“Run!!!” he shouted at his comrades, who were still trying to find cover. The slowest of the two made it half way to the crater’s slope, but then tripped and fell face first into the sand. When he tried to rise, a massive set of nagra jaws exploded around him.
Horrified, the other brute made for a rocky outcropping looming above the crater. But in his haste, he ran straight into a piece of twisted metal, knocking himself unconscious.
Farahoof flattened himself to the ground, watching as dozens of men fell with arrows protruding from their bodies. It went on for almost ten minutes, screams and gurgles filling the air, until finally a loud screech echoed across the desert.
And then silence.
Slowly, Farahoof pushed the slab off his back and rose onto his feet. Everywhere he looked, men lay with black shafts jutting from their flesh. Even his paste packer, Krenem, stood pinned to a steel slab, his back bristling with arrows.
And that wasn’t all.
On the far side of the field lay the gob, torn and battered, but miraculously moving.
Farahoof slowly approached him, scanning the ground for more nagra sign. When he was sure it was safe, he knelt down and stared at the bloody mutant. He was still breathing, but it wasn’t his stubbornness that caught Farahoof’s attention. It was what was in his hand.
“I’ll be damned,” the brute muttered.
For dangling from the gob’s gnarled fingers was the same gold pendant Lamrot had found at the inn.
Drexil slowly opened his eyes and smiled. “I win, scrapper.”
Farahoof felt a sharp pain in his chest. When he looked down, he was surprised to see the hilt of a dagger protruding from his rusty chainmail.
Drexil grinned, his hand still clutching the dagger’s hilt. “See? Cuts through anything, father. Just like I said.”
The brute stared at the hilt in disbelief, a strange gurgling sound rising up this throat. When he tried to pull it free, though, Drexil held it firmly in place.
“My Grimwa is over now,” Drexil said as the world darkened around him. “I die with a smile.”
And with that, both men slumped over dead.
21
Waypman and Harold lay flat against the slope, waiting for the Bristle to finish its deadly barrage.
“What’s happening?” Harold muttered.
Waypman peered over the top of the slope. “Can’t tell,” he said. “Stay here. I’m gonna check it out.”
“No!” Harold hissed, grabbing the Garfaxman’s leg.
Waypman gently pushed his hand aside and smiled. “It’s OK, kid. I’ll be right back.” And with that, he vanished over the rise.
The stink of death hung heavy in the crater. Dozens of men lay riddled with arrow shafts, many still groaning as blood gushed from their bodies. Above it all, hundreds of hungry draba birds circled and squawked, preparing for a rare feast.
Waypman raised his tentacle to his mouth and gagged. Many of the dead had soiled themselves, which only added to the putrid stink. Even worse, though, the noon sun was at its zenith, melting the polluted snow and transforming the sands into a noxious quagmire of blood and orange poison. Move quicker, he told himself as he made his way toward what remained of the bunker.
“H—help m—me. . .” a voice gurgled.
Waypman looked down. A Circle soldier lay with an arrow protruding from his blood—soaked chest.
“Please,” the man breathed. “Don’t leave me like this.”
Without giving it a thought, Waypman pulled his water skin free and handed it to the man, who immediately choked down its contents.
When he was finally through, the soldier looked at Waypman and smiled. “T—T—thank you, friend,” he said. He then closed his eyes and moved no more.
Waypman sighed and took the skin from his dead hand. “Don’t mention it,” he whispered.
A few footfalls to the north, the Bristle stood silent in a patch of bloody snow. Beside it, two corpses lay face down: one short and black and soaked in blood, the other a huge, hulking mass still clutching his chest.
When Waypman was close enough, he used the tip of his boot to roll the black skinned body onto its back.
“By the gods,” he breathed.
Drexil stared lifelessly into the sky, a great big grin creasing his dead face. Waypman knelt down, his tentacle raised to his nose and mouth. “You should have listened to me, friend,” he said.
“Hey fella!” someone shouted behind him.
