Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  A proud man, Waypman thought. A man of the sea. The burly bastard had probably worked the docks all his life, moving his way up the chain of command until he finally found this dreadful charge.

  The deck lord paced before the gathered men. He looked fresh, his face shaved and smooth. “Alright. . . we got some extra baggage on this voyage,” he proclaimed. “Paid in full, but dead weight nonetheless.” He turned his milky eyes toward the acid-bleached planks at his feet.

  Waypman tensed. He had sponged the boards that very morning with laptane grease, proofing them against the Acid. And unlike the other louts working beside him, Waypman had taken extra care in his work. To give anything less would only work against them in the coming days.

  “We have a little tradition here aboard the Bastard,” the deck lord shouted. “One I am most proud to uphold.” He turned to each of the five new passengers.

  Waypman straightened his back, his chin held high as the deck lord looked him over.

  “One of you will fight for the right of passage.”

  A cheer went up as the crew pumped their fists and stomped the deck.

  Waypman’s pulse raced. Work was one thing; he was born to it and would break his back if need be. But fighting… that was for fools and thieves.

  The deck lord thoughtfully tapped his lip, eyeing each newcomer with deliberate pause. “Let’s see. . . shall we put up the woman?”

  The crew howled and shouted profanities.

  “Or perhaps this mercenary-looking son-of-a-bitch we got here?” The deck lord turned to Waypman, his milky eyes narrowing. “You look like you could be of use, though, squiddy. Seen many voyages?”

  Waypman nodded. “A share. I worked a whaler out of Barrier Port, and two laptane hunters off the Coast of Jarden.”

  The deck lord cocked an eyebrow. “Did you now? I suppose you think you’ve seen it all then? Rode the worst squalls and weathered the most titan of storms? Well. . . we shall see. For the Acid is, shall we say, different than most other ponds.” The crew laughed as the deck lord turned to Michael and Harold. Both boys stood pallid and ill, wavering atop the deck like wilting flowers.

  “How about you,” the deck lord asked, pointing at Michael. “What’s your name boy?”

  “Michael Carter.”

  “Well Michael Carter, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The deck lord raised his hand and shouted: “Paladine!”

  The crew roared with delight as an enormous brute pushed his way to the forecastle.

  “It appears we’ve found our player for tonight’s festivities!”

  Paladine swayed before them, six footfalls of hairless, tattooed anger. His white eyes shone wide and feral, and when he smiled his lips revealed a set of filed down fangs. For clothes, he wore only a soiled loincloth and laptane wrappings wound about his feet.

  “The game is Crimson Tide,” the deck lord proclaimed. “Two spears, two men… and a hell of a lot of sharks.” Again, the crew hollered and laughed. “Whoever survives gets passage alongside my mates. Whoever loses… well, they will just be dead as shit.”

  Michael turned to Waypman and Lasasha, his eyes wide with fright. “Hard luck,” he stammered.

  Waypman stepped forward. “The boy is sick. No sport with him puking in the sea. I’ll fight in his stead.”

  The deck lord smiled. “Why, squiddy? He your plaything or something?”

  “I have my reasons. None of which I need tell scum like you.”

  The crew fell silent.

  Frowning, the deck lord cleared his throat and approached the Garfaxman. “You’ve got a stake in him, eh?” he whispered. “Well… how about this. I’ll give you the choice then, squiddy. Hands or blade?”

  Waypman looked at Michael. The boy was small and sickly, no more than 180 pounds. Not much of a choice, he thought.

  “Blade.”

  A rusty scimitar thudded at Michael’s feet. Waypman looked up and saw Lasasha’s eyes trembling beneath her mask.

  The deck lord laughed. “Very well. Five minutes till show time.”

  Waypman picked up the blade and weighed it in his tentacle.

  “One pound,” Lasasha said. “Weighted slightly to the left.”

  Waypman handed it to Michael. “He’ll be slower than you in the sea,” he whispered. “Keep your distance and you’ve got a chance.” But when he turned and saw the man’s leering, drooling grin, he began to doubt himself.

