Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  “My people wish to eat you in celebration of the coming turn,” the stranger stated. “What say you of this?”

  Michael turned so he could get a better look at her. She stood over six footfalls tall, her silhouette both slender and powerful.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Slowly, the stranger stepped into the light.

  Michael recoiled at the sight of her. Her eyes were yellow like a cat’s, and patches of black fur covered most of her distorted face.

  “To your kind I’m just a shadow drifting in the dark.”

  Michael remained silent. Her feline appearance was startling. Even her ears were catlike, pointed at the tips and covered in patches of black fur. And as she stepped closer, he saw a paw with black claws protruding from the fingertips.

  “To hear a name is to have earned it,” the stranger went on, “and you have yet to earn mine. But I must say, I have earned yours. Do tell.”

  “Michael,” he said. “Michael Carter.”

  “And what brings you to this place, Michael Carter?”

  He hesitated, unsure of how to answer.

  “Speak up, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  “I . . . I don’t really know,” he replied.

  “But you’ve trespassed into the Galmamata,” the stranger said. “This is a great crime amongst my people.”

  Michael shivered. He was dealing with too many unknowns here. Where are you, damn it? he shouted at the voice. Help me! But the voice remained silent.

  “Does my appearance disturb you?” the woman asked.

  “No more than others of your kind,” Michael replied. He instantly winced at his choice of words. You must be more careful here.

  “Our kind?” she said. “The only thing that separates us is cock and fur.”

  A door creaked open behind her, revealing a silhouette standing in a torch-lit hallway.

  “Lasasha,” the intruder said. “The Tholman require your presence.”

  With her back to the intruder, Lasasha replied: “I’m not at their beck and call. Let them wait.”

  “They were adamant,” the man specified.

  “And so am I. Leave us!”

  The man gazed at Michael. “This the dreg?”

  “I said go!” Lasasha shouted.

  Huffing, the man turned and slammed the door behind him.

  Lasasha waited until his footfalls faded into the distance. When she was sure he was gone, she withdrew a small, bronze pendant. “Do you know what this is?” She held the object up to the torchlight.

  Michael squinted. Dangling from her gnarled, fur-covered hand was what appeared to be a bronze star embedded with glistening crystals. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a trinket, much like the ones peddled along the Cumlety work lines. But upon closer inspection, he realized it wasn’t just some piece of junk raked from the Culver sands. Rather, beneath the crystal-inlaid surface, the core emitted a dull, bluish glow.

  “This is the crest of the Farda Watchers,” she said. “A symbol of the peace and solidarity we have retained here for almost a century.”

  Michael stared hard at the pendent, entranced by its rhythmic pulse.

  “We’ve held this charge since the end of the Meridium War,” she went on. “But these are no longer quiet times, and there are many who wish to stir the clouds of war once more.” She pulled the torch from its wall sconce and tossed it into his cell.

  Michael shielded his eyes as the flames rolled toward him. When it finally came to a stop, a scene of macabre gore materialized from the dark.

  “By the gods!” he muttered.

  On either side of him, skeletal corpses dangled from varying lengths of rusted, barbed chains.

  “Thieves, explorers . . . much the same as you,” the woman said. “And all seeking the same thing.”

  “And what was that?” Michael asked.

  “Immortality.”

  The torch sputtered out, casting the cell into darkness.

  “I would rest, Michael Carter. Tonight, the Tholman will seek judgment on you. And may the gods be merciful when they do.” And with that, she turned and exited the chamber.

  Michael listened to her footfalls fade into the distance. Where are the others? he wondered as darkness embraced him once more. The mystic wouldn’t just abandon him. The Charger and gob, perhaps. But not the others. Their lives would be forfeited without him.

  They may still find me, he thought. But deep down, he doubted it.

  Endless calls passed as muffled voices and distant footfalls echoed beyond the chamber door. It was as if a great city loomed just outside, overflowing with a life and culture all its own. The thought made Michael’s pulse quicken.

  Footfalls approached the door.

  “Open it,” a muffled voice ordered.

  With a loud groan, the door swung inward. Michael winced as torchlight flooded the cell.

  “This is what’s causing such woe?” someone asked as three figures entered. The tallest halted only a few footfalls from the bars. He wore a patchwork of rusted armor and stitched together leather, and his face was covered in oozing, brown boils.

  “You have been charged with trespassing,” the man said. “You are to stand before the Tholman within the call.”

  One of the men standing guard pressed past the leader and approached Michael’s cell. He, too, wore a miasma of rusted scrap and threadbare leather. And to Michael’s horror, he had no eyes or nose, and a single gnarled horn protruded from the side of his bald head.

  “And what’s the charge?” Michael asked as the mutant unlocked the door.

  “You are accused of revealing our dwelling to an outsider. For this, I pity you, boy. The Tholman will not be lenient.”

  The horned man pulled the cell door open and took Michael by the arm.

  “But no one even knows where I—” But his words were cut off as a foul-smelling sack was thrust over his head.

  The tall man sighed. “Your fate lies with the council now.”

  His captors marched him in silence as their boots sloshed down endless, flooded corridors. Occasionally, Michael heard people approaching, but they quickly stepped aside as he and the guards passed.

