“We’re leaving,” Michael said.
Lasasha looked up and nodded. “So much rides on our shoulders now,” she said.
Michael closed his eyes. He wished he were back on the lines. I wanted no part in this, he told himself. But then the pain returned, reminding him of his fate.
“You will see this through,” the voice said.
Michael glanced back at the comet. He didn’t know why, but he felt a connection to it now. A bond that was growing more relevant with every passing day
How do I play into all this? he wondered.
Kitle sat down beside him, maskless and drenched in sweat. He had drawn first watch on the riggings, and the height and sway of the ropes had begun fraying his nerves.
“Why the hell am I the only one working?” the pirate mumbled.
Michael sat silent, indifferent to the mercenary’s woes. He had enough of him already and his disdain was only growing.
“We’re shipping out now,” Kitle said.
As if on cue, the oar master began counting off below deck.
Michael watched as Ix slowly began shrinking into the distance. No turning back now, he thought. Whether they lived or died, he was in it until the end.
As the Bastard passed the last of the derelict vessels plaguing the harbor, two silhouettes appeared atop the main crow’s nest. Kraken and his woman, Michael thought. Rumor had it she rarely left his side now. And on the rare occasion she visited the upper deck, most crewmen kept their distance. For it was believed she was a witch who had entranced the captain.
As Michael stared at her silhouette, the voices in his head grew louder.
“Michael?”
Michael turned to find Lasasha staring at him.
“Your nose.”
He reached up and wiped his bloody nostrils.
“It’s the sea vapors,” Kitle said. “Breathe in too much of that and you’ll be lucky to have a nose to wipe.”
Michael stared at the blood. It was thick and dark. Like the accursed sea.
The voices swelled, pushing away all other sound. Michael winced as a spike of white hot fire rocketed through his skull. They’re growing louder, he thought. Sometimes he felt them pushing on his skull, as if searching for a way out. He reached up and touched his aching forehead. The wound was still raw and bloody beneath the bandages. I would kill him now if I saw him, Michael thought as Slag’s face materialized in his mind. He’d had many such thoughts since the sphere. Violent dreams which plagued his mind.
Lasasha stood up. “Come. We work the morning shift in three calls. You’ll need your rest.”
Kitle tossed his smoke into the sea and chuckled. “Damn right. And this is just the first bloody day.”
As Lasasha and Kitle made their way below deck, Michael leaned over the railing and stared across the sea. This is just the beginning, he thought as a pod of sharks swam about the Bastard’s wake.
“You’re out there, Tritan. . . somewhere,” he whispered. As was the chamber. But what they would do if they found them, the gods only knew.
For now, though, Michael had to keep alive.
He glanced one last time at the distant comet. “I won’t end up like you father,” he whispered. And with that, he turned and followed the others below deck.
If you enjoyed Sand and Scrap, make sure to continue the adventure with
Dregs of the Culver Waste - Book 2
Requiem for the Bastards
NOW AVAILABLE ON ALL PLATFORMS
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Acknowledgments
Dregs was a long time coming. The initial idea came to me some time back in 2003, when I was still fresh out of film school and desperate to spin a new tale. But I was no writer then. I had neither the chops, nor experience, to take on a juggernaut such as Dregs. Thirteen long years would pass, before I was ready to fully realize the Culver Waste. In that time, I had two wonderful boys, married my beautiful and loving wife, and began my own production business. That’s a long road to get to this point. And that’s why it’s so important to thank those who helped me along the way.
A special thanks goes out to Bob Schafer, for being the first to bravely delve into the dusty Culver. Your notes and character graphs made my own pale in comparison. To Darren Ketchum, a friend and soldier who took the time to read this behemoth while knee deep in his own Culver Waste.
To my loving mother and father for keeping me afloat while I was adrift in some dark and lonely seas.
To my mother for her copy editing skills and the final lesson of passed versus past.
And most especially to my family. . . for teaching me to be a better man.
About the Author
Like my characters I lie. I do it every day, whether on the page or in my head. It's what writers do. We dig and toil amongst our private wastes, sifting through toxic sands and sipping swill alongside beggars and scoundrels. It's where I'm most at home, at peace. But like all things in life, it sometimes comes from darker times, darker places. It's a toll worth paying, though, and perhaps what's necessary to spur my particular muse. After all, I'm no hero, no wise cracking thief or brilliant engineer. I've never stared down a dust storm or stormed an impenetrable fortress. I can't fight and if you turned on a Sunday football game I'd quickly sink into a blank state of despair.
But when I write I am who I want to be: the good, the bad, the heinous and everything else in between. That's why I do it. That's why I love it.
Keep exploring the world of Retrac Daor in my new standalone novel, Haliden’s Fire.
You can check out the first two chapters now!
Haliden’s Fire
Now Available on all platforms
1
Fire danced across the western horizon, orange and red tendrils illuminating a strand of low lying clouds.
A week, Haliden Stroke thought as he scanned the burning sky. Then we’re dead. All of us.
A warm breeze blew into the clearing, knocking rivulets of ash from the surrounding pines. The larger flakes drifted down like dead moths, coating Haliden’s shoulders and hair.
