Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  But six hundred coinage? And a Tarnak worm on top of that? That was more than twice what he’d expected to pay.

  Drexil took a long drag off his smoke. As he exhaled, he made sure to aim it towards Lamrot. “Very well,” he said. “But I can only do four hundred coinage once the job is done.”

  Lamrot furrowed his brows as he pondered the offer. “No,” he growled, his jaws gleaming black adreena tar. “Six hundred. And half now.”

  Drexil’s hand instinctively slid back to his dagger. A tough one, eh? Maybe a knife in the gut would cut a better price. He laughed inwardly at the thought. It was foolish of course; surrounded as he was, he would be dead before the brute spit his last breath. But it felt good, nonetheless.

  “No,” Drexil spat. “Quarter now, and the rest when the job is complete.”

  “Half now,” Lamrot growled, “or go find someone else!”

  Drexil stubbed out his smoke. What else is there to do? he thought, sighing.

  “Very well, half. . . but that’s as far as I am willing to go.”

  Lamrot turned to his companions and growled something unintelligible.

  Whatever lay in that tomb, Drexil thought, it had better be worth the price. He was about to lay out all he had left from Tritan, his life’s savings.

  His thoughts drifted back to that outhouse. And to the corpse he’d thrust through the hole. If that bloody chamber turns out to be nothing but an armory or magic-hold, it’ll be me at the bottom of some shithouse pit.

  Lamrot turned to Drexil, his callused hand outstretched. “We’ve agreed to terms.”

  Nodding, Drexil moved to take his hand.

  “No, fool!” Lamrot spat, knocking Drexil’s hand out of the way. “Our pay!”

  Drexil frowned. “Yes, of course.” Seething with anger, he reached into his suit and withdrew a small leather pouch. The scrappers leaned forward, watching with ravenous delight as he emptied its contents onto the table.

  This is it, Drexil thought as the coins glittered in the oily torchlight. The point of no return.

  As Lamrot checked the gold, something rolled off the table and clattered to the floor. With a grunt, he bent down and scraped it up. “What is this?” he grunted, holding up a pendant.

  Damn it all to hell, Drexil thought. In his haste, he had forgotten to remove it from the sack.

  “Let me see,” one of the others growled as Lamrot turned the pendant over in his diseased palm. The gold gleamed in the dancing firelight, revealing blood encrusted on both its sides.

  “Where you find?” Lamrot asked.

  Adrenaline flooded Drexil’s veins. “The Waste,” he lied. “On my last outing.”

  “But this is of my people. A sacred totem. It would not be lost so.”

  Drexil’s stomach lurched. Think fast or this will end badly.

  “Yes. . . I even know clan,” Lamrot snorted. “Grendil’s clan.”

  “Grendil the Plow?” one of his companions asked.

  Lamrot nodded, a single eye cocked suspiciously towards Drexil. “Where in Waste you say you find?”

  Drexil swallowed. “On the outskirts of the Blackened Stix.”

  The leader slammed the pendant onto the table. “But Grendil not work Blackened Stix! Grendil work Gabra Downs!” The others slowly reached for their clubs.

  Think! Drexil thought. Think before they strip your hide!

  “What business is it of mine where your kind works?” Drexil spat. “I found it and laid claim. That’s all there is to it.” I could kill one of them, he thought as Lamrot stared him down. Maybe even two. . . but not all four.

  Lamrot took another swig of grog and slammed the cup onto the table. “After we salvage, you show us where you found. Yes?”

  They know, Drexil thought. I can see it in their eyes. He felt helpless, exposed. A tight situation. Oh, a tight one indeed.

  “Very well,” Drexil conceded. “I only hope I can remember.”

  Lamrot slurped back the last of his grog and belched. “We meet at dock,” he said, rising from the table. “First sign of new sun.”

  Drexil’s cheeks flushed with anger. Who does he think he is, dictating to me?

  “No,” Drexil said. “We meet at dusk. Tonight. First rays of the moon.”

