Waypman turned to him. “Sense what?”
“The beckon,” the mystic replied. He slowly propped himself up. “What I’m about to tell you. . . no man outside the Circle has ever known.”
Waypman locked eyes with him.
“Before the war. . . something. . . fell from the sky,” the mystic said. “A star, they thought. Larger than any they had ever seen.” He took in a deep breath, his chest trembling as he stifled a cough. “When they brought it back to the Isle, though, they discovered it had a core. A mechanical core.” Harold let that sink in for a moment. “Have you ever heard the tale of Narma Kra?
Waypman chuckled. “Of course. What child hasn’t?”
Harold stared at him. “Well there’s more truth to it then you know. The blizzards. . . the ice. . . it was all very much real.”
Waypman cocked his eye suspiciously. Even now, after all these turns, the song was still fresh in his memory: When fires die and winds blow high, when ice and rain call your name, you will know the witches have whispered their song, to call forth the gods and begin turns long.
“You see. . . when they first began toying with the device,” Harold said, “it. . . it somehow created those storms spoken of in the tale.”
Waypman sat back and shook his head. “Nothing has that kind of power, son. At least nothing of this planet.”
Harold forced a smile. “And what if it wasn’t of this planet?”
Waypman rose, stretching his legs. “Sounds like a nice tale. But nothing more.”
“No,” Harold said. “It’s more. . . so much more. You see. . . Menutee wasn’t trying to usurp power from the emperor like the history scrolls would have you think. No. He simply wanted his atuan. His birthright as a Charger. It just so happened his was the greatest atuan ever discovered.”
Waypman huffed. “So this is all because of a useless rock.”
Harold coughed violently, spattering blood across his palm. When he recovered, he tilted his head back and laughed. “Could a useless rock draw forth infernos from the sky. . . could it entice thousands of alchemists into the employ of the Circle just for a mere glimpse of it?” He wiped blood from his lips and spat onto the ground. “Such a prize could supply a Charger and his followers for the rest of their lives. This was well known, and that it is why the rock was encased in the finest Karna-bara ever built.”
Waypman glanced at an expended driver rod lying in the sand a few footfalls away. Could all of this trouble truly exist because of a rock?
Harold followed his gaze and nodded. “It’s a rare commodity these days, meridium. Before my time, it was available to any who should pass through the Isle. In fact, they encouraged my ancestors to take it. Coached them on its use until they were so addicted they had no choice but to feed their ceaseless hunger.” He coughed again, a guttural blast that doubled him over. When he regained his breath, he wheezed.
“Now we stand ragged. Empty and useless, save for the few families wealthy enough to have access.”
Waypman stood up and paced the sand, his ears cocked toward the caravan. “Who are they then, these families?”
“The Chelder clan,” Harold replied. “The Narnic Clan. All the original founders of the Isle. But after Menutee stole back the atuan, the once unified families broke into a thousand pieces. Some pledged fealty to Menutee, while others formed new clans bent on retrieving the chamber. Most just fell into disarray, fighting silent civil wars which still rage to this day.”
Waypman stood up and glanced across the sun-blasted field. What had once been lush flatlands now lay scorched and useless, a dust bowl strewn with broken bone and ash. And all because of a feud over rock.
“If what you say is true,” Waypman said, “we are fools toiling here.”
“Well there’s more,” Harold said. “Before the atuan was taken back, the Circle’s top alchemists discovered its mechanical core held certain powers. Anomalous powers far different than any atuan ever found before.”
“What kind of. . . powers?” Waypman asked.
“Elemental powers. The ability to transform matter with a single thought. Fortunately, though, they were never able to fully harness its strength.”
Waypman spit into the dust. “And now here we stand. . . smack in the middle of a civil war? Is that what you’re saying?”
Harold sighed. “I fear so. And that. . .” He gestured to the comet now arching across the sky. “That has awakened something in the land. Something new and frightening that will only grow stronger if Menutee’s atuan falls into the wrong hands.”
Frustrated, Waypman took a sip from his canteen and spat it onto the sand. “I have one question, then. How is it you, a lowly mystic, came to learn all this?”
