Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  In the distance, Ix sat nestled beside the sea, a great blanket of smog lingering above its uneven rooftops.

  So this is what the realm has become, she thought.

  On the outskirts of the port town, decaying adobe walls and sandblasted foundations stood forgotten and desolate. The old city, Lasasha thought. In her youth, she had visited on a salvage run. But how it has changed since then. Even the main thoroughfare, which had served as the cities access point, stood forlorn and choked with sand. We’ll avoid that path anyway, she thought. The less people who saw them the better.

  “Come,” she said. “We needn’t waste any more time.”

  The ruins stretched in a great arc around the town, two to three blocks deep in places. A perfect sand barrier against the hungry desert, Lasasha thought as they walked down a sand choked alley. But it also harbored dangers. For many of the buildings were now home to adreena junkies and vagrants, all cast outs of the city proper.

  “Keep close,” she whispered to Michael. “And speak to no one.”

  The others followed close behind, their eyes locked on the looming structures. Anything wooden had long since collapsed or burned, the charred piles now buried beneath migrating dunes. But the adobe buildings remained intact, two or three story monuments to the pre-war Ix.

  Lasasha watched the doorways and windows as they passed, her senses attuned to the shadows within. A few emaciated figures stepped into the sunlight, but quickly sunk back into the ruins when they saw her blade.

  “They allow this rabble to squat here?” Kitle asked as several sickly children gazed at him from a third floor window.

  Lasasha watched the children as they slipped back inside. Like herself, many were orphans and bastards, left to fend for themselves after their parents either died or succumb to adreena addiction.

  “They’ve nowhere else to go,” she said. “The city has no care for the outer ring, so they allow them here as long as they don’t damage the structures.”

  Kitle shook his head. “Nothing but a bunch of junkies and bastards, if you ask me.”

  “No one did,” she said. “So best you keep your mouth still.”

  The pirate glared at her, his face bright red. But then he looked at her sword and chuckled. “You’re a feisty one, Kitty. Best not let my tongue run around you, else you may clip my manhood.”

  Lasasha turned from him and sighed. She had never been comfortable outside the sanctuary. Places like Ix and Cumlety harbored little love for her kind. Most traders and merchants just took them for sand pirates and adreena junkies. And unfortunately, many are.

  After a few blocks, the outer structures subsided, giving way to Ix’s newer sand walls and cobble stoned streets.

  “I wonder why they abandoned the outer edge?” Michael said as they entered a cluttered alley. At their feet, the bones of dead rats and dogs lay entangled in garbage and sun-bleached fur.

  Lasasha tightened her wraps, making sure to conceal her face. “They use the older buildings to staunch the tide of the desert. Without them, the sands would have claimed the town long ago.”

  “Smells of slow death here,” Kitle commented as they passed a drunkard lounging beside an empty fountain. Flies buzzed atop his wrinkled, sunburnt face, clustering on his cracked lips. He reached out a gnarled hand to Kitle and muttered something unintelligibly.

  “Pathetic,” Kitle spat, kicking a dead rat into the man’s lap.

  Piles of moldering trash lay strewn in every nook and cranny: bill folds, work receipts, adreena husks. In the shadows, rats burrowed through horse dung and decaying scraps, while roaches and scorpions sifted through piles of rotten fish.

  A monument to our decay, Lasasha thought as they approached Ix’s main square. Shouting voices and clattering hooves, mingled with the steady clang of a blacksmith hammer, beat a steady rhythm as crowds of emaciated men and woman teamed atop the narrow, dung encrusted cobbles of the square.

  “Will take laptane for a call with a woman!!!” a voice cried in Culver standard.

  “Three coinage for a keg of cleansed water!” a gnarled midget shouted from atop a miniature stage as dozens of traders looked on.

  Hundreds of stands lined either side of the road, their owners shouting and haggling beside scrap metal, refurbished weapons, food, clothing, women, men, adreena and thousands of other black market wares.

  As Lasasha led them through the dusty chaos, a half naked man sidled up to Michael and grabbed his arm. “A pound of adreena for a night with my lady,” the lout crooned, thrusting an emaciated girl before him. “Come on, lad! What you say?”