  Lamrot growled with displeasure, but forced a smile. “Very well, gob. As long as we’re paid it makes no difference to us.” And with that, the group thundered from the tavern into the dusty afternoon light.

  Drexil removed his dagger and slowly twirled it between his fingers. Perhaps the plunderer’s murder was not such a good idea after all, he thought as the razor sharp blade reflected the fading sun. Hell, what’s done is done, though. Now is a time for calm, focus. But as he stared at the blade, he felt quite the opposite.

  “What would you have done father?” he whispered. His words caught him off guard, for he hadn’t thought of the old man in quite some time. “You were a harsh, brutal bastard,” he grumbled. “Still, though, you were the wisest man I’ve ever known.” A fact that had made killing him all the more difficult.

  Drexil sighed. His last night on Tritan should have been his proudest moment: the end of his Grimwa and entrance into manhood. But the old man put an end to that.

  “A toothpick?” Harimen Doliride had spat. “This is what you’ve spent your youth concocting?” Drexil cringed as his father rolled the blade over in his sweaty palm. “If I had a dribbling tart for a son, I would have expected better.” He tossed the dagger at Drexil’s feet. “Get out of my sight.”

  “But father. . . “

  “Leave!” Harimen spat. “Now! And speak to no one as you go.” He then gestured to the knife. “And take this. . . toy. . . with you.”

  Drexil slammed the blade into the table. He was back on Tritan then, the rage and indignation pulsing through his veins. “You never trusted me, did you?” he whispered beneath the clatter of the Whore’s Wrath. “Never thought I would amount to anything. But you were wrong.” His heart lurched as he stared at the blade. The beginning of all my woes. Yet you’re all I have now. Light glinted off its razor-edge, blue and purple swirls emanating from the meridium within.

  “You’ve failed your entire line,” his father had shouted.

  “My Grimwa is as good as any of the other pupils,” Drexil cried, tears streaking his face.

  “Prove it then!” Harimen stepped forward, the blade’s tip touching his chest. “If you say your toy works, cut me.” He tore open his tunic, revealing the unil chainmail below. It was the rarest and strongest metal in all the known realms, resilient to all known blades, enchanted or forged.

  “Cut me and let my blood be your true test.”

  Drexil’s hands trembled as his father pressed the blade harder against the mail.

  “Go on! Do it! Do it and prove you are true to my blood!”

  Drexil shook his head. “I can’t.”

  Harimen slapped him across the face. “You’re no son of mine!”

  “Father stop!”

  Harimen hit him again. “Do it! Come on! Do it!”

  Drexil’s eyes watered. “Please stop, father!”

  Harimen grabbed the blade and thrust it into his chest.

  Drexil gasped.

  “By the gods,” Harimen breathed. He stood silent, his face pale, emotionless. When he looked down, though, his trembling lips creased into a smile.

  “Perhaps you are a man after all.”

  With that said, he collapsed. And never rose again.

  Drexil felt a weight press down on his chest. It had been a long time since he thought of that day. The end of a dream and life. He could never go home, never breath the air of Crossing Way or walk the halls of Thumoln Dome. Exiled forever, a murdering thief without port or cause. And if he were to return there would be no courts or juries, for none existed on Tritan. Beneath the metal dome only the Law of Blood stood: ‘Death for death, sin for sin’.

  Drexil stared long and hard at the blade. If he couldn’t make a name for himself o
n Tritan, he would have to do it here. But it won’t be a damn dagger that does it, he thought as he tucked the blade back into it sheath. That part of his life was over. His new Grimwa would be the chamber. And whatever lies within.

  Drexil staggered from the tavern into a back alley, where a urine-soaked outhouse sat nestled amongst a pile of trash.

  He stepped inside and held his breath. Flies buzzed about his ears as the ancient wood creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Them brutes are no friends of mine, he reminded himself as he undid his breaches and pissed into the shack’s black hole. Best take caution out there. Watch my back every step of the way.

  He leaned forward and stared into the foul smelling dark. For an instant he thought he saw a face staring back at him, grinning, laughing. He reached into his pocket and thumbed the pendent.

