by Paul Kidd
The feral warriors had been riding long beetle-horses – a far rangier breed than those found in Spark Town. They were plated and iridescent blue-green, and were as supple as lizards. One had been killed outright in the first attack, and another was clearly breathing its last. The final creature was injured and limping, but seemed like it would recover. It was standing guard over one of the fallen ferals.
The fallen man was older than his companions. He was unconscious, but still had a pulse: the angle of his right arm showed the limb was broken. Snapper gingerly examined the man: his neck seemed unbroken, but his headdress of beetle chitin and feathers had taken a terrible bash. The shark quietly felt at the fallen man’s skull: odd things, skulls – they came in all manner of shapes and sizes. But this poor fellow’s seemed intact. Hopefully it was some sort of concussion that would fade over time. Snapper cut sticks from the nearby brush and managed to splint the warrior’s arm. She sponged his temples with water, and was relieved to hear the man groan.
Groaning seemed a good sign, signalling an intent to return to the land of the waking. Snapper carefully moved the man into the shade, then led the surviving beetle mount over to the young feral who sat sipping from her canteen.
“One man is dead. The older man lives. He is unconscious.”
“He is strong. He will recover.” The young feral wearily handed back the canteen. “Fish person is a skilled rider.” The feral was still quite dazed. “I thank you.”
Snapper squatted down to speak to the young man.
“I am here prospecting.” By tradition, the hills were open to all and claimed by none. “What brought you to the treaty lands?”
“See herd tracks, heading to hills. Wandering herd is big find. We follow.” The youth signed awkwardly, using his off hand. “Screaming ones were waiting.”
Screamers. Snapper had heard of them at length: they were one of the reasons Spark Town had ringed itself with walls. Screamers were insensate monsters - a hold out from the ancient days of plague. No two of them were alike. But none had been seen for a century. The early settlers had seemingly wiped them out. But now they were back again? The God-Fish help anyone who ran into the things without a good mount and a decent blade.
Onan busied himself eating salty crackers while Snapper took a careful look at the tracks left by the Screamers. The creatures seem to have come from the east – from the same general direction the cocoplods had chosen for their migration. The eerie tingle at the edge of her senses had gone. No more monsters were in evidence.
Snapper grimly kept moving. She felt lethargy pulling at her – delayed shock from the battle. The shark drove herself on at a steady pace.
As Uncle Toby always said, whinging was for the weak.
For the second time in a day, Snapper scratched out a shallow grave. She buried the fallen feral, covering him over with stones from the creek bed. It was damned hot work, but very much the decent thing to do.
The shark returned to drink, and sit with her patients for a while and clean her sword. The young feral was recovering his senses slowly – and Snapper felt far better after a moment of calm. She had a wicker covered bottle of cherry wine in Onan’s saddle bags. She took a deep pull from the bottle then proffered it to the feral, who sniffed at it then refused. The shark drank again, savouring the taste, before corking the bottle and putting it carefully away. She dusted off her hands and then signed to the young warrior.
“Your friend still sleeps. He is in need of a healer.”
“I will take him to the tribe. He will be cured.”
The shark scratched at her snout, feeling a little dubious. “Are your healers skilled?”
“They are skilled.”
The feral warrior sat recovering his wits. He watched Onan, who was waddling about and amusing himself. The bird felt the warrior’s gaze upon him, and rolled a wily eye in return.
“Clever birdie!” Onan chuckled, then bobbed his head up and down in a dance. He had been eating more banana melon. “Clever birdie!”
The cockatoo delicately handed the feral a piece of melon. The warrior accepted it, quite taken by the bird’s intelligence.
Snapper reached out, and Onan leaned his head into her, rolling his head in ecstasy as she scratched him behind his crest. The feral warrior pointed to Onan and made careful hand signs.
“Your mount. It is impressive.” The feral seemed to be recovering his composure. “What is his name?”
Snapper spoke clearly and carefully. “Onan!”
“Onan.” The feral spoke aloud, stumbling the syllables past a mouth filled with tusks and fangs. “Onan?”
“Onan”. The shark chuckled, and returned to hand signs. “Because he spills his seed upon the ground! It’s a joke from an old religion.”
The feral seemed a little puzzled, but nodded in acceptance. He rose carefully from the ground, feeling many cracks and sprains.
“We must not remain here. More enemy may come.” He motioned towards his injured comrade. “I will take my brother to the healers.”
The warrior was in no condition to help, as Snapper set to work. Some tree branches and tunics from the fallen ferals served to create a makeshift travois. The shark strapped the travois poles into place behind the surviving beetle mount, then carefully lifted the unconscious man and laid him in place. The ride would be hell – if the man had been conscious, every jolt and bounce would have torn into his arm. Snapper scratched at her hide and scowled.
“Warrior, how far must you travel?”
The young feral picked up a war club from the ground. “We will find others in a day of travel. Perhaps two days.”
Snapper thought, nodding as she looked towards the hills.
“You cannot draw a bow. Screamers may still be in the hills.”
“It cannot be helped. The wind spirits must protect us.”
Bugger it – being a true chevalier was becoming expensive. Snapper unhooked her belt and removed the holster and her old two-barrelled pistol. She placed the weapon into the warrior’s hands.
