Harold knelt down beside Michael. The boy was incredibly thin, his taut, pale flesh stretched across protruding rib bones and vertebrae. My god, if he dies, there will be no hope for me, he thought.
“What do we do?” Waypman whispered.
“We wait,” Harold replied. He placed two fingers on the boy’s wrist and began counting to himself. Faint, but it’s there, he thought, sighing.
“He’ll live,” Harold said. “Though he might need to sleep off the effects for a few calls.”
Waypman sighed. “Not off to a good start, are we?”
Harold’s stomach churned. In that instant, he wanted nothing more than to be back at the Isle. To sleep for a turn and pretend none of this ever happened. I was never meant to be here, he thought. I should be amongst my brothers. I should be a Charger. I should’ve received my dose.
As the gob and Garfaxman settled down beside the rekindled fire, Harold stared at the boy. Enjoy it now, friend, he thought. Come first call, we’re all going to be dead men without that Charger.
Michael trembled helplessly as voices echoed above him.
I’m gonna die, he thought. Die out here like a helpless bug. He opened his eyes and stared through the membrane. In the deep, black void of space a single, teardrop-shaped star stood out against the cloudy night sky. Like a spectral blade, it’s tail sliced a half mile wide swath across the sky. I’ve seen this before, he told himself.
“Michael . . . Michael . . .”
The voice again. And it was growing louder, probing, taunting.
Michael rolled onto his side. The others stood only a few footfalls away, but somehow they sounded distant, muffled, as if a wall stood between them.
“We should go back,” he heard Waypman speak.
“Go back?” the mystic cried. “Without Nicodemus? Are you insane?”
Michael blinked. His vision shimmered like the surface of a windswept pond as strange voices and memories rushed into his conscience.
Waypman turned and pointed his tentacle like arm at Drexil. “If he dies, gob, it’s on your head!”
Drexil laughed. “If we don’t find him, we’ll all lose our heads come the morrow, so what does it matter?”
Waypman hesitated. “What do you mean?”
Drexil shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t get it, do you, squiddy? If we go back without him, they will think us responsible. And not just the mystic. All of us.”
Michael saw Harold sitting with head in his hands as the two argued.
“Enough!” the mystic finally cried.
Shocked, the others fell silent.
“Michael will live. But the gob is right. We won’t . . . not without Nicodemus.”
Drexil kicked the fire, casting a shower of sparks into the sky. “So what would you have us do, then? Go crawling around the Stix shouting his name?” Drexil shook his head and snorted. “Nah . . . I think I’ll just take my chances on my own.”
Harold stood and pulled apart his staff, revealing a five-inch blade tucked within. “I’m in charge of this run now,” he said, his voice trembling. “We go where I say.”
Drexil inched forward, ignoring the blade. “Brought a little toy, did you? Doubt your Overwatch friends would approve, though, eh?”
Harold tightened his grip, his knuckles turning white as he tried to stop himself form shaking. “Come closer and f—find out.”
Drexil smiled. “Come, come. We came here to make coinage, right? Can’t scrap with a hole in the heart, now can we?” He glanced down at the mystic’s blade. “Another time, though, eh, cast out? Another place?”
“Whenever you say,” Harold replied, swallowing.
Michael curled into himself, shivering. He could hear it all, see it all, but the voices inside struggled to overpower him. Ride it out, he told himself. Ride it out.
“We wake in two calls,” Harold said. “Then we find Nicodemus.”
Waypman gestured toward Michael. “And him?”
Harold sighed. “There’s nothing we can do now. Either he shakes it off or we leave him with the wagon.”
Michael heard the mystic’s words and felt his heart jump. I need . . . to . . . get . . . a grip. Slowly, he crawled toward the smoldering fire. The coals . . . they will wake me, he thought. They will purge whatever this is. Desperate, he reached out and touched his hand to the closest ember.
“What are you doing?” the voice asked as flesh sizzled.
“By the gods!” Waypman cried.
Kill me, Michael thought as the Garfaxman rushed over. Kill me now before they abandon me.
Waypman quickly pulled him back and dragged him from the fire.
“Would be a waste,” the voice said. “You’ve got potential in here. Much more potential than your father ever had.”
The camp lay still. The only sounds: the men’s snores rising above the gentle pop of the dying fire.
Harold stared at his companions. He wanted to sleep, too, but he feared any one of them might try to slit his throat in the night.
Where are you, Nicodemus? he wondered. He looked down at Michael, who lay curled up a few footfalls away. The boy’s hand was badly burnt, and the adreena fumes would leave him dazed come morning. But at least he’ll live. For now, anyway.
A draba squawked on the far side of one of the surrounding hillocks. A perfect predator, its screwlike beak could gouge into almost any material. And unlike the eagles of Alg, which could spot prey from more than a mile away, draba could detect both heat and smell signatures from upwards of two miles. Harold shuttered at the thought. Rumors abound of the larger beasts preying upon cleansers and deep-run scavengers. And children.
