Waypman waited impatiently as the man scanned the horizon. “What do you see?”
The man twisted the cylindrical device, moving the glass lenses within. “That damn Charger, all right,” he replied. “He’s working some kind of wind to the north.”
Thunder growled in the distance.
“Somehow I get the feeling this is more than just a snatch and grab job,” someone quipped as the sun vanished behind a bank of drifting smog.
Waypman sat down, his heart racing. “Indeed.”
Drexil pulled on his adreena stick as he eyed the darkening sky. He’d known elementals to spring up without warning, but there was something different about this one. The air felt alive with magic, an unnatural pulse only a Tritanese could detect.
Drexil stubbed out his smoke and retreated down into the tunnel. As he negotiated the slippery steps, a river of fog poured in behind him. Hell of a time to get boxed in, he thought as he entered the Garbat chamber. The room was stripped bare; even the tiling had been removed for scrap.
Lamrot stood in a corner, arms crossed as his men moved in and out of the chamber with arms loads of scrap. “What is it gob?” he mumbled as Drexil approached.
“Something’s happening up there. How much longer do you need?”
“We ready,” Lamrot growled. “Just waiting for Farahoof to finish powder trail.”
Heavy footsteps echoed up the darkened corridor behind them.
“Ah, here he comes now.”
The brute named Farahoof backed into the chamber with a large barrel crooked beneath his arm. Without a word, he shuffled past Drexil, his eyes locked on the powder trail pouring forth from the barrel.
“What you see outside, gob?” Lamrot grumbled as Farahoof thundered toward the surface.
“I can’t be sure,” Drexil replied. “Possibly an elemental.”
“Well don’t worry, gob. We take care of prob. If prob even exists.”
“Just be quick about it,” Drexil said.
On the surface, the fog had congealed into a wall of impenetrable gray. Even the great Tarnak worm grumbled uneasily as the strange mist swirled about its massive body.
Drexil stood rigid beside the entrance, watching as the brutes stowed the last of the unused powder. “Are we ready?” he shouted.
“No,” Lamrot growled. “Now we go southern rise.” He gestured to a small dune a couple hundred footfalls to the south. “Blast be very strong. Dune shield us.”
Perhaps this wasn’t worth the trouble, after all, Drexil thought as he made his way up the slushy dune. When he reached the top, he found the other brutes already hunkered down behind cover.
“Ready?” Lamrot barked.
Farahoof nodded, a grin distorting his already gnarled face. Before he lit the powder, though, he turned to Drexil. “Tell me something, gob. Where you really find pendant?”
Drexil shook his head. “Is this really a good time for this?”
Farahoof’s eyes narrowed. “I know Grendil not part with medal so easily. Not die like dog way you say.”
Drexil swallowed, trying to keep his cool. “We all die like dogs,” he said. “But this I assure you. . . I had no hand in his.”
Farahoof grunted. “Perhaps later we talk, then. Talk more of Grendil?”
“Perhaps,” Drexil replied.
Farahoof stared at him for a few more moments and then knelt down. “Better cover up, gob,” he said. “Unless you want to blow eardrum.”
Drexil quickly cupped his ears. “Just do it already!”
Chuckling, Farahoof lit a match on his tooth and touched it to the powder. In a flash, a great ball of sparks raced off down the face of the dune and vanished into the bunker entrance.
Any second now. . . and then we’ll know, Drexil thought, clenching his teeth.
But nothing happened. A minute passed, and then two. And still no blast.
“It seems you’ve planted a dud,” Drexil growled.
Just as the words left his lips, a white flash exploded below, knocking him onto his back. Moments later, a deafening report slammed into his eardrums, as curtains of sand rained down upon him.
When the din subsided, smoke rolled over the top of the dune.
Drexil coughed as floating embers danced before him. When the smoke finally cleared, the first thing he saw was Lamrot’s nefarious grin.
“Still think it a dud, gob?”
