Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  Gorbin reached out and snatched up the fragment. “Driftwood?”

  Ocane shook his head. “Kraken Roe.”

  Kraken Roe sat on the far side of the Bastard’s forecastle, rubbing his blind eyes with both fists.

  Tria lay upon his bed, watching him with cold indifference. “Does it burn?”

  Kraken tilted his head back and sighed. “As hot as the day they were burned from my skull.”

  Tria rose and approached him, her footfalls as silent as a cat’s. When she knelt down, a floral scent wafted into Kraken’s nose.

  “Something has changed. . . inside of me,” she said. “I know not what, though.”

  Kraken’s malaise faded, if just for a moment. “You’ve not bled?”

  “No. It’s something else. I. . . I feel less in tune with my. . . dose.”

  “You’ve run dry?”

  “No. But the effects. . . they’ve grown more powerful, unbridled even.” She leaned in close, her excited breath wafting against his ear. “I think I’m ready now. Let me try this run.”

  Kraken laughed. “And kill us all? I think not.”

  “But I can control it,” Tria said. “Never before has it been so clear, so close to the surface. Just let me say the words. . . let me be your vengeance and I will show you my worth.”

  Kraken drew in a deep breath. Since the day they met, he knew she would be his undoing. A beggar whore, he thought. Whose stench was so bad even the drunkards kept their distance. He still remembered her standing on that lonely dock, a pale wraith clouded in adreena smoke. But when I tossed you a coin, you offered me more than most. So much more.

  Vengeance.

  And here it was, in the palm of his hand. There could be no turning from it. For nothing less than blood could staunch his undying rage now.

  But at what cost? he asked himself.

  “You’re evil incarnate, woman,” he said, his words barely a whisper.

  Tria smiled. “Evil knows no boundaries.”

  “But I do.”

  Slowly, she slithered between his legs. But as she pulled the sheets from his waist, familiar footsteps plodded up the cabin stairs outside.

  “Captain?” came a muffled voice.

  “What is it, Otre?”

  The deckhand opened the door, but paused when he saw Tria’s bobbing head. “I. . . I have a mutie who wishes passage upon the Bastard.”

  “What does she offer?”

  Lasasha pushed past Otre and entered the dim cabin. She, too, froze at the sight of Tria’s head. “I. . . I am Lasasha, of the Culver downs. My men and I are willing to work oar and harpoon in exchange for passage to the metal city.”

  Kraken homed in on her voice and smiled. “Passage? Does this look like a pleasure skiff?”

  Lasasha tensed, unnerved by Tria’s bobbing head. “The beast that just left port. . . it carries a cargo. A cargo that belongs to me.”

  “And what is this cargo?” Kraken asked.

  “Relics stolen from my homeland.”

  Otre cleared his throat. “A Karna-bara, captain. Brought in by the Scavengers.”

  Kraken sat back and sighed. “Come closer.”

  The mutant cautiously approached, trying her best to ignore the sucking sounds rising from the man’s lap.

  Kraken closed his blind eyes as the orgasm washed over him like a warm tide. When he was through, Tria rose and sat beside him.

  “She is armed,” Tria said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You should slit her throat and feed her to the—”

  Kraken raised his arm, cutting her off. “Excuse her,” he said. “She has little love for land walkers.”

  Lasasha let go of her scimitar but kept her senses alert.

  “Come closer,” Kraken said, reaching out to her, “so I might know your face.”

  Lasasha approached, every nerve on end.

  “Kneel,” he said.

  Lasasha froze.

  “I won’t harm you.”

  Her eyes locked on him, she slowly took to her knees.

  Kraken Roe reached out and took hold of her turban.

  “What are doing?” she asked.

  “You want passage aboard my vessel. I want to know your face. A fair exchange, right?” Slowly, he began unwinding the turban. When the last fold slid free, he gently ran a hand across her naked face.

  “I’ve never known your kind before.”

  “I am but one,” Lasasha replied.

  “Indeed,” he said, his white eyes meeting hers. “But you’ve no need to hide yourself here. We are all brothers aboard the Bastard, all raped and mutilated by this bitch we call the Culver.”

