Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  Nicodemus grinned as the man’s screams permeated the night. “It is time for you to aid us,” he said as bones crunched and organs spilled onto the ground. When the beast was through, it spat out a wad of crinkled, blood-soaked armor.

  My, my. . . our hunger is stronger than I had wished, Nicodemus thought.

  He pointed toward the mountain. “Your task awaits you! Go to the mountain, shadowmax. Go and satisfy your hunger until no mutant breathes within.”

  With a roar, the beast took off toward the valley, black smoke coiling in its wake.

  Nicodemus stood silent as it faded into the distance. Behind him, the men stared at their companion’s remains in wide-eyed shock. Let them spread this tale, Nicodemus thought. Once the atuan is found, all will know our power.

  He pointed toward the valley. “Follow it! Follow it and bring me the key. As for the others. . . leave only their bones.”

  Slag entered his library with an excited grin. Stacks of tomes cluttered the room, each in varying stages of decay. Manuscripts, parchments, scrolls, papyrus; all scraps culled from the Waste over the course of a hundred turns.

  Beside one of the great piles, Menorist waited in dumb silence.

  “You’ve done well, Menorist,” said Slag.

  The cripple bowed. “Thank y—you, M—Master.” Behind him, dozens of candles flickered precariously around an enormous pile of books. Slag eyed the mess with a touch of sadness. They had been his friends once, the guiding light that had illuminated the dull misery he called life.

  Slag closed his eyes. So many turns spent in this room. Rotting beneath the soil like a blind and ancient scorp. He reached out and touched one of the books. As he ran his fingers over its laptane-bound surface, he smiled. But you watched over me, didn’t you? As I did you? The ancient flesh still felt moist as he traced his finger across it. You guided my way.

  Slag remembered the frail, sickly youth he had once been, living out his days like a ghost inside this very library. He could still hear the children laughing and chattering above, their muted cries a vile taunt.

  But that was the way of it, he thought. The hand I was dealt. For the son of Haldendale Un was not like other children. From birth, Slag was raised to be a groundskeeper of the past, the eyes and ears of history all but forgotten. The world above was of no consequence to himself or his father. Only the flickering candles mattered, and the crinkle of turning pages as they were mended and rebound in dried shark’s flesh.

  “Here lays history,” Slag mumbled as he picked up a familiar book. It was the Proclamation of the Chelder Secession. His father’s most prized book, revered more than his own life.

  Menorist watched silently as Master stared at the book. He, too, was an apprentice now, a slave to the endless rows of books and tomes that had bound Master. And like Slag, he, too, had never known life beyond the stacks.

  Slag’s hand shook as he smelled the book’s laptane cover. How many calls had he spent rubbing this same book’s ancient leather, tending to its every pore? How many moons had passed as he sat silent in his dark corner, re-binding its decaying pages?

  Too many, he thought. Without hesitating, he tore off the cover and touched one of the exposed pages to a candle. As it burned to ash he smiled. I’m truly free now.

  “Is it time, Master?” Menorist asked.

  Slag glanced across the pile of books. They had bound him to a solitary life. But they also taught him much of the world above. Particularly that of Narthax Menutee. After discovering one of his journals, he had become obsessed with the magic man’s exploits. He read countless accounts, many left behind by Menutee’s followers. He even studied Menutee’s personal astral charts, which he had found buried in the recesses of the library. In time, Menutee’s legendary atuan became his own. It was what kept him alive down here in the dingy dark. What gave him hope.

  And now it is my charge, he thought. My chance to fulfil the atuan.

  He spat on his father’s faded tome and tossed it back with the others. My days as your caretaker are over. No longer would he sit by and watch as others wrote the history he merely guarded. No, now he was the writer of his own destiny.

  And in his own hand, he would pen the Culver’s final chapter.

  May the gods favor me, Slag prayed. Smiling, he sparked a match to life and tossed it onto the heap. “You showed me the world beyond the rock. You opened my eyes to Menutee’s call. But now we must part.” He leaned over the pile, watching as the flames consumed his father’s most cherished book.