Waypman turned. Several men stood silhouetted atop one of the larger dunes.
“For the sake of the gods,” one of the men shouted. “You want to end up like him? Leave it be!”
Waypman ignored them and turned back to the smoldering pit. Of the bunker, nothing but twisted knots of steel and shattered cement remained. And cutting through it all, was a great depression left behind by the worm. I wonder how far the beast will get, he thought as he scanned the bloody pathway. Crumpled armor and flat, blood soaked bodies dotted its smooth surface.
“Hey fella!” another voice cried behind him.
Three workmen stood at the crater’s northern edge, adreena sticks blinking in and out of existence within their black silhouettes.
“What?” Waypman growled.
“Is it safe?”
“What do you think?” he cried.
The man noticeably relaxed. “I guess that means we got the day off then, eh?” His companions chuckled beside him.
Disgusted, Waypman climbed out of the pit and slogged up the dune toward the men. When he reached the summit, one of the workers approached him and slapped him on the back. “Got yourself some souvenirs, did ya?”
Without a word, Waypman slammed his tentacle into the man’s greasy face. As the lout collapsed to the ground, blood squirting between his fingers, his companions took several steps back.
“Go get your loot, scum!” Waypman barked. “That’s what you want, right? There it is! Blood and all!”
The men stared at him, shocked. When he pushed past, though, they quickly swarmed into the rubble.
Harold sat up as Waypman approached. “What happened?”
“Trouble. And I doubt it’s the end of it. Come. . . let’s get out of here.”
“Where are w—we going?”
Waypman turned toward the worm track. Like a dead river, it stretched off toward the horizon, vanishing into the blood red belly of a roiling fire elemental.
“To finish what that damn gob started.”
22
Michael stood sentinel atop a windswept cliff, basking in an unnaturally cool breeze. You’re out there, Tritan, aren’t you? he thought as a chill tickled his spine.
His eyes shut, he took in a deep breath. From where he stood, the dusk air smelled sweet, free of the sun’s burning funk. He sighed; it was a welcomed sensation after the tunnel’s stifling must.
A hundred footfalls below him, the desert stretched out like a frozen ocean, its waves glowing orange as the sun dipped beneath the southern horizon. In the distance, the skeleton of some forgotten outpost loomed black against the fading rays, its cracked ramparts poking up through the sands like gnarled, dead claws.
I wonder what it was like here, he thought, before all this.
A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.
“I’m sorry,” Lasasha said. “I thought you heard my approach.”
Michael smiled. The woman’s golden eyes reflected swaths of the setting sun, calming his frayed nerves. She saved my life, he thought. I owe all to her.
“Come,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We must keep moving if we are to arrive before sunrise.”
Michael’s heart quickened as her warmth resonated through his shirt. It had been long since he’d felt another individual’s touch. Too long, he thought.
Lasasha inched closer, her eyes transfixed on him.
Michael stood still as her breath wafted against his lips. What is wrong with me? he wondered. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, t
o feel her lips against his.
“Leave it be, the voice warned. “She’s not of your blood.”
This is none of your concern, Michael thought.
Lasasha tensed. She was excited; Michael could feel it emanating from her flesh. Her every breath trembled, drawing him closer. She looked into his eyes and he didn’t look away. He moved to within a hairs breath of her, their warmth conjoining in the cool night air. But then something changed inside. A realization of where he was, perhaps, or what was watching and listening. And like that, Michael stepped down.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Lasasha gestured over his shoulder at the sun painted desert. “This was once farm land for as far as the eye could see.”
Michael watched as swirling sand clouds rolled across the eastern horizon. He tried to imagine what had once been: great swaths of rippling wheat wavering beneath a blue sky, farm hands tending to the land with a parent’s gentle love. It was almost too difficult to imagine, such beauty and serenity.
“Perhaps it can be again,” she continued. “But it must be free of the Circle. . . and its dogs of war.”
