There’ll come a time when this will be nothing more than a wretched memory, he told himself as the steel door behind him finally swung open.
A short Charger cloaked in fresh crimson velvet stepped up to the platform beside him and bowed. “You spend more time here than the rods,” he said.
Uxer stepped back from the orbs as the new Charger took up his position. He looked down at his hands, which were raw and blistered. “I’ve drawn four times this turn,” he said. “Someone’s looking to kill me.”
As Uxer took his first steps in almost two days, the world spun so that he had to lean against the nearest railing or risk collapsing before his comrade. “Be well, Krem,” Uxer breathed as he turned toward the door.
Krem nodded. “You as well.”
Once outside, Uxer felt himself sinking back into the world’s embrace. Every bone creaked and groaned, and his flesh felt taut atop his aging shell. I won’t last another drawing, he thought. This had to be it. The time was now or never.
Slowly, he made his way down the spiral stairs, which coiled around the outside of the volcano like an enormous serpent. He was beyond exhausted and every step beckoned him to fall. Fourth visit to Fire Bay station, he thought as his hand slid down the stairs’ corroded rail. And in one turn. It was the most shifts any Charger had ever drawn from the lottery. At this Uxer sighed. I must not be called again.
Beneath him, the Bay shimmered as laptane sharks fed near the black, volcanic shore. Like razors, their glistening fins tore the surface white, slashing at bathing draba birds as they circled below in the dark. To the north, the dome of Black Bird Island cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the rippling bay, as dozens of elementals and heat-swirls prowled the outer membrane behind it.
This will never end, he thought as thunder rolled in from the sea. Not as long as the Overwatch prowls our halls.
At the base of Black Bird Island, green steam rose from the Cremwala Vents. Uxer’s chest tightened as he stared at the small, anthill-like protrusions rimming the island. Somewhere beneath them, a vast network of depleted meridium shafts sat flooded and forgotten. Tombs, he thought, long scoured of their precious rock. But not in my grandfather’s time.
For before the War, an endless bounty of meridium had sat beneath the very seat of the Chelder Clan’s rule. The greatest of atuans, Uxer thought. And the easiest to access.
But no longer.
Turns of ceaseless mining and plundering had seen to that.
Situated a thousand footfalls to the northeast, two more charging towers stood side by side, their spherical peaks coated in draba waste and soot. Working in unison with his station, three Chargers could power the entire outer membrane.
Such a waste of our talents, Uxer thought as his feet finally crunched on the volcanic soil below. But that was their fate now. The Meridium War had seen to that.
The docks stood only a few hundred footfalls to his left. Awaiting him was a young blond man clad in white breaches and a silken tunic. His skin was a dark tan and his eyes blue sapphires glittering in the noonday sun.
“A sorry sight you are, my lord,” the boy said as he leaned against a piling.
Uxer grinned. He could think of no other he wished to see this day. “Perhaps, but there are whispers on the wind which will upturn my frown, yes?”
“That remains to be seen, my lord,” the servant purred. “I fear your pet has been. . . detained.”
Uxer froze. “Detained? On what charge?”
The servant ran his hands through his long, golden blond hair and tied it into a ponytail with a small piece of blue twine. “No charge. Simple Overwatch curiosity.”
Uxer spat into the bay. “This will complicate our affairs, Lorp.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Lorp replied. “Especially if they open his mouth.”
“Rest assured they will,” Uxer said as he climbed into the awaiting skiff. With a sigh, he dropped into the leather sling-chair. Until now all had been going as planned. But if they draw the message from him. . .
Lorp dropped down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. At this Uxer smiled. The boy was a treasure to behold, the grandest of any slave who had ever set foot upon the Isle. Even in the volcano’s shadow, the boy’s blond hair glittered like spun gold, his crystal blue eyes betraying a gentle femininity within. Perhaps your only fault is your perfection, Uxer thought.
A horn echoed across the harbor as the oarsman pushed them away from the dock.
Morning tide. And there was already so much to be done.
Beyond the membrane, the quagmire of hungry elementals engulfed the entire Isle. Thank the gods my shift is through, Uxer thought. It would be a long and taxing day for his replacement. One he wished upon no man.
