Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  The gob ignited another torch, his anxious grin flickering behind its golden dance. “Into the unknown we go, then, eh, boys?”

  Waypman turned to Harold.

  Harold nodded. “We’ll take the easterly passage.”

  “Why that one?” Drexil asked.

  Harold shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  Michael gasped as muddy water ran down his throat.

  He was lying face down in a pool of stagnant water, sucking in blood and mossy filth. When he rolled onto his back and coughed, pain exploded across his chest.

  I fell, he remembered. How far, he couldn’t say. Enough to shatter a bone or two, I’m sure, though.

  “Clumsy fool,” the voice said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Michael leaned against a moss-covered wall. “Just leave me alone,” he mumbled as he rubbed his jaw with a bloody hand. A long gash ran down his left cheek, and his right eye was swollen shut. To his relief, though, both his arms and legs still worked. Even his ankle held his weight, albeit with a little help from the wall. Not off to a good start, though, old boy, he thought, wincing.

  Twenty footfalls above, moonlight beamed down through a large hole in the ceiling. Michael stared at it, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to meager light. He was in a chamber with smooth, hand-crafted walls. In one corner, several shattered clay pots and stools lay scattered in the shadows. Where the hell am I? he thought.

  “An outpost,” the voice answered.

  On the far side of the chamber, two tunnels branched off into darkness. Dead torches lined the walls, vanishing into yawning black. On the floor, chunks of rock and plaster lay shattered and covered in mossy slime.

  “So what now?” Michael asked.

  “We find the keep,” the voice replied.

  Michael ignited one of his remaining matches and touched it to the closest torch. To his surprise, the ancient stalk exploded to life, bathing the room in golden warmth.

  “My god,” Michael breathed. At his feet, dozens of shattered swords glittered amongst piles of chalky bone and ash. Armor and shields peeked through the detritus, slice marks still visible across their dented and cracked surfaces.

  “This place . . . it’s a tomb,” he whispered.

  Slowly, he made his way down the easterly tunnel. When he came to the next chamber, he found yet another pile of brittle bone and ash. But this time, it stood almost five footfalls high.

  “What is this place?” Michael breathed.

  Beyond the pile, dozens of mummified bodies lay chained to the chamber walls. When he approached the closest, he noticed its mouth and eyes had been sewn shut with steel wire.

  On the far side of the chamber, a flight of stairs descended into another black hole. Michael quickly crossed over to it, bones snapping beneath his heels as he walked.

  “Take caution here,” the voice warned. “There may be traps.”

  As Michael descended deeper into the mountain, the presence began to reclaim its grip. I’m a puppet, he thought as his legs picked up speed. He wondered how long he could go on like this, traipsing from one tomb to the next without food, water, or rest.

  “It’s been many turns since I last visited this place,” the voice said. “Much has changed.”

  Anger welled inside Michael. He felt closed off, confined inside his body. It was as if he was peering through a foggy window buried deep within his skull. I don’t belong here, he told himself.

  The voice chuckled. “Such frightened thoughts for a man so young. Where is your courage?”

  “It fled me long ago,” Michael said.

  “And what would your father think of this?”

  The image of his father’s corpse materialized in Michael’s mind.

  “You will see them again,” the voice went on. “Both of them. That I can promise you.”

  Michael’s chest tightened. “And how can you make such a promise?”

  “They are strong; I hear their whispers in the dark. Even now they search for you.”

  He lies, Michael thought. But his heart fluttered with unease.

  “They call out to you,” the voice continued, “but you cannot hear. And they pray, Michael, oh how they pray for you.”

  Michael plodded on down the stairwell, his emotions pulling him in a thousand different directions.

  “Perhaps when I am free, I might give a message to them,” the voice said.

  Michael took in a deep breath. It was tempting to believe. So tempting. But in the end, he ignored the voice.

  When he reached the bottom, a new tunnel stretched into complete darkness. Michael took care as he moved forward, his nervous breath blasting against the torch’s dancing flames.

