Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  Behind the orange tabby, a black, one-eyed male watched him cautiously, while to its right a three-legged kitten paced back and forth across a mound of rotting plaster.

  Slowly, the orange tabby craned its neck toward Waypman and sniffed his gnarled arm. “No need for trouble,” Waypman whispered as it examined his slick flesh. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” Taking a chance, he reached out and stroked its back. To his surprise, the cat remained still, purring with delight. “Looks like you fellas got yourselves dinner for the night, eh?” he said, gesturing toward the rat. “Better than what I got.”

  The tabby looked up at him, a quizzical expression on its furry face. Waypman laughed. He was about to speak again when wagon wheels began rumbling down the alley.

  The cats scattered into the shadows. Waypman followed suit, ducking behind a pile of discarded wood. The wagon was large, drawn by two massive black horses. It had a steel compartment on its back with barred windows and a guard sitting on top. In a cloud of dust, it ground to a halt a hundred footfalls down the alley.

  The driver jumped down and pulled open a barred hatch on the back. Seconds later, a set of wooden doors opened on the right side of the alley, and two men clad in black cloaks emerged dragging a limp figure between them.

  Waypman’s heart lurched. The boy! he thought as Harold lolled about in their arms.

  One of the horses kicked furiously at its yoke, rattling the steel cart as the cloaked men placed a blood-soaked hood over the mystic’s head. When it was secure, the tallest of the men turned to the open door and said, “We are ready, my lord.”

  Another figure slowly emerged into the alley. It stood crooked like a forgotten scarecrow, wrapped in a tattered, black cloak. As it moved, the tight garb shifted over its emaciated shell like the wings of a slumbering bat.

  A Charger, Waypman thought, his heart pounding.

  This is foolish, a voice whispered in the back of his head. They will string you up the same. Just be gone from this place before it’s too late.

  But he couldn’t leave. Not without the boy.

  “Once you’ve located the outpost,” the Charger said, “dump him in the Boiler Fields.”

  The cloaked mercenaries nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “And do be careful,” the Charger warned. “It would be a pity if he were sold off to fleshers before he reached the docks.”

  The man swallowed. “I understand, my lord.”

  “I hope you do.”

  Waypman hunkered down, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes. They must have found out about the bunker, he thought. That would explain their secrecy. But what do they think is in it?

  The Charger stood silent as the cart turned and rolled back down the alley. When it was finally gone, he turned and vanished back inside the building.

  Waypman remained hidden until the doors clanged shut. If I hurry, he thought, I might be able to get to the docks before the next shift leaves. It was a long shot, but there was a chance.

  Hesitantly, he climbed over the trash heap and took off after the cart. As he ran, though, his conscience stirred.

  Go back! This is stupid! You’ll never be able to help him!

  But he couldn’t go back. Not after what he just saw. He could help this one.

  The orange tabby watched from the shadows as Waypman vanished down the dusty alley. When the mutant was far enough away, the cat crept from its hiding spot and followed him into the city’s stinking sprawl.

  15

  The drill dangled above Michael’s forehead. Its twelve-inch long crystal bit dripped black oil onto his sweat-soaked flesh.

  Michael groaned. “Where am I?”

  Images crashed through his head, reality and dreamscapes twisting into a single, kaleidoscopic wreck of desperate confusion.

  Slag, he thought. His name was Slag. The man’s face drifted before him like a waking nightmare, gnarled and grinning. But what did he want with me?

  Michael turned his head. He was lying in a spherical chamber, its walls coated in a strange, reflective metal. Beside him, a torch sputtered and popped, reflecting odd patterns across the concave walls. At his feet, a wooden gurney stood with an assortment of tools strewn across its surface. When he tried to sit up, leather straps held his wrists and ankles firmly in place.

  A door opened behind him, followed by padded footfalls.

  “My apologies,” came a familiar voice. “I would prefer accommodations more suited to my craft. But in these difficult times, we take what we can get, eh?”

  Michael lay helpless as Slag leaned over him.