“How long has the Overwatch had him?” Uxer asked.
“Two, perhaps three days,” Lorp replied. “That fool Brim Howl has him in the belly of the Keep.”
Uxer shook his head. Since the end of the War, Howl and hundreds like him had risen far higher than their blood should have allowed. But to make such a bastard commander. . . and of the Overwatch, no less? The time of magic was indeed ending; the boy prince and his dregs had seen to that.
“I think it’s time I had a word with that slog,” Uxer said as the skiff slapped against the rolling harbor. He would have preferred to meet Howl after a good night sleep, but time was of the essence now.
I must focus myself for the coming days, he thought, rubbing his aching head. No more games. . . no more intrigue. This must be done. . . and done now. For the White Scythe was already arching across the night sky. And in only a few weeks it would pass closer to the planet than ever before. And that is when we must draw it in.
In the distance, Igma Keep rose from Black Island like a giant tumor. A volcanic offshoot, the Keep had formed thousands of turns ago as magma cooled beneath the Vents. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than a bulging pile of rock dotted with thousands of nesting draba birds. But to those schooled in the Chelder arts, it was place both feared and respected. For it had once been the very seat of Menutee’s secret order.
Uxer gazed at it longingly. How many of my brothers protected it with their lives, he wondered, only to be executed in its very shadow? Ribbons of steam coiled at its base, clouding the putrid draba waste that covered every inch of its weather-pocked surface. Uxer turned away in disgust. Since the end of the War, it had become nothing more than a holding pen for Overwatch prisoners, neglected and shunned.
And now this Howl defiles its halls.
In silence, the skiff sidled up to the Igma docks. Uxer rose and stretched as the steersman tied them off.
“Looks like we have a greeting party,” Lorp whispered. He gestured to the end of the dock, where a man wearing the black cloak of a Charger stood flanked by two Overwatch guards.
Uxer climbed onto the dock, ignoring the group as they approached.
“I am Charger Cresil Howl,” the young man said, bowing. “Son of Brim Howl.”
“I’d have guessed as much,” Uxer mumbled, noting the man’s piercingly long nose and beady eyes. “You have your father’s. . . visage.”
Cresil smiled, ignoring the slight. “My father wishes a word with you. Post haste, by his order.”
Uxer eyed the two guards. “He sends steel to call upon me?”
“A mere precaution. I was told you might. . . resist.”
“Pha!” Uxer spat, wrapping his cloak tight about his body. “Would be a waste of strength and time.”
“Indeed it would,” Cresil said, smiling.
“Come,” Uxer shouted, pushing his way passed the two guards. “Take me to that lout you call a father.”
Brim Howl’s quarters sat on the far side of the island, a carved web-work of black tunnels situated just above the Cremwala Vents. Torture for the prisoners buried within, Uxer thought as they moved through the poisonous clouds choking its corridors.
Lorp coughed as he stumbled beside him. “A pleasant home, this place,”
he said. “Am I to expect Brim’s bedchambers to be the cause of this stink?”
Cresil chuckled. “Although I’m inclined to agree, I’d watch my tongue, servant. My father has been known to flay slaves for lesser infractions.”
As daylight faded into torch-lit gloom, Uxer began to notice fresh slits carved into the corridor’s walls. Death holes, he marveled. A grizzly, if not inventive addition to the halls. For if prisoners were to escape, guards could flood the passages with meridium gas from the vents below. Must be Brim Howl’s doing.
At the end of the corridor, a massive set of doors stood bathed in torchlight. As the group approached, a lock snapped within and the doors opened.
“You may leave us,” a voice boomed within the chamber.
The guards quickly turned and left, leaving Cresil alone with both Uxer and Lorp.
“My father’s time is precious,” Cresil whispered. “Do not waste it.” He circled around Lorp, running his hand across the boy’s neck. “Good tidings, slave boy. Perhaps when my father’s through with you I might acquire your services, eh?”
Lorp’s eyes burned with rage as Cresil stalked back down the tunnel.