  “We’re getting closer,” the voice said.

  In the distance, a large door shimmered in the torchlight. It was wrought of ancient wood banded in steel with a set of platinum-coated bars mounted over it. At its center hung an enormous lock crafted in the likeness of a griffin.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  “An undal seal,” the voice replied. “Set with magic. We can thank the gods that it is still closed.”

  “What’s behind it?” Michael asked.

  “A key. A Karna-bara key.”

  Michael’s heart fluttered with excitement. “And how do you know this?”

  “That’s easy,” the voice replied. “I was the one who helped hide it here.”

  Michael stared at the door, exhausted. “W—what do you want from me.”

  “I want you to be the eyes through which I see. The hand that wields my sword.”

  The presence released him, and like a rag doll, Michael slumped against the wall.

  “Have you noticed who you’re trapped in?” Michael breathed.

  “I have. But there’s little choice now. As long I am here, you will never know peace, Michael. You understand?”

  A rock tumbled to the floor behind them. When Michael turned, he saw the faint outline of a figure standing at the edge of his torchlight.

  “Remain silent!” the voice hissed. “We know not who or what still dwells here.”

  Michael’s throat went dry. He was cornered and unarmed; like a trapped animal, he could only watch the hunter and wait.

  The figure stood silent for what felt like an eternity. In the faint light, Michael could just make out the curve of a blade hanging at its side.

  What should I do? he asked the presence.

  “Remain silent until you are addressed.”

  The figure stepped forward. It wore a black robe and a desert-fashioned turban, which concealed everything of its face, save for two glittering eyes.

  “This being is not of my kin,” the voice stated. “Be on your guard.”

  Michael tensed as the stranger slowly unwound the turban’s interlocking folds. But just as the last piece slid free, a gust of wind raced down the tunnel, snuffing out Michael’s torch.

  12

  Harold kept his distance from the others. He was tired and frightened and wanted nothing more than to be done with this dreadful charge. I’m not cut of this cloth, he thought as he chewed one of his fingernails.

  On the Isle, he had had the confidence of youth to get him through every day. But not here. In the Waste, there was only the blistering sun and thousands of tiny deaths waiting in every corner.

  He turned his attention back to the sprawling tunnel. C claustrophobia gripped his soul; he felt disoriented and lost, starved for sunlight and fresh air as the walls closed in around him.

  Drexil halted and raised his torch before the tunnel wall. Great sheets of ice glistened upon the rough-hewn surface, distorting chisel marks left behind by the tunnel’s original excavators. “Crap craftsmanship,” he muttered. “A blind nagra could have burrowed a better passage.”

  “This is probably the work of slaves,” Waypman said. “Men half-starved and diseased. What more would you have of them?”

  Drexil scoffed. “We are all slaves, one way or another. Doesn’
t mean our work should be shit.”

  Waypman raised his torch, illuminating the ceiling. More score marks stretched the length of the passage. “Looks like it was done in a hurry. Perhaps they abandoned it before they could finish.”

  Harold shivered. Frost covered every inch of his suit and his breath blasted forth in great, coiling clouds. “I think someone’s laid an elemental down here.”

  Waypman nodded, his teeth chattering. Even his torch seemed to dim beneath the weight of the icy air. “By the gods, it’s cold,” he muttered.

  The gob ran his hand across the frozen wall, his ragged nails scratching shallow grooves into the foggy ice. “This place holds something of great value. I can smell it in the air.”

  Harold walked in silence, too exhausted to think. It wasn’t until his torch revealed several figures at the end of the tunnel that he finally broke from his daze.

  “Be still!” he hissed, grabbing the back of Waypman’s suit. Reluctantly, he crept forward. Both rows of sentinels held metal spears crossed before the enormous door. From a distance, the guards appeared as nothing more than crude busts carved from rock. But as Harold drew closer, he began to realize what they truly were.