  Lasasha quickly pushed the girl away. “He’s not interested.”

  The pimp cursed at them in some foreign language and then nudged the girl toward better prospects.

  “Where do they all come from?” Michael asked.

  Kitle laughed. “Where do you think, boy?”

  “Scavengers and scags,” Lasasha said. “Here to buy and sell on the black market. Just keep your eyes to yourself and speak to no one.”

  At the southern end of the square, a massive set of decaying docks baked in the noonday sun. Great mobs crowded around them, every eye locked on the bay beyond.

  “A galley’s arrival from Tritan, perhaps,” Kitle shouted above the noise.

  Lasasha walked in silence, ignoring the beggars and whores tugging at her sleeves.

  “The smell is getting worse,” Michael commented.

  Kitle chuckled. “Never smelled the sea before?”

  Michael shook his head.

  A guttural splash erupted in the bay.

  The crowd cheered, arms outstretched to the sky.

  “Something’s got them pretty excited,” Waypman commented as Lasasha lead them to the edge of the docks.

  A great shadow glided back and forth beneath the bay, causing the assembled mob to burst into more cheers.

  “What in the gods is that?” Michael shouted.

  A massive whale breached, it’s girth kicking up an enormous plume of acid as it splashed back down with a guttural thump.

  “A laxore!” Lasasha breathed. “By the gods. . . I’d thought them all but extinct.”

  “Most of em are,” a voice commented.

  Lasasha turned to find a short, stout man standing behind her. He was bald and dark skinned, with crow’s feet on either side of his eyes. Too many turns working beneath the sun, she thought. The stranger wore patched, black laptane pants and an open vest that exposed a massive kraken tattooed upon his chest.

  “If I had a big enough harpoon, I’d plug that one as well,” the man said, winking at Lasasha.

  At the edge of the dock, several children cheered triumphantly. Lasasha inched closer and noticed chunks of rent laptane shark bobbing beneath their toes.

  “What are they doing,” she asked as one of the children dumped a bucket of chum into the water. Within seconds, dozens of fins darted toward the bait, churning the acid into crimson foam.

  “They’re drawing bait for the whale,” the short man said. “Damn waste of laptane, if you ask me.” His breath stank of raw fish and sweat, and his scalp and arms glistened as if covered in oil. In his hand, he gripped a massive harpoon, its tip glinting a razor-sharp edge.

  “Like scavengers to scrap iron, they will come for the bait,” he went on. “Just you watch.”

  Michael stole another glimpse at the man’s chest. Waxy scars marred the intricate tattoo. “You’re a whaler, aren’t you?” he asked.

  The man chuckled. “Is that what they call us now?”

  “Poachers might be a better word,” Kitle said.

  The man chuckled. “Everyone’s got to earn living.” He turned to the bay, his calculating eyes locked on the whale. “Her name is Mircala, that one. One of the last Barrier Laxore.”

  Lasasha’s heart quickened. “I thought they were just a myth.”

  “Most of em, true enough. But not all. The deep-runners still breed south of Alimane. But only every hundred turns.”
>
  The laxore thrashed about in a torrent of frothing acid, its mighty fins kicking green plumes into the sky.

  A beast indeed, Lasasha thought. It would probably take an army just to slow her down.

  “What’s it doing here?” she asked.

  “She’s preparing,” the man replied.

  “Preparing?”

  “For a dive. Some rich gob found himself a Karna-bara and chartered the beast for Tritan.”

  Lasasha’s heart jumped into her throat. “When do they leave,” she asked.

  “Rumor says come first light.”

  Michael stared at the beast, his mouth agape. “They ride inside those things?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” the man replied. “Guided by feed posts situated across the sea.”

  Lasasha’s hand tightened about her sword. “How can we follow it?”

  The whaler turned to her and cocked an eyebrow. “What’s it to you?”

  “Something was stolen from us not more than two days ago. Something I believe will be leaving in the mouth of that beast.”

  The whaler laughed. “A bold claim, my dear. Hundreds would say the same for such a prize.”

