To the west, gray clouds swept across the desert, their icy breath driving enormous sand devils before them.
“I don’t like this, Dal,” Galman shouted as the devils hopped about like frolicking children.
“It’s probably just an elemental,” Dalman replied. “She’ll keep well away from it.”
A flock of draba birds gathered in the night sky. For a time, their numbers swelled and swirled, a living cloud painting the sky black. But as the winds grew stronger, they quickly tightened their ranks and vanished into the distance.
Galman shivered in his harness. The cold, he thought. It’s growing worse by the second. He’d experienced acid and cyanide clouds in the Boiler Fields, had even witnessed a fire elemental transform several miles of sand into a rippling sea of glass.
But this. . .
“My god it’s getting cold!” Dalman shouted as the wind grew into a roar.
Galman tightened his harness straps. Giant snowflakes swept down from the sky, melting atop the sand only to be replaced by thousands more. “What in the name of the gods is happening?”
“A frost elemental!” Dalman replied. “Put on your mask!”
Galman pulled the laptane flesh over his head and adjusted the goggles. “Pretty damn strong one, don’t you think?” he shouted before taking in the first filtered breath.
Dalman squinted into the storm. To the north, two massive dunes formed a U-shaped gulley between them. “We’ll head for those dunes!” he cried. “Might make for some shelter until this blows over.”
Galman nodded and took hold of the main control wire. But before he pulled it, something black smashed against his platform. “What the. . . “ He reached down and picked up a black shard. When he realized what it was, his eyes widened with fright. “The birds!” he cried. “They’re frozen solid.”
Dozens of them crashed into the worm, shattering into thousands of glass—like pieces.
“Push her fast toward those dunes!” Dalman cried.
His teeth clenched, Galman pulled back on the main wire. Within seconds, the worm turned her great body toward the dunes.
“Brother, look to the north!” Dalman shouted. “My god, they’re everywhere!”
Galman’s heart jumped as he scanned the horizon. For not more than a hundred footfalls away, dozens of sand jackals prowled the storm. “By the gods,” he mumbled. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.” Thirty were visible, but Dalman knew more would be lurking on the far side of the dunes.
Dalman nervously tightened his harness restraints. It wasn’t just jackals out there; to the west, a herd of sand-travelers and humpback scalpers were scuttling toward them, their armored claws glinting in the moonlight as they cut their way through dead bramble and fireweed.
“I’ve never seen anything like it!” Galman cried. “Shouldn’t they be attacking each other?”
Dalman picked out the largest of the control cables and braced himself for the jolt. One tug and its barbs would double the worm’s speed.
But then she dies, he thought.
With a sigh, he dropped the cable. Not now. . . not like this. He took hold of a lesser guideline, twisting it in his fist. But when he tried to pull back, nothing happened.
Frustrated, he glanced down. “By the gods!” he gasped. His glove was completely covered in ice. Within seconds, it crept up his arm, covering his chest and throat. It even froze the filter on his mask, making it almost impossible to breath.
Moaning, the worm ground to a halt. Her flesh crackled as she tried to move, but ice now encapsulated the entire length of her body.
With a snap, both harnesses plummeted to the sand. Dalman cried out as wood and wire wrapped around him in a wild blur. When he hit the ground, he was tossed against a dune, where he lay stunned and freezing.
“Galman!” he managed to cry. He could see his brother’s harness not more than a hundred footfalls to his left, a great tangle of wood and wire jutting in every direction. But of Galman, there was no sign.
Dalman slowly dragged himself toward the wreckage. As he drew closer, he noticed chunks of brown and tan ice scattered atop the sand.
“No!” he stammered as he examined a piece in his gloved hand. It was a single eye, green and dashed with a red vein. Gal! he thought horrified as he looked upon the rest of the scattered remains. Like a broken stained glass window, shards of red, pink, bone white and crimson lay glittering in the moonlight. A kaleidoscope of gore frozen atop the sands.