  Else I’ll be the one rotting at the bottom of a shithouse.

  17

  They’ve found it. . .

  The words echoed through Michael’s mind over and over again, a nonsensical mantra snowballing into a maddening obsession.

  The chamber. . . they’ve found the chamber!

  Dazed, he slowly opened his eyes. He was in a different room now. Only a single candle flickered a few footfalls to his right, illuminating a bank of cages lining the walls.

  This is not right. . . none of it, he thought. His head ached. But when he tried to touch it, leather restraints held his hands in place.

  A door opened behind him, furtive footfalls gently tapping across the floor. When they stopped, a pair of feline eyes blinked above him.

  “I’m sorry it came to this,” a familiar voice whispered. “If I had been able to intervene, I would never have allowed him to take you.” The woman stepped closer. She wore a black cloak wrapped tight about her body and a turban covered her entire face.

  “W—what did he. . . do to me?”

  “He tried to bridge himself to your aura,” she said.

  Michael’s head throbbed, pressure building behind his eyes. He wanted to tear open his sinuses, relieve the pressure. But there was no escaping it.

  “In time he will be dealt with,” the woman said. “But right now there are more pressing matters.”

  “Wha. . . are. . . doin?” Michael slurred as she removed a blade from her cloak and began cutting his bonds.

  “You know of the chamber,” she said. “Why else would the council spare your life?”

  An explosion rumbled through the walls.

  The woman looked up, her eyes wide as dust drizzled to the floor. “Damn it! They’ve already begun.”

  “Who? What’s happening?”

  “The Circle,” she replied. “They’ve come for the key.”

  Footfalls raced down the corridor outside.

  Lasasha froze, her eyes locked on the door. “We are sworn to guard it,” she whispered. “Without it, the chamber is nothing but a useless piece of scrap.”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. In a panic, he reached up and grabbed her cloak. But before she could push him away, his muscles tensed, arching his back like a drawn bow.

  “Kill her!” a voice cried in his head. “She’s a mutant! Kill her now!”

  The spasms twisted his body back and forth until he nearly lost consciousness. When they finally ceased, he looked at the woman and trembled. “What’s happening to me?”

  Lasasha sighed. “He probed you. How deep and long, though, I don’t know.”

  Michael reached up and gently touched the bloody hole in his forehead.

  “Leave this place,” he heard a voice speak. “Before it’s too late.”

  Michael lay back, tears dripping down his face. “I’m. . . I’m sorry.”

  Lasasha grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “It was inevitable. One cannot hold such a prize without consequences.

  Michael stared at her. She was tall, strong, unbent like the others. What’s hiding beneath that cloak, though, he wondered.

  “So w—what now?” he slurred.

  Lasasha turned to the door. “Now we leave this place.”

  Nicodemus squinted as the sun sunk behind the surrounding dunes. He was exhausted and hungry, with little to no relief in sight. Save for what lies inside that mountain, he thought as he stared at Galgune’s smallest peak.

  It had taken him nearly three days to return to Cumlety and report his findings to the Circle agents. In that time, the boy had vanished inside the mountain, a captor of the freaks. A bloody waste, he thought. If I’d been given my dose I would have burned out every last one of them and taken the chamber for myself. But rules were to be followed, the order of things upheld. A servant of the Circle obeyed, above all else. Especially if that servant wanted access to more meridium.

  Nicodemus shivered as he moved a loose tooth around with his tongue. It had been a week since his last dose and the withdrawal symptoms were increasing. Even his movement’s felt jerky and unpredictable, his muscles twisting into knots.

  The delay was worth it, though, Nicodemus told himself, sucking in a deep breath. It had allotted him time to put together this rabble and march on the mountain in strength. Turns of searching over in a call. And all because of a silly boy, he thought. Even so, I should have killed him for dragging me across the Stix.

  Sighing, the Charger turned his attention toward the line of haggard soldiers standing before him. Nearly two hundred men conscripted from the slums of Cumlety, each donning frail, mismatched armor.

  This is the best of us? he thought as the diseased dregs turned from his gaze. How I pray to Menutee for strength.