The distant explosion echoed deep into the ground, rattling every tree branch and sun-bleached bone for miles around.
Kremwa broke from his incantation and scrambled onto his feet. “Where did that come from?” he shouted.
“The hillock,” someone on the line replied. “On the opposite side.”
Kremwa ran up the closest dune, anger seething beneath his flesh. He’d wasted precious meridium on that incantation, a commodity he might not see for another turn. If this does not aid us I will be bone dry, he lamented.
When he crested the dune, a blast of warm air slammed against his face.
“By the gods,” he muttered.
Not more than a thousand footfalls to the north, a great mushroom cloud blossomed against the gray sky. Charger Kremwa took in a deep breath as another gust of heated air blasted across his flesh.
“Thank you, my friends,” he whispered. “You’ve pushed us one step closer to our goal.”
The brutes laughed hysterically as Drexil brushed sand from his shoulders.
“Quite a show, eh, gob?” Farahoof joked, nudging Drexil in the side.
“By Menutee’s hand,” Drexil mumbled. “How much did you use?”
“Apparently not enough,” Lamrot chuckled. “Some of the tunnels still intact.”
Drexil turned back to the wreckage. Smoldering rocks and freshly torn roots lay scattered everywhere. And exposed amongst the detritus were snake-like tunnels that glistened dully as sun refracted off their steel exteriors.
“We hurry now,” Farahoof said, wiping soot from his callused face. “We no want company.”
Drexil rose onto rubbery legs. His ears rang and his balance was twisted in every direction. Even the mighty Tarnak worm appeared disoriented and panicked; like a slug, it thrashed back and forth between the angry controllers, a dull groan bubbling from its cracked maw. “For the first time I’m in complete agreement,” he said.
“Come on,” Lamrot barked.
As the brutes made their way into the smoldering wreckage, Drexil held back and gazed at the bunker. A masterpiece, he thought. In all his turns on Tritan, never had he seen such masterful architecture. The tunnels were crafted of stainless steel segments riveted together every few hundred footfalls. And atop each section stood rows of spikes protruding from the steel surface like barbs on a jackal bush. Ulen-barbs, he thought. Poisonous and unbreakable steel specifically designed to stave off a Tarnak worm attack.
I wonder what price this place fetched for the architect? Drexil thought as he followed the others into the smoky pit. A king’s ransom, he hoped.
A thousand footfalls to the south, the bunker doors lay twisted and charred, blasted from their hinges. Opposite them, a ragged, black hole emitted a steady stream of fetid fumes.
Drexil approached the hole and stared into the smoldering darkness. Where stairs had once been, now only a mass of shattered cement and twisted steel remained.
“How do you suppose we get down there?” he asked Lamrot, who stood with his comrades several footfalls away.
“We don’t,” the brute replied. “Worm do rest of work now.”
“I don’t see how,” Drexil replied. “What with those Ulen-barbs.”
“Beast be fine,” the leader said, grinning. “We pay controllers good.”
Drexil turned and scanned the surrounding dunes. “And where are our silent friends?” he asked.
Lamrot pointed to the largest dune. “They will be down as soon as we give signal.”
“And when will that be?”
Lamrot pulled down his breaches and began urinating
a few inches from Drexil’s boots. “Just shut your mouth gob and count our coins. Everything will work out just fine.”
Drexil took a step back as the stream arched closer to his toes. “Somehow I doubt that,” he mumbled.
The controllers stood atop a massive dune, staring at the destruction below.
“Fools nearly destroyed the entire salvage,” the one named Dalman muttered.
His brother, Galman, raised a brass looking glass to his eye. “Some Ulen-bards still remain. Tipped with scorp blood, no doubt. Those gob bastards knew their craft.”
A heated wind raced in from the crater, the acrid fumes burning their nostrils.
Galman twisted the focal ring on the looking glass. “I think we have company, too.”
