Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  Why so many? Waypman wondered. The mystic was just a boy, a failed apprentice of no note or stature. One guard would have certainly sufficed.

  A wagon rolled past, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  Waypman was about to use the dust for cover, when a thunderous roar erupted on the eastern side of the docks.

  By the gods! he thought as he gazed off into the desert.

  A massive shadow loomed on the horizon, plowing through dunes and surrounding rubble.

  Several workmen dropped their crates and ran for the safety of the surrounding buildings.

  “Clear out!” someone cried.

  Waypman hunkered down as footfalls drummed atop the dock. A Tarnak worm, he thought as the beast plowed toward the edge of the city. It stood taller than ten men and was as long as twenty wagons. Large barbs bristled from its ringed, leather-like hide, and two gigantic flaps acted as nostrils above its gaping mouth.

  When the beast entered the field, it reared its eyeless head into the sky. Waypman shivered as he stared into its quivering throat. Rumor had it even the smallest Tarnak could displace a ton of soil in a single gulp. But he’s no hatchling, he thought. Nor was it adolescent. For in his youth he had seen one, and this beast was ten times its size.

  The worm let out another roar, thrashing against the network of wires encapsulating its body.

  “Get her under control, damn it!” someone shouted.

  Before the dust settled, Waypman crept out from beneath the dock and ran toward Harold’s wagon. As he passed the worm, he noticed two master—controllers sitting in the metal harnesses dangling on either side of its body. Much like their charge, the men were huge and calloused, their ragged laptane suits whispering of turns traveling beneath the sun.

  Quite a luxury, such a beast, Waypman thought as he hunkered down beneath another dock. I wonder what royal fool brought it in?

  He watched in awe as the controllers tugged at a system of handles, which in turn dug barbed wires into the worm’s flesh. It was an ingenious system, for whichever side the wires pulled across, the beast moved in the opposite direction. The controllers had even installed a wire system in its mouth, enabling them to open and close the beast’s great maw at will.

  With a cry, the worm thrashed its tail across the dusty field.

  It wants the sands of its home, Waypman thought as another dust cloud swallowed the docks. But like himself, it would probably never see home again. And when it grew too old and tired to be of any use, it would either be sold for its hide or left to die at the edge of the desert.

  A guard slowly approached the beast, his spear held at the ready. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice,” the man shouted. “Keep that goddamn thing calm or I’ll skewer it and feed it to the draba!”

  “It’s this wretched city,” one of the controllers shouted. “The stink unnerves her.”

  “The only stink I smell is that of your beast,” the guard spat. “Now keep it quiet!”

  Awestruck whispers flooded the field as workmen crept back to their stations. Few had ever seen such an enormous worm, let alone breathed the same air alongside it.

  Waypman kept to the shadows, watching as workers nervously strapped on laptane suits and rusty armor. They’re getting ready to leave, he thought. I’ve got to get on a detail. . . and now.

  Above him, footfalls thumped toward the edge of the dock. After a brief pause, a laptane-clad worker precariously dropped to the ground with a guttural thump. Yawning, the man then unzipped his pants and began relieving himself into the dust.

  “Ye old farmers, cast aside your shovels. . .” the lout sang as Waypman cautiously approached. “We got palaces better than your hovels. A little adreena in your stew, and we’ll dig up something new. . . Perhaps a shield or blade, or something goblin made. . .”

  His patience waning, Waypman lunged forward and wrapped his gnarled arm around the man’s neck. With a grunt, the two toppled backward. After some clawing and punching, Waypman finally rolled on top of the man and pinned his arms to the ground. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need your work parchment.”

  The man began to chuckle. “Parthmant? You wanth me parthmant?”

  Waypman took out several coins and tossed them at the man’s side.

  “Hell, mithter,” the drunk slurred, scraping up one of the coins. “Flash me that kind of coin. . . a yous can have me cock.”

  Leaving the lout chuckling beneath the dock, Waypman ducked into an outhouse and quickly pulled on his mask.