Harold forced a smile. “How could I not? When you’re the great-grandson of Narthax Menutee, few let you forget.”
Uxer moved silently down the twisting corridor, as a group of cloaked figure’s dragged Brim Howl’s corpse behind them. “Hurry!” he hissed. “We have but a call before he’ll be missed.”
A hundred footfalls ahead, the tunnel opened into a vast, octagonal chamber. When Uxer stepped inside it, his torch reflected off of Tritan plated walls.
“Place him on the altar,” he ordered, pointing to the black marble slab situated in the center of the chamber. Without a word, the three loyalists hoisted Brim’s body onto the dusty altar and retreated back into the shadows.
His patience waning, Uxer reached into his cloak and withdrew a small dagger. The rare and priceless weapon was of Tritan craft, its black, meridium-infused blade decorated with dozens of meticulously carved Circle runes. A forbidden relic, he had kept it hidden in his chamber for turns, risking exile or execution if found. But now the risk would pay off.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the blade to his thumb. “May the mark of Menutee guide us,” he whispered as he smeared blood across the dagger’s runes.
Lorp emerged from the tunnel. “Is it done?” he said, dropping a small black sack at his feet.
Uxer turned to him and frowned. The boy’s left eye was swollen shut and his lips were crusted with dried blood. “Come,” he said, his hand outstretched. “Prepare the dust.”
In silence, Lorp dug into the sack and withdrew a small vile of black powder. When he cracked its seal, a strange, rotten-egg stink filled the chamber.
“Pour it on him,” Uxer ordered.
Lorp leaned over Brim, smiling as he sprinkled the black dust onto the commander’s face.
Uxer raised the dagger above his head and shouted: “By the right of our atuan, I draw forth your power. By the right of the void, I barter your death for a new visage.” He leaned over the altar and carefully drew the blade across the commander’s forehead.
Lorp stepped back, aghast as Uxer slowly carved off the commander’s face.
“The tool,” Uxer said, the now bloody knife outstretched in his palm. Lorp quickly replaced it with a pair of metal tongs.
“You may not want to see this,” Uxer said.
Lorp shook his head. “No. . . I want to see it all.”
“Very well.” Uxer clamped the tongs onto the freshly cut skin and pulled.
Lorp stifled a gag as muscle and viscera tore in great strands from the commander’s skull. “How long will it last,” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Uxer replied as he cut away a particularly troublesome piece of muscle. “The powder is old and weak. If we’re favored, perhaps two, maybe three days.”
The others watched eagerly from the shadows; none had ever seen the rite performed and they knew this might be their only chance.
“Bring me the kull powder,” Uxer said as he cupped the commander’s flaccid face to his own.
One of the Chargers stepped forward, a vile of blue powder clenched in his trembling hand. Uxer snatched it from him and smeared a handful across his face.
“Dispose of him,” Uxer muttered, gesturing toward the commander’s body.
The Charger bowed and was about to tur
n, when Lorp pushed him aside.
“I’ll see to this,” the servant said. In his hand he held a glowing jar filled with a viscous, orange liquid. When he opened it, sour-smelling vapors filled the air. “To the pit, you filthy bastard,” he said as he poured the contents onto the commander’s body. Within seconds, flesh and bone dissolved into a bubbling brown mess, which oozed down the altar’s four black sides.
Lorp smiled. “This is the point of no return. After this night, nothing will ever be the same again.”
Behind the altar, Uxer began to whisper. “Wen ra, hala ak bi dra!”
Wind rushed into the chamber, snuffing out their torches.
Lorp tensed, his eyes and ears straining through the dark. “Master?”
“Yaro kie wep oje me taned!” Uxer cried.
Lorp’s pulse quickened. He’d never been privy to such craft, and to hear Uxer’s voice echo throughout the chamber sent chills down his spine.
“Look!” one of the Chargers hissed.
A bright, blue glow was blossoming behind the altar.
“Krama del noray!” Uxer cried.
White light filled the chamber, blinding the Chargers.