He shook his head. That was the least of his problems now. Soon the nagra would begin awakening. And the ones rooted in permanent dens would be near impossible to spot. A hell I dare not face without the Charger. Harold closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed for the wraith, for courage, for luck. We’ll need them all now, he told himself. But even as he drifted into a fitful sleep, a sense of dread gripped his soul.
“The Culver is awakening,” a voice said. “Time you did the same.”
Michael opened an eye. The fire lay dead in the center of camp, a thin ribbon of smoke curling from its smoldering ash. To his relief, the others were still asleep, snoring amongst their tangled blankets.
Michael sat up, his bones popping as he rolled onto his back. For a time, he stared at the awakening sky, watching as the first rays of light penetrated the scattering fog.
“Michael . . .”
His chest tightened. So it wasn’t a dream, he thought, horrified. He lowered his head into his palms and rubbed his temples. By the gods, this is hell. I’ve been cast into hell.
“Enough pity,” the voice said. “You brought this on yourself.”
Michael closed his eyes, willing back tears. He was tired, so tired.
“Go west,” the voice said, “and I’ll show you something.”
“What?” Michael whispered.
“Just go and you’ll soon find out.”
Beyond the membrane, dawn blossomed across the Waste. Yellow and pink swaths painted the horizon as the sands shimmered with golden light.
“Who are you?” Michael asked as he stared through the membrane. “What do you want?”
“I want your help.”
Michael’s flesh prickled. This is madness, he thought. Absolute madness.
“You are not mad,” the voice said. “But if you disobey me, you will be.”
“What are you?”
There was a brief pause. “A prisoner,” the voice said. “But no longer . . . thanks to you.”
The forest was silent, its matchstick branches coated in glistening ice.
Michael took a deep breath, his nostril hairs stiffening with frost. It had been almost a call since he’d crept silently from the camp, yet still the temperature continued to drop.
Michael’s tracks wove far into the distance, a faint and haphazard trail atop the snow-covered du
nes. “Where are you taking me?” he asked as his feet crunched atop the snow.
“Back,” the voice replied.
“Back where?”
The voice remained silent.
Michael climbed a small hill, where ancient arrow shafts and branches protruded through the snow like quills on a porcupine.
“Who are you?” Michael asked.
“I was a soldier,” the voice replied. “Long ago.”
“You fought in the Meridium War?”
“Yes. And died in it.”
Distant echoes bounced through Michael’s mind, battle cries and shrieks that grew louder as he clutched his skull.
“How did you get inside me?” he breathed.
“You disturbed my prison,” the voice replied.
Michael thought back to the musty chamber, to the box bound in chain. The urn, he thought, his heart sinking. He was trapped inside the urn.
“But what kind of magic could do such a thing?”
“Menutee’s followers held such knowledge,” the voice replied. “Black arts schooled upon the Isle. Combine that with Tritan technology and there’s no telling what depths their torments could reach.”
Michael’s skin prickled with goose bumps as he remembered the other jars. “The broken ones . . . what was inside them?”
“My brothers, my friends,” the voice replied. “But they were the fortunate ones. Time freed their torment. I can only envy them now.”
Michael thought back to the urn, that small, polished piece of scrap. “How long were you inside that thing?”
“Too long to count,” the voice replied.
“But why would the Brigade leave one of their own bound to such a place?”
“They didn’t. We were overrun.”
Snowflakes drifted past Michael’s nose. When he looked up, he saw a gray storm front crawling in from the east.
“A snow elemental,” said the voice. “I saw many of them during the war. Deadly and fast. Best you find shelter until it passes.”
Michael knelt down, exhausted, nerves frayed. His chest felt heavy, and the world was beginning to spin.
“I mean you no harm, Michael,” the voice said.
“Then what do you want?”
“Return me to my post. Help me complete my mission.”
“What mission?”
The voice fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, there was a somber tone to its words. “Just do as I say, and then we can part.”
Michael sat silent, staring at the storm clouds. I should just return to the others, he thought. Someone will be able to help me. Perhaps even the Charger.
“They will not believe you,” the voice said. “Most likely they will think you’re infected by a biological . . . or worse. Do you know the fate that will await you then?
Michael’s stomach twisted. Purification.
Death.
Michael exhaled nervously. “What should I do?”
“Take cover in one of the Manat nests on the far side of that gully.”
“Manat nests?”
“Bunkers coated in Tritan steel. The enemy used them to conceal scouts while marking our territory.”
Michael glanced at the dried gully. To his surprise, three subtle mounds of earth were spread a hundred footfalls apart in the blackened sand.
“They used Chelder gangrel to conceal them, children schooled in the art of stealth,” the voice said. “Cunning as snakes, and silent as bats. A pair once came within footfalls of our bunker, before our centuries finally spotted them.”
“Are they safe?” Michael asked. “The bunkers?”
“Perhaps,” the voice replied. “But we don’t really have choice in the matter.”
Michael quickly slid into the gully and clamored up the opposite hillside. But as he approached the stump, he hesitated.
“Go on,” the voice urged. “It’s heat activated.”
Reluctantly, Michael pressed his ungloved palm against the petrified wood.
Moments later, a loud hiss burst forth at his feet as escaping air rushed into the sky.
Michael staggered backward.
