Something then stirred in the crook of the woman’s arm, a little yellow ball of fur that quickly drew Waypman’s attention.
“By the gods,” he breathed.
The woman smiled, stroking the cat’s head with her paw. “Perhaps,” she said. “One so vulnerable normally finds a quick death out here. He was lucky I found him when I did.”
“I know this creature,” Waypman said, his tentacle outstretched. “He must have hidden in the wagon.”
Lasasha continued to stroke its head. “You should take better care then. He was about to step onto a nagra when I found him.” Lasasha lifted the cat to her eyes. “He’s ignorant to the dangers of this place. If you wish to be his guardian, best learn that quick.”
Waypman shook his tentacle at her. “Give it here.”
Without argument, Lasasha passed the cat into his arms. “My name is Lasasha,” she said. “And my impatient comrade here is Kitle.”
Waypman stepped back and took another look at the woman. She stood two footfalls higher than her companion, her face covered in patches of mottled black fur. Her eyes twinkled gold in the dark, a stark contrast to her companion’s cold, dead gaze, and her nose and mouth were formed like those of a cat. Desert born, that one, he thought. He’d heard about her kind when he first set foot in the Culver. Children of nomads and traders, all tainted by the war and exiled to the Waste. In a way, he had always pitied them.
“Waypman,” he said. “Waypman Belnur.”
“Waypman?” a new voice said. A figure emerged from behind the dune.
“I know you friend?” Waypman said.
Michael Carter stepped forward, a surprised smile creasing his pallid face. “We were on the same work-crew,” he told Lasasha. He extended a hand to Waypman. “It’s good to see a familiar face again.”
Shocked, Waypman took the boy’s hand. “Indeed,” he replied. “I’d thought you were dead.”
Lasasha watched the two closely and then gestured toward Harold. “What’s wrong with that one?”
Waypman sighed. “He was our mystic on the cleansing run. They took him away when we got back. You can see what they. . . did. . . to him.”
Michael approached the boy and knelt down beside him. “He’s in a bad way,” he said. “He needs a healer.”
Kitle kicked a piece of debris over the crater’s edge. “Just what we need. . . two more broken louts slowing us down.”
Lasasha stared at Harold for a few more moments and then turned to Waypman. “Can you wield a sword, Garfaxman?”
Waypman nodded. “If need be.”
“Very well then.” Lasasha unsheathed a dagger hidden at her back and handed it to him. “We’ll take you both as far as we can,” she said. “But if your friend slows us down we leave him behind.”
“He won’t slow us down,” Waypman said.
Michael nodded. “I’ll help if it comes to it. We’d still be rotting on the lines if it weren’t for him.”
“And you would have been better off,” Kitle said. “A few days out here without food and water and even hell will seem like an oasis.”
Lasasha stepped past Michael and stared at the worm track. “Very well,” she said. “But he’s your responsibility now. The both of you. What we chase outweighs all our lives. Understand?”
Michael nodded. “We’ll keep up, don’t worry.”
“Worry is all I have left now,” Lasasha laughed.
Moments later, the first rays of morning light splashed across the dune. As Waypman stared at it, the cat cradled in his trembling arms, he could think of nothing but its glorious, warm glow.
So beauty can exist out here, he thought as the cat purred against his chest. Let’s not let it end here.
And with that, the group turned toward the worm track and began their long journey north.
25
The jackals cautiously approached the massive corpse, sniffing the frozen air as their claws crunched atop the freshly fallen snow.
We should leave it and press on, the alpha male thought. Behind him, the pack stirred impatiently, tendrils of drool dripping from their trembling jaws. They were hungry and exhausted, their normal game trails all but covered beneath the strange white death enveloping the sands.
Something is changing here, the alpha male thought. Elementals aside, the weather patterns were fairly stable and predictable. But no longer. Now icy breaths of air engulfed entire swaths of desert without warning. Since sunrise, the frosty poison had compacted atop the cool, night sand like an alien skin. And to the south, a trio of cyclones danced across the desert floor, their eerie howls echoing in every direction.