Opposite them, not more than a hundred footfalls away, a silhouette slunk back down beneath a dune.
“Could be a scavenger,” Dalman said.
Galman sighed. “Could be. Could also be a scout for those blind bastards.”
“Should we warn the others?”
Galman folded up the looking glass and sighed. “Why bother. If there’s one, there’s bound to me more.” He turned toward the worm. She was still distressed from the blast; a thousand foot-long barbs still jutted from her flesh, and her mouth and nostril flaps remained sealed. She’s on edge, Galman thought. Won’t make things any easier when we coax her into taking the chamber.
“What are you thinking?” Dalman asked.
Galman approached the worm and stroked its side. “Those ulen-barbs . . . she won’t be able to avoid them.”
“What of the south end? Looks like most of them were destroyed in the blast.”
“Most isn’t good enough,” Galman replied. “It only takes one.” The worm groaned as if in agreement.
Galman ran a hand lovingly across its body. He’d spent his life’s fortune to obtain her from the Tarnak breeders. Not to mention Dalman’s to have her shipped here, he thought. And what of the many months both he and Dalman nurtured and trained her for the Culver, preparing her for the countless salvage runs they’d built their new fortunes upon? Was that all to be wasted now?
“She’s been good to us,” he breathed. “Brought us more wealth than we could have ever imagined.”
Dalman nodded. “That she has.”
“And how do we reward her? Scorp blood burning through her veins.”
Dalman frowned. “You pick a bad time to become sentimental, brother. You knew her fate. This is what we came here for.”
Galman looked down at the wrecked bunker. Here and there light glinted off of the poisoned barbs. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
Smiling, Dalman got up and slapped his brother on the back. “After this night they will sing our names in the deepest worm holes. Galman and Dalman, finders of Menutee’s atuan.”
“Perhaps,” Galman said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “But such songs shouldn’t be sung just yet. The night is young. And father death is in the breeze.”
Dalman turned to the sky and nodded. A fire elemental approached from the south, its orange and yellow talons clawing at the dead land below.
“Indeed it is,” he replied.
The two stood silent for a moment, listening as the worm groaned in discomfort.
“Prepare her,” Dalman finally said. “We ride within the call.”
Galman patted his brother’s shoulder. “We ride into history tonight, brother. You and I.”
Waypman shivered as the giant mushroom cloud billowed into the sky. “By the gods,” he muttered to himself. He’d worked dozens of demolition crews, yet none had ever produced a blast such as this. Every man in the caravan was staring at it, including the guards and mystics.
It’s now or never, Waypman thought as he moved to the back of the wagon. When he was sure no one was looking, he threw his legs over the side and dropped down onto the ground.
Groups of men cluttered the area, both excited and nervous whispers rolling from their cracked lips. Several crews sat in circles beside their wagons, the bitter scents of drink and smoke already permeating the air. There’ll be no work today, that’s for sure, Waypman thought as he walked down the line.
Harold’s wagon sat alone at the base of a great dune. Only two of the original twelve guards remained, and they were busy betting over a pair of fighting scorps.
Waypman slowly approached, his footfalls masked by the guards’ shouting and jeering.
“Take em down, you scrawny bastard!” one of the men cried as Waypman crept toward the wagon.
“He’s done for,” the other guard laughed. “Stinger got him clear in the back.”
Waypman’s heart was in his throat now. Every step was a resounding boom, every breath a gale.
“Might as well hand it over, Bartle.”
“Stinger’s not in yet!” Bartle spat. “He ain’t dead until it’s in!”
The two continued to carry on, shouting and clapping as Waypman pulled himself up to the wagon’s barred window.
“Son?” he whispered into the piss and shit stinking dark. “Son, can you hear me?” A single patch of light streamed onto the floor, but the rest of the interior was black as night.
“L—Leave me,” a voice groaned. “J—just leave m—me be.”
Waypman reached down and jiggled the door handle. But it was locked. “Who has the key?”