  “’Tis a wonderful place, though,” Slag continued, his breath stinking of blood and adreena weed. “It was built by an exiled Charger. He had the entire chamber coated with Tritan steel. I dare to think of the cost, though.”

  Michael’s head spun as Slag leaned in closer.

  “You are quite a specimen,” the dreg whispered. “To have control of brain functions while under the influence of an aura . . . it is a wonder to behold.” Slag turned toward a set of shelves and took down a small wooden box.

  “W—what are ya d—doing?” Michael asked.

  Slag smiled, raising a yellow crystal before his eyes. “Just an examination.” He approached a small metal podium mounted beside the slab. It was rusted and pitted, and the front panel lay open, revealing dozens of brass gears and chain pulleys glittering like living muscle and bone.

  Slag placed the crystal in a small brass socket nestled inside the box. When it was secure, he gently blew across its surface.

  A metallic shriek cut through the air.

  Michael looked up. The drill was beginning to rotate.

  “Just keep still,” Slag said. “I can do this only once.”

  Michael tensed as the device picked up speed. He could feel warm air wafting off its tip and smell ozone as the unseen motors picked up speed. Get out of here! he thought. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break the leather straps.

  Closer, closer . . . it’s coming too close! Michael clenched his eyes, bracing for the pain.

  “Now don’t move,” Slag warned.

  White-hot pain erupted inside Michael’s forehead as the bit tore through flesh and bone.

  “Good,” Slag shouted as pieces of flesh and hair spun into the air. “Very good.”

  Michael bit his tongue, nearly severing it in half.

  Indifferent, Slag took hold of a small lever and began guiding the bit deeper into Michael’s frontal lobe. “Wonderful, just wonderful,” he breathed. When he was satisfied with the bit’s depth, he flipped a brass lever that triggered the drill to slowly retract back into darkness.

  Michael lay half-conscious, blood dripping from both his forehead and mouth. “W—what are y—you d—doing?” he gurgled.

  Slag leaned over him and stared into the wound. “Not now. We mustn’t waste any time.”

  A door opened on the far side of the sphere.

  “Come, come!” Slag said, gesturing for the stranger to step forward.

  A hunched man slowly entered Michael’s field of view, his gimped leg dragging behind him.

  “Glad you could join us, Menorist. Why don’t you bring me the gurney and tools like a good little boy?”

  The man limped toward the wall, wheezing with every step. He was an ugly lout, stunted and diseased with one good eye and the other closed over with a bulbous tumor. His nose looked broken and twisted, and he had neither ears nor eyebrows. As he pulled the gurney toward the table, the dozens of crude medical tools jangled about its blood-stained surface.

  “You have a secret in there, boy,” Slag whispered as Menorist positioned the gurney beside him. “A secret that has brought much trouble to our people.”

  Menorist placed a small step stool at the base of the empty gurney. Slag stepped onto it and lay down beside Michael.

  “Bring me the connector,” Slag ordered. “And be quick about it.”

  Menorist opened a large, steel box and withdrew what
appeared to be two bird cages welded side by side. Slag took the device and lifted Michael’s head into one of the open halves. “Prepare the meridium probe,” he said as he lay back beside Michael, positioning his head inside the adjacent cage.

  Menorist nodded, turning back to the chest. When he returned, he held a surgical knife in his trembling hand.

  “Do you remember the procedure?” Slag asked, adjusting himself inside the cage.

  Menorist nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  “Then begin.”

  Menorist raised the knife to the right side of Slag’s skull.

  “Just cut deep like I showed you,” Slag said. “I want this to be as quick as possible.”

  Menorist nodded as he pressed the blade into Master’s flesh.

  The pain was merciless, a white-hot torment that brought Slag to the edge of consciousness.

  Remember the prize! he told himself as Menorist carved a two-inch square of flesh from his scalp. Hard breaths hissed between his lips, adrenaline flowing as muscles stiffened and convulsed. One . . . last . . . slice!

  The scalpel slipped from Menorist’s grip, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter.