  After some time, the tunnel finally sloped upward out of the foul water. Michael shivered as a cool breeze washed over his soaked legs; his captors had taken his laptane suit, leaving him in nothing but breaches and a ragged undershirt.

  “We’ll be late, Tristen,” one of his captors said.

  “What does it matter?” the other man replied. “This lot is the only one due for sentencing today.”

  “Just be quiet and keep moving, you two,” the tall man named Tristen ordered. “I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  Slowly, the sounds of civilization blossomed around them. Michael tensed as feet shuffled past, his skin prickling as voices conversed beside him. With every step he took, strange smells coiled into his nose, awakening his hunger.

  “Look!” a voice whispered. “An aura! He has an aura!”

  “Why is he here!” someone else hissed.

  Sweat dripped down Michael’s brow and into his eyes. “I can’t breathe,” he said. “Do you hear me? I can’t breathe in this thing!”

  “Keep quiet,” one of the guards spat.

  Michael tried to undo his bonds, but the rope was wound too tight. It has to come off . . . he thought. I can’t breathe in this thing . . . I need to breathe.

  Finally, they brought him to a halt.

  “You’re late again, Tristen,” a gruff voice said. “That’s twice in one fortnight.”

  “Just let us pass, Garjen,” Tristen replied. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  A loud, metallic clank echoed down the tunnel as a door swung open. “Have you warned the council of his . . . condition?”

  “Lasasha would have done so already,” Tristen replied.

  “Very well then. It’s your head if you’re wrong.”

  Someone grabbed Michael�
�s arm and squeezed hard. “Your hood will be removed now. But you must not look upon the Tholman. Do you understand?” Michael nodded.

  Moments later, the sack was torn from his sweating face.

  They were in a vast, high-ceilinged chamber lit by dozens of torches. Michael took in as much as he could before diverting his gaze to the ground. Calm . . . be calm . . .

  “Bring him forward,” a guttural voice boomed on the far side of the chamber.

  One of the guards’ icy hands gripped Michael’s shoulder and pushed him forward. After about twenty footfalls, the guard forced him to a stop. “Remember, look only upon the floor,” the man whispered.

  Michael stood silent, trembling like a coward. Every instinct beckoned him to look up, to stare at his captors dead in the eyes. But he quickly pushed the impulse aside. They must want something from me, he thought. I would be dead if it were otherwise.

  His peripheral vision revealed a bottomless gorge yawning on either side of him. He could also see the base of a wood pole staked a few footfalls before him.

  The guard slowly released Michael’s shoulder and stepped away. “Good luck,” he whispered.

  Michael remained utterly still, his eyes locked on the floor. At his feet were what appeared to be blood stains spread across the rock floor.

  “You are Culver born, are you not?” a man’s voice echoed in the distance.

  It took all of Michael’s willpower not to look up. “Y—yes,” he replied. As he spoke, a tangle of voices echoed through his head, cries and shouts buried deep within the confused folds of his conscience. The voice, he thought. It’s trying to get through to me.

  “Ahhh, so it is true. You possess an aura,” the man observed. “Interesting. But don’t expect to communicate with it here. These caves are coated with Tritan steel. No spell or curse can linger within this sanctuary. One of the few pleasures we afford ourselves here.”

  Michael’ sighed. Whether out of relief or fear, though, he didn’t know.

  “Do you even know what an aura is, child?” the man continued.

  Sweat trickled down Michael’s back. “No.”

  “It’s a curse. A magic bond that can never be broken.”

  A shiver danced down Michael’s spine, and his pulse quickened.

  “You’re not alone, though,” the voice went on. “Many of us bear similar burdens, if not worse. It is the price of the Culver.”

  Michael’s head began to swim, his vision blurring. He was too tired and scared to listen to any more of this. Kill me, he thought. Just kill me now or let me sleep.

  “You were accosted in the Galmamata,” the man continued. “One of our most sacred tombs. What say you of this charge?”

  Michael closed his eyes, willing the voice up from the depths of his conscience. But there was nothing.

  “Speak dreg, or your sentence will be passed!”

  Realizing he was completely alone, he took a deep breath and said, “I was brought here.”

  “Brought here? By whom?”

  Michael swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  Curses and chuckles drifted across the chasm, followed by the rap of steel on steel as the council was brought to order.

  “We’ve no time for a fool’s gambit. Tell us who sent you here. And why.”

  “It claims no name,” Michael said.

  The chamber fell silent.

  “It?”

  Sweat coursed down Michael’s brow. They won’t believe you. You’ll just make it worse.

  “The aura,” he finally said.

  Excited whispers echoed across the chasm.

  “Then you have made contact with it?” the man asked.

  Michael’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”

  “He lies!” someone cried.

  “No one has ever made contact!”

  “Why do we waste the council’s time with this? Kill him now, and let’s move on.”

  The gavel rang out until the chamber finally quieted. “Has it revealed anything of its former self?” the council leader asked.

  Michael swallowed. “He claims to be of the Brighthorse Brigade.”

  “Blasphemy,” someone spat.

  “The Brigade was lost in the Ripple! He lies!”