  35

  “So we leave tomorrow,” Uxer said as he warmed his hands above the fire. “We are to ride with the prince aboard the Easterly Chaos.”

  Both he and Lorp stood alone in the commander’s quarters, surrounded by darkness. And should it be any other way? Uxer thought.

  Lorp cocked an eyebrow. “Doesn’t leave much time.”

  “Or room,” Uxer said, before taking in a deep, nervous breath. Their plans would have to be changed in route to Tritan. A task to break any man’s spirits, he thought with growing dismay. Messenger draba had already been sent to the Waste, but as to when and how many would arrive, the gods only knew.

  It’s all moving so fast now, Uxer thought as both excitement and fear coiled in his stomach. We must care for every detail; else the entire house of cards will fall.

  Uxer nervously tapped his new lip. He had dispatched a flock of his most trusted acolytes to Tritan not more than a week hence. Once there, they were to link up with a group of mercenary Shark Riders who claimed firsthand knowledge of the city’s layouts.

  A costly matter, though, he thought.

  The Riders had demanded a pound of meridium upon delivery of the atuan, as well as a half-million coinage to be paid up front. An unfathomable sum, but what did it matter? If everything went as planned, the coinage would be a mere pittance compared to what they were gaining. And as for the meridium, he had no intention of parting with it.

  Uxer’s heart beat excitedly. Everything hung by a thread now. Turns of waiting and watching, searching and hoping were finally coming to an end. And it all falls on me, he thought. If successful, his name and lineage would be forever burned into Circle lore. If he failed, though. . .

  Uxer watched with loathing as another fire elemental approached the city. The shields would hold it back and disperse its energy. But there’ll be more. So many more. And unless he succeeded, it would never end.

  He looked up into the sky. The White Scythe shone bright beside Curtle, the Tritan god of war. A fitting, if not prescient, irony, Uxer noted.

  “It all changes after this, Lorp. Everything.”

  “Change is an inevitability, Master,” Lorp said. “The only difference now is we decide its course.”

  Uxer nodded. “And it must be a course that can never be reversed.”

  Michael stood at the edge of the dock, staring across the roiling harbor. In the distance, several fins rose and fell amongst the turbulent sea. They’re huge, he thought as one of the sharks swam beneath his shadow.

  He closed his eyes and took in a deep, nervous breath. A dream, he told himself. It’s all a horrible dream. But when sweat stung his sunburned neck he knew that wasn’t so.

  Where are you? he cried out in his head. But the voice made no reply.

  The Bastard’s crew stood behind him, shouting and jeering impatiently. Michael gripped the scimitar’s pommel, felt his pulse resonate against the cracked leather wrapping.

  Breathe. . . breathe. . . breathe.

  Standing beside him on a parallel dock, Paladine waited with a massive spear in hand. He was clad in the same sackcloth laptane flesh that Michael now wore, only his bore etchings similar to the tattoos scrawled across his massive chest.

  Smiling, Paladine turned to his companions and hefted the spear above his head. The men cheered and howled; they were ready to place their bets.

  The deck lord sat atop a crate situated at the head of the mob. When he raised his hand, the crewmen fell silent.

  “Remember boys. Them suits only last ten minutes in the tides. I’d be quick about
it if I were you.”

  Michael tried to swallow, but his throat was completely dry. His head pounded and his legs felt like rubber. He tried one last time to contact the voice, but found the same tangled din boiling in his conscience.

  “Are you ready men?” the deck lord shouted.

  Paladine nodded, pulling a mask painted in the form of a skull over his face.

  Michael stood silent, willing the nightmare to end.

  “In you go!”

  Paladine took a step back and lunged headfirst into the stew.

  Michael hesitated.

  “Chop, chop!” the deck lord shouted as one of the crewmen leveled a bow at Michael’s chest.

  His heart pounding, Michael stared at the churning stew and swallowed. There was no reasoning with this moment, no pleading for mercy. He had but one way forward now. And it was into death’s open throat.