  “Departure in one crow call,” a timekeeper shouted in the distance.

  Waypman approached the closest wagon and climbed up into its hold. To his surprise, neither the driver nor his passengers paid him any mind.

  “Talk about waiting until the last minute, fella,” one of the workers commented as Waypman took a seat beside him.

  “I got hung up,” Waypman replied.

  The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of raw adreena weed. “Chew?”

  Waypman shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” The man lifted his mask and stuffed the wad deep into his right cheek. “So what do ya figure we’re pulling salvage for?” he asked, his words garbled by the bulging slop.

  Waypman took a deep breath, sweat soaking his brow. “Don’t know.”

  “Couldn’t be just relics,” the man said. “Not with that worm and all.”

  “Could be almost anything,” another man said. “What does it matter?”

  A fat lout opposite them leaned forward. “I bet it’s another de-trapping run. I heard they found a slew of petrifaction fields just north of the Blackened Stix.”

  “Blackened Stix?” This time it was a stumpy man sitting several seats down. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope,” the fat lout replied. “That’s what I heard.”

  The stumpy man shook his head. “Now that’s just great. While they’re at it, why don’t they just line us up and feed us to a nest of nagra?”

  At the front of the wagon, a squat, middle-aged mystic staggered to his feet. “Quit your complaining,” he grumbled. “Your pay will more than suffice.”

  “Let’s hope so,” the stump mumbled.

  Waypman sank low in his seat. What are you doing, old boy? he thought. You just met the boy a day ago, and now you’re risking your hide for him?

  The wagon lurched forward, the squeal of wood and rusty metal tearing through the air.

  “No going back now,” the man beside Waypman mumbled.

  On their right, the Tarnak worm kept pace, but at a distance. Every so often it emitted a low, indignant grumble.

  “The slug seems unhappy,” someone quipped.

  “That’s probably because he knows where we’re going,” the stump added.

  Exhausted, Waypman sat back and closed his eyes. What now? he thought, his stomach churning. Ten guards still stood between himself and the boy, not to mention a Charger and six wagons worth of workers. Not very good odds.

  He glanced over his shoulder a Harold’s wagon. It was in the center of the caravan, jostling about like a lumbering, metal animal. Atop its roof a guard sat gazing at the distant horizon, where a fire elemental now burned across their path.

  Something in the sky caught Waypman’s attention: a swath of light arching high across the northern horizon. Few noticed it, save for him, and even he was too tired to pay it much mind. But the longer he watched it, the more he felt a chill encapsulate his body.

  A bad omen, he thought as he stared at the distant comet. Why, exactly, he couldn’t say. But in his gut, he sensed more was waiting for them in the coming days than anyone had bargained for.

  Drexil stood silent before the uprooted Bristle, his face crinkled into a frown. It had taken only minutes for the brutes to tear it free, and now the priceless mechanism sat rusting beneath a veil of orange snow.

  “You should have taken more caution with such a prize,” Drexil spat as Lamrot removed a poisone
d tipped arrow from one of the Bristle’s shafts.

  “Gob trash,” the brute spat, snapping the arrow in two. “Won’t be worth my weight in shit!” Behind him, steam rose steadily from the bunker’s entrance. Drexil watched nervously as the ribbons abated into the darkening sky. That damnable smoke will draw every scrapper in the Waste, he thought, disgusted.

  “Door thick down there,” Lamrot said. “Very sturdy. We had to double the amount of paste.”

  Indifferent, Drexil turned his gaze to the ground, where priceless scrap metal lay scattered atop the slushy orange snow like so much garbage. He sighed as he kicked a piece of twisted steel that had once been a torch sconce. Amongst the detritus were priceless Tritan shields and gauntlets, two-handed bastard swords and Tritanese scythes. One of the brutes had even removed a corpse’s skull for the gold caps on its teeth. They’re practical, I give them that, Drexil thought.

