“None,” Garm said. “Whoever stayed behind is either dead or scattered to the Waste.”
Lasasha slumped against the wall, defeated. “It’s over, then. All of it.”
Garm sheathed his sword and lit an adreena stick. “Before you cash in, you mind telling me why I’ve lost a month’s worth of scrap for this Cumlety beggar?”
Lasasha glanced at Michael. “He has knowledge. Valuable knowledge.”
“Valuable enough to bring the entire Circle upon your roost?”
Lasasha remained silent.
“If you want our protection, kitty cat, I’ll need to hear a better song than this.” He approached her, his fingers drumming atop the nagra blade dangling at his side.
“He found a small meridium cache,” she lied. “His Charger must have known and sent a message to Cumlety before they were separated.”
Garm puffed on his adreena stick and exhaled. “Meridium cache, eh? Must be a lot to draw a damn army into the Waste.”
Lasasha glanced at his companions. They were growing tense, inching closer around them.
Garm finished his smoke and flicked it onto the ground. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Whatever you found, they want it and it looks like they won’t stop till they get it.” He sighed. “We gots one problem, though. The only route left is through Melius Flats. Not exactly an easy run, my dear. I’m afraid we will require much more than our agreed upon price.”
“I have nothing more to give,” she replied.
Garm shook his head. “Oh, indeed you do.” He pointed at Michael. “They come for him. That much I’ve heard whispered on the sands. Might be I’d get a proper fee if I just hand him over to our Circle friends.” He stepped closer, staring into her eyes. “Now I’ll ask again. What do they want with him?”
“I don’t know.”
Garm sighed. “Tell me again, Kitle, what you heard when you ambushed those fools near the Ripple?”
The tallest of the four stepped forward, smiling a set of blackened teeth. “Lout told me they were being sent to the Stix. He said a Karna-bara had been found. Said it was worth quite a bit if salvaged to the right scags.”
Garm tapped the pommel of his nagra blade. “A Karna-bara, eh? And was there anything else?”
Kitle smiled. “He said they were to keep a look out for a boy. A boy of eighteen turns infected with an aura.” He pointed a stubby finger at Michael. “A boy just like this one.”
“Just like this one,” Garm repeated. One of his men rushed forward and grabbed Michael from behind. “You know, Lasasha, if you want our help your lies will have to be more convincing than that.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Lasasha said.
“Very well.” Garm snapped his finger at Michael’s captor. “Give him a scar. See if it jars his memory.”
“W—wait!!!” Michael spat. “We found it. . . ok! At the base of a hill. In a bunker underground.”
Garm turned to Lasasha. “Is this true?”
“He has nothing to gain from lying.”
Garm grinned. “Well. . . this changes everything then.” He nodded at the man holding Michael. “Let him go.”
The pirate pushed Michael toward Lasasha. But instead of cowering behind her, Michael turned and punched the pirate dead on in the face.
Garm laughed as his man cradled a shattered nose. “At least he’s got some fight in em. More than I can say for some of these louts.”
The pirate spat a gob of blood at his feet and raised his sword. But before he could attack, a roar belched up the tunnel.
“By the gods,” one of the others breathed. “What is that?”
Lasasha grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him to her side. “We should go now.”
Garm drew his nagra blade and nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.”
But as they turned to leave, another roar exploded up the tunnel. And this time much closer. Moments later, a wall of ice-cold air blasted over them.
Lasasha turned to shield her torch from the gust. But it was no use.
With a pathetic sizzle, the flame died.
And then there was only dark.
Waypman’s skin crawled as his suit chaffed against his sweaty body. It was like being wrapped in lard; the sharkskin’s acidic properties had mixed with his sweat to form a pungent layer of thick paste. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand, he thought, itching his backside.
Beside him, his companions prattled on nonsensically, their voices harsh from too much drink and smoke.
“I tells ya,” one man mumbled, “they better not expect us to haul passed due quarter.”
