back?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you want,” Michael replied.

  The gob smiled, his broken teeth dripping saliva between peeling lips. “You seek blood? A vendetta?”

  “I only seek my coinage and water.”

  The gob’s smile widened. “You’ve a well then? A little Culver secret? Clean, is it?”

  Michael hesitated. In his frustration, he had already revealed too much. But what does it matter? Most likely the plunderers already emptied it or sold it off to the highest bidder. To lie now might buy him a temporary ally. And my coinage.

  “Clean as I’ve ever known,” Michael replied. “And near full, too.”

  The gob’s eyes sparkled. “Well then . . . what’ say we end our little quarrel for half of what lies in this cistern?”

  Michael’s cheeks flushed with rage. “Half? Do I look like a fool?”

  “You look like a scrawny runt without blade or coinage. For my troubles, you pay half. No negotiations.”

  Michael shifted as the dagger pricked his stomach. “I’ll give you a third, no more.”

  The gob’s eyes narrowed. “Half or I gut you where you stand.”

  Michael looked him in the eyes. He would do it, too, this fool, he thought. Lose everything over a silly vendetta. “All right, half. But no blood.”

  “Very well,” the gob said. “I am Drexil Undin of the island of Tritan.” He raised his hand to his mouth and bit down on his index finger. “Take my blood and seal Odin’s pact.”

  Michael eyed the crooked digit. Blue blood trickled like sap down its cracked and diseased flesh. If I refuse, he’ll kill me, he thought. For such a gesture was not given lightly in Tritanese culture. But to taste his blood . . .

  “DO IT!” Drexil hissed.

  Michael closed his eyes and took the finger into his mouth. The blood tasted coppery and bitter as it slid across his recoiling tongue. Poisonous.

  Satisfied, Drexil withdrew his finger. “So it’s done, then. We are joined in debt until the deed is finished.”

  Michael looked down at the dagger, which was still pressed to his stomach. “Are we through here?”

  Drexil laughed as he withdrew the blade. “Not by far, boy. Not by far.”

  The sun slowly dipped beneath the scabby horizon, its crimson hue washing across Cumlety like a bloody tide.

  The final work call went out, signaling departure. Hundreds rushed about the docks, climbing aboard rusted wagons and kicking up clouds of dust.

  Michael kept close to the gob as they wove through the teeming crowds. To their left, great fire pits danced with orange flame as spitted meats dripped fat into glowing coals below. To their right, men loaded Tritan rarities into steel containers: adameene bows, fire blades, jars of mekaworm, and nagra jaws. All black market merchandise, Michael noted. But it didn’t matter; of late, the Circle cared little of Cumlety’s exports, so long as work details continued spewing into the Waste.

  Fifty footfalls ahead, the plunderer broke from the mob and turned toward the eastern edge of the field.

  The waste pits, Michael thought. If ever there was a place he hoped to avoid, it was there. For by day, lethal fumes lingered about the area, and at night waste pyres tickled the sky as crews burned the foul trenches with laptane oil and grease.

  “I’ll get close and wait until he’s alone,” Drexil
purred. “Then we move in . . . together.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Make no mistake, boy. Death is at play here.”

  “Just do your job,” Michael said.

  Jard marched toward the vast line of outhouses lining the field. Few lingered there, save for a scattering of drunkards and blind beggars far too gone to mind the stench.

  Michael breathed nervously as they followed, his heart beating out of control. Get a hold of yourself now. This is real. This is happening.

  Jard stepped into one of the wooden shacks and slammed the door behind him.

  Drexil broke from Michael and made his way along the outer edge of the field. Like a rat, he darted from shadow to shadow until he finally stood before the plunderer’s shack. Slowly, he then withdrew something from his pack and aimed it at the door.

  Michael’s eyes widened. Damn it, we said no blood!

  Drexil’s crossbow glistened in the fading sunlight, its three poisoned tipped arrows cocked and ready to fire.

  The work horn sounded again in the distance.

  His heart racing, Michael ran toward the shack. If he was quick enough, he might be able to stop the gob before it was too late.