  Slag lay silent, imagining what his exposed brain looked like. Four months earlier, his servant had cut a similar sized piece of bone from his skull in preparation for another experiment. Luckily for Slag, it had been a success. But not so much for the poor fool he had lobotomized.

  Menorist carefully lifted the flap, revealing the pink sac encasing Master’s brain.

  Finish this! Slag thought.

  His hands shaking, Menorist gently inserted a priceless meridium rod into the wound. When it was secure against Slag’s brain, he lifted Master’s head and locked the rod to the clip located in the center of the twin cages. He then did the same to the boy.

  Slag stiffened as electric energy coursed throughout his body. By the gods, he thought.

  “The connection has been made,” Menorist said.

  A wild torrent of nonsensical chatter slammed through Slag’s conscience. He felt his mind torn in every direction, as the onslaught of thoughts soaked into every brain cell. He cried out, slammed the table with his fist as his teeth tore into his lips. His world collapsed as darkness swallowed him whole.

  I’m dying, he thought. Perhaps the meridium had failed to make the connection, or maybe Menorist had cut too deep into his skull. Whatever the case, he was sure it was over for him.

  Menorist paced nervously beside the slab, chewing his gnarled fingernails. Every now and then, he leaned over Master and pressed his ear to his chest.

  Slag clenched his teeth, grasping to life. He was on the verge of giving up when warmth crept back into his body.

  Menorist leaned over him again, staring through the cage. “Master?”

  Cautiously, Slag opened his eyes. Menorist’s rotten teeth hovered only inches away, his breath a toxic tide. But Slag ignored him. Something new was happening, a sound or presence lurking deep in his conscience. It took a few seconds for it to fully materialize, but when it did, there was no mistaking it.

  It was a voice.

  A voice asking a single question.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice came from everywhere at once, a booming din filled with malice. “Who are you?” it asked again.

  Slag’s heart raced with excitement. “M—my birth name was Katwo Un,” he replied. “But most call me Slag.”

  The presence shifted to the forefront of Slag’s thoughts, testing the waters of his mind. “You are not tainted,” it said as it prodded his conscience. “How have you found me?”

  Slag forced a smile. “Turns of trial and error.”

  “What has the boy told you of the device?”

  Slag’s flesh prickled with excitement. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  The voice laughed. “Come, come, pederast. I can read your thoughts like a book.”

  Slag felt his heart flutter. He had forgotten how exposed his thoughts might be. But what does it matter? he thought. My intentions with the boy play no part in this.

  “Very well,” Slag said. “He spoke of a chamber. A Karna-bara chamber marked with a specific symbol.”

  “There are many such chambers still unaccounted for,” the voice said. “What makes you think this one is distinctive?”

  “He described the crest of the Brighthorse Brigade. The very same unit who entrusted my people with the key.”

  “Ahhh . . .” crooned the voice. “And now you wish to unlock its power?”

  Slag remained silent. Pain was slowly muddling his thoughts, and he didn’t want to give too much away. “It will either be us or the ones who now knock upon our door,” he replied.

  The voice fell silent as the electric bond fluctuated. Slag felt his heart rate increase as adrenaline flooded his veins. This . . . must . . . end . . . soon! he thought.

  Menorist’s shadow hovered above them, adjusting the rod until it sat evenly inside both their skulls. Slag watched him as if from a dream. How long had he trained the fool, walking him step by step through the process? My life in the hands of a half-breed, he thought. I’ve truly gone mad.

  “I sense our bond weakening,” the voice said.

  Slag tensed, clenching his eyes shut. “Give me the location of the chamber. Give me the location, and I will see to it that you are freed from this dreg.”

  “And how will you keep such a promise?” the voice laughed.

  Slag’s stomach turned. “I am familiar with the arts that imprisoned you. I was once an acolyte born and bred upon the Isle. With my knowledge, I will see to it that the promise is kept.”

  The voice continued to laugh. “And you feel you are honor bound to aid me . . . a brother in need?”

