Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  Our window is closing, Uxer thought. The White Scythe would pass them by in a fortnight. And if his calculations were correct, it would not return for another hundred turns. Without the atuan, Menutee’s plan would be dead.

  “So it is your intention to reinstate the Circle?” Trax asked.

  “Of course not,” the prince replied. “But it would be foolish not to utilize their skills.”

  A tangle of angered and fearful voices erupted amongst the council. Several of the older members rose and stormed from the chamber.

  Feigning indifference, the prince continued. “My father’s father believed meridium to hold the secrets of life, and that within it, we could harness all creation and control nature itself. I believe this to be true.”

  “But wasn’t that the same belief which got us into this mess in the first place?”

  The council members turned toward the voice in unison. Overwatch Chieftain Brent Larl stood in the back of the chamber, his armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. Another relic, Uxer thought as the aging soldier marched through the parting assembly.

  “I hear rumors every day, my lord,” the Chieftain said. “Whispers of meetings in the shadows. . . plots and gears churning into motion. It’s even been brought to my attention that meridium stores have been mysteriously vanishing. Seems there is much that remains unspoken here.”

  Pryln chuckled. “You are too paranoid, Brent.”

  “It’s my job to be paranoid, sire.” His balding head glowed in the light, his face a patchwork of scars and wrinkles. “And my duty to protest this newfound warmth for both the Circle and Tritan. Your father, the king, set these laws in place for a reason, sire.”

  The prince shook his head and sighed. “Brent. . . dear, sweet Brent. So stuck in the old ways. Like my father, you’re an anachronism. A rusty sword without edge.” He approached the chieftain and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “If you were ever my father’s man, be mine now,” he whispered. “I need you, Brent. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious of its secrets?”

  “No,” Brent replied. “The only secrets that concern me are those spun by these foaming lap dogs who surround you. Look at them, cowering behind their masks! Can’t you see, my lord? They drool over your throne like dogs over a piece of meat. By doing this… you give them the keys to your power, to the realm. Your realm.”

  The prince shook his head. “Your paranoia blinds you, Brent.”

  “But my lord,” the chieftain pleaded. “There are motives here that your young mind cannot see.”

  Pryln’s eyes narrowed, the boyish grin all but gone. “My young mind sees much, Brent! It sees how you and your men loaf about the Isle in search of assassins and spies, while scavengers and bandits roam the Waste, plundering what few commodities remain. It sees black marketers flooding our ports and cities, spreading false coinage and disease to every corner of the realm, whilst you and your louts sit back telling tales of forgotten exploits.”

  “I only wish to protect and serve the realm, sire,” Brent said. “If I have failed you in this, I will gladly forfeit my post.”

  The prince tightened his grip on the chieftain’s shoulder. “But I want you to serve me, Brent.” The chieftain turned from the prince’s gaze. “It’s been many turns since the Meridium War. Many ideologies have changed, including those of the Circle. Religious fanaticism no longer guides their quest. This is for the Culver, Brent. For our tomorrow.”

  “This is folly, sire. Unjust folly.” Brent reached up and unclasped the prince’s hand from his shoulder. “And in this I cannot follow you.”

  Pryln stood silent as his chieftain turned his back and exited the chamber.

  The boy expected his loyalty, Uxer thought with a grin. This could bode in our favor.

  The councilmen slowly began to chatter amongst themselves. A few even sat grinning behind their masks as plots churned in their minds. Uxer laughed. This was a major break in command; the chieftain held the Overwatch’s loyalty, and with that the Culver army. A hero of the Meridium War, Larl had led countless campaigns against the Chargers, even slayed Menutee’s second in command at the Battle of the Falls. In the right hands this break could prove quite a weapon.

  “Silence!” Carden shouted.

  The man next to Uxer nudged him in the side. “You’re somewhat quiet, General. Shouldn’t you bring your lapdog to bay before the Prince has him hanged?”