  Drexil took aim, his eyes locked on the door. When it opened, he smiled at the stunned plunderer.

  “What in the hell do you want?” Jard growled.

  Drexil’s grin widened. “Your death.” The bolt snapped through the air, slamming into the thief’s forehead with a dull thump.

  “No!” Michael cried as Jard fell back into the shack. But by the time he got there, Drexil had already fired the remaining two bolts into the plunderer’s chest.

  “What did you do?”

  Drexil stepped inside the filthy shack and ripped a golden pendant from around Jard’s neck. “Got us your coinage,” he said as he pocketed it. “That’s what I did.”

  Michael shook his head. “I didn’t want it this way.”

  “Then you’re a fool. Now come on and check his pockets before he slips through.”

  Michael stood fast, bile percolating up his throat. “I said no blood.”

  “What then? Did you think asking would have worked?” Disgusted, Drexil grabbed Michael by the arm and forced him to his knees. “Look at him! It would have served him just fine to see you lying here in his stead.”

  Michael stared at the floor where a tool belt and leather satchel laid soaked in blood.

  “Get on with it, boy! We don’t have all day!”

  Michael grasped the blood-soaked pouch and tore it from Jard’s belt. “Here,” he spat, slamming it into Drexil’s chest. He then turned toward the wall and vomited.

  Drexil laughed. “That’s it . . . leave a little offering for the flies. They’re his only gods now.”

  His throat burning, Michael rose and staggered out into the sun. Even though it was dusk, it somehow felt brighter, hotter.

  “Come, come, boy. You don’t want to watch the finale?”

  Michael leaned over and wretched again. When he was through, he shook his head. “I’m done here.”

  Laughing, Drexil kicked Jard’s corpse through the waste hole. Seconds later, there was a loud splash.

  Michael stood trembling. His hands and knees were covered in blood, and flies were already buzzing about his face. This wasn’t supposed to happen . . . not this way.

  “Come!” Drexil whispered. “It’s time to leave this place.”

  Michael took one last look at the outhouse. For an instant, he swore he heard a cry rise from the pit. But then it passed. I’ve crossed a line now, he thought.

  A line from which there was no turning back.

  5

  Waypman Belnur stood silent beside the cart. At his feet lay the bloody backpack and tools he’d procured from the dead merchant. At the price

  of the man’s life, he thought disgusted. Bloodied or not, though, it was all he owned now: rusted metal, splintered wood, and a set of paper-thin, leather gloves. Culver junk, he thought. A far cry from the home-crafted wares of Garfax he’d cherished as a youth. But it would have to do.

  The gob and the boy emerged from the teaming masses and approached the wagon.

  “Boys,” Waypman said, nodding as the two passed.

  Michael climbed aboard the wagon in silence, as did the gob.

  Waypman shook his head. “Not the friendliest bunch, eh?”

  The Charger looked down at him from atop the wagon. “If it’s friends you seek, mutie, you came to the wrong place.”

  Waypman nodded. “I’d already gathered that much, friend.”

  The work call echoed one last time across the field. Within seconds, hundreds of men scuttled onto the dry docks, their shadows melding into one another as they piled into their dented and rusty wagons.

  Waypman sighed. Dust and greed, greed and dust. Everywhere it was the same. They will be in a better place, though, he thought as images of his homeland came to mind. He’d been telling himself that since leaving Cara and Heiden. You’re with me now, though, he thought. On every shark sloop, atop every putrid piece of trap-infested land, you’re always here in my heart.

  He sat down opposite the boy, who was staring at the ground and nervously tapping his feet.

  “It ain’t so bad, you know,” Waypman said. “Just keep close and you’ll do fine.”

  Michael looked up. His face was pale and soaked with sweat. “How many times have you been out?” he asked.

  “In the deep desert? Four . . . maybe five times,” Waypman replied.

  Michael swallowed. “This is my first.”

  I can tell, Waypman thought. Oddly, the boy reminded him of his son, Heiden. Both had the same red hair and blue eyes and that displaced look of innocence Heiden had always betrayed.

