by Luca Tarenzi
Then, before Two-horns had time to say anything, she lifted the nail he'd dropped there and smashed him on the head.
7
Waspider stood in the shade of a piece of cardboard held up by two guards, looking down on his Boggarts as they pulled with all their might to drag the battery from the stream.
He was standing at the top of the mound because it gave him a perfect view. All around the Pale Deaths squawked and flapped their wings in a hellish cacophony as they plucked among the garbage. Some were a little more than a foot from him and his guards who remained dead still, seemingly unaware of the birds but Waspider knew better, seeing the white of their knuckles as they held the improvised sunshade excessively tightly.
He wasn't worried because he knew his cloud, strengthened with Gramarye, covered himself, the guards, the sunshade and even some of the surrounding ground. It would have taken the sharp eyes of a Sluagh to penetrate such a dense cloud.
Down below the Boggarts had already managed, through sheer physical determination, to get the battery out of the water. A dozen brawny warriors, equipped with thick hemp ropes, were pulling the battery to the ridge, having completed the most difficult stage. Now it merely needed to be lifted onto the waiting sled so that another twenty harnessed Boggarts could pull it slowly to the settlement.
Waspider watched silently, but his mind drifted elsewhere. He was still riding high on the