“Come, come,” the voice inside implored. “I grow quite lonely in this pit.”
The air inside the chamber was thick and acrid, the stink of rotting flesh overpowering the volcanic fumes.
“It smells of plague in here,” Lorp whispered as they crossed the threshold.
Uxer nodded, cupping his hand tight to his mouth.
Brim Hollow’s quarters were vast, if not utilitarian. In the center of the main chamber, an enormous fire danced wildly within a brick sconce, casting eerie shadows across the Circle glyph charts painted across the walls. The Alabezum’s chamber, Uxer thought, his chest tightening. War room of the Circle of old. At least he is not without a taste for irony.
A pair of chairs sat on either side of the fire. As for the rest of the room, it was completely empty.
“Uxer Pamaren,” a voice purred as the two stepped into the firelight. “How I have longed to make your acquaintance.”
Uxer tensed, his flesh dripping with sweat as a wraith-like silhouette crept before the fire. “Please, sit,” the commander said, gesturing to one of the chairs.
Frowning, Uxer left Lorp’s side and sat down before the fire.
“Much better,” the man purred. “Here we are all friends.”
Uxer shifted uncomfortably. The chair had been designed for torture, another ironic gesture. “My messenger? Why have you detained him?”
“Detained?” Brim replied. “I have merely welcomed him to my house.”
Uxer huffed.
“Come, come. I was merely remedying your sudden penchant for secrecy, Uxer, that’s all. Such shaded whispers desecrate our home, don’t you agree?”
“My home has long since been desecrated,” Uxer replied. “If anyone should know this, it’s you, Brim.”
Brim chuckled. In the light, his broken and pallid flesh glistened as scabby boils oozed green puss down what remained of his cheeks.
Plague, Uxer thought. So the rumors were true after all.
“I see your taste for dirty tongues has fed the dragon within, eh, commander?” Uxer said.
Brim’s smile quickly faded. “My pleasures have bitten me, yes. But they served me well enough. This is but a chill I must endure before the fir—” He coughed violently, casting stringers of bloody phlegm into his blackened palm. Uxer watched it all with dull amusement.
Gasping, Brim wiped his hand on his cloak and hunched closer to the flames. “Your pet now rots without tongue in my dungeons,” he wheezed, a stringer of bloody drool still dangling from his cracked lips. “If he had revealed his message, perhaps I would have forgone such. . . treatment. But as fate would have it, he did not.” Another coughing fit overtook him. But this time, droplets of blood spattered the flames with a loud sizzle.
From the shadows, Lorp watched it all with a smile.
“You should have called upon me first,” Uxer said. “You would have saved yourself much angst.”
Brim smiled, revealing a set of crimson stained teeth. “Oh, it was no trouble at all. The fop’s screams were well worth the butcher’s weight in gold.” He tossed a small object at Uxer’s feet.
“What’s this?”
“A gift. . . from your pet.”
Uxer bent down and picked up the object. It was a small steel tube, its surface stained with blood. Chelder seals had been placed at either end. But one was now broken.
“I will have your manhood for this. . . this heresy!” Brim spat, pointing at the tube.
Uxer removed the message and tossed the tube into the fire. “You have no right to break such a seal!”
Brim sat down in his throne-like chair and lifted a wine glass to his cracked lips. “But it was not I who broke the seal. Your pet arrived as damaged goods.”
Perplexed, Uxer unfolded the message. Who else could have known he carried this? he wondered as he read the encoded glyphs.
Brim turned to Lorp, curiosity glimmering in his watery eyes. “Your servant there… he holds a familiar face. Lorp, is it? Come closer, child.”
Lorp reluctantly stepped forward and bowed. “My lord.”
Brim’s eyes widened with delight. “Ahhh! The turns have truly been kind. Such a beautiful servant you’ve become.” A lustful smile creased his hideous face. “Did you know, Uxer, that this child was in my employ when first he arrived here. One of the finest bathers I have ever. . . known.” His bloody grin glistened in the firelight. “How long has it been, child? Two, perhaps three turns since last we met?”
Lorp stood rigid, a statue of cold indifference. “Four,” he said.