  Waypman leaned in close and whispered: “Ignore whatever they told you back in town. It’s dangerous out there . . . more dangerous than you know. Watch me and do as I do, and you’ll get by just fine. All right?”

  Michael nodded.

  Waypman extended his gnarled, tentacle like arm. A bit of a test he put to those he deemed worthy. “Waypman Belnur.”

  Michael hesitated, looking down at the slick appendage.

  Waypman frowned. “It ain’t going to bite, kid.”

  Reluctantly, the boy reached out and shook Waypman’s gnarled arm. “Michael Carter.”

  “You’ll be fine, Michael Carter. Just watch my ass, and I’ll watch yours.”

  The boy nodded.

  Michael hunkered down in the wagon, listening as work crews began departing the docks. His stomach ached, and whenever he closed his eyes, he was transported back into the bloody shack. He’ll be found, he thought as he nervously chewed his lip. And when it happens, I pray

  we are far from here.

  Drexil sat opposite him, another adreena stick glowing between his dry, cracked lips. As he exhaled a green cloud, he extended it to Michael. “Want a pull? You look as if you’ve spent too much time in the outhouses.”

  Michael ignored the jibe as the gob chuckled.

  Opposite them, the Garfaxman sat with his legs stretched across the wagon. “So where you from, kid?” he asked.

  Michael looked up, startled. “What?”

  “I said where you from? You don’t look Culver born.”

  Michael sighed. “I was born south of the Gabra Downs. Leska Village.”

  Waypman raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of it. But hell . . . never heard of half the places these boys are from.”

  A pair of wagons rolled past, vanishing beyond the distant dunes.

  “Most won’t return, will they?” Michael asked.

  Waypman shrugged. “Too many drunkards and thieves, if you ask me. Men with nothing to lose. Makes ’em careless. Dangerous, if you know what I mean.”

  Michael pulled at his collar; the shark flesh felt greasy and itchy.

  The Garfaxman watched him and smiled. “You may hate it now, but once you’ve seen your first elemental, you won’t ever take it off ag
ain.”

  Michael shifted uncomfortably atop the metal bench. The suit’s flesh was dense and abrasive, melding poorly with the grit sprayed on him earlier.

  Drexil snorted. “Not these Cumlety rags. We’ll be lucky to make it through a minor ice cloud in them, let alone one of those fire elementals I’ve been hearing about. Now Tritan suits . . . those can stand up to the worst stor—”

  “Be happy with what you got, gob,” the Charger said. “I’ve seen crews with only loin clothes for protection.”

  The gob fell silent, his eyes trembling with rage.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Waypman said. “We’re lucky to have been picked at all. Hell, I worked a frigate off the Isle for near a turn and barely cleared twenty coinage. Here you can make ten times that if you stumble upon some good salvage.”

  The young mystic stood up, a parchment in hand. “Listen up, men. We’ll be working sector 5WX2234 for the next three days. Ice traps and brush mites were found on the northern face of the Hill, so we’ll be using only rods.” He pointed to the Charger and the pile of rusted rods lying at his feet. “As always, Nicodemus will care for the cores once we arrive.”

  “What about elementals?” Waypman asked.

  Harold glanced at the parchment. “The scouts reported hurricane and fire winds clouding Tribat’s eastern ridges. Some cyanide mists were also seen on the outskirts of the Stix. If we keep to the Hill’s northwest face, we should be fine, though.”

  Waypman sat back, arms crossed. “Perhaps we’re not getting such good scale after all.”

  A cold wind swept across the wagon, rippling the Charger’s cloak. Indifferent, he snapped the reins above the two emaciated mares until white foam sputtered from their twisted mouths.

  Michael grasped his seat as the cart lurched forward.

  Waypman smiled. “You’ll do fine, kid. Just remember what I said.”

  But even as the Garfaxman spoke, Michael noticed a pair of draba birds marking their departure with hollow, lifeless eyes.

  May the gods watch over us, he prayed as another dust cloud engulfed them.