  He strode slowly past another pile of exhumed treasure. Everywhere lay pieces of history: meridium infused swords forged on Tarnak, mail hewn in the bowels of Drow Wen, a Drakonis treasure chest banded and gilt in solid gold. Yet all of it will be shipped back to Cumlety like so much scrap, he thought. A sad sight indeed.

  The Tarnak worm grumbled lazily in the distance, its massive nostrils sniffing at the fetid vapors pouring forth from the tunnel. Its two controllers sat silent several footfalls beside it, a dim fire dancing before their furtive eyes.

  Drexil sat down on a petrified stump and removed his mask. As the noxious air assaulted his sinuses, he lit an adreena stick. The weed tasted good, but he sensed the effects would soon wear thin. I’ve been smoking too much of late, he thought. In time it would have no effect on him at all. But it was better than facing reality. A failed reality, he thought. In that moment, he yearned for home. For Tritan.

  But that’s impossible now, he told himself.

  Down in the tunnels, he could hear the brutes shouting and laughing as they went about their work. We should be done with this place by now, he thought. Done and gone. Frustrated, he stubbed out his smoke and descended into the bunker.

  At the bottom of the stairs, dozens of torches flickered inside an enormous tripod which the brutes had erected. Drexil walked over to it and warmed his hands above the flames.

  “How much longer?” he shouted down the tunnel.

  “Three torches time,” a distant voice replied.

  Impatient, Drexil spit into the flames. Two more calls of boredom, he thought. Then I will be rid of this wretched place forever.

  Or at least he hoped.

  The controllers sat silent beside their fire, watching as the gob entered the bunker. When the wretch passed out of sight, Galman turned to his companion and frowned. “Scrapper scum.”

  Back in their homeland of Alg, Tritan crop-harvesters and mining gangs infested the borders like diseased termites. Everywhere one looked another gas-belching machine sprouted atop the landscape, its massive steel teeth tearing the spirits from the once fertile soil. But not here. . . not this day, Galman thought. Today this gob would pay in full for his people’s sins.

  “I don’t trust this one, Dal,” Galman said. “Keep him far from Jardin on the morrow.”

  His brother, a one-eyed piece of leather named Dalman, nodded in agreement. “What about the brutes?”

  Galman glanced at Lamrot, who was now overseeing the unloading of yet another crate of paste. “Jardin will take care of them,” he replied. He then gestured toward the Garbat Bristle. “Such a device should not be tossed aside so lightly, don’t you agree?”

  Dalman tossed a rock into the fire and nodded. “There’ll be more profits down there, though. I can smell it.”

  Galman stoked the crackling coals. “Just be ready when the time comes, Dal. We will most likely have to kill them all.”

  Dalman smiled. “It is what it is.”

  The endless tunnel was black on all sides, save for the small area illuminated by Lasasha’s flickering torch.

  “How much farther?” Michael asked he inched toward the flames.

  Lasasha shrugged. “A league. . . maybe more.”

  Behind them, the sounds of battle finally ceased. Michael took little comfort in, though; he sensed something new stirring in the dark, a presence moving toward them.

  As they rounded a bend, the narrow tunnel finally opened into a large, octagonal chamber. Michael moved past Lasasha and was about to enter, but she quickly grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  Michael swallowed, his foot hovering an inch above the dusty floor.

  Lasasha lowered her torch. Hundreds of dead rats lay strewn across the tiles, their bones blackened and cracked like burnt twigs.

  “What the hell is this?” Michael asked.

  “A trap,” Lasasha replied. She bent down and picked up a rat’s charred skull. “Stand back!”

  Michael took cover as she tossed the skull onto the floor.

  Seconds later, a blinding flash illuminated the chamber.

  “By the gods,” Michael breathed.

  Where the skull had fallen, a pale substance now bubbled and popped.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “The tiles,” Lasasha replied. “They’ve been impregnated with meridium. Deadly if pressure is applied.” She began groping about the tunnel walls. “Still. . . there must be a way to disarm it.” Her hand slid over a loose stone and she pressed it down. “There,” she breathed.