Lorp staggered backward, shielding his eyes. There was another rush of air, followed by a deafening crackle. And then darkness.
Lorp quickly sparked a new torch to life and approached the altar. He could see Uxer’s body lying buried beneath a tangle of bloodied cloak. But it was still.
“Master?” he said. He knelt down and placed a finger against the Charger’s throat.
A pulse. Faint, but it was there.
“He’s alive,” Lorp said.
Uxer rolled onto his back and groaned.
Lorp’s stepped back, shocked. For it was Brim’s diseased face which now stared back at him.
“Your dagger,” Uxer groaned, his hand outstretched.
Lorp quickly withdrew his weapon and placed it in his master’s hand.
“My god,” Uxer breathed, staring at his reflection in the blade. Where his once small, refined nose had been, now a bloody, disease-ridden nub glared back at him. Even his lips were drawn into a vulpine sneer, a momentary effect from the meridium powder. Horrible. But it must be done.
“Is it time, Master?” Lorp asked.
Uxer smiled. “Indeed. And may the atuan guide us all.”
“By Menutee’s right hand and blessing,” Lorp said as he approached one the chamber’s walls. “The call is late, Master. We must head back.”
Uxer nodded. “Very well. Seal it off.”
Lorp withdrew a small key from his pocket and pressed it into a crack in the wall. Seconds later, a cement slab began lowering over the entranceway.
No turning back now, Uxer thought as he took one last look at Brim’s blackened remains.
For the game truly begins.
20
Drexil snapped on his mask and took a deep, filtered breath. The air tasted greasy and stagnant. Yet it’s still a far cry better than this smog.
Several footfalls behind him, Lamrot and the others laughed and joked as they waited for the worm.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Drexil shouted. “It’ll probably take a turn to sift through this mess.”
“Oh shut your mouth, gob,” Lamrot spat. “Worm will handle this just fine.” He raised his fingers to his lips and blew a deafening whistle. Seconds later, one of the controllers appeared at the top of the southern dune.
“She ready?” Lamrot cried.
“Not yet,” the controller shouted back. “She’s too spooked from that damn blast.”
Lamrot shrugged. “One call, then. After that she moves or I skin your ass.”
The controller snorted. “Just try it, slog.”
Drexil paced atop the upturned soil. The bunker lay in ruins, an impenetrable tangle of molten steel and twisted cement exposed for all to see. Even with the aid of the worm, it would take days, possibly even weeks to locate the chamber. Probably a thousand tons on top of it, he thought, kicking a bent piece of slag across the slushy sand.
To his right, the Garbat Bristle sat unscathed and creaking in a gentle breeze. It was a miracle it had survived the blast, and as he stared at it he realized it was as important a find as the chamber. For if nothing else, it would be worth its weight in coinage on the market.
A stick snapped behind him.
Drexil drew his blade and turned. A cloaked figure stood before him, staring at him in silence.
“And who are you?” Drexil asked, tensing.
“Names are of no concern here.” The stranger held a gnarled stick in his blistered hand, sap congealed at its tip. “Only what lies beneath the sand.”
A handful of armed men poured into the clearing behind him.
Drexil’s blood began to pump. So the games begin.
A few hundred footfalls to his left, Farahoof and the others quietly slunk into the wreckage, their weapons drawn. Cowards. Drexil thought.
The stranger stood silent, staring at Drexil as the stink of used meridium wafted off his mottled cloak. When next he spoke, his voice took on a razor sharp edge. “If you value your life, you will leave this place. I have no desire to shed blood.”
“And might I ask who in the hell you are?” Drexil said.
The man bowed. “Kremwa. . . and that is all need be said.”
The moon broke from behind the clouds, illuminating the man’s face. Drexil gasped. The stranger’s face was a rotten horror, the flesh covered in cracks and sores. Meridium withdrawal, he told himself. He’s a Charger!
Kremwa turned to the Bristle. “A fine piece. It might have fetched four, perhaps even five hundred coinage on the market.”
“Try a thousand,” Drexil said as he eyed the man’s gnarled wand. It was of ancient make, its shaft worn and chipped. Most likely a relic scavenged by those blind bastards, he thought. Odds were it was dead and without charge.