  “Now we fulfill the dream you only whispered of,” he whispered, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. Somewhere high above, the White Scythe would be arching low and bright against the eastern sky. It had been almost a hundred turns since it last passed so close.

  And you will not simply pass us by this time, he thought.

  The flawless astrological writings of the Chelder clan had plotted its arrival for this very month. Within two nights’ time, the comet would plant itself somewhere in the Acid. And that is where I must be, Slag thought.

  He approached a map of the Culver pinned to the wall behind him. “Here you will fall,” he whispered, pointing at an area several leagues east of Tritan. “And when you do, I will be waiting.”

  Menorist slowly backed away from the blaze, his eyes wide with fright as the heat touched his face.

  Slag took in a deep, smoky breath. “It’s time, Menorist.”

  The servant stood silent, trembling.

  Slag withdrew a blade from beneath his robes and held it to his own throat. “Bring me to thy realm,” he whispered. “Guide me by thy atuan and cast aside my endless toils.”

  Menorist slowly removed a small wooden box from one of his pockets. When he opened the ancient lid, a small brass vial glittered inside.

  Slag looked down at the device. Those blind bastards best not have lied to me, he thought as he eyed the polished vial. A Garnamine, it had cost him nearly a third of the library, including dozens of rare texts ranging from “Jarben the Drow” to the original build plans for the actual Circle inner sanctum on the Isle.

  A value far exceeding anything those blind bastards could scrape from the Waste, he thought. But he had been at their mercy. For the blind scavengers claimed the device to be of Menutee’s own design, a soul catcher impregnated with the purest meridium.

  His muscles tensing, Slag took one final breath and whispered. “Nimra. . . gonra. . . kremun orda.” His eyes closed, he raised the blade to his throat and pressed it to his flesh.

  Do it!

  Exhaling, he quickly drew the sharpened steel across his throat.

  Menorist flinched as Master’s eyes widened. Blood instantly pulsed onto the floor, as Master gurgled in agony.

  “M—Menor. . . ist!” Slag choked. “T—the. . . vial!”

  His hands trembling, Menorist grabbed the brass vial and held it up to Master’s throat. Within seconds, the tube was brimming with steaming blood.

  “Nimra gonra kremun orda,” Slag chanted as pain gave way to numbing darkness.

  Menorist stood dumbfounded as Master collapsed at his feet. “N—N—Nagra t—totem, meh—meh. . . meh in so wan,” he stammered.

  For a few heartbeats, nothing happened.

  Menorist froze as the first pangs of panic overwhelmed him. Had he spoken the words wrong? Had he already forgotten everything Master taught him?

  The tube glowed a deep brown. Menorist looked at it in horror; he had never liked magic, especially Master’s. To his relief, though, the vialenchant slowly dimmed back to its original, crimson hue.

  “I—I d—did g—good, M—Master!” he cried, his hands dripping blood as he fumbled with the vial’s seal. When it was in place, he laid the tube back inside the box and shut the lid.

  Behind him the fire snapped and popped as it quickly devoured the western half of the library. Menorist trembled as he watched the spreading flames. They reminded him of the torches the city people had held when they drove him into the desert
all those turns ago.

  I must leave here, Menorist thought. He glanced one last time at Master, whose body lay shimmering in dancing shadows. The light made him appear alive and moving. But when Menorist nudged him with his boot, Master remained still.

  A single tear trickled down the servant’s cheek. Master had been the closest thing to a father he had ever known, had raised and cared for Menorist since he was forced from the city all those turns ago.

  Most importantly, though, Master had given him a home.

  Master good to me, Menorist thought. Took away pain and kept me safe from the others. Another tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Come back to Menorist!” he shouted at the corpse. “Come back and watch me fix books.” But Master didn’t move; he was gone now and would never come back.

  Menorist wept, but quickly sucked back the tears. Master had told him this day would come time and time again, even as Menorist lay crying like a child at his feet.

  “You will never see me again if you fail to find the chamber,” Master had warned him. “Find it! Find it and carve me into history for all eternity!”