The desert is no longer our friend, the alpha thought.
Cautiously, he approached the worm, his head dipped low as he studied the massive carcass’s scent. When he was close enough to touch its frozen side, he nudged it with his nose.
Dead.
Behind him, the pack waited atop blistered paws, their thinning fur matted and alive with dancing flies. The alpha male closed his eyes, exhausted. If he failed this morning, if the worm wasn’t palatable, his reign as their leader would come to a bloody end.
When he was sure it was safe, the alpha male howled long and hard, signaling the pack to follow. As they slowly approached, he slithered into the worm’s cracked hide.
Meat! he thought, staring wide-eyed at the beast’s frozen innards. Enough to fill a thousand bellies!
Outside, the entire pack swarmed around the worm, every claw slicing at the leathery hide as they jostled for the choicest spots.
Above the carcass, gliding on a gentle wind, a flock of draba birds watched the frenzy with excited awe. Like the jackals, they too were on the brink of starvation, and the sight of the feast only heightened their hunger.
Squawking jubilantly, the winged draba swooped down and drilled into the leathery flesh. As they burrowed in, a pack of sand scorps rounded a distant mound. Their pincers clacked in eerie unison as their barbed tails lashed at the snow covered sand.
Behind the scorps, some thousand footfalls to the west, the desert came alive as sand sharks and dune hunters broke from their subterranean hideouts and approached the worm.
Meanwhile inside the beast, the alpha male continued to tear at the icy sinew, ignoring the snap and slap of the newly arrived hunters outside. Only when he was full, did he finally sit back and watch as his mates gorged on their bounty. Their bellies would be full this night, that much he was sure of. And none would dare challenge him until the next hunt.
As jaws snapped and chewed, a strange light began to bloom in the worm’s gullet. At first, none of the creatures noticed. But when the alpha male let out a howl, the feast ground to an abrupt halt.
The light throbbed, growing brighter with every second. Most of the creatures fled back into the desert. But not the alpha male.
I alone must see to this, he thought.
Sand sharks and nagra parted before him as he approached the throbbing light. It was blinding, a wall of cold white without detail or purpose. He closed his eyes, but still the light penetrated his lids. As he became disoriented, panic quickly set in. His neck muscles tensed and his eyes began to burn. But I must go on. For if he turned back now, the pack would tear him to shreds and replace him with the next in line.
He lowered his head, attempting to block out the light. Meanwhile, ice slowly crystallized atop his fur and paws. He tried howling, but his snout was already frozen shut. And all the while the light grew brighter, its core expanding until it encompassed the entire back of the worm’s throat.
Outside, several scorps scuttled back into the desert, abandoning their companions inside the carcass. Even the draba birds tried burrowing back to the surface. But as they spun through the frozen carcass, their bodies quickly froze and shattered in two.
The alpha male stood helpless, entombed and numb. Behind him, the pack howled in agony as frozen limbs snapped and mates struggled to chew themselves free.
With what little energy he
had, the alpha forced his frozen eyes open one last time. White light instantly assaulted his retina’s, causing him to cry out in pain. Blinded, he scampered about helplessly until a wave of warmth washed across his body.
A call then echoed in the distance. A long, familiar howl reverberating deep in the alpha’s soul. But you’re gone. . . dead eight winters ago, he told himself. But there it was again. And much closer.
He stepped forward, hovering atop the ground. When he turned to see if anyone was watching, he saw his body lying behind him encased in ice.
What is happening to me?
Without will, he began drifting toward the light. For an instant he saw other forms dissolving into the chamber: sand sharks, draba birds, humans. Every form of life he’d ever known or feared drifting into the unknown.
And then it was his turn.
I’m coming mother, he thought as he gifted himself to the light, to her familiar call. I’m coming home.