Behind him, the worm rolled onto its side. The layer of translucent ice creaked as she struggled to break free. But before she could shatter it, something snapped inside her and she fell silent.
Grief stricken, Dalman collapsed beside his brother’s remains. He could no longer feel his legs or hands, and his eyes were slowly freezing over. But before his vision evaporated, he watched as an enormous crack separated the worm in two.
Why? he thought. But there would be no answer. The ice now covered his mouth and nostrils, and as he lay suffocating in the snow, one final thought crossed his mind.
We should never have come to the Culver.
24
Menorist stared at the compacted sand. The worm trail was still fresh; moist patches of saliva and blood clearly marked the beast’s passage.
Take desert west, Master said, he thought dumbly, his mask fogging as he labored to breath the canned, Tritan air. In the distance, windstorms stirred atop the sand, blurring land and sky into an orange smudge. Above him, though, the comet glowed brighter than ever.
It’s beautiful, Menorist thought as he stared at the teardrop shaped object. We must move faster. Master will grow impatient if we don’t move faster.
To the east, a vast expanse of molten glass stretched for leagues across the desert. The Ripple, Menorist thought. A stretch of land so blasted by fire clouds, the sand had been transformed into glass. Master had told him countless stories of it. But to see it with his own eyes. . .
A pair of fire elementals exploded in the distance, bathing the glassy field in rippled, orange light. It’s just like the tales, Menorist thought, his mouth agape.
A few leagues to the west, a strange cloud hovered low above the desert. Menorist watched it with excitement. Green reflected within, a color unnatural to the Waste. Could it be? he thought as he licked his cracked lips. He’d run out of water almost a day before, and his thirst now guided every thought. I must try for it, he thought. There might be water.
Exhausted, he marched toward the storm. As he drew closer, desert tan slowly became green. And then, to his amazement, blue.
Water, he told himself.
Thousands upon thousands of liters of it.
He broke into a run, his thirst multiplying as the clear blue liquid sparkled beneath the sun. But when he entered the outer edge of the oasis, he ground to a halt. Strange plants and trees lined the swamp-like pond. Some had black stalks covered in rough scales, their leaves razor-sharp and glinting sunlight. And entangled amongst their roots were pieces of broken armor and sun-scorched bone.
Maybe we just move on, Menorist thought as he skirted a hulking, barbed plant. Master had warned him of such dangers. They were remnants of the War. Genetic mutations left behind to spoil water holes and haunt the desert. Even the clouds looked alive and hungry, scanning the foul landscape for fuel and flesh.
Master says go to Tritan, Menorist told himself. Don’t stop. Follow the Western star to Ix and take passage on skiff to metal city. That where meridium going, so that where Menorist go.
In the distance, a pinprick of silver light winked against the cloudy horizon.
“I see it!” Menorist cried out. “Master, the Ix light! Just like you said!”
He gripped the cylinder tight in his sweaty palm as he raced past the oasis. Water could wait. Now he had to do what he was told. Now he had to find and activate the meridium.
Lasasha lay concealed beneath her tunic, the cold night sand chilling her belly as she stared at the smoking crater.
>
We’re too late, she thought, her heart sinking.
A hundred footfalls beneath them, charred cement and metal lay strewn across blackened sand. Much of the gnarled mess was still aglow from the blast, sizzling like gristle on a frying pan. And lying amongst the detritus were dozens of mangled corpses.
Michael crawled up beside her, his clumsy movements casting sand down into the crater.
“Be still!” Lasasha hissed.
Several workmen were sifting through the mess, their muffled laughter echoing on the wind.
Lasasha turned to Michael, an impatient glint in her eyes. “Are you sure this was the place?”
Michael stared across the crater. The destruction was incredible; ten thousand footfalls of black forest completely wiped from the earth. He tried to imagine what it must have looked like, the heated blast kicking tons of sand and cement miles into the sky.
“This is it,” he replied. “What’s left of it, anyway.”
Kitle slithered between them, his breath labored and stinking of adreena weed. “I told you this was a waste of time. Cut him loose and let’s be done with this place.”