  Lasasha trembled as his callused hands continued to probe her face.

  “By the gods,” he breathed, “you’re a gem washed upon my deck.” He leaned forward then and kissed her cheek. Lasasha went rigid as the warmth of his lips penetrated her fur.

  Tria rose. “Enough!”

  “Be calm woman,” Kraken spat. “My harpoon still belongs to you.”

  Lasasha quickly stepped back as Tria slapped Kraken across the face.

  “I may not be able to please you as much as she,” Tria hissed, “but it is my lips alone that bring fire to your belly.” She then took hold of his cheeks and thrust her tongue deep between his blistered lips.

  When she was through, Kraken sat down and stared at Lasasha. “Several of my hands lost their footing on our last outing. If you want their posts they’re yours.” He smiled then. “But know this. . . aboard the Bastard you will row, harpoon. . . toil and sweat until your flesh shrivels like dried mutton. That is the way of it here. You work or fall into the sea like so many before you.”

  “Very well,” Lasasha said. “When do we depart?”

  Kraken chuckled. “We? There is no we. Just you.”

  “But the others. . . “

  “They are as useless as shit house rats.”

  Lasasha straightened. “Then there is no deal.” She turned toward the door and was about to leave, when Kraken stood.

  “Come, come my dear. I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”

  Lasasha hesitated. “What’s your price?”

  “My men grow bored,” he said. “No sport upon land. I will make a deal with you. Your strongest man verses my champion. If your man lives, you and your companions have passage. If he loses. . . well he’ll be dead as shit and my men will at least have had a show.”

  Lasasha shook her head. “No deal.”

  Kraken laughed. “Dear dear, kitty. . . “

  Disgusted, she turned toward the door. But Otre put his arm out, blocking the exit.

  Kraken approached her, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you no longer have a choice.”

  33

  Uxer impatiently adjusted his baguta mask as he clenched his fists beneath his robe. Night had already fallen, and still the council chattered on without end.

  Perhaps this mask was too much, he thought as a golden fox stared at him from across the chamber. He had selected a plain black, featureless guise from the commander’s personal collection. A drab choice, but one that should have garnered little attention amongst this cunning throng.

  For the other councilmen sat masked in the finest bagutas in all the Isle: gold plated jester faces, bronze animal casts, long nosed fiend styles tipped with ebony and rubies. An unnecessary show of wealth, considering the masks’ true function was anonymity.

  A ripe odor lingers in the air, Uxer thought as he scanned the anxious crowd. Dozens of plump figures chortled and whispered, lavish robes and gaudy jewelry clinging to their bloated flesh.

  The elite, he thought with a snort.

  The rulers and the lawmakers, Overwatch dregs dripping sweat beside minor clansman and Culver ambassadors. Every now and then, a glint of torchlight reflected off a gold ring or jewel-encrusted bracelet, precious minerals wasted on fattened lambs.

  They live like kings whilst the rest of the realm rots beneath the sun, he thought. His blood boiled.
He had been a slave to them his entire life, these wretches and cravens, while turn after turn his gifts had been squandered on the dome and other janitorial tasks.

  But all that will soon change.

  Standing opposite him, a group of Overwatch lords donning jester masks and lockets fashioned from meridium stones whispered amongst themselves. Arrogance! Uxer screamed within. They pay nothing but arrogance and insult to the hundreds who died to obtain such ore. But enraged as he was, his salivary glands still excreted at the sight. His body thirsted for the mineral, craved its electrical power. And it always will.

  The chamber door swung open and the assembly fell silent. Moments later, Prince Pryln entered with his steward and bodyguard in tow.

  At least now I know the source of the stench, Uxer thought as the young prince turned his blue eyes on the awaiting council members. A boy of seventeen, Pryln’s face was pallid and pocked with pimples and acne sores. A brilliant facade, though, Uxer thought. For like his father before him, a viper hid beneath that childish mask.

  The boy-prince approached the podium, a childish grin upon his face. “Welcome, friends,” he said, the remnants of puberty still clutching to his voice. “It’s been long since I gathered you here. Too long, though, I fear.” His bodyguard, a man named Carden Map, stood silent at his side, his aging face an emotionless mask. “Certain happenings in the Culver have forced my hand and I’m afraid I must seek your council.”