  Uxer turned toward the masked man and frowned. Alant Drew. Isle treasurer and closet adreena addict. Another Overwatch Loyalist. “My interests lay with the prince,” he replied, his new voice startling him. “Brent is on his own now.”

  Alant laughed. “My, my. . . such loyalty these days.”

  When the room finally quieted, the prince carried on. “Our secrecy was an unfortunate yet necessary precaution. Far too many tongues run loose these days. It would have done us no good if the realm learned of our plans without due cause. Besides, there are other. . . stakes… on the table now.”

  “Oh?” said Trax. “And what might these. . . stakes. . . be?”

  Uxer eyed the twin. They had been friends during his service atop the spire. But like most men, elevation had transformed Trax into an Overwatch dog. An unfortunate byproduct of ambition and blind faith, Uxer thought. And that is why you have no place amongst us now, Trax.

  The prince plodded up to his throne and tossed himself down atop its velvet cushions. “As a gesture of good faith,” he said, “I’ve agreed to deliver Yaro’s son back to the metal city.”

  Trax raised his eyebrows. “And with whom was this. . . deal. . . struck?”

  “Magistrate Alchemist Yaro III himself” Pryln replied.

  Trax chuckled. “And I suppose the son will be eager to return home, yes? A traitor convicted of selling secrets to his father’s sworn enemies?”

  The prince lifted a goblet to his lips and took a slow, indifferent sip. Uxer watched him intently. There was another layer to this madness that had yet to reveal itself. Yaro’s son lived beneath the Overwatch’s protection; it was his payment for selling them Tritan secrets. And if not for that one, Uxer thought, we would still be fifteen turns behind their knowledge. Why turn him over now?

  “He has his uses,” Pryln said.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but what use is a traitor?”

  Pryln sat back and gulped down his wine. “The father wishes his return. Albeit, minus a head.”

  A man scoffed beside Uxer. “Spiders eating their own. Why not just ransom the gob for new machines and smelt the meridium ourselves?”

  The prince gazed long and hard at his subjects, a sudden sadness upon his face. “Many of you do not stand with me on this, do you?”

  Uxer stirred uncomfortably as the prince’s eyes met his own. Too many twists were coiling in his plot. Too many uncertainties. It will be all I can do to keep this prince in line, he thought as sweat trickled down his new face. And now I must contend with Tritan as well as the Overwatch?

  Two rows behind him, a man stood, his ancient bones popping. “This is a bad direction, my lord.”

  Prince Pryln smiled. “And what direction would you take, Qaldemus? You. . . one of Menutee’s own. . . you think this folly to consider such action?”

  The old man removed his mask and dropped it on the floor. “My lineage has made missteps in its past, yes. But we have paid our dues. In this, though… this foolishness… we can play no part.” The old man removed the Circle’s traditional black cloak and tossed it at the prince’s feet. “What is past is prologue,” he muttered. “Remember that, my lord, and perhaps you will avoid your father’s fate.” With that said, he turned and stormed from the chamber.

  Another asset that may prove of some worth, Uxer thought as he watched the man go.

  Trax approached the throne and knelt before the prince. “My lord,” he whispered. “I am your sworn alchemist, a link in your iron mail. But some of what they say is true. To gift them such a quantity of meridium and remove the embargo. .
. Lord, I beg you to reconsider.”

  Pryln smiled at him. “This is the only way, my friend.”

  “But to allow the Circle to practice again,” Trax said. “And alongside the Tritanese, no less? Too much power will be relinquished.”

  Pryln leaned forward and put a finger to his servant’s lips. “The Circle serves me now, not Menutee,” he whispered. “There will be no sacrifices to alien gods, no promises of a world without sun or sea. This is for the benefit of us all. For Culver.”

  Trax shook his head. “But my father. . . did he die in vain only to have the flood gates reopened by a. . . “

  The prince’s eyes begged caution. “By a. . . ?

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Trax said, “but you’re still but a. . . child. You have much to learn in the ways of politics and power.”