  The men stood at attention, their eyes locked on the distant fire elemental boiling atop the eastern desert. Most were visibly anxious, shifting from one leg to another as if they might run at any moment. Others looked upon it in awe.

  We’ll have to move quicker, Nicodemus thought. Much quicker.

  To the north, screams echoed across the sands as the clang of steel pierced the unhealthy sky.

  The first wave of fighting had finally begun.

  It will be hard going in those tunnels, Nicodemus thought. The mutants had already surprised his men by emerging from spider holes dug into the tunnel floors. A tactic which cost him nearly a third of his first wave.

  A great bloody mess, he thought. Unwilling to make the same mistake twice, his men were now pumping pepper smoke deep into the tunnels. Even if the mutants survived the caustic gas, they’d either be too blind or dazed to put up much of a fight.

  We must find the key before they move it, he thought. The mutants were cunning; he assumed they had a contingency plan in place for such a siege. Even now they might be transporting it to another location deep within the mountains.

  Nicodemus approached the closest soldier and inspected his Tritan blade. Its edge was coated in a tar-like substance; most likely scorp or nagra blood. He smiled as he handed it back to the soldier. Perhaps Jarnay did well in rounding up this bunch after all.

  Nervous footfalls crunched to a halt behind him.

  “S—S—sire.”

  Nicodemus turned. A blood soaked gob knelt before him.

  “The patrol,” the gob gasped. “It’s made contact with the inner sanctuary.”

  “How many have fallen?”

  “They’ve lost three chords to our one,” the gob said. “Harnem Woe is moving them deeper into the catacombs as we speak.”

  Nicodemus smiled as much as his scarred face allowed. Like a tide, we crest the blood-soaked sands. He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, black branch. “Return to your post.”

  The gob quickly nodded and retreated back into the ranks.

  It is time, Nicodemus thought, tightening his grip on the petrified branch. As he squeezed it, a stream of black ichor dripped from its tip onto the ground. “Come to us,” he whispered. “Come and aid us in this our greatest atuan.”

  The black-stained sand churned like boiling sugar, spitting wisps of black smoke into the sky.

  Several
of the soldiers stepped back. Even Nicodemus retreated a few steps, the branch leveled at the ground.

  Do not fail here, he told himself. You are its master, the controller of shadow. Concentrate. A chill danced down his spine, as the blackened sand churned. Not since the Meridium War had one of the Chelder clan revealed such power before so many. And I am the first, he thought with pride.

  Fire erupted within the molten sand, followed by an explosion of black smoke which billowed into the sky.

  “I stand a master before you!” Nicodemus cried as a massive form took shape amongst the smoke. “Heed my will!”

  The black smoke towered above him, a featureless monolith of pure ebony.

  That’s it. . . come to me, thought Nicodemus.

  Slowly, the smoke transformed into a hulking black figure.

  By the gods, you are a sight to behold, he thought as it let forth a deafening roar.

  The closest of the troops trembled in horror, while several in the rear soiled their breaches.

  “A. . . a shadowmax!” someone breathed.

  Until today, the beast was but a dark tale whispered across the dinner fire. But now they will know what really hides in the dark, Nicodemus thought. And the Circle’s true power.

  “You will obey me, and me only now!” the Charger cried.

  The beast inched forward, its blue, orb-like eyes glowing bright.

  “Obey!” Nicodemus cried.

  Slowly, the shadow beast shrunk, its snarls fading into a dull wheeze.

  Nicodemus approached the shadowmax. “You are hungry, yes?”

  The creature let out a dull moan.

  “Take one then. Take one and ease your suffering.”

  The shadowmax slowly turned toward the ranks. Several men immediately broke file and fled into the night. The remaining troops stood silent, too frightened to move.

  “Go on,” Nicodemus said. “Satisfy your hunger.”

  Black tendrils slowly extended from the beast toward the line. As it probed one man’s armor, a guttural moan rose up from the core of its body.

  The terrified soldier fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. But the beast glided forward and swallowed him whole.