  He surrounds himself with louts and now asks them for council, Uxer thought as Carden cracked his swollen knuckles. The bodyguard stood six footfalls tall, a tower of muscle and fat hidden beneath a shell of blood-red armor. The hand to the master’s voice, Uxer thought. Torture, banishment, blackmail, death; they were the tools of his trade. Tools he had used on Uxer’s friends in turns passed.

  He’ll know his own pain in time, though, Uxer thought with smug satisfaction.

  “Famine ravages the Vein of Krill,” the prince went on, “and the western realm is wracked with plague.” Upon hearing this, the councilmen noticeably stirred. Had they really no clue, though? Uxer wondered.

  “Cleansing in both the Blasted Fields and the Blackened Stix crawls at a snail’s pace, while lawless scavengers flourish abroad.” The prince picked up a piece of parchment and tossed it on the floor. “And now I receive word that a Karna-bara chamber has surfaced in the desert near Ix. One believed to contain twenty ton of pure meridium ore.”

  A stir rippled through the crowd.

  “The atuan?” someone asked. “Menutee’s atuan.”

  Pryln shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Many such caches are rumored to be about.”

  Uxer felt his flesh tingle. Perhaps he doesn’t yet know of the attempt. It was unlikely, but there was a chance word had yet to arrive. After all, the Waste was at least a month’s journey from the Isle, and that was if weather conditions permitted.

  Uxer’s chest tightened at the thought of the debacle. Twelve guards and eighteen contractors. . . all dead or missing. And the chamber lost to a Tarnak worm, no less. A mess, he thought. A ripe, filthy mess indeed. One of his lovers, Kale, was listed amongst the missing, and by now Uxer figured him dead. The only bit of luck that had come from the entire enterprise was the return of a sole informant. But he had only lived long enough to give Uxer’s men a fragmented account of the fight.

  At the podium, the prince unsheathed a rusty dagger and held it up. “What is this, Carden?”

  The enormous bodyguard stepped forward, a look of bewilderment upon his face. “A dagger, sire?”

  “And what good is a dagger without a hand to wield it?”

  Carden stirred uncomfortably as every eye turned to him. “Useless… sire.”

  “Correct!” The prince slammed it into the top of the podium. As the blade twanged back and forth, he scanned the councilmen’s masked faces. “Much is the same in a kingdom without water or life, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Carden looked dumbfounded. “I. . . I suppose so, your grace?”

  “It’s been almost eighty turns since we wrangled the Chargers to our cause, yet still our realm lacks the lifeblood to raise even the most basic crops.” The prince’s fragile demeanor lifted, revealing the viper hidden below.

  “This realm. . . it’s nothing but a tomb!” he shouted. “The promise of renewal is but a sour song whispered across foolish tongues!

  “A hundred turns have passed since war’s end, and we have yet to clean even half the Waste. Half!” Pryln’s eyes narrowed, torchlight reflecting within. “What good is a kingdom without the promise of life and prosperity? What good is a sword without a pommel for which to grip?” The prince pulled the blade from the podium and tossed it across the floor. The councilmen sat stunned, their breath held behind their masks.

  “I’ve thought long and hard on this matter. And I’ve decided that by turn’s end we are to scale back all cleansing operations in the Culver. From now on all Overwatch and Circle assets will be focused on the Eastern realm and our outposts closest to Tritan and Ix.”

  There was a unified murmur amongst the council as the prince’s words sunk in.

  In the back row, an ancient man rose clad in the black—and—white checkered cloak of the Tulny Clan. “I beg your pardon, my young lord,” he said, his voice muffled by his serpentine baguta, “but what do we hope to accomplish with this? The people already hold us in contempt for the famine ravaging the west and central plains. To scale back any further will only insight outrage on the fringe colonies.”

  The prince closed his eyes and sighed. “It is not in my interest to wring contempt from the people. In fact, my intentions are quite the opposite.”

  Now it was Uxer’s turn to stiffen. What is this fop scheming at?

  “May I ask what your intentions are then, sire?”