  There was a hollow click, followed by a gust of wind as a massive steel sheet dropped from the ceiling onto the floor.

  Lasasha smiled as the dust settled. “Tritan ingenuity. Always a fail-safe for the creator.” She stepped onto the sheet and smiled. “Are you coming?”

  They moved faster now, passing countless crypts carved into the tunnel walls. When the corridor finally opened into a vast chamber, though, Michael ground to a halt.

  “By the gods,” he whispered. The ceiling stretched several hundred footfalls into the shadows above, and its walls were covered in polished, black marble with red veins spider-webbing throughout. In the center of the chamber, dozens of sarcophagi sat stacked three high.

  “My ancestors built this place,” Lasasha said. “Some of the first Culver exiles reside here.”

  They passed more dead torches, which instantly exploded to eerie life.

  “How do they do that?” Michael asked, startled.

  Lasasha took one down and gazed into its blue flames. “They are impregnated with meridium. When organic matter approaches, the compounds at its core react to the life-force.”

  Awestruck, Michael grabbed the closest torch and raised it before his eyes. If it were true, there was a fortune in scrap from the torches alone.

  Hanging above them, hundreds of beautifully crafted swords and suits of armor glittered in the pale blue light. Michael marveled at the display. “And all this,” he said, gesturing up at them. “It belonged to your people, too?” A strange orange glow throbbed inside several of the blades, and the finest of the armor rippled with green, electric pulses.

  “They weren’t all thieves and cast outs,” Lasasha replied. “When the Circle was shattered, some of the finest Chargers in all of Culver took solace here.” She ran a hand over one of the sarcophagi. “They built every footfall of these tunnels with their own hands. That is why this tomb was built. To honor them.”

  Michael approached one of the walls, where three shelves sat stacked one above the other. In each alcove rested a deformed skeleton, the bones surrounded with stacks of tarnished silver and gold.

  A fortune. . . right here for the taking, Michael thought. He moved to touch one of the coins, but a hand reached up from the shadows and pulled him into the depression.

  “Stay your blades!” Lasasha hissed. “He’s with me!”

  Terror griped Michael as a man pushed aside the skeleton and crouched before him.

  Lasasha spun around, her sword drawn as more men crawled from the shadows.
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  “Kyten traders,” she whispered. “They arrived a few days ago. They’ve agreed to take us to Ix.”

  Michael’s captor threw his legs over the ledge and drew back a mane of oily black hair. “Your friend has sticky fingers,” he said, his blade leveled at Michael’s throat. “You should take better care of the company you keep.”

  Michael tensed as the blade pricked his flesh. “I wasn’t g—going to take anything.”

  The trader laughed. “Take what you want kid. It ain’t doing these poor bastards any good.”

  Lasasha stepped forward. “Touch nothing here.”

  The leader turned his milky eyes toward Lasasha. “What was that?”

  “This is hallowed ground,” she said. “To take anything is punishable by death.”

  The man chuckled. “And would you be the one to deal the blow?”

  Lasasha glanced at his four companions. They looked more like pirates than traders; their suits were mismatched and ill fitting, lashed at the cuffs to keep them sealed. And they carried crossbows slung over their shoulder, expensive gear for those outside the Circle. Most likely plunder pulled off of some lost caravan, she thought. As for the previous owners, she assumed they lay naked in some shallow grave, throats gut.

  We have no choice, though, she thought. Such men had trade routes unknown to the Circle. And for the right price, they provided passage and protection through some of the most dangerous zones in the Waste. Her people had used them for turns, exchanging rarities culled from the sands for the traders’ services and loyalty.

  But you must never trust them, she reminded herself. Loyalties could be swayed quite easily for the right amount of coinage.

  “Why don’t you try and find out, Garm?” she said, her voice defiant.

  Garm let out another laugh. “Come, come, kitty. . . we have enough death nipping out our tails. I don’t need to find more with you.”

  Lasasha let go of her blade but kept on guard. “Have any others come this way?”