“Be still!” the voice hissed. “They may have left a watcher.”
Slowly, Michael and a five-foot circle around the stump lowered into darkness. When it finally stopped, a metal seal closed above, sealing him in complete darkness.
Michael crouched low and held his breath.
“We’re safe,” the voice said. “The watcher that was left here has long since expired.”
Sighing, Michael reached into his pocket and removed a small, wooden box. Inside it were a dozen matchsticks, his only remaining possessions now.
Slowly, he scraped one of the precious sticks across the chamber wall. To his relief, a great orange flame burst forth, revealing a tiny room choked with ancient spiderwebs. Opposite him, a wooden stool sat beneath a small brass portal.
Michael pushed through the cobwebs and sat down on the stool. “It’s so small,” he muttered.
“Magic men need little room or comfort to work their deviltry,” the voice said.
The chamber was cylindrical in shape, barely large enough for a man to lie down in. Aside from the chair, there was little else to look upon, save for some strange rune markings scratched upon the walls. “What are those?” Michael asked.
“Coordinates,” the voice replied coldly. “Written in the old ton—” The voice fell silent, the faint stirrings of unease stirring in Michael’s mind.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Be silent!”
Time stood still as Michael watched the match burn down. When it finally puffed out, he withdrew another and struck it to life.
“I was wrong,” the voice said as the new flame illuminated the chamber. “These are not coordinates. They’re directions. Encrypted log runes carved for a retreat.”
Michael’s eyes dissected the runes, studying every curve and angle with the utmost care. “These coordinates speak of Desacray Path,” the voice said. “But that’s a league away. And under Brigade control.”
“So why put watchers here?”
The presence laughed. “You know little of magic, don’t you?”
Michael shifted uncomfortably.
“They used corialis eyes. The same ones that still haunt your people. The spores can travel for leagues if need be, absorbing everything they see so they can send it back to the caster.”
By the gods, Michael thought.
“Tomorrow, we’ll make for the Path. I must know my people’s fate.”
“What about the others?” Michael asked. “I can’t just leave my detail.”
“You can, and you will.”
Michael swallowed. The voice sounded different now, impatient.
“No,” Michael said. “The penalties are too gre—”
His head lurched forward, crashing into the wall. As blood coursed down his forehead, the voice said: “You best speak to me in a cleaner tongue, dreg! I am no peasant for you to spit upon. I am a lieutenant of the sixth battalion Brighthorse Brigade. Whether dead or alive, my presence commands respect and obedience! And I will have it!”
Michael sat back, groaning as blood dribbled down his face.
“You have freed me from my tomb, yes,” the voice went on, “but now you are bound to me until my work is complete. That is the way of it.”
“The hell it is!” Michael shouted.
“Hell is what you will know if you don’t do my bidding. Remember, I am forever a part of you unless the bond is broken.”
Michael slumped against the wall, defeated.
“You wish to be a slog scraping filth from the open sores of this land? Is that what you desire?”
“No, bu— “
“But nothing! You would trade glory for a few stained coins?”
“Leave me!” Michael screamed. “Get out of my mind!”
“This is not the time for arguments,” the voice said. “When the storm breaks, we will have many footfa
lls to tread. Rest now and prepare yourself. We will face many dangers out there.”
Michael slumped to the floor. There was no use fighting it; he was cursed, bound to the presence until a cure could be found. Slowly, he drifted into an uneasy sleep. Before the warmth of unconsciousness fully embraced him, though, he heard the voice whisper one last thing:
“We have much work to do, Michael Carter. Much before we are parted . . . you and me.”
Harold paced back and forth before the fire, his bamboo cane slapping at the ground like a blind man’s staff. “Where could they be?”
The fog had finally lifted, only to be replaced by a freezing snow elemental. It will be impossible to find them in this, he thought as the flakes snapped against the membrane.
“If the boy and Charger don’t return soon, we’ll have to go back,” Harold groaned.
Drexil laughed. “They will have our heads for sure then, boy.”
“Calm down,” Waypman said. “They’re probably just waiting out the storm somewhere. When it lets up, they will see the fire and come on in.”
Drexil chuckled as Harold kicked a piece of wood into the flames. “That’s if they’re still alive.”
Harold felt desperate. “We should go look for them. Right now.”
“Right now?” the gob spat. “Have you no eyes! The snow is nearly a foot deep with no sign of letting up.”
“He’s right,” Waypman said. “If we go out there now, we’ll all be dead men.”
Harold squatted before the fire, bouncing nervously on his heels. They’re both right, he thought. But I must do something.
Harold lowered his head into his palms and said, “I should never have slept. May the gods damn me, I shouldn’t have.” He wiped tears from his eyes as he shook his head. “And you . . ." He pointed a shaking finger at the gob. “You are just as much to blame for this as me!”
“I’d watch your tongue in this, boy!” the gob warned.
“You should have awoken me the second Nicodemus left the membrane!”
Infuriated, the gob kicked a flaming stick at Harold. “You should be grateful I didn’t go with him, boy. You and this group of rejects are marching us straight into the grave.”
Sand and Scrap Page 11