Wind swept in, engulfing them in hissing sand. When it passed, Lasasha knelt down and stared across the horizon.
“I have nothing left now, Michael,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “Nothing but the vow I took when Herimen Sandmaster found me in the landfills and brought me to the sanctuary.”
Michael watched her with a heavy heart. He, too, knew what it was to lose a home, a life.
“We are the protectors of the realm,” she said, “no matter if it is known. The key, the chamber. . . they were our charges, our responsibility, and we failed them.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “All that I am and was. . . gone like so much smoke.” Trembling, she reached down and scooped up a handful of sand. “This is not over, though, Michael Carter. If not for us, then for my family. My people.” She slowly opened her hand, letting the sand trickle through her fingers. “We must find the chamber, Michael. Without it, I fear the worst for this world.”
Michael gazed across the silent desert. Like everything else, the soil was dead, sun—blasted. Miles and miles of sand and scrap and nothing more. But it could be worse, he thought. He wasn’t sure how, but the threat was there, lurking like a thief in the night.
Lasasha looked up at him, her golden eyes shifting across his body. “You’re my responsibility now as well, Michael Carter.”
Michael smiled as they stared into each other’s eyes. He wanted to move closer to her, to hold her. But he stayed back. “It’s cold,” he said. “I didn’t know it could get this cold in the desert.”
“There’s much you don’t know, boy,” a guttural voice said behind them.
Startled, they both turned.
Kitle stood staring at them, his features masked in shadow. When he struck a match against the hilt of his sword, the flame illuminated his weatherworn grin.
Michael felt a chill dance down his spine as Kitle touched the flame to an adreena stick. He’s not like her, he warned himself. The pirate was neither mutant nor Cumlety born; his loyalty was to the purse and nothing more. And he has no care for me. Remember that in the coming days.
“Would be a far better place, less the Circle’s foul stench,” Kitle said as tendrils of smoke coiled up before his watery, green eyes. Behind him, lightning blinked in and out of existence as a crimson fire cloud approached from the south.
“You shouldn’t use right now,” Lasasha said. “We may have to move in a hurry.”
Kitle chuckled. “I can hack it when the time comes.” He knelt down and pulled a solid steel bowl from the sands. Its surface was scratched and worn from turns of exposure, but the interior was smooth, its patina a glistening gold free of flaw.
“The past,” Kitle said, shaking his head. “It’s worth a hell of a lot more than our future, that’s for damn sure.”
Lasasha stared at the bowl. “We could change that.”
Kitle laughed. “Dreams dangled like a carrot before the braying donkey. You’re a fool, kitty cat. A damn fool if you think you can change anything”
Lasasha’s eyes shimmered with anger. “It’s always the fools who speak so. Fools who’ve given us exactly what we have today. . . nothing.”
Bored, Kitle extinguished his smoke and cast it into the sand. “We’re all fools, woman. Fools on a fool’s errand. The chamber, the key, this boy. . . you should have sold them all to the Circle when you had a chance. I would have.”
“I guess that’s what separates us,” Lasasha said. “You would see us all to hell if it meant earning another coin.”
“Perhaps,” Kitle replied. “But it would be a hell with running water and a dozen maids to bathe me. Meridium is what matters now, woman. Whether you like it or not. And if it will grant me a night with food and a warm woman, so be it.”
Lasasha glared at him. “Perhaps you should part from us then. Go back to your sea and seek your fortunes elsewhere.”
Michael kept silent, his breath held. He could sense Kitle’s growing contempt for Lasasha. And for me.
“This could lead to blood,” the voice said. “Be on guard.”
“Phaaa!” the pirate spat. “The desert is my sea now.” He pointed to the half-moon. “It grows late and we have many leagues to cross. We go. Together.” And with that, he pushed past the two and headed back toward their fire.
“It was a mistake trekking with him,” Lasasha said as Kitle shrunk into the distance. “His kind has never cared for my people. It’s only the weight of his purse that guides him.” Frustrated, she turned to the east, where the comet shone bright against the darkening sky.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t?”