  The council leader slammed his gavel down. “Silence!”

  Michael waited until the chamber quieted. “I—I only know what I saw,” he replied.

  “And what did you see?”

  Michael hesitated.

  “Speak or your sentence will be passed!”

  Michael’s heart thundered in his chest. “We found a compound. Within, there was an . . . an insignia,” he replied. “A golden shield crossed by twin hammers.”

  Startled gasps echoed throughout the chamber.

  “I will ask this once and only once,” the council leader said. “Is this truth, what you say?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied. “At least that’s what the others thought.”

  More frantic chatter.

  “Others?” the council leader asked.

  “Y—yes. There were . . . four of us.”

  More whispers, accompanied by hurried footfalls as someone exited the chamber.

  “The last known outpost was said to be in the Barna Downs,” another voice stated. “Yet you claim the Stix has revealed such a pearl?”

  “I know only what I saw,” Michael replied.

  “Let him look upon the council!” a woman shouted.

  “Yes, let him look!”

  A crooked shadow materialized amongst the throng. “Fools!” This time it was an elderly voice, dry and scratchy. “He’s a trespasser! Execute him, and be done with this nonsense!”

  “SILENCE!” the leader roared. The word echoed throughout the chamber like a clap of thunder. “Prisoner,” he continued, “you may look upon us now.”

  Hesitantly, Michael looked up. The council members lingered in shadow, their statuelike forms silhouetted against flickering torches mounted in the rock wall behind them. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, though, he saw them for what they truly were.

  My god! he thought, horrified. They’re all mutants.

  Gnarled horns and tufts of matted fur poked through cloaks like mushrooms growing atop rotten logs. Several figures sat without ears or eyes, their faces blank masks of diseased horror. Others sat without legs or arms, propped up between moldering pillows.

  Situated before the council atop an onyx pulpit stood a crooked man whose watery, exhausted gaze bore into Michael. This must be the one they call Natrane, Michael thought.

  At first glance, Natrane appeared unaffected by mutation; his blond hair flowed like spun gold over his shoulders, and his blue eyes and milky skin glimmered in the faint torch light. But when the council leader stepped down from the podium, his gate was twisted and labored. And to Michael’s horror, great lumps bulged through the back of his cloak.

  Natrane approached the edge of the chasm and raised his hand. Something metallic then slammed into rock, and a loud rumble echoed throughout the chamber. Michael stepped back as an enormous slab bridged the gap between his position and the council.

  Natrane stepped onto the granite walkway and approached.

  “Your aura glows gold,” he stated, halting several footfalls before Michael. “This we have not seen for quite some time.”

  Michael stood silent, unsure of what to make of the man.

  “I am Natrane Dolentire, Keeper of the Galmamata, great grandson to Brigadier General Alurus Dolentire and overlord of the Karna-bara Council.”

  Michael slowly nodded.

  “Tell me the truth now,” Natrane said. “Who claims to inhabit you?”

  Michael caught a glimpse of the man’s hand. Tiny thornlike barbs plagued his flesh, and open soars stood in place of his fingernails. “I don’t know,” he replied.

  Natrane began circling him like a scrapper sizing up salvage. “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied, tensing. At any moment, he expected to feel a hand
push him into the gorge or a blade plunge into his back.

  Natrane halted directly before him, his blue eyes startlingly sad. “You’ve brought much trouble to our home, Michael Carter. We’ve always valued our secrecy here. And now you’ve unraveled this.”

  Michael felt the rest of the council scouring his body, searching for signs of deceit.

  “Tell me the location of this outpost,” Natrane whispered.

  “W—w—why?” Michael asked.

  “Because if you don’t, the council will have you flayed. Perhaps even worse,” the mutant said. “Few outsiders have seen this place and lived to speak of it.”

  Michael looked over Natrane’s shoulder at the rest of the council. They’re dying, he thought. All of them. And they’re scared.

  Natrane’s breath wheezed in and out of rotten lungs as he spoke. “You will live amongst us now. Or at least until the Circle comes.”

  Angered protests erupted on the far side of the chasm. Indifferent, Natrane cast one last glance at Michael. “You will tell me what I wish to know.” And with that, he vanished into the shadows.

  The road back to Cumlety was dank and dismal; black rain endlessly pounded the landscape, turning the once yellow snow into a vast, oily mire.

  The cart jostled and bucked, its wooden frame creaking as if on the verge of collapse. In one corner, Drexil sat cradling his wrist like a fragile piece of crystal, while in the driver’s seat Harold swayed silently from side to side, conforming to the road’s every bump and dip. Behind him, Waypman lay awake on the floor, his attempts at sleep thwarted by the torturous terrain.

  “How much longer?” Drexil grumbled as the cart’s wheels slopped through an ocean of mud.

  “Another call . . . no more,” Harold replied.

  In the distance, the sky was now the color of blackened ash. Night was approaching, bringing with it the ominous stink of death and elementals.

  “That means a lot to you?” Waypman asked the gob, gesturing to the bag the mutant was clutching to his chest.

  Drexil looked up at him and tucked the satchel behind his back. “It’s none of your concern.”