“I’m with you, brother,” the stump said. “I’ll be damned if I sweat for less than what those dregs are pulling in the Boilers.”
Waypman sighed exhaustedly. They had been going on like this for almost three calls now.
“Whoa!” one of the men blurted, gesturing toward the night sky. “Would you look at that.”
Waypman looked up. At first he saw only darkness. But as his eyes adjusted to the night, the familiar object blossomed against the sky. “A comet,” he said. “I spotted it a few calls back.”
The worker looked at him incredulously. “A what?”
“A comet,” Waypman replied. “Ice rock from the stars.”
The man stared at him, blinking like a savant before finally turning back to the sky. “Not a good omen, I suppose. Not good at all.”
Another worker reached into his pocket and removed a small totem cut in the likeness of a fat troll. As he rubbed its tiny stomach he muttered unintelligibly beneath his breath.
The worker sitting opposite him leaned forward, a grin crinkling his weather worn face. “What’s the matter, Rotherman? Afraid of the big bad comet?”
His eyes still closed, Rotherman said: “Best shut your mouth, scag. Especially when you know nothing about nothing.”
“Ha!” the other man spat, waving Rotherman off with a chuckle. “Rub your fat man then if it makes you happy.”
Waypman inched closer to his superstitious neighbor. “Why is it a bad omen?”
Rotherman looked up at him, his eyes trembling. “Don’t you read your Tramidumn?”
Waypman shook his head.
“Chapter 143, verse 89,” the man said. “‘When the light burns black, shadow and ice will once more reclaim the land.’”
“And you get all that from just seeing a comet?”
“I do,” Rotherman replied. “We’re going to war, my friend. War with those up there.” He pointed a finger toward the night sky.
“The stars?” Waypman said, suppressing a chuckle.
“Where do you think meridium comes from?” Rotherman pointed at the comet. “The true magic makers.” He removed his laptane gloves and slowly dug his fingernails into the icon, leaving tiny half-moons embedded in its wooden surface.
At the far end of the wagon, the burly mystic stood up and belched. “All right, enough of that hogwash. We gots work to do and I don’t need any yellow stripes flowing down your backs.”
Rotherman frowned. “That’s what you say now,” he mumbled. “But you’ll sing different when the time comes.”
“Ha!” The burly mystic waved him off. His fat face was flush from booze, and every time the wagon jostled he struggled to keep his balance. “Now. . . listhen up men. This is just a snath and grab job. . . nothin more, nottin less. Leave behind your cleaning rods and superthison and ya bee okay.”
Excited chatter instantly rippled throughout the wagon. “You mean no disarming?” one man asked.
“None,” the mystic replied, smiling. “And you’ll be paid same as if on a cleansing run.”
Rotherman snorted, his morose disposition unyielding. “I don’t know what you’re all so happy about. A toe in the Stix is just as bad as a foot.”
The man sitting across from him leaned forward. “Why don’t you just put a thumb in it, eh, fella? We don’t need no jinxes today.”
Shaking his head, Rotherman sat b
ack and turned toward the desert. “I bet none of us returns.”
Waypman shifted uncomfortably as a great dune drifted past. Behind it, black monoliths of obsidian and marble dotted the desert like so many headstones.
“Alatheyad,” Rotherman mumbled. “Used to be a pleasure town. Not so much anymore, though, eh?”
Waypman sat up, watching as a bulbous temple rose into view. The decorative copper that had once adorned it was now torn free, revealing white marble below. Beside it to the east, an enormous, phallic penis protruded into the sky, its white marble tip crowned with two laughing gargoyles.
“What were those?” Waypman asked.
“Orgy palaces for those with coinage,” Rotherman replied. “Anything and everything could be bought here.” A scattering of adobe structures drifted past, their black interiors beckoning the curious scrapper. “We don’t go here, though,” he said. “It’s said umaldin lurk within the ruins.”
“That’s just a myth,” another worker spat.
Waypman swallowed. He had heard of the umaldin. They were supposedly men and woman imprisoned in the flesh of the dead by Circle magic men during the war.