  Pryln sat silent for a moment, his expression surprisingly calm. “I can assure you I am no ordinary child, Trax,” he finally said. “My father taught me well before his death, whether he knew it or not. And now I am your prince, and you will follow me into the fire if I command it.” He placed a hand on the twin’s cheek. “We will fix this broken Culver, with or without you, Trax. That I can promise.”

  Trax glanced over his shoulder at the council. “Is there no one who will stand against this madness?”

  Uxer swallowed as the prince cupped Trax’s cheeks in his palms.

  “You have been my loyal servant for many turns, Trax,” the prince said. “But if you will not follow me down this path, then you must take your own.” And with that, he withdrew a dagger from his belt and thrust it deep into Trax’s throat.

  Uxer gasped in shock as the twin stumbled backward, blood pulsating through his trembling fingers. For a moment Trax stood stunned, wavering before the prince. But then with a final look of horror, he collapsed in a pool of blood.

  Tryk looked on emotionlessly as the prince leaned down and cleaned the blade on his twitching brother’s robe. He had little love for Trax, and with him out of the way the twin could rise unopposed as head of his clan.

  The rest of the council sat stunned, their collective breath held.

  With a sigh, Pryln sheathed the dagger and slumped back down on his throne. “A message must be sent to the four corners of the Culver,” he said. “Time runs short, and there’ll be more dissension in the coming days.” He tapped his foot nervously, his eyes clenched as he pondered some unspoken thought. “If we are to succeed we must re-claim the chamber now and make the move for Tritan.”

  Tryk grinned, his golden teeth glinting in the torchlight. “Indeed,” he purred, stepping forward over his brother’s corpse. “My horsemen will deliver tidings across the Waste on the morrow. By months end the chamber will stand before you.” As he bowed, a pair of guards lifted Trax’s corpse and dragged it from the chamber.

  Much has to be changed now. . . too much, Uxer thought as he glanced at the enormous map on the wall. By day’s end he would have to dispatch messengers to Ix. If luck was with him, they might reach this gob prince, Gorbin, before he departed for Tritan.

  With the meeting at an end, Pryln and his bodyguards exited the chamber through a portal located behind his throne. When the door shut behind them, the council quickly awoke from its shocked silence and erupted into chaos.

  “By the gods!” someone said. “He’s gone mad.”

  “This will break the Isle.”

  “What of the eastern realm?”

  A man rose behind Uxer, his bloated stomach giggling as he made his way toward the rear exit. “It’s heresy, I say. To turn our backs on the realm like this…”

  “Keep your tongues in check, fools,” Tryk shouted. “Unless you want the same end as my brother.”

  Uxer silently followed the councilmen as they spilled into the outer tunnels. If only those fools hadn’t failed the first time, Uxer thought as he plodded back toward the docks. The debacle in the desert had cost him over a dozen men, two of which were fellow Chargers. And still the chamber’s fate remained unwritten.

  Uxer sighed. By now Lorp would be awaiting him back at the Commander’s quarters. And perhaps word from the Culver as to the chamber’s whereabouts.

  Don’t count on it, though, Uxer told himself as he walked the lonely, torch lit passage. Good tidings are in high demand these days, with few honest tongues to spread them.

  34

  Harold sat at the edge of the docks, as far from the Bastard as possible. Behind him, men shouted and laughed aboard the great vessel; it was the final celebration before the Bastard went to sea and the crew was making the most of it.

  Harold looked down at his arm. He wore one of the new laptane suits given to him by the Bastard’s property master. It was a tight fit and much oilier than what he was used to. He itched the alien flesh, cursing the day he’d been born.

  I’m forever shamed now, he thought as he looked at his refection in the still acid below. A scarred pariah without home or purpose. One push, one shift of weight, though, and the Acid will solve my problems. But when he willed himself forward, his body would not obey.

  So I’m a coward as well.

  Disgusted, he tore off his mask and took in a deep, vaporous breath. His sinuses burned as if on fire. But he didn’t care. It was all he had now: the pain, the shame. And the memory of the room.

  The Red Room.