“Here. I cannot send you into the hills unarmed.” Snapper placed a handful of brass cartridges into the warrior’s pouch, then demonstrated the use of the gun. “Do this – place the shells here. Cock and fire it thus.” She made a sign indicating a gift between equals. “May it serve you well.”
The young feral looked at the weapon in solemn amazement. He then gazed up into Snapper’s face.
“This will not be forgotten.”
The warrior leapt up onto the riding beetle and rode off without once looking back. He headed north towards the distant cliffs many days ride away. Snapper watched long enough to make certain they were off and on their way, and gave the men a final wave.
“Well birdie – today we were good hussars!”
‘A knight there was, and from the time he first began to ride on out,
Loved he chivalry – truth, honour and courtesy…’
Giving a gun to ferals would be a hard thing to explain back in town: best not to bandy the story about. “Right! Work to do! There’s no rest for the wicked!”
“Wicked!” The bird agreed, fluttering his short wings. “Salty cracker!”
“With dinner, mate. With dinner.” There was still the matter of the missing cocoplods. “Yoiks and away!”
The fallen houses were given a cursory search, but Snapper could find nothing of any great interest. This was clearly no place to linger. She left the valley, letting the bird cover their tracks with a cunning sweep of his tail. Once they had retreated carefully past the trees, they turned and headed straight back up the hillsides. Snapper rode Onan just behind the hill crest, making sure they left no telltale silhouette against the sky.
There was no more negotiation over salty crackers. Snapper and Onan moved fast, paralleling the cocopod trail. But after an hour, a great crazed jambles of rocks and boulders began to fill the way ahead. It was perfect ambush country: Screamers could strike like lightning from a dozen different directio
ns. Snapper thought for a moment, then decided to curl around to the south east, swinging wide about the boulder field. She rode onwards, and then looked to the south, where the hills blended slowly down into a carpet of plant-animals, trees and open brush.
The sun had sunk low towards the horizon, and the sky had become a dark, regal shade of peacock blue. Out on the plains some few kilometres away, a close-knit group of campfires glimmered orange against the deepening shadows. Dust still hung above the brush: clearly it was a trade caravan, or perhaps a large group of travellers. Snapper scowled at the sight, and then suddenly jerked her head to the north as a sickly stench came wafting on the air.
Onan gave a croak of dismay.
They moved downhill towards the nearest valley. The cockatoo came to a halt, riffling his feathers and backing away in disgust.
The valley floor was black with corpses.
Thirty cocoplods lay ripped and splayed all across the valley floor. Every one of the big herd animals had been clawed, ripped and slain. The corpses had somehow all burst open like balloons. Fat beaked flies swarmed in the air, feasting on the remnants of a massacre. Snapper stared, her tail standing out stiff behind.
Nothing moved except for the flies. Snapper slid from her saddle, carbine in hand, and moved carefully forward. Keeping her eye on the lengthening shadows all around, she made her way to one of the flyblown corpses and squatted at its side.
The entire cocoplod had been consumed, and yet the hide seemed largely intact. It was as if the poor beast had been eaten from the inside out.
The insides of the nearest bodies held several weird, empty husks, like the pupae of titanic insects. And the tracks that left the site of the dead, flyblown corpses were Screamer tracks.
A hundred Screamers – or even more.
Ichor dripped slowly from the pupal husks. The dead cocoplods were still warm: the Screamers could only have been gone from here an hour at most. The shark ran back to Onan and swung into the saddle, turning her bird to the south. Onan sped back up hill, head low and eyes ever wary.
Sunset spread umber wings out across the sky. But on the southern scrublands, the single cluster of campfires gleamed bright. They shone horribly clear – a beacon that would summon Screamers to a terrifying feast.
Snapper and Onan raced southward towards the campfires. Somewhere in the hills behind them, a nightmare raised its head and gave a chilling, hungry scream.
Chapter 2
There were seven settlements dotted about the southern plains. They ran from Spark Town up in the north, all the way down to Sky Island at the edge of the sea of storms. To the east, there were a few farming communities, well fortified against monsters from the wilds. But Spark Town was the oddly eccentric jewel in civilisation’s crown: the one place where tools and homespun technology were advanced enough to create breech loading rifles, brass cartridges and percussion caps. Spark Town was the place to buy electric power generators, home made light bulbs, good swords and the best riding animals. It also made some extremely weird liquor. Little trade caravans from afar were thus a common sight – all of them trundling slowly and carefully towards the town’s bounty.
The far south had more rain than the north – and some decidedly dangerous plants. Acid-jet plants could cause third degree burns on the unwary – but fearless farmers cultivated them in droves and collected the acids into hefty jugs made from primitive glass. Acid was vital for making gun cotton and percussion caps, as well as for charging the hefty batteries made by Spark Town’s workshops. It was a useful trade, and it welded the little communities together. News, ideas and people made the long, difficult treks between the communities every few months. They had lived in peace with one another ever since the GeneStorm.