  Smoke flowed across the rocky ceiling, rippling like a pale, upside down river. Menorist watched it in awe. It was both pretty and horrifying. But as the smoke thickened and his throat began to burn, Menorist decided it was time to go.

  “Y—you go t—to them s—soon, M—Master,” Menorist whispered as he limped toward the exit. “S—star m—men t—take y—you to s—sky l—like f—flame. T—take us h—home like y—you promised.”

  But only the flames heard his voice, a growing roar that soon swallowed the library whole.

  18

  A thin veil of orange snow now concealed the bunker entrance.

  “It’s there,” Drexil said, pointing to the gnarled stick left behind by the Garfaxman.

  Lamrot nodded. “Very well. We begin.”

  The brutes worked with practiced ferocity, unloading their overstuffed wagons and piling up crates of explosive paste even as the heavens rained orange poison upon their shoulders.

  Drexil shivered, tightening his mask to his face. The brutes moved in cold silence, indifferent to the many dangers lurking the night. The fools don’t even wear masks, he thought, baffled. But he needed them now. And no matter what else happened, he had to keep them off his back until the job was done.

  In need of a distraction, Drexil scanned the horizon. It was empty, save for the countless, blackened trees clawing at the sky. But others will be coming soon, he thought. They always do. Word of the bunker would have already leaked in Cumlety, possibly even arousing the interest of the Circle. They raced against time now. Time and the fleet speed of hungry Chargers and scrappers.

  The brutes were finally moving into the complex, their bodies draped with rope and tools. I wonder what they’ve planned for me, Drexil thought as he watched them work. They wouldn’t act until the bounty was found, that much he was certain of.

  But after that. . .

  Footfalls crunched behind him.

  “We begin work in one call,” a guttural voice stated. It was Kilen, the head of the explosive team.

  “Very well,” Drexil replied as the brute glanced down at his weapon.

  “Nice toy,” Kilen said. “Better put away, though, gob. Looks like too much steel for you to handle.”

  Drexil’s cheeks flushed with anger. I’ll put it away, all right, he thought. Right up your gut if you sneak up on me again.

  In the distance, a bruise like storm of yellow and purple clouds crawled across the desert. Every few heartbeats, a bolt of lightning illuminated the horizon, followed by the dull grumble of distant thunder.

  “It’ll be a hard night,” Drexil said. “Dangerous conditions for paste, don’t you think?”

  The brute laughed. “Don’t worry, little gob. We make sure you come home in one piece.”

  Drexil sparked an adreena stick to life and tossed the smoldering match atop a pile of paste crates. “You’d just better take care of yourself, brute,” he said, smiling as the wooden stick smoldered atop the lid.

  “Idiot!” Kilen growled.

  Drexil chuckled. “Just finish the job, brute. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  Kilen stared at the smoldering match. When it finally went out, he turned to Drexil and growled: “One call, and then we blow Bristle.”

  Drexil choked. “Blow it? It’s worth a fortune!”

  “It’s worth nothing to us if we’re dead. That is, unless you know how to disarm.”

  Drexil grinned. “Well, it just so happens I do.”

  The brute eyed him suspiciously. “Fuck if you do?”

  Drexil nodded.

  “Very well, then, gob. We remove, but you give cut on trade.”

  Drexil sighed; he should have known. “Very well, but a third and no more.”

  The brute laughed. “I wouldn’t piss on it for less than half.”

  “Half? Do I look like a fool?”

  “You look like a desperate shit treading on thin ice.”

  Silence fell as Drexil pondered his situation. There’s no room to barter here, he thought. You’re at their mercy.

  With a sigh, he nodded. “Half then.”

  Kilen smiled. “And you disarm, of course.”

  “Who else?”

  The orange snow was thickening now, concealing the forest’s many blackened stumps. Drexil tightened the collar on his suit and brushed the acidic ice from his shoulders. “This place is foul,” he remarked. “Why the Circle tries to sustain it, I’ll never know.