A scraggly-looking boy stood a few feet away, a crossbow trembling in his hands.
A refugee, Haliden thought as he watched him. Perhaps from one of the empty villages he passed a few days earlier.
"You should be far from here," Haliden spoke.
The boy made eye contact, but quickly looked away. “And go where?”
“I hear there’s valleys in the east filled with cave systems. You might find sanctuary there. "
“Piss on that!” a deep voice spat behind them.
Haliden turned. An enormous man sat atop an old tree stump, a great brown beard hanging over curtains of bulging fat. Like some macabre jester, he wore filth-stained pants checkered black and white and a skin-tight vest covered in vertical green and yellow stripes.
But what really caught Haliden’s attention was the blood-encrusted hole over his left breast. No doubt from the bolt that killed the previous owner, he thought.
Haliden raised a bottle of Hupra gin to his lips and took a deep pull. The priceless liquor slid down his throat like honey, warming his upset stomach. It had been a gift from the steward of Dramin, one of the most powerful men in southern Alimane. And now it’ll be piss in twenty calls, he thought.
Haliden finished the last sip and stared at the worthless bottle. The blown glass flickered with the Breath’s distant light. Always brighter, he reminded himself. Always whispering of what's to come. And what had been.
Her face suddenly materialized in his mind. The bitch. The harpy.
Milane.
Even here at the end of all things, he
thought, I still love you.
"What am I to do with this dreck?" the fat man spoke, gesturing at the pile of bric-a-brac strewn before them.
Haliden stared at the remnants of his former life: a set of lavish oak chairs; a guilt Tritanese table; silver cutlery forged in Alg; bronze candlesticks smithed in the distant merchant city of Izon; dozens of rare leather-bound books from the library of Ether. There was even the Tritanese chest gifted to him by Fromin Dow, Tritan’s head engineer. And of course there were his paintings. Most were framed in polished oak, ready to be sold off at the great exhibition in Yorn. Landscapes, shattered castles, serene villages, portraits and obscurities from his experimental period. There was even a pile of incomplete sketches on water stained canvas, mere ghosts of what might have been.
Like my life.
Haliden's eyes played across his works as a stony weight pressed on his chest. Most were of her, of course. The slim strokes and gentle shadows coiling into the nightmare she had become.
The fat man scratched his ash-covered beard. "Not worth more than a hundred coinage," he grumbled. "And them paintings... kindling at best."
Haliden lit up an adreena stick, the smooth, lethal fumes numbing his anger. "One fifty and it's yours. The lot... the pile... everything."
The fat man gestured toward the twelve paintings resting at Haliden’s feet. "Everything?"
“Everything but those.”
The fat man turned to his young companion. Without hesitating, the boy lowered the bow and withdrew a small sack from his breast pocket.
"One hundred forty you say?" the man spoke as the boy tossed him the sack.
Haliden crushed the adreena stick beneath his boot heel. "One hundred fifty. Not a coin less."
The fat man laughed as he plucked coins from the purse with his sausage-like fingers. "Here stands the famous Haliden Stroke,” he crooned. “Riding before the Breath with pockets heavy with coinage!"
Haliden frowned. He had hoped he would go unnoticed here.
The fat man extended the purse to him. "Here Stroke... buy yourself a pleasure barge for the trip down the nether."
Haliden took it and quickly counted its contents. "And the bow you promised?"
The fat man laughed. "What use will it be to the likes of you? I've got a bottle of Algian Red that would suit you far bet-"
"No games. The bow or no deal."
The fat man laughed. “We’re well passed that point, artist. But if it makes you happy.” He snapped a finger at the boy, who quickly withdrew a beautiful brown recurve bow and leather quiver from the wagon.
"It's a seventy pound draw," the fat man spoke as the boy handed Haliden the bow. "You think you can handle it?"
Haliden held it up and examined it. The finely crafted wood was stained a deep brown and polished like metal, the well used string waxed and smooth.
“So what do you plan to do with all of this?” Haliden asked the fat man as he shouldered the quiver.
The lout grinned. "There are roots and burrows even the fire can’t touch. But those are tales for lesser folk. Your kind run for Pelimen's Block. With all that gold you might just find a way in. Pray you do, though. Else you’ll be clawing at the slopes with the rest of the rabble when the fires come."
"I'll take my chances,” Haliden spoke as he turned back to his home. It was a fine manor: two floors, four bedrooms, three fireplaces. He’d built it over many turns, every brick, every scrap of wood paid for by his art. A monument to his well-traveled, fruitful life.
But like everything else in Alimane, it belonged to the Breath now.
Haliden shouldered the bow and quiver and turned toward the road.
“Hey artist,” the fat man spoke. “You don't plan to ride that nag to the Block, do you?"
Haliden turned toward his courser, who was tethered to a small maple beside the road. She was nine turns past her prime, her mane graying and natty. But you’re mine, he thought. Instar. My only friend now.
"She's not for sale.”
"A shame,” the fat man spoke. “Such a fine beast could serve twenty men of my girth. Are you sure?"