  Lasasha bristled with anger. “You think me a liar?”

  “Nay, but a concealed face brings questions.” He raised his hand then, as signaling someone in the crowd. Moments later, a gaggle of scarred wharf rats gathered beside him.

  Lasasha stood fast as the group spread out in a semicircle around them.

  “Who are you, mutie, to ask such questions upon these docks?”

  Lasasha slowly unsheathed her scimitar, sizing each man up. I could take two, she told herself. Maybe three. But not four.

  “She only wants what’s hers,” Michael said.

  The whaler turned to his comrades and chuckled. “We got a tadpole here with some muscle! Perhaps you’re not as useless as you look. Tell me boy, can you handle oar and harpoon?”

  Michael nodded. “Sure as you can.”

  The whaler clacked his harpoon against the rusty dock. “I doubt that, fishy. For this is what I speak of. Not that little sausage dangling between your thighs.” The surrounding rats erupted with laughter.

  “I can handle it,” Michael replied.

  “Very well then, fishy. If it’s the laxore you seek, then Baleard’s Bastard has a home for you. But mind you this… once aboard you work beneath the Kraken. You slack aboard his house and you’ll be thrown to the Acid as sure as a rat.”

  Lasasha slid the scimitar back into its scabbard. “Our business is with the beast, not the Bastard. You’ll have no trouble from us.”

  “Well, then, our paths are now entwined, little kitty.”

  Kitle grabbed Lasasha’s arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Getting us a ride,” Lasasha replied.

  “Aboard a whaler? Are you mad?”

  “You’re free to leave whenever you want.”

  Kitle shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m no fool, woman. Your people owe me a thousand coinage for the supplies I lost back there. Where you go, I go.”

  The whaler grinned. “Bastard is moored on the northern docks. Come before sunup tomorrow and we’ll see if you got what it takes.” And with that, he and his comrades turned and marched back into the crowd.

  “Who should we ask for?” Michael shouted after them.

  “Roe,” the whaler replied. “But you’d do best to call him Kraken.”

  32

  A flock of draba birds circled high above the bay, cawing as the sea lapped its eternal song.

  A graveyard, Lasasha thought as she looked upon the dozens of derelict vessels bobbing in the moonlight. Only we are the ghosts now.

  The Bastard sat beside the last dock, a slumbering titan lashed down with rope and anchor. It was the largest functioning vessel anchored in Ix, its laptane—coated hull stretching almost three hundred footfalls from bow to stern. Of its sails, fifteen adorned its three masts, great pieces of treated laptane flesh which were all currently furled.

  When she was close enough, Lasasha reached out and touched its side. The hull felt cool and slick, the patchwork of laptane flesh concealed beneath a layer of acid-weed and sludge.

  “She’s barely seaworthy,” Waypman said behind her.

  Kitle nodded. “A ripe piece of shit, if you ask me.”

  At the starboard end of the dock, three men sat playing a game of skulls. As the group approached, one of the men rose.

  “What is this?” the young wharf rat asked. “Muties come to join the game?”

  The other men lowered their skulls, frowning at the interruption. They were all dressed the same: crimson laptane suits, the mark of a kraken emblazoned on their chests or foreheads.

  Lasasha stepped before them and bowed. “We’ve come on invitation,” she said. “We were told we might find passage if we were willing to wield harpoon and oar.”

  The whaler smiled, glancing at Harold and Michael. “The Kraken don’t take no squiddys or muties. But we’ll take the lads. Always looking for fresh meat on those long haul runs.”

  The other whalers laughed, followed by a tide of wheezing coughs.

  Lasasha squeezed the scimitar’s pommel. “Your name, whaler?”

  The whaler’s smile widened. “Otre. Otre Mazzle at your service.”

  “Otre Mazzle, tell this Kraken that Lasasha of the Culver wishes to speak with him.” She opened her palm, revealing a glistening blue emerald.

  The whaler stared at it, his eyes wide. “That real?”

  “As real as the sea.” She rolled it across her palm, revealing its many facets. The gem was enormous, probably more valuable than anything he had ever seen. When he reached for it, though, Lasasha made sure to reveal her scimitar dangling at her side.