  “Certainly.” The prince stepped down from the podium, his hands clasped behind his back. “In one month’s time I am putting an end to the Tritan embargo.”

  A startled gasp rippled through the council.

  Two men sitting beside Uxer stood, their identical features concealed beneath the blue cloak and wolf baguta of the Cremwala Clan. “Sire,” the one Uxer knew to be Trax said. He was Master of Interior, and twin brother to Tryk. A hardheaded man, but one Uxer knew to be loyal to the Circle.

  “Forgive my impertinence,” Trax continued, removing his mask, “but the embargo cannot be broken. Not even by the Overwatch. Only your father or his appointee can annul it.”

  The prince smiled. “I am his appointee.”

  Trax cocked an eyebrow. “Are you now?”

  “My father and I may have harbored ill feelings for one another, but we righted our blood before his passing.”

  Uxer scoffed. That you did, you little viper. With an assassin’s dart. Others knew the truth as well, but few would openly contest it. The boy’s ascension had lined many pockets, both enemy and ally alike. To try and shatter that would be a death sentence.

  “The embargo has done nothing but staunch the development of the realm and weaken the Tritan trade routes between Alg and Garfax,” the prince went on. “To dissolve it is to move forward.”

  Trax’s twin, Tryk, spoke this time. “But, sire, the gobs… are they not responsible for the situation we now find ourselves in? After all, when Menutee’s dogs turned on the realm, was it not Tritan who supplied them with weapons?”

  “True,” the prince proclaimed, “but a new breed now dwells on the metal island, a new generation who wish to make amends for their grandparents’ deeds.”

  Indignant grumbles rumbled throughout the chamber.

  “It is the way of it, my. . . loyal. . . servants,” the prince said, making no effort to hide his contempt. “All trade will recommence with Tritan by month’s end.”

  “This is a serious gesture, my lord,” Trax said. “Should it have been kept secret from the council?”

  The prince smiled. “Oh, the council knew. . . at least those I deemed fit.” Pryln approached a tapestry depi
cting the lay of the Culver and pointed to an area colored in gray. “Carden has received reports that the Karna-bara has resurfaced here, on the outskirts of Ix. If it truly is Menutee’s atuan, and I have it on good word that it is, we could buy Tritan’s loyalty, as well as their trade routes, in one fell swoop.”

  A man donning the Circle’s traditional black cloak stepped beside the prince. Nimran, Uxer thought, bile creeping up his throat. A traitor and Overwatch lackey who had helped strip the Circle of much of its power. All in exchange for access to the Isle labs. And however much meridium he desired for his experiments.

  The man’s large, crooked nose poked through the limp folds of his hood and his lips glowed crimson as he approached a flickering sconce.

  “Our prince has the right of it,” he said, his voice sour and cracked from meridium addiction. “This is an opportunity we should embrace, not abhor. The contents of the chamber are life and we must harness it before others turn it against us.”

  “Harness it for the Circle, you mean!” a voice cried.

  “This is unheard of!”

  “The Circle should have no access to meridium!”

  Pryln shook his head. “I intend to parcel it off as incentive to those realms hesitant to cooperate. If that fails, I will use it to buy trade routes with not only Tritan, but Tarnak and Uldum as well.”

  “Uldum?” Trax spat. “We’re to trade with barbarians and cannibals now?” Silence befell the council as the twin approached the podium. “We should destroy it. . . destroy it and Tritan along with it.”

  Dissension amongst the ranks, Uxer thought. This may be of use later on. But only if Trax lived long enough. For accidents frequented those who openly opposed the prince. And sometimes worse.

  “And how would that serve the realm?” Nimran asked Trax. “To discard such a tool. . . would be foolhardy at best. Our brotherhood still holds much knowledge of the ore. With this gift we can harness power beyond anything we’ve ever dreamed. Possibly even cleanse the Waste itself.”

  Uxer again felt his blood boil. To betray the Circle was one thing. But to turn from Menutee’s doctrine was absolute treachery. He means to experiment with it. To use the Waste as his own playground. Chip up the rock and parcel it out to the wealthiest families. It was an abominable thought.