  Michael pulled his mask on, fitted the seals, and jumped feet-first into oblivion.

  A deafening splash enveloped him, followed by weightlessness as a galaxy of bubbles caressed his body. For a brief moment, he felt safe, hidden in the murk. He even considered staying beneath the waves, waiting out the brute until their suits began to peel from their bodies.

  But what then fool, he thought. Watch the skin melt from your body as he skewers you anyway?

  On the surface, cheers and laughter echoed from the dock. The men of the Bastard were already deep into their drinks, staggering precariously close to the dock’s edge as they hooted and hollered at him. But some of the crewmen were busy tossing pieces of meat into the harbor, drawing forth the many laptane sharks still roaming its fringes.

  Where is he? Michael thought as he drifted into the shallows.

  His feet touched down on a large rock and he crouched to keep himself balanced. When he tried to stand, though, something smashed into the acid inches from his head.

  Cheers rose up from the docks.

  Michael turned. Paladine stood behind him, his spear drawn back for another thrust.

  “Time to die minnow!” the brute yelled.

  Before he could attack, though, a massive wave rushed in, knocking both men beneath the surface.

  Chaos enveloped Michael as bubbles blotted out his vision. He tried to stand, but the undertow had taken hold and was quickly dragging him out to sea.

  Michael clawed and kicked, but it was no good. He was slipping deeper into the void, his ears aching as pressure quickly mounted around him.

  And that was when something large swam past him.

  Michael froze as the shadow turned in the distance. It had a massive pectoral fin and its great tail thrashed side to side, propelling it toward him.

  Instinctively, Michael kicked toward the surface, stretching every muscle to its breaking point. His lungs burned and his body ached, but as he pressed on the current began to ebb.

  Don’t stop, fool! Don’t stop!

  At any moment he expected to feel a set of jaws slam around his legs. But the beast must have stayed back. For when he finally breached, he was in one piece.

  But there was little time to celebrate. Only a dozen footfalls away, the brute stood ready atop a rock.

  “YYYAAAEEE!!!” Paladine cried as he hurled his spear at Michael.

  Michael tried to dodge it, but the spear grazed his arm, cutting a two-inch swath of his suit.

  Paladine jumped into the sea and began swimming toward him.

  Michael kicked backward, trying to distance himself from the brute.

  Get under him, the presence shouted as a wave carried them several footfalls into the air. You can’t beat him on the surface.

  Relieved by the voice’s return, Michael dove back beneath the waves. Visibility was only a few footfalls, but he could clearly see the shark darting toward him.

  Watch it! the voice warned.

  The shark slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs.

  On the docks, cheers erupted as several men dumped chum into the water. Within seconds, a half-dozen more sharks entered the harbor.

  Gasping, Michael swam toward the docks, the scimitar cutting the acid before him.

  Paladine stood a boat length away, smug in the shallows. “Five minutes, ya little fucker!” he growled, his massive shoulders looming above the waves. “How do you want to go? My spear or the fishies?”

  Michael swam as fast as he could, but a cramp was growing in his side. And when he looked down, he saw dozens of white blisters forming across his suit. The acid. . . it’s eating through the flesh, he thought, horrified. Time was running out.

  Fight him! the voice cried. Fight him or die!

  “Three minutes, gentlemen!” the deck lord announced from the comfort of the docks.

  Paladine smiled. “Come on then!”

  Michael’s body tensed, electric energy flooding his veins and muscles. Voices coiled about his conscience like hungry snakes, pleading to be set free. His head throbbed, the wound opening as pressure mounted in his skull. He wavered dizzily, the scimitar weighing heavy in his hand. He was about to close his eyes, when the voice broke through the mob.

  Pick up your blade and protect yourself, damn it!

  Paladine drew closer, his eyes burning with excitement.

  He has reach with that spear, the voice warned. But you have speed. Keep moving!

  Michael’s legs slowly steadied and his breathing relaxed. But even as the blade became lighter in his hand he hesitated. I don’t know if I can do it.

  Meet him!!! the voice shouted. Or we die!!!