Slowly, a black form approached the bars and stepped into the patch of light.
Waypman instinctively gasped. Where the boy’s ears had once been, patches of dried blood now glistened in the light.
“Why?” Harold asked.
Waypman’s stomach churned. A cabal of flies danced atop the boy’s rent flesh, sucking and plucking at the coagulating gore. Your ears! he thought. By the gods, they took your ears!
“Answer me!” Harold hissed.
“Cause you didn’t do nothing wrong,” Waypman replied. He reached out and placed his gnarled hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Right now, though, you have to tell me where the key is.”
Harold chuckled. “Why? Where are we going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Harold reached up and clawed at his raw face. “And who do you think will want to look upon this?”
By the gods, Waypman thought. They’ve made you into a monster.
“My place is in the shadows now,” Harold lamented.
“Bullshit. Come with me and you’ll have a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
Waypman leaned in closer. “There’s other places we can go, Harold. That is your name, right? Harold?”
The mystic moved back into shadow. “Harold is dead. I am no one now.”
Michael shivered as he stumbled through the dark. They had been walking for calls now, their ears attuned to the darkness behind them.
“How much farther?” he whispered, wiping a curtain of dusty cobwebs from his face.
“Two, perhaps three more leagues,” Lasasha replied.
Michael sighed. His wound continued to throb, and he couldn’t shake the image of Garm’s butchered remains from his head. We’re dead if another one of those things comes back for us, he thought.
“You best be prepared, then,” the presence said.
Michael’s heart jumped. The voice was stronger now, louder.
“It’s the tunnels,” the voice said. “There’s no meridium plating to block our connection.”
Lasasha pressed on, her sword raised and ready. Every shadow was a possible enemy now, every sound the drawing of a bow or sword. “How could this happen?” she whispered to herself. “We had lookouts stationed throughout the entire mountain range. How did they not to see this coming?”
“Could they have been working alongside them?” Michael said.
Lasasha shook her head. “None of us can be bought with Circle coin. Not after what they’ve done to our kin over the turns.”
In the distance, a pinprick of light signaled the end of the tunnel. Lasasha pulled Michael close to her. “From now
on keep by my side.”
Michael swallowed. Once on the surface they would be exposed, a band of dregs hunted by the most powerful regime in the land. The mere thought turned his bowels to water.
Will you help me when the time comes, he asked the voice.
“I will do my best,” the voice replied as the pinprick of light grew larger.
Michael looked down at the blade he’d tucked into his pants. He had no clue how to properly wield it and doubted it would be of much use to him in battle. But if it comes down to it, if I have no choice but to kill. . .
“Then kill you will,” the voice said. “For both our sakes.”
Exhausted, Waypman set Harold down behind a small dune. They’d been walking for some time now, traipsing over sucking sand and rusty garbage.
“Can you go on?” Waypman asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
Harold nodded. “I. . . I think so.”
In the distance, crimson smoke curled into the sky. Waypman watched it uneasily. “I think they’re moving on those scavengers.”
Harold nodded, coughing into his bloody hands. “They. . . they know of the outpost. I—I think I—I told them.”
Waypman shook his head. A boy, he thought. Why would they do such a thing to a boy? But then he remembered his wife and child, their faces frozen in horror as pirates dragged them away in shackles. It had been turns since that day, but the memory was stronger than ever.
He had seen it all from a distance, his fishing net still clutched in his hands as the raping and pillaging began. But by the time he reached the small field where he had known only peace and love, nothing remained of his life but flame and ember.
I tried to reach you, Waypman thought, his chest tightening. By the gods how I tried. But it wasn’t enough. And no matter what he did now, he could never take that back. I will never fail again, though, he told himself. The mantra fueled every facet of his life now. Whether it was work or survival, he would overcome and press on. Or die trying.
“I sense it now,” Harold said.
Sand and Scrap Page 24