Snapper came riding through the twilight, heading towards a neat wagon laager that had been laid out in a protective circle about some tall old pepperbark trees, linked together by cables. There was a cook fire, and smaller watch fires maintained twenty metres from the ring of wagons. Snapper whistled and called towards the pickets as she approached, drawing the attention of two men with guns.
“Wagons ho! Rider coming in!”
“Rider ho!” A caravan driver armed with a long musket rose from behind a bush. “Approach the fire!”
Snapper rode Onan in through the picket line. With the fall of evening, she had brought out her pelisse – slinging it from one shoulder in conscious imitation of an ancient hussar. As the guards opened a cable and let her in amongst the wagons, two dozen travellers arose from their evening meals to stare at her in amazement. Snapper sketched a salute towards the clear leader of the expedition– a shockingly stylish, handsome man apparently part fox, and part golden pheasant.
“Snapper. Spark Town.” The shark pointed with her carbine to the north. “Douse the fires! You’ve got Screamers up in the hills about three k’s away!”
A tall man came walking over from beside the cook fire. He was human – well, human enough, if you ignored his tail – and kitted out with a broad dusty hat and a decent Spark Town breech loading rifle. He gave the shark a laconic nod and dusted off his hat.
“G’day. Tammin – up from Rust Ridge. Caravan master.”
“Good to see you.” Snapper dismounted, still pointing to the north. “I’ve been tracking some Screamers. They’re just up the hills there to the north.”
“Screamers!” The man looked north in astonishment. “How many?”
“Maybe a hundred – a hundred and fifty.” Sunset had become twilight. Snapper looked quickly back to the stark, black hills. “They might have dispersed into packs, but some of them will be headed this way.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve cut my way through some already.” The shark took a pull from her canteen. “What’s in the wagons?”
“Cotton, zinc, copper ingots, chemicals…” The man Tammin slapped a heavy wagon beside him. “They’ve been waiting for this for months!”
Half the cargo was stuff used for making brass cartridges and ammunition. Snapper looked quickly up and down the wagons, trying to judge their speed.
“We’ll have to get the wagons through to town!”
A caravan guard had joined the conference – part kingfisher and part cat. The man slapped his hat free of dust. “Screamers? Actual Screamers?” The cat-bird shook his head. “My grandad said those buggers were fast! We’re gonna have to abandon the wagons and make a run for it.”
“The town needs the cargo.” The caravan master was adamant. “The last couple of shipments never got through.”
“Then hitch ‘em up!” Snapper rode Onan towards the fires. “Get moving! Screamers will have seen your fires!”
People immediately gathered their weapons. Many of the travellers were armed with crossbows, or makeshift muskets made in village blacksmith shops. Only the caravan guards and drivers had more modern firearms, all bought on previous trips to Spark Town. The human caravan leader immediately strode towards the elegant fox-pheasant over near the mounts.
“Captain Beau! What should we do?”
The fox-pheasant, apparently a military man, strutted gorgeously forward. He had long sharp spurs jutting from his avian legs, and a wonderfully confident air. He straightened his plumes and brushed dust from his immaculate cuirass.
“Ah! Let’s get everyone armed! We should man the wagons.” He pointed towards the west. “Let’s move!”
“Man the wagons!” Tammin called his commands, and the wagon drivers came running. “All crew – load weapons!”
People ran madly back and forth: passengers, merchants and travellers. One wagon immediately broke an axle, spilling cargo all over the grass. The fox-pheasant looked rather lost, while the riding beasts squawked and reared. It was all extremely ineffective. Snapper scowled, and managed to seize the caravan master by the arm.
“Douse the fires!” Snapper had to shout above the noise of groaning beasts and clashing orders. “You need move right now. Due west.”
“Too many
creek beds.” Tammin bellowed back, ducking as an immense dray best swayed past. “We’d never get the wagons moved.”
“I’ll scout a route ahead.” Snapper headed back to Onan. “Do you have any outriders?”
“Captain Beau has been our night guard. He joined us outside the last village.”
“Has he been any good?”
“Excellent! We’ve never once been disturbed!” The caravan master seemed sincerely impressed. “The women in wagon three say they have never slept more soundly!”
It was apparently a good endorsement. Snapper patted Onan on the neck, knowing the bird was tired. “Right! Well let’s get him mounted. Who’s your day scout?”
“Throckmorton!” The caravan master ran off to see to the dray beasts. “I’ll send him to you. And thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” The shark girl felt damned tired: the caravan crew had better stand her at least a dozen drinks in the Spark Town pub. She led Onan over to the water buckets, where both she and the cockatoo drank and drank. All around them, absolute chaos had broken out. Wagons were being hitched and fires doused. Ramrods rattled in muskets as passengers loaded guns. Snapper helped herself to a serve of stew, gulping down the food while watching the wagoners go efficiently about their business. Their defences were taking shape – a heavy wall gun atop the lead wagon was being loaded with a charge of musket balls and old nails.
The fox-pheasant flitted past through the swarm, tucking a pair of elaborate one-shot pistols through his belt. Snapper threw her stew bowl into the back of a nearby wagon and wiped her mouth.
“Hey you!”
The officer blinked and looked at her in surprise. He had the clear air of someone who was off about other business. “Who, me?”