“Ahhh, but it feels like yesterday, yes?”
Lorp tensed. He had been only fourteen when the slavers took him. A timid, weak boy unschooled in the ways of the world. But that hadn’t stopped Brim and his associates from tearing into him over and over again until he could barely walk. By the time Uxer came across him in the infirmary, he was half dead and unwilling to speak. It took nearly three turns to coax a word out of him. And that first word had been a single name: Howl.
Brim took another sip of wine and winked at the rigid servant. “Perhaps someday we could revive our friendship. I’ve been too long without a decent toy to plunder.”
Lorp’s fingers curled about his dagger. But when he saw Uxer’s stare, he quickly stayed his trembling hand.
“I grow bored of this prattle,” Uxer spat, folding the note into his robe. “I need food and rest, not the flapping of your lips. What would you have of me?”
Brim eyed Lorp curiously as a devious grin squeezed the juice from one of his boils. “Perhaps a trade,” he purred. “My silence in regard to this chamber. In exchange for the boy’s. . . company.”
Uxer turned to Lorp. He knew the boy’s past, could see it boiling behind his eyes. For the cause, my friend. It is all for the cause.
Lorp met his master’s gaze and slowly nodded. This was his moment. His move in the great game they were now embroiled in. You are ever loyal my love, Uxer thought.
“Very well,” Uxer said. “One call. But if you harm him or utter a single word of our meeting to anyone beyond this chamber, my blade will know your throat.”
Brim clapped his hands together like an excited child. “So we are agreed!”
With a heavy heart, Uxer rose and approached his servant. “One call for the future of the Circle,” he whispered into the boy’s ear. “That is all I ask of you.” He then placed a hand atop Lorp’s shoulder and pressed a tiny needle deep into the folds of his cloak. “We all must give some blood if we’re to have a better tomorrow. Right?”
Lorp felt the object slide against his skin and smiled inwardly. “It seems we are both to gain from this meeting after all,” he whispered. He then turned and approached Brim, who immediately cupped the servant’s cheek in his palms. “There is no need to fear me,” Brim purred. “My disease is dry and
without threat.” But even as he smiled a boil popped and oozed green puss down the side of his cheek.
Uxer rose and wrapped his cloak tight about his body. “I will return in one call. I expect him cleaned and ready for duty.”
Brim nodded. “An apple polished for the beggar’s bite.”
Uxer spat into the fire as Brim lead Lorp into an adjacent chamber. He knows his duty, he thought. And if all went as planned on the morrow, the Overwatch would be nothing but a headless lamb.
Charger Kremwa raised his hand, signaling the wagons to halt.
“It seems we are not alone,” he muttered as a thin ribbon of red smoke curled above a distant hillock. He took in a deep, long breath. Sulfur and laptane oil, he thought. And that meant one thing: explosive paste.
“My, my, such professionals we have drawn,” he said with a sigh. It was only a matter of time now before hundreds more flocked to this zone, each hungering to take a piece of Menutee’s prize. It’s time to begin.
Drawing his cloak about his emaciated body, Kremwa climbed down from the wagon and knelt in a patch of orange snow. He then closed his eyes and began tracing a circle in the slushy earth with his gnarled finger.
“What’s he doing?” someone whispered atop one of the wagons behind him.
“Something we want no business with,” another voice replied.
Having completed the first verse of the incantation, Kremwa sat down cross-legged in the center of the drawing and began whispering in the black tongue. “Barda de nock, inwinian te draconis. Bring me the shadow, the beast, dark oil incarnate.”
Waypman watched anxiously as the man prayed. “What’s going on,” he asked the worker beside him.
“Probably scavengers,” the man replied. “They plague these parts.”
Waypman stood and looked into the distance. Red smoke curled into the orange sky, but the source was hidden behind a snow-covered dune.
“It’s that Charger,” another worker whispered. “He’s calling on an elemental!”
“Keep quiet, you,” the now-sober mystic hissed.
The man sitting opposite Waypman withdrew a Tritan looking glass and pressed it to his eye.
Sand and Scrap Page 23