  “Very well, mutie. If it is the Kraken you seek, then the Kraken you shall have.”

  Lasasha bowed.

  “Remember this, though. . . if you take passage, you are his until we sight land.”

  Lasasha glanced at the decaying vessel. “We shall see.”

  The man chuckled. “Indeed you shall.”

  The darkness was infinite, an impenetrable humid black that swirled around him as the beast groaned and flexed against the depths.

  Gorbin sighed. His mask burned against his sweaty flesh and his body felt cramped and sore. I can’t endure this much longer, he thought as the laxore’s massive gums churned against his legs.

  Beside him, Lyotane and Minwar lay fast asleep. Both had been positioned on the far side of the beast’s gums, free of its pulsating tongue. Gorbin watched them with growing envy. Damn it all, he thought. I need to see the light.

  Four calls crept by as he watched their only source of light, a glass encased candle, gently sway atop Ocane’s lap. Outside, death pounded against the laxore’s body, thousands of tons of Acid pressing in on them like a vice-grip. Gorbin couldn’t help but wonder what other horrors lurked beyond the wall of flesh and muscle. Vile machinations of the Circle, forgotten organisms designed for a dead war? Or perhaps new species were out there, hardened and perfected by evolution’s whims.

  The beast groaned, twisting Gorbin deeper into its gums.

  I must stand! he thought. I must stand now! His legs trembled against the suit’s moistened flesh, his chest tightening as panic set in.

  A few footfalls to his left, Ocane sat studying a laptane-coated map in the flickering candlelight.

  “How much longer?” Gorbin asked, his words muffled by his mask.

  “As long as it takes,” Ocane replied.

  Gorbin swallowed. His flesh was itching like mad and the mask had become unbearably hot. “How do you fucking do this? In the dark like this?”

  Ocane smiled, but didn’t look up as he traced his finger across the map’s many grids and symbols. “You get used to it.”

  Gorbin eyed the map enviously. Sub-topography maps were almost as rare and sought after as Karna-bara chambers. He probably found it on some floundering galley, he thought. P
erhaps even after his beast swallowed her crew. To the best of Gorbin’s knowledge, only a handful still existed, leaving much of the Acid uncharted and forgotten. Yet another wasteland, he thought. Only this one covered more than half the planet.

  Gorbin sat up and craned his neck for a better view. Dozens of islands were etched in the upper right hand corner of the map, each crossed with cryptic runes. Coded. And I’d bet the key most likely died with the mapmaker.

  “How did you come upon that?” Gorbin asked.

  Ocane looked up from his work. “Come upon what?”

  “The map. Such a prize is quite valuable on the markets.”

  The wrangler ran a loving hand across its leathery surface. “It belonged to my father’s father. A man known as the Boatman. He was Supreme Navigator of the Azure Sea before the magic men fouled it.”

  “Azure?” Gorbin let the word role off his tongue. “I haven’t heard it called that in turns.”

  The grizzled whaler sighed. “My father once told me of a time when you could see straight to the bottom of Dendril’s Abyss. Could you imagine that?”

  “I’d rather not,” Gorbin replied. He closed his eyes and recited the familiar mantra: “May the murk hide our horrors. . . and its bite punish our sins.” Is that not a popular saying amongst your breed?”

  Ocane grinned. “You’ve read the Tome?”

  “I have,” Gorbin replied. “One should know the customs of a land if he ever hopes to leave it. Don’t you agree?”

  Ocane nodded, respect glinting in his eyes. “Indeed.”

  “So how many do you suppose saw us leave?” Gorbin asked.

  “Hard to say. But I wouldn’t worry much. We’re safe. . . for now. Or at least until we pass the Fordman’s Feed post.”

  “And beyond that?”

  “Beyond that all Ixian laws dissolve,” Ocane replied. “We’ll be on our own, gob.”

  “Not very reassuring.”

  Ocane reached into his pocket and withdrew a fragment of wood. “See this?”

  “A toothpick?” Gorbin joked.

  Ocane frowned. “This, my friend, belonged to the one thing I do fear out here.”