Shadows materialized against the northern horizon, skulking forms back lit by the sun. As they drew closer, individual shadows broke from the mob and spread out across the desert. Behind them, a dozen wagons and lumbering felltowers slowly rose above the curve of the planet.
At the head of the caravan, a dozen krill scanned the sand, their infrared vision probing the sand for nagra and sand sharks.
When the largest krill stopped, its cluster of eyes locked on the patch of sand before it, a voice boomed above the growing wind.
“Hold!”
Several of the enormous felltowers let out guttural moans, as the massive wagons behind them rolled to a halt.
Silence quickly fell upon the sands, only to be broken by a loud whistle.
Seconds later, the krill spread out at the bottom of a small depression, their dead, black eyes probing the sand.
The leader of the clan, Unith Wi, dropped down from his wagon, his krill quickly scuttling to his side. We’re not alone, the scavenger thought as he pet the anxious spider.
Back in the depression, the krill swiftly poked their legs beneath the sand. When the lead krill retracted its appendage, a strange rattling sound arose beneath the sand.
Unith froze. “Nagra! Stay in the wagons!”
With a snap, a set of massive jaws slammed around the krill, killing it instantly. Blood oozed from the nagra’s jaws, clotting the sand as it dragged the krill beneath the desert.
“Jenwa. . . Apen!” Unith shouted. “Bring the matrons forward.”
A pair of scavengers scrambled to the front of the caravan and opened the two enormous cages mounted in the back of Unith’s wagon. Six female krill immediately bound onto the sand, emitting wild shrieks as their greasy black fur glittered beneath the sun.
“Spread them out,” Unith ordered. “We may have encountered a hive.”
The two scavengers uncoiled leather whips and began snapping them at the beasts’ feet, driving them forward until they formed a circle around the depression.
“Begin,” Unith shouted.
The wranglers each withdrew a vile of red liquid from their suits and poured its contents onto the ground before the matrons. Within seconds, the spiders erupted into a mad frenzy, driving their black fangs deep into the sand and excreting their deadly venom.
A scavenger named Palon shuffled up beside Unith, his guide-krill hissing at his feet. “How many?” he asked.
Unith raised his chin. “One. . . so far. Full grown, though.”
Several horrific grunts resonated in the distance, as six dying nagra burst from the sand. Their strange, bear trap bodies snapped and shuddered as the krill venom disintegrated their flesh.
When the last nagra lay dying on the sand, Unith sighed. “Elder hive. There shouldn’t be any this close to the Ripple.”
“Perhaps the elementals drove them in,” Palon said.
“Who can say. The desert is raging. She no longer abides old habits.”
Palon turned back to the caravan. “Should we make camp once it’s clear?”
“No.”
“But we’ve covered over a thousand dunes.”
“We go on,” Unith said. “The desert stirs uneasy. I’m hard pressed to read her of late.”
Palon shook his head.
“You wish me softer, don’t you lad?”
“I only seek what the men are owed,” Palon replied. “We have great salvage this night: a hundred tonnage, including Mikrowen’s Bell. The men should not be marched any further with such a load.”
Unith turned to him, his gray, blind eyes unblinking. “We will march as far as I say, lad. Even if it means death to the last man. Understand?”
Palon hesitantly nodded.
“You still resent me because of what happened in the Boiler Fields, don’t you?”
Palon’s krill brushed against his ankle, the thorny fur catching the fabric of his cloak.
“Yes.”
“It was his fate,” Unith said. “A broken leg would have cost us two barrels beneath this sun.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”
Unith inched closer, pressing his lips against the man’s ear so no others could hear. “If it had been me, you would have done the same.”
“I think not,” Palon hissed.
At this Unith scoffed. Two dozen suns had passed since he’d left the boy in the Boiler Fields. His own flesh and blood. He was weak, though. He would have taken us all with him, he thought. That is the way of the desert and it can’t be broken. Not even by me.