Exhausted, Lasasha cradled her head in her palms. The acrid stench of sulfur burned deep into her sinuses, and her stomach rumbled for want of sustenance. He’s right, she thought. I was foolish to listen to the boy. I let my desires guide me.
“Who could have done this?” Michael asked.
“What does it matter,” Lasasha replied. “Scavengers, Circle men. . . they have both the chamber and key now and that’s all that matters.”
Kitle gestured toward a wide track leading up the opposite side of the crater. “Looks like they had a worm, too. They will be a week’s march from us by now.”
“More,” Lasasha replied.
Michael’s heart sank. “So what now?”
“Barrier Port,” Kitle replied. “Maybe even Ix, if you got the stones for the trek.”
“Ix,” Lasasha said. “Its market would be their best bet for a sale.”
Michael sighed. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, a frozen, silver sea of nothingness.
“Come. We have to go,” Lasasha said. “The sun will be up within the call.”
The eastern sky was already aglow with the first pink and purple bands of a new dawn. Soon the sun would be hard at their backs, baking their laptane suits and drawing whatever moisture it could from their exhausted bodies.
“We follow the tracks until the end,” Lasasha said as she inched back down the rise.
Kitle grabbed her arm. “Look!” he whispered, pointing to the east. “Over there!”
On the far side of the crater, a small campfire danced and popped behind two silhouettes.
“Probably just some workers from the caravan,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Kitle said. “But if they knew where the worm was headed, it might just save us some trouble.”
“And what makes you so concerned about the worm?”
Kitle smiled. “Coinage. . . that’s what. Pay me a thousand and I’ll follow you to hell.”
Lasasha laughed. “If I had a thousand coinage I wouldn’t be thinking of walking to Ix.”
“Consider it deferred then. If we retrieve the beast, sell off some of its flesh and then we can call it even.”
Lasasha shook her head. “You’re as greedy as you are dumb.”
“Worth a shot, though, right?”
Lasasha turned back to the fire. To reveal themselves might bring more trouble than it was worth. But Kitle is right. If these men know where the worm is taking it. . .
“Very well,” she finally said. “But move silently. We don’t need the entire Circle coming down on us.”
Kitle smiled, his blade already drawn. “Not a problem. Not a problem at all.”
Waypman extended his tentacle over the dying fire. Long night, he thought, watching as the embers popped and crumbled beneath the flames. Gonna be an even longer day, though.
Harold lay silent beside him, his clotted wounds illuminated by the fire’s wraith-like dance. Waypman reached over and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Dawn’s coming in, son. We should get going soon.”
Harold remained still, a living corpse wrapped in tattered rags.
Waypman turned to the distant caravan and sighed. Of the more than two-dozen wagons that had departed Cumlety, only seven remained. The rest had fled during the night, leaving much of their gear and provision behind in the sand. Those foolish enough to stay were now rummaging through the twisted wreckage, their laughter echoing on the wind. Waypman turned away in disgust.
“All this bloody sand and scrap. . . and for what?” he whispered to himself. “A handful of coinage?”
A shadow splashed down beside him. Startled, Waypman rolled onto his side. A massive draba bird fluttered before the fire, its screw—like beak already cutting a neat hole into the sand. When it found what it was looking for, a muffled howl rose into the night, followed by the dull snap of breaking bones. Moments later, the bird dragged a baby nagra to the surface in its elongated beak.
“This ain’t no place for man,” Waypman mumbled as the enormous bird vanished into the night with its prize. “No place at all.”
With a groan, Harold pulled his legs into his chest and drew his cloak tight about his body. Waypman watched the mystic for a time, lost in thought. The boy’s final words were still echoing through his mind: They know! They know where it is now! And once they find it nothing will matter anymore! At the time he thought it gibberish, but the words were beginning to haunt him.
The Circle’s out here for a reason, he thought. And not just for salvage. No, they’re looking for something, he told himself. Something special. They wouldn’t waste all this manpower on scrap.