In the distance, a black tangle of thorny shadows slowly rose against the star-filled sky.
Waypman sat up, his heart sinking. Somewhere beyond that rise lay the bunker.
“A miserable sight,” Rotherman mumbled. “It would be better to just decimate the place and be done with it. Don’t you agree?”
Waypman was about to reply, when he noticed something strange dripping from the man’s clenched hands. “What in the gods is that?” Waypman asked.
Rotherman opened his eyes and glanced down. “What’s what?”
“That!” Waypman said, pointing at the brown stringers oozing from the totem.
Rotherman looked down and frowned. “Tears of Milen. My deity laments for us.” He opened his palm and gazed at the weeping statue. “He knows when death is near.”
Waypman shivered. “By the gods man, if it ain’t good news just keep it to yourself.”
Rotherman looked up and pointed at the distant comet. “The White Scythe,” he said. “That’s what it was once called. Tales speak of it being seen over countless generations. An icy blade dangling above our heads, preparing to cut our world in two.”
Waypman followed the comet as the cart bustled and jostled. “What can anyone really know about such things?” he said.
Rotherman sighed exhaustively. “Tritan lenses have cast our eyes farther into the void than you’ll ever know. Perhaps farther than they should.” He looked down and patted the icon’s head. “We’ve awakened something, my friend. And this time it will not just pass us by.”
Waypman sat back and stared up at the comet. “I wonder where it came from,” he mumbled.
Rotherman squeezed the icon as more ‘tears’ trickled between his fingers. “A place we were never meant to see, my friend.”
The beast stirred behind them like a waking nightmare, its icy breath nipping at their boot heels.
“It’s close,” Lasasha gasped.
Garm and his men ran before her. One of them had managed to light a single torch, but the flames flickered wildly as ice cold wind slammed at their backs.
“Left at the fork!” Garm shouted.
Michael squeezed Lasasha’s hand. They had been running full out for almost ten minutes and it was all he could do just to keep on his feet.
Another roar behind them, louder, closer.
Lasasha ground to a halt. “Enough!” she said, drawing her scimitar. “We can’t outrun this!”
Garm and his men continued running. But after only a few footfalls, their torch sputtered out.
Michael tensed, every muscle frozen. She’s frightened, he thought. More frightened than even I. Another gust of wind splashed down the tunnel, a silent, fetid breath stinking of rotten meat and sulfur.
“What’s happening?” Michael whispered. Before Lasasha could reply, though, a deafening roar blasted into their faces.
“By the gods!” one of the pirates screamed.
Lasasha put her hand over Michael’s mouth. “Keep silent!”
No more than ten footfalls away, a mass of glowing blue smoke coiled in the dark.
Garm’s eyes went wide as it slowly took on the form of a human. “Too hell with this,” he shouted. He rushed forward, sword raised above his head.
“No!” Lasasha hissed. But it was too late.
The entity swelled in size, engulfing Garm into its coiling form. “H—help!” they heard him cry. But it was to be his final word. For moments later crimson gore exploded across the floor.
“By the gods!” Lasasha whispered.
The entity drifted backward, revealing Garm wavering before its ethereal light. The man’s flesh had been completely removed, exposing glistening muscle and bone below.
Terrified, Michael staggered backward.
“Be still!” Lasasha hissed.
Sensing their presence, the shadowmax tore Garm in half and drifted toward Michael.
Michael held his breath as it bore down on him. Every ounce of his being went numb, every hair bristling like the quills on a porcupine. But just when his fear reached its mortal limit, a familiar voice whispered in darkness.
Enter it! the voice said. Enter it and take its core!
Lasasha raised her scimitar, preparing to strike. “When it takes me run!” she breathed.
Michael held onto her, too scared to move.
Do it! the voice shouted. It’s the only thing that gives it power.
Two orbs of light materialized within the cloud.