But if not. . .
I should rush him now while I have the chance, he thought. I could maybe take two, possibly even three of his companions if I’m fast enough.
Drexil inched forward, his eyes locked on the Charger’s wand. Such a thing would fetch a fortune from the right buyer. “I hope the Circle’s given you your share of dust, magic man,” he said. “Would be a pity to bluff an armed man with nothing but a twig.”
Kremwa smiled. “Only one way to find out, eh gob?” He raised the wand before his eyes, his lips cracking as if to mouth an incantation. But before he got out a single word, a roar erupted behind him.
“By the gods!” someone blurted.
Atop the southern slope, the worm reared its head against the moonlit sky.
“Your move,” Drexil shouted as the beast emitted another deafening roar.
The Charger tensed. “This will end bad for you, gob. You know that?”
“We shall see.”
A strange hissing sound grew in the distance.
“Here it comes!” someone cried.
Drexil turned. The worm was plowing into the field, pushing an avalanche of sand before it. Many of the soldiers dropped their weapons and ran, while others stood fast with swords and spears drawn.
“We will finish this, gob,” Kremwa said. With that said, he traced an arcane symbol in the air and spat at Drexil’s feet. Seconds later, dense fog began to form around him.
Drexil stumbled, his blade outstretched before him. The fog flowed like smoke, blotting out the world around him. But even through his mask, he smelled it: a strange, bitter odor akin to almonds.
By the gods, Drexil thought. The fool is working a cyanide cloud!
A few footfalls to his left, a mercenary dropped to the ground, white foam spewing from his mouth. Seconds later, another man stumbled and fell while clutching his throat.
“Is that it, scag?” Drexil cried. “Is that all you can muster?”
On the far side of the field, the worm twisted into the sky, its horrific groan herding the remaining survivors into the Waste.
There we are.
Kremwa ducked behind a piece of charred steel.
“Menwa tarken. . . dremin de nint,” he whispered. The tip of his wand dripped black ichor, charged and ready.
“Coward!” he could hear the gob crying in the distance. “Let’s fight like men! Blade against blade!”
Kremwa smiled. With his eyes closed, he raised his wand and focused inward. Flow, he thought. Flow. His life force ebbed and swelled, thrashing at the boundaries of flesh and bone. He felt alive and overwhelmed with power, electric bliss leaking from every pore.
“Nima tak melange!” he cried, completing the charge.
A bolt of yellow light snapped from the tip of his wand, arching through the air like a ghostly vein. But the gob was quick, ducking behind a blackened dune just as the bolt tore over his head.
“Damn it!” Kremwa hissed.
A hundred footfalls to the north, the Bristle sat canted in the sand like a giant porcupine, its poison tipped barbs glistening in the sun. Kremwa took notice and smiled.
Like a rat to the cliffs, I’ll lure him in, he thought.
The gob followed him deep into the wreckage, his blade glinting at his side as he ran. Exhausted, Kremwa knelt down behind a pile of rubble. This must count, he thought. I can waste no more on this fool. He closed his eyes, focusing all his power into the wand.
Wind howled across the field, spinning the Garbat Bristle atop its axle.
Drexil slowed. A strange sound was echoing in the smog, a creaking din like that of an unoiled wagon wheel. He meant for me to go this way, he thought.
A breeze blew back the smog, revealing a black pillar as tall as a man.
It can’t be, Drexil thought as the mechanism picked up speed. The trigger… only a gob would know how to activate it. But there the Bristle stood, spinning of its own volition.
Hundreds of arrows whipped through the air, two of which slammed into Drexil’s abdomen. He took a few clumsy steps forward, but stopped short when another arrow ripped through his right lung. Groaning, he toppled onto his back, black blood pulsating from his mouth. As he clawed at the sand, random memories rushed into his mind: his bedroom back on Tritan, its steel walls and cold steel floor; the smell of oil and filtered air wafting in from dusty vents in the ceiling. Blinking, he saw his father standing above him, a black shadow with head hung low.
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