  The sun treaded lightly above the Acid, staining the low-lying clouds a deep orange. Harold felt its warmth wash across his face, soothing his raw wounds.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said behind him.

  Harold turned. A bald man stood a few footfalls away, his chest bare and covered in tattoos. Like Harold, he wore no mask and the upper half of his laptane suit hung limp about his waist. “I never tire of it,” the man said. “Not in all my turns at sea.”

  Harold turned back to the horizon. The sun had slipped further beneath the waves, its glare focused into the depths.

  The man leaned against a piling and lit an adreena stick. “You’re the mystic that came with the mutant.”

  Harold nodded, his back still turned.

  The man smiled as he exhaled. “We’re not so different, you and me. Two cast outs. . . adrift amongst the scum of the sea.”

  Harold closed his eyes, willing the man to leave.

  “You know, I loathe the day I took sanctuary aboard this boat,” the man said.

  “So why stay?” Harold asked.

  The man tossed his adreena stick into the sea and sat down with a lazy thud. “Does it matter?” He turned to Harold. His eyes were a grayish white, the first stages of acid blindness. “What they did to you was blasphemy,” he said.

  Harold unconsciously ran a finger across his cheek. The scabs were sharp and loose, but the flesh was still raw.

  The man shook his head and spat into the sea. “What kind of people do such things to their own kind?”

  “My brothers,” Harold said, his chest tightening.

  The man frowned. “Brothers.” For a time after he stood silent, staring at the churning sea. Harold watched him curiously. He wasn’t like the others; he stood tall, proud, beautiful in his own sea-weathered way.

  “What if I said I knew of a new home?” the man said. “A place where people like us could live in peace.”

  Harold snorted. “I’d say you were full of shit.”

  The man nodded thoughtfully. “It does sound folly, I’ll admit.” He turned and stared at Harold. “But there are those of us who could use a boy of your talents… of your schooling. Perhaps there are even those who can provide what you and your kind so desperately seek.”

  Harold’s heart fluttered as the Acid slapped against the dock. He didn’t want to believe the man, didn’t want to listen. But what if he’s telling the truth? What if there really is an escape from this hell?

  Harold looked down at his trembling hand. It could be steady, could yield power beyond his comprehension. He had but to listen and learn. And find a dose.

  “Bastard’s
not so bad,” the man said. “Not so great either, but I’ve worked worse.” He stood, stretching his back. “A man has to be careful out here, though. You could wake up one day and find you’ve wasted your whole life chasing other men’s dreams. . . and nightmares.”

  Harold stared across the sea. Like his hopes, it was dead, lifeless. No future, no purpose. Perhaps he is right, he thought. What will I find out there?

  “Well. . . I’d say it’s about time for another round of skulls.” The man placed a hand on Harold’s shoulder. “If you need anything, anything at all, ask for Bellog. After all, we’re all brothers, right?”

  Harold glanced at the man’s hand. A ring glittered on his middle finger.

  An Isle coggle ring.

  Probably stolen, though, Harold thought. Or pulled from a dead man’s hand. No one who had completed their atuan would waste such talents here.

  Harold waited until the man’s footfalls faded into the distance and then glanced over his shoulder. The Bastard loomed black and ominous behind him, silhouetted against the darkening sky. He could still hear shouts and laughter as the crewmen drank away the last few calls before departure.

  Harold lay back, exhausted and confused. The offer had been tempting, had even given him a modicum of hope. But he was hesitant to believe. What if it was just another lie, another scheme?

  Or worse, what if it was real?

  A flock of draba birds flew overhead. The large beasts moved in a great zigzag formation, the alpha males at the head and the weakest at the rear. As their shadows cut across the dock, a straggler broke free and turned toward the sea. Harold watched as the beast vanished into the horizon.

  Toward hope. Or death. He knew not which. But deep down, he envied it.

  For it was free. Free to start anew.

  The Bastard’s deck lord stood silent before the crew. He was a young man, no more than twenty, dressed in the traditional uniform of the old Sea Guard: black leather trousers and a blue laptane suit cut and dyed in obsolescent fashion.