  “By the gods!” he breathed.

  “What is it?” asked Waypman behind him.

  Harold swallowed. There were twelve guards in all, six standing on either side of the door. And they weren’t statues, but rather real men encased beneath layers of solid ice.

  Waypman approached the nearest and touched one of the spears. “Damn!” he cried as a blister formed on the tip of his finger.

  “This is the work of powerful magic,” Drexil purred. “Not easy to put this kind of bile together.”

  Still smarting, Waypman donned his laptane gloves and grabbed the spear. With a loud snap, he broke the shaft in two. “Brittle,” he said. “Like a dead twig.”

  “You should take more caution in what you disturb,” Drexil growled. “This entire room could be booby trapped.” With that said, he reached into a pocket on the front of his suit and withdrew a strange, brass stick with dozens of wires protruding from its tip. “Has anyone seen a lock?”

  Waypman crept beneath the remaining spears and examined the frosted steel door.

  “Anything?” the gob asked.

  Waypman shook his head. “I don’t even see hinges.”

  Harold broke his gaze with one of the dead soldiers and glanced down at the floor. A large star had been carved into the granite, each of its five points tipped with a strange, metal hook protruding an inch above the floor. “This is no ordinary door,” he whispered. “An Eldric hex has been set here.”

  “A what?” Waypman asked.

  Harold knelt down. “It means—”

  “It means,” Drexil interjected, “no lock pick or hammer can open it.”

  Harold circled the ancient carving, admiring its elegant craftsmanship. “It requires a Karna-bara key, a mechanism forged for one lock and one lock only.”

  Waypman tapped one of the metal hooks with the tip of his boot. “Must be some big key.”

  “It would take twenty men just to lift it,” Drexil stated. “But the last known one was destroyed after the formation of the Overwatch. None has been seen or forged since.”

  Waypman stepped over one of the hooks and mounted his torch in an empty sconce. “Well, what now, gentlemen?”

  Harold approached the door and pressed a gloved hand against its surface. “Whatever lies beyond this, it was not meant for the light of day. The magic seal is evidence to that.” But even as he spoke, indecision plucked at his soul. He wanted to make things right with the elders; he wanted to brush away the filthy stain that was his past. But most of all, he wanted to go home, to the Isle. And what better way to achieve that than to report the location of a lost Karna-bara? he thought.

  But what if they find a weapon back there? his inner voice quipped. Did you ever think of that? He’d been so caught up in saving his own skin that the thought had never entered his mind.

  But then again . . . if we unearth something of value to the Overwatch, there could be great rewards.

  Or great punishment, the inner voice said.

  He stared at the door for a moment, his heart pounding. Far greater mystics had faced similar situations. His own teacher had led a team directly into the core of one of Menutee’s magic holds. But within days of their discovery, Natrane Danarma, the head of the Circle’s inner security force, instituted a ban on all Chelder artifacts and had the treasures hoarded within Overwatch vaults.

  Since then, whispers abounded of strange projects blossoming under Natrane’s command. Some even believed he was testing new weapons deep within the Isle’s expended meridium mines. Weapons culled from Menutee’s personal vaults.

  This is not the way home, Harold told himself. Not my way, at least.

  “I—I think we should leave this place,” he said.

  Both Waypman and the gob stared at him in shock.

  “Just turn our backs and go?” Waypman asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  The gob punched one of the frozen soldiers, shattering its head into a thousand glistening shards. “You’re a fool!” he cried. “We have nothing! Nothing but empty pockets and shriveling stomachs. We stand before a bounty, and you wish to turn and leave it to the mud?”

  “A Karna-bara is no mere trinket to be pawned!” Harold shouted. “Whatever lies behind this seal was not meant to be found.”

  Drexil’s eyes glistened with rage. “Mystic . . . I really don’t care.”

  “We leave it, gob.”

  Drexil hocked a glob of phlegm onto Harold’s cloak. “You’re just a putrid little coward. I should have throttled you when I had the chance.”