  Slag felt himself grin. “Perhaps. If you are indeed a brother.”

  There was a pause as the presence pondered its next move. “Very well then . . . our protection in exchange for the chamber.”

  “Agreed,” Slag said.

  “You best hurry, though,” the voice said. “Other hands already creep toward our prize.”

  “Has it already been found?”

  “Indeed. And I’m sure whispers of its existence now ride the wind.”

  Slag swallowed; it was time then.

  “One more thing,” the voice said. “I will require a bargaining chip if we are to see this through.”

  Slag smiled. “I expected as much.”

  “Since you have bonded with me, you are now as much a part of my mind as I am of yours. If you betray me, you will know no rest until our bargain is fulfilled. Understand?”

  Slag opened his eyes and laughed wildly. “Very well then. Let it begin!”

  16

  Drexil sat bored in the Whore’s Wrath, watching as a swarm of flies danced atop a sea of overturned cups.

  “You almost through?” he asked the enormous brute sitting opposite him.

  The bald man slurped back flat grog, his cross-eyed gaze lingering over the cup’s cracked lip. When he was through, he slammed the cup down and emitted a deafening belch.

  “We through when we through,” the brute replied.

  Drexil sighed. They had been sitting in the tavern for almost two calls. In that time, every breed of scum had come and gone through the tavern’s groaning doors — every breed, that is, save for this scrapper’s companions.

  Sacks of puss, Drexil thought, as the man who called himself Lamrot cradled another fresh cup to his chest. The brute had come in from the Ripple, where he and his companions had been attempting to dislodge a derelict ballista from some moldering ruin. He was alone now, though, and would agree to nothing until the rest of his clan consented.

  With every rotten gulp, Lamrot’s red nose flared wildly, as if it, too, were somehow partaking in his binge. ’Tis a shame the sands were so forgiving to this breed, Drexil thought as a warm breeze flooded the tavern.

  Three scrapper brutes stood in the entrance, scanning the dingy interior.
>
  Lamrot looked up from his empty cup and smiled. “Grimwan!”

  “Grimwana lare, Lam,” the largest of the brute’s replied.

  Drexil tensed, his hand instinctively crawling toward his blade. “I thought only one more was coming?”

  Lamrot blew him off with a wave. “You want help, gob, first you must speak with clan heads.”

  The three brutes sat down at the table, eyeing Drexil suspiciously. Two were sun-scorched and wrinkled, their sun-bleached eyes betraying the first signs of desert blindness. The youngest was paler, his bald head covered with a black, spiderweb tattoo.

  “That our way,” Lamrot said. “We run show. You pay. No questions asked.”

  Drexil sat silent as he sized up his new companions. Each scrapper had a nagra jaw hanging from his belt, a mark of high stature amongst their clan. They also wore scabbards containing poisonous scorp thorns with added wooden handles. But those wouldn’t be their only weapons; more than likely, each man had a poisoned bone blade or needle dart woven in his vest or boot. Devious breed, Drexil thought as the stink of adreena weed blasted from one of the brute’s nostrils.

  “Very well,” Drexil finally said. “But this won’t be a normal salvage. We’ll need explosive paste and three, perhaps even four, felltowers to dredge the sand and remove the object.” He leaned back and ignited an adreena stick, watching as the brutes grumbled to one another in their strange, guttural dialect. When they were through, Lamrot leaned forward and smiled.

  “Very well, gob. But you pay 600 upfront. And we’ll need to hire a worm.”

  Drexil coughed. “Six hundred? I could get twenty men off the lines for half that.”

  The brute leaned back and chuckled. “So go do it. But ask yourself. . . can dregs do blasting? Can they dredge and haul three cubic ton of sand?”

  Drexil slumped in his seat. The brute was right, of course. No Culver man knew more about salvage than his clan. Hell, their entire race was born and reared in the Culver scrap fields, blasting and dredging an existence from the defiled land. And few, if any, have access to explosive paste as powerful as theirs, he reminded himself.