With his free hand, he picked up an expended driver rod and stirred the fire’s dying embers. To the north, bands of orange and yellow were already spreading across the sky, whispering of approaching dawn. Hell’s vanguard, Waypman thought as the last of the morning breeze swept in from the east.
To the west, the sailor’s star, Micor, twinkled brightly above a fading elemental. And beside it, the comet continued its silent course across the void.
Harold stirred beneath his robes. “They’ve come,” he groaned. “Ice and pain. . . riding the winds.”
Waypman reached over and touched his shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered. “Son? Wake up.”
Harold’s eyes shot open, twin balls of fire boring deep into the star studded sky. “WE MUST STOP IT!!!” he cried, clawing at his face. “IT DRAWS THEM IN!!!”
Horrified, Waypman grabbed the boy’s arms and pinned them to the sand. “Calm down!” he hissed. “You’re just dreaming!” Harold stared wide-eyed at the sky, trembling. Tears ran down his mutilated cheeks, mixing with blood and filth.
“Just breathe, son,” Waypman said. “Breathe!”
After a few tense moments, Harold finally calmed, his arms falling limp at his sides as he lay back onto the sand.
Waypman sighed. By the gods, he thought. His heart was pounding wildly and his tentacle trembled. What did they do to you back there?
A shadow flickered atop a nearby dune. Waypman froze, his breath held as he squinted into the night. When a flash of lightning erupted behind the dune, he saw what looked like the silhouette of a small cat.
“I’ll be damned,” he mumbled. He stood and quickly approached the dune. But when lightning flashed again, the little creature was gone.
His curiosity piqued, Waypman grabbed his pack and scrambled up the dune. When he reached the top, he found a trail of tiny paw prints littering the windswept sand. “By the gods,” he wheezed. But before he could follow them, a knife slowly pressed against his throat.
“You would do best to stand your ground,” a man whispered into his ear.
Waypman froze, his eyes locked onto the sprawling desert. He heard more movement behind him, the crunch of approaching footfalls.
“He’s a mutant,
” his captor said.
Another figure stepped into view, a tall form wrapped in a tattered desert tunic.
“Why are you here?” a female voice asked.
Waypman blinked. “I—I was part of the work crew,” he replied.
The woman glanced over Waypman’s shoulder at the abandoned camp below. “Looks more like an army encampment than a work crew.”
“There were soldiers,” Waypman agreed. “But mostly just workers. . . like myself.”
“So why didn’t you leave with the rest of them?” the woman asked. “There must be at least a hundred tracks leading out into the desert.”
Waypman stirred uneasily. “I came to get him. . . “He gestured over his shoulder at Harold, who remained curled beside their dying fire like a slumbering bat.
His captor pressed the dagger harder against his throat. “Enough of this, Lasasha. Let me bleed him here and now so we can be done with it.”
“Be silent!” the woman hissed.
“He’s just another slog,” the man went on. “Abandoned by his own kind. What use is he to us?”
“Harm him, Kitle, and I promise you your slog blood will be next upon the sand.”
The man named Kitle glared at her, his blade still quivering against the Waypman’s throat. “Best keep that tongue in check woman. Wouldn’t want it to get cut during the night.”
The woman moved toward him, her desert tunic unraveling to reveal a scimitar hanging at her side. “You speak like an animal, Kitle. Yet who here has the claws?” She raised her hands, revealing two sets of chipped, uneven claws.
Kitle smiled as he pushed Waypman toward her. “You sure talk tough, woman. Let’s just hope you can back your words when the time comes.”
Waypman stumbled, rubbing his throat with a trembling tentacle.
“I apologize for my companion’s discourtesy,” the woman said. “Some of us have yet to learn that there are those out here who might be called friend.”
Waypman quickly looked her over. Beneath her tunic, he could just make out the faded, gray color of an antiquated laptane suit. Deep scavengers, he thought. He looked into her eyes. They glistened gold as the first rays of dawn cut across the sands. Strange the sands haven’t taken her sight, though.
Sand and Scrap Page 28