“Then you should have watched him closer,” Unith said. “Perhaps then he would still be alive.”
Palon stood silent, ashamed. The sand master was right, of course. It had been his charge to watch over the boy and he had failed.
And now it is your guilt to bare, not mine, Unith thought.
A whistle echoed in the distance, a single toot followed by three quick bursts.
“They’ve found something,” Palon said. “Ice, if I heard the call correctly.”
Unith raised his own whistle to his lips and blew a quick reply.
“Could be a good omen,” Palon went on. “Water is running low. And some of the felltowers are sun-sick.”
Footfalls approached from the north, the hurried scuttle of krill followed by a scavenger’s blind gait.
The exhausted runner knelt down before Unith and wheezed: “We’ve found a Tarnak worm, sand master. Frozen to the core in a northern depression. Fifteen hundred footfalls from here.”
Unith smiled, his blind, milky white eyes gazing northward.
“Should I bring the salvage wagons forward?” Palon asked.
“No. Send your pet first, Palon. If it returns, then bring up the wagons.”
Palon hesitated, his hands balling into fists.
Unith cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
Palon swallowed. He knew the laws, but every fiber in his being wanted to tell the sand master to go to hell. “No,” he finally replied. He turned toward his krill and loosened the guide chain. Moments later, he heard it run off toward the depression.
“We shouldn’t linger,” Unith said. “The elementals are growing erratic. To take down a Tarnak. . . that is power beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”
Palon clenched his teeth, boiling with silent rage. He wanted to pummel Unith, soak the sand with so much of his blood every sand shark for miles would come to feast on his corpse. But the sand master was right. And no matter Unith’s faults, the clan leader had a sixth sense when it came to the desert and its erratic weather patterns. Something Palon could never do.
“I fear dark tides are coming,” Unith went on.
Palon tensed. “Sand master?”
“Rumors are circulating amongst the markets. Omens and children’s tales come to life. I’ve even heard whispers of a comet looming in the sky.”
“I know these rumors,” Palon said. “Hogwash. I’m sure.”
Unith turned toward Palon’s voice, his face a blank mask. “And the men? Do they whisper such tidings
as well?”
“Some are afraid, yes,” Palon replied. “As for the others. . . they think we should leave the Waste all together. Take solace in Alg or Garfax.”
“Solace with jungle savages and mutants?” Unith said. “Phhha! Pirates and dregs, all. Our place is atop the sand.”
“All the same, the men do whisper,” Palon went on. “And it isn’t beyond reason to think that perhaps the Waste has been plucked clean, that it’s time to move toward more fertile ground.”
Unith slammed his fist against the side of his wagon. “A bunch of blind women I’ve got here! Have we not scoured these sands for nigh on twenty turns? Have we not located the city Havren? Or Kron and Lil, which were both buried in the north for almost a hundred turns? Do these prizes ring empty to you? Are they not worth enduring the worst fire storms in hell?”
Palon shrugged. “Dead men can do little with such wealth. That is all I know.”
“Then you know nothing,” Unith spat. He drew in a deep breath, exhaling exhaustedly. When he calmed, he raised the whistle back to his lips and blew another call.
Five men lead by their krill quickly scurried toward the wagon and bowed. Unith listened intently to their arachnids as they hissed and snapped. Our only links to the world, he thought with a heavy heart. He’d never liked the creatures; they were a sign of his people’s weakness and vulnerability. Yet without them, we would be nothing but blind beggars crawling along the Cumlety lines. This fact enraged him.
We are the Blind Scavengers, he told himself. We tread where no man dare. We own the Waste. It is our glory, not theirs. But even as he told himself this, doubt tugged at his soul.
Things are changing, a voice inside said. There is no denying that. And not in your favor.
“The Tarnak,” Unith said. “Meat and salvage rests within. Take the krill forward and check for traps. If it’s safe, bring the felltowers forward and salvage it out.”
Sand and Scrap Page 29