One way or another, I’m dead, Michael thought as the cloud rushed forward. Pain instantly engulfed him, his sweat boiling as blisters formed atop his flesh. His eyes shut, he thrust his hands forward until he felt a spherical object roll beneath his palm.
“That’s it!” the voice cried. “Take it!”
Michael clutched the orb, squeezing until his knuckles ached.
“DO IT!”
Michael threw himself backward. As he fell, a deafening howl exploded in the tunnel, followed by another rush of cold air. When he looked up again, the cloud was evaporating into darkness.
Lasasha stood frozen, clutching the wall as Michael rolled onto his back.
“What did you do?” she breathed.
Michael shook his head as darkness engulfed them. “I—I don’t know.”
Lasasha held the torch above the bloody flesh and bone that had been Garm. Bile rushed into her throat, but she quickly swallowed it back down.
“Where are the others?” Michael asked.
“They fled,” a familiar voice replied. The pirate named Kitle stepped from the shadows, his sword at his side. “Never liked the lot, anyway.”
Lasasha sighed. “Your captain is gone.”
The pirate laughed. “I have no captain. Garm was a fool and a drunk. His routes were the only reason I tread his wake.”
“Yes. But without him we’re on our own.”
“I don’t think so, kitty cat,” Kitle said, grinning. “I know them routes as well as any other scag. Pay me what you owed him and I’ll get you across the Flats.”
Lasasha reached into one of her belt pouches and withdrew a small sack. “Half now. The rest when we’re safe in Ix.”
Kitle took the sack and smiled. “Deal, kitty cat.”
Michael bent over and vomited. When he was finished, he sat against the wall and stared into the dark. “What now?” he asked.
“We go on,” Lasasha replied. “But first I want to know how you stopped that thing?”
Michael looked down at the orb still clutched in his hand. “The voice,” he said. “It. . . it told me. . . how.”
Lasasha knelt down and took it from his hands. “This is black magic,” she said. “We’ll dispose of it properly when we can.”
Kitle stepped forward and spit on the ground. “Piss on that,” he said. “Only the devil himself would conjure such a th
ing. Just leave it here and the world ‘ll be better off.”
Lasasha ignored him as she placed it in one her pouches.
“So what now?” Michael asked.
Lasasha stared into the darkness, her eyes trembling. “Now we find the Karna-bara. . . before they do.”
19
Uxer Pamaren ground his teeth together as an impatient snarl distorted his pallid face. It was nearing the hour of his relief, when both his body and mind protested every drawn out second at the orbs. But his relief had yet to arrive.
You waste away here, the Charger thought as what remained of his strength flickered beneath his palms. He glanced over his shoulder at the single door leading into the massive chamber. He could feel his palms twisting the great handle, pushing the heavy steel until the first gust of fresh air washed across his face.
But he knew if he stepped away from the orbs for so much as a second, the membrane would dissolve into nothingness.
I should let it fall, though, he thought. Let the elementals sweep in and wipe the entire Isle clean.
Far above him, lost in the black void of the volcanic cone, a massive rod hummed with electrical life. The device, a compilation of slag and mid—level meridium, stood fifty footfalls tall, a brown-black monolith extending up through the volcano into the night sky above. Within it was Uxer’s power, sucked free from his trembling palms like milk from a mother’s tit.
Uxer trembled as his waning energy surged into the polished conduits. His dose was almost depleted, but he had no choice but to remain. For not only would the membrane fail if he broke the bond, but the meridium conductors above would quickly deplete and melt down. And if that occurred, the Isle was dead.
But would that be so bad? he wondered.
The smell of copper and sulfur hung heavy in the air, mixed with volcanic fumes and meridium burn-off. Uxer coughed; his lungs felt as if they were filled with glass and his skin was cracked and dry. I will be nothing but bone before the turn is out, he thought.
Outside, three more stations ringed the Bay of Fire. Each contained an identical set of meridium conductors, as well as an unfortunate wretch like himself who had drawn a twelve-call shift from the monthly lottery.
Sand and Scrap Page 22