  Paladine drew back the spear, the tip locked on Michael’s chest.

  But I’ve never killed before! Michael shouted.

  DO IT!

  Michael lunged forward, ducking just beneath the brute’s spear. In a blur of motion, they locked arm in arm, their weapons all but forgotten as they slipped beneath the waves.

  Michael howled as Paladine’s fist pounded his spine. He tried to leverage away, but the brute held him firmly in place, content to crush his back.

  Watch, Michael Carter! the voice said. This is how you kill a man!

  Michael felt himself slip into the back of his mind as the presence took hold. He watched as his hand reached up and tore Paladine’s mask from its seals.

  The brute’s eyes widened in shock. He tried to scream, but the poisons were already dissolving both his throat and tongue.

  Crimson gore quickly spilled from the brute’s mask. Within seconds, dozens of sharks swarmed his thrashing body, snapping and rending his flesh in a wild feeding frenzy.

  Michael frantically turned and swam toward the dock. He, too, could feel acid burning his flesh, for his suit was now peeling away in great, greasy globs.

  Faster!!! the voice shouted. Faster!!!

  Michael rose with the waves, kicking, pulling, scratching his way toward salvation. He could see crewmen both smiling and clapping as he approached, cheering him on like some kind of macabre hero.

  Gasping, he lunged for a ladder mounted against one of the pilings. As he pulled himself up, pieces of his blistered suit dripped into the sea, coagulating into a greasy mire.

  When he reached the top, he collapsed onto his back.

  It was over. And I’m alive.

  A shadow loomed over him, blocking out the sun.

  “Good show, boy,” the deck lord said. “Made me a hundred coinage.”

  Michael slowly pulled his mask off and took in a deep, vaporous breath.

  “Here…” The deck lord tossed him a coin. “Welcome aboard.”

  Michael slowly rose. All was silent now, as the crew stared at him in shocked disbelief. Michael met Lasasha’s gaze. She, too, was smiling.

  The deck lord extended his hand. “Kraken sends his congratulations.”

  Michael stared at it emotionless, exhausted.

  “Only comes once, kid.”

  Slowly, Michael reached out and took hold of his hand. “So when do we leave?” he finally gasped.

  The deck lord laughed.
“Within the call, my friend. Within the call.”

  36

  Michael sat alone at the Bastard’s bow, watching as green foam drifted off windswept waves.

  Shivering, he looked down at his hands. He could still feel Paladine’s mask tearing free in his hand, could even hear the man’s screams as the acid devoured his flesh. It made his stomach churn.

  I am a killer now, he told himself. The guilt stung hard. Harder than anything he had known before.

  As he lamented the afternoon’s events, men shuffled past with gear in hand, stowing final provisions for the voyage. Michael ignored them, though. He would have all the time in the world to learn their names, these thieves, rapists and con men of the Culver. They were his brothers now, and like himself, they each had a foot already halfway in hell.

  Lasasha sat down beside him, a bowl of steaming broth in her hands. “Here. . . eat.”

  Michael took the bowl and placed it at his side. He sat silent for a time, staring across the sea.

  “Did it hurt for you too?” he asked. “The first one you killed?”

  Lasasha stared at the empty horizon. “Every moment of every day.”

  Michael pulled his knees into his chest and closed his eyes. “I can’t push his screams from my head.” he said.

  Lasasha looked up from the bowl. “They will fade. . . in time.”

  “And the guilt? Will that fade too?”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  Michael looked down at the sea. He wondered if Paladine’s body was still down there somewhere, churning about the murk as sharks tore it limb from limb.

  “So how many have you killed?” he asked.

  Lasasha closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Ten. . . maybe eleven. I don’t know for sure anymore.”

  Michael swallowed. “We’re cursed then, aren’t we?”

  Lasasha leaned back against the rail and sighed. “Every one of us is cursed. Why else would we be here?”

  “Free to port!” the lookout cried atop the crow’s nest. Moments later, several crewmen jumped onto the rigging below, climbing hand over hand as the wind struggled to knock them off.