Haliden mounted Instar and turned her north. "Very much so."
The fat man bowed again. "Well good luck, Stroke. May the gods watch over your run."
Haliden glanced one last time at his home and then vanished silently into the ashen night.
He awoke at dawn, Instar’s warm breath blasting across his cheek.
“Morning old buddy,” he spoke as the garron playfully nipped his ear.
Yawning, Haliden stretched and tossed some twigs onto the previous night’s fire. As the coals slowly crackled back to life, he turned and took in his surroundings.
The entire forest was coated in a fine layer of gray ash. Fire’s probably only sixty or seventy leagues off, he told himself as a large flake drifted past his nose.
The summer winds had arrived early, gusting in off the Acid and feeding the Breath’s unbridled fury. Soon all of southern Alimane would be nothing more than an ashen waste. And then it will be our turn to burn.
He turned back to the fire and stared at the crackling flames. We ride harder, that's all. There's nothing more to it than that.
The Breath had belched forth from Dracon’s Wound not more than three weeks ago, wiping out much of southern Alimane’s abandoned, toxic shores. Ten turns earlier than the Circle’s original prediction, Haliden thought. He sighed as he watched the horizon’s distant, orange glow. Why do you torment us, he wondered. Was it punishment for the collected sins of a continent? Or were the rumors true? Had Tritanese miners mistakenly unleashed it while drilling in the twenty-mile wide canyon known as the Scar?
Whatever the case, Haliden knew one thing: it was unstoppable. And after a four hundred turn slumber, it had returned to cleanse all of Alimane.
Behind him, Instar wickered gently, oblivious to the approaching inferno. For this, Haliden was thankful; he would worry enough for both of them in the coming days.
"Shall we dance, my lady," he spoke, rising onto popping bones. Instar replied with a nay. She was a gentle creature, loyal and proud. And like so many things in his life, she had been gifted to him for his talents.
Haliden smiled at the memory. The pirate, Red Bartle, had taken him prisoner off the Gnarled Coast while he and several ladies of the night were pleasure-boating aboard his skiff, The Wailing Harpy. Bartle’s crew had intended to feed him to the sharks and keep the women for themselves. But Haliden had convinced them to spare his life in exchange for one of his greatest works.
The Pomp of the Citadel, he thought. A landscape of the famed ruins of Alithanen. Few had ever seen the actual city; it had been located near a volcano whose poisonous fumes masked the land in toxic gas.
But Haliden had. And luckily for him, Red Bartle as well. In fact, the pirate had been so impressed with the piece, he not only freed Haliden and his party, he also gifted him one of his strongest garrons: Instar.
Haliden grinned. Stranger things had happened since. But never has my payment been so grand.
"We ride north, Instar. As always. What do you say?"
Instar tossed her head from side to side, her excited eyes reflecting the approaching fire.
The road was sodden and gray, covered in a layer of undisturbed ash. Instar plodded along indifferently, her hooves kicking up little gray clouds as wind tickled the branches above. Haliden sat silent in his saddle, scanning the surrounding forest.
"Looks like another village, my friend," he spoke as several structures materialized in the distance. They had already passed three since their meeting with the fat man. But all had been empty save for the elderly and infirm.
Haliden edged Instar off the road toward the lonely structures. Most were nothing more than log cabins bound in mud and clay, their rooftops sagging patchworks of pine and thatch.
When he was confident the village was abandoned, he climbed off Instar and peeked into the closest cabin.
The single room was bare, sa
ve for some moldering hay and a large bed. His heart alighted at the sight of the bed. But when he approached it, he realized two rotting corpses were lying side by side beneath its moldering sheets. Suicides, he thought. They were everywhere now, rotting within dark, forlorn huts or hanging from ash-covered trees. He’d even seen dozens weighted down with rocks just beneath the surface of Delmar Lake.
The sky slowly darkened as rain clouds moved in from the west. Haliden quickly gathered wood and lit a small fire just outside the cabin’s door. As the flames crackled to life, he heard her voice again.
If you want me, I'll be at world's end. But if you love me, you'll die alone, Haliden.
He sighed as a familiar weight pressed against his chest. I always loved you, Milane. No matter the past, I always will.
Instar quietly nickered beside him, her ash covered mane flickering in the firelight. You are my only friend now, Haliden thought as he smiled at the aging garron. At times he feared she wouldn't last the journey. But there is no other way now. Either they rode north or died.
"We'll get there," he whispered as he drifted off to sleep.
Somehow, they would find salvation.
Dawn came gray and gloomy, the sun muted by the thickest ash Haliden had ever seen. Is this how ghosts see the world? he wondered as he gripped the recurve bow and drew back the string.
His fingers and elbow trembled as the weight of the draw taxed his unused muscles.
"Come on,” he whispered, sighting down the shaft. He took in a quick breath, held it and released.
Thwackkkk
The arrow splintered against a tree twenty footfalls from its target.
Haliden sighed. "This is not going well.”
Instar huffed beside him as if in agreement.
Sand and Scrap Page 39