  “They don’t care about sands,” Kilen said, opening his palm. Orange snowflakes quickly melted atop his exposed flesh. “They care about scrap. Nothing more. Like our dead Grendil.”

  Drexil took a long pull on the adreena stick and exhaled. “Again with him, eh?”

  The brute’s eyes narrowed, but he held back his anger. “We waste time here. The storm will be upon us within a call. Best you stay out of way, though, gob. We wouldn’t want to dirty your hands.” And with that said, he turned and rejoined the others.

  Drexil flicked the half smoked adreena butt into the night. The message was clear now: they would have their revenge. It was just a matter of when and how.

  A guttural moan echoed across the sands. Drexil turned to the east, where the Tarnak worm stood silhouetted against the skyline. The brutes had hired it straight out of Ix, and at a cost far higher than he would have liked. But time was short and he was through negotiating. That beast does little for my nerves, Drexil thought as it grumbled in its sleep. It was almost three hundred footfalls long, its hide a leathery brown mix of flesh and bone. Even with its great size, though, the worm could move with incredible speed. For it had been born of sand and would adjust well to the Waste.

  A few footfalls to its left, two controllers sat huddled around a tiny fire. Quiet men, they spoke only with the brutes. At first, Drexil had protested this, but when they refused to work under any other conditions, he swallowed his pride and relented.

  Drexil shook his head as the beast lazily rolled back and forth atop the slushy sand. Every inch of its flesh was scorched and blistered, the turns of exposure having taken their toll. It’ll be a cold one tonight, big fella, Drexil thought. Perhaps even too cold for you.

  He stumbled over something half-buried in the snow. When he looked down, he saw several gnarled arrow shafts poking up around his boots.

  It was then when an idea struck him.

  The Bristle, he thought, his pulse quickening. Just having it here was like being backed by a small army. And these fools wanted him to disarm it?

  “Perhaps it won’t be such a cold night after all,” he whispered as he pulled one of the arrows from the snow and thumbed its tip.

  Mobs of soldiers ran down the corridor with torches in hand. The underworld was crumbling into chaos, shouts and screams piping the devil’s call

  Lasasha pressed Michael into the shadows, watching as the panicked throngs darted pa
st.

  “Which way?” Michael whispered.

  Lasasha took hold of his arm. “Just follow me.”

  A flood of frenzied citizens poured past them, their arms weighed heavy with precious belongings. Michael watched in horror as a few guards began snatching children from the flow.

  “All able males will fight!” a soldier cried as a woman pleaded for the release of her child.

  Michael kept close to Lasasha. She knows these halls well, he thought as she led him down a corridor branching off from the main thoroughfare. You are her shadow now.

  “We must find my contacts,” she whispered. “And quickly.”

  Michael began to slow; his muscles and lungs burned, and his head pounded mercilessly. “I. . . I need to rest,” he wheezed, a stringer of drool dripping from his blood encrusted lips.

  “Not yet,” Lasasha hissed. “They won’t wait much longer.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Escorts,” she replied.

  Battle cries erupted in the distance, accompanied by the clattering of steel against steel.

  “Keep moving!” Lasasha hissed.

  Something roared behind them.

  Michael froze. “W—what was that?”

  “Ignore it!”

  Another roar, this time closer.

  “By the gods!” Michael cried.

  Lasasha drew her sword. “They will wait!” she whispered. “They promised.” But as they moved deeper into the mountain, Michael doubted they would.

  Waypman collapsed beneath a crumbling dock, his lungs on fire.

  He’d kept pace with the wagon for almost a thousand footfalls, his legs pumping and his lungs choking on dust. But in the end it was too fast for him and he’d had to track it the rest of the way.

  I’ll be dead before the sun sets if I try that again, he thought, gasping.

  Dozens of workmen buzzed back and forth atop the docks, loading crates into waiting wagons.

  They will be leaving soon, he thought.

  At the furthermost dock, exposed beneath the merciless sun, stood Harold’s armored wagon. Ten guards encircled it, their swords and pikes glittering as they scanned the teeming masses.