Michael rubbed his hands together. It had grown cold in a short period of time and his meager clothes did little to keep him warm. “I guess,” he said. “Some think it brings ill tidings. though.”
“All things bring ill tidings in this land, Michael. But there is always the morrow.” She forced a smile. “We should be going now. If he’s right about one thing, it’s that we have far to travel before sunrise.”
Michael nodded. “I’ll be by in a minute. I need some time to gather my thoughts.”
“Very well,” she said. “But don’t stray beyond my vision. Nagra are everywhere this deep in the desert.”
Michael smiled. “I’ll be careful.”
Lasasha nodded.
Michael watched as the mutant carefully picked her way across the sand. As she descended the dune toward camp, Michael shouted: “Thanks.”
Lasasha froze. “For what?”
“For saving my life.”
She bowed ever so slightly. “You’re welcome, Michael Carter.”
23
The worm was sluggish, emitting deep belches as it smashed through endless waves of dunes.
The controllers sat silent in their swaying harnesses, lost in thought as they scanned the moonlit horizon.
“How much longer,” Galman finally shouted, his words jostled as the worm plowed over the remains of an ancient outpost.
Dalman squinted, staring across the darkened waste. “One. . . perhaps two more days.”
A thousand footfalls to the east, ancient structures floated by like wandering ghosts, their empty windows betraying nocturnal eyes within. Hunters everywhere, Dalman thought. Let’s just hope they’re not feeling ambitious this night.
As they passed a shattered tower, Dalman caught a glimpse of a sand—traveler gliding up an enormous dune. Like a giant centipede, hundreds of tiny legs propelled it forward, each tipped with a highly toxic venom. Before sunrise, it would burrow back into the sand, the many spines protruding from its back appearing as nothing more than cactus growing atop the desert.
A deadly foe, Dalman thought. Yet another to add to the list. Since arriving from Tarnak, he’d seen many such horrors roaming the desert: crimson draba flocks, nagra, digral jackals, elementals. All twisted and retarded, forgotten weapons from a forgotten war.
Perhaps in time they will die off or fade away, he thought. But not now.
Dalman tensed as a patch of sand shimmered beneath his harness. Damn nagra, he thought as the creature scuttled from its nest, only to be crushed by the passing worm.
They lurked everywhere this deep in the desert, breeding in even the driest reaches of the Waste. It was said they could survive entire turns without food or water, waiting and watching with unbreakable patience for a victim to come its way. Just the thought of those yawning, bear trap jaws sent chills down Dalman’s spine.
I pity the unfortunate who steps on one of them, he thought. For he’d seen it happen once before. Some poor wretch working a cleansing crew stepped right into a matron’s nest. He could still hear the fool’s muted screams as the beast dragged him kicking and squirming beneath the sands.
A horrible way to go, Dalman thought.
“It seems our prize is quite valued,” Galman shouted over the worm’s massive curve. “Perhaps it’ll fetch a nice ransom at the docks.”
“Perhaps,” Galman shouted back. “But for now just keep your mind on the sand. The Circle’s not the only threat we have to look out for.”
The worm tensed as it plowed through another massive dune. Wood snapped and splintered as charred wreckage spread out behind her.
Dalman leaned out over his harness and glanced at the debris. Much of it had probably been buried and unearthed dozens of times by the desert winds, a constant cycle in the Waste. A shame, though, he thought as he spied a twisted helmet. Some of that would have fetched a fortune back at Ix.
The worm let out another moan as her weighted belly ground atop the sand. Galman sighed. He could only imagine the kind of pain she was suffering.
“She’s holding up well,” Dalman shouted. “But her skin… it’s freezing! The cold’s going right through my suit!”
Galman touched her side. His companion was right; a chill instantly bit through his glove and into his palm. Something is wrong here, he thought, rubbing his hand until sensation returned.
Sand and Scrap Page 27