  Harold’s face blushed with rage. “You know this is mutiny? I could have you executed for this.”

  “Come and try, little one.” The gob unsheathed his blade and let it dangle at his side.

  “Put it up,” Waypman barked. But when the gob ignored him, he lunged forward and grabbed the mutant’s wrist.

  “Let go of me, freak!” Drexil hissed. He lunged backward hoping to throw Waypman off balance. But the Garfaxman quickly pivoted and tossed Drexil passed the guards.

  Harold tensed as Drexil smashed against the iron wall. Almost instantly, ice began forming across the gob’s body.

  “BY THE GODS! HELP ME!” Drexil howled as ice sealed his nostrils.

  Waypman pushed Harold aside and scrambled beneath the spears. He was almost to the gob, when a faint click resonated beneath one of his palms.

  “What was that?” Harold asked. But before the Garfaxman could answer, a spear cut the air mere inches from his nose.

  “Get back!” Waypman cried.

  Another spear shot forth from a hole in the ceiling and buried itself in one of the guards.

  Waypman moved forward, dodging another as it shattered a guard’s arm to his right. Meanwhile, the gob reeled about on the ground, his mouth and nose completely sealed with ice.

  Harold watched the scene in horror. These men were his charge; if he lost another, the guards would have him executed at the docks.

  Do something fool! Anything!

  His head began to spin and his heart thundered in his chest. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his hands and feet began to tingle. What is happening to me? he thought. His skin began to burn as everything around him darkened. And before he could stop himself, he stepped forward and raised his bamboo staff above his head.

  “Nim rada thane!” he cried.

  A blinding light engulfed the gob, followed by a loud crack. Moments later, ice fell from the mutant’s face and shattered on the ground.

  Harold knelt down and vomited.

  Waypman grabbed the gob and dragged him away from the wall. “You all right?” he asked the boy.

  Harold looked up, drool drizzling from his lips. “Yeah . . . I’m . . . I’m fine,” he said. But my chip, he thought. I never to
ok my chip. How did I have the power to do that?

  The gob slowly sat up, cradling his hand. “W—what happened?” he asked.

  “A trap,” Waypman replied. “I must have triggered it when I moved toward you.”

  Drexil looked from his frostbitten hand to Harold. “What the fuck did you do to me, boy?”

  Harold shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  The gob scowled. His hands and nose were black and blistered. “A bloody Charger,” he chuckled. “A sapling without hair on his balls. And yet you still have the power.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Perhaps you’re not so useless after all.”

  Harold slowly stood, his hands and legs trembling. How did I do it? he thought. He’d never summoned the power before; without his dose, it was impossible. But I did. And it was strong. Wonderful.

  “P—perhaps not,” Harold said.

  In the darkness, Michael dreamed. He dreamed of his parents, their faces, and their smiles. He dreamed of leaves flowing down a familiar stream, of sights and smells long since forgotten. But there is darkness beneath it, he told himself. He could sense it, taste it.

  Michael gasped for air. He was covered in sweat and trembling. And when he opened his eyes, there was only darkness.

  “Hello!” he cried. “Is anyone there?” His head ached, and his ribs felt sore. But he didn’t mind; the pain let him know he was still alive.

  For a time, he sat silent, struggling to get his bearings. Strange colors swirled before him, merging and exploding in the sackcloth-black dark. His heart pounded as his senses grasped at the void. He needed something real, something tangible to remind him he was still alive.

  And then something stirred behind him.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  At first, there was a gentle hiss, like steam rising from some unseen vent or fissure. But as he strained his ears through the dark, a female voice greeted him.

  “A boy wandering the Culver alone,” the stranger said. “Such sights are rare these days.”

  A torch exploded to life.

  Michael shielded his eyes as he took in his surroundings. He was sitting in a moss- and slime-coated cell, a set of steel bars separating him from the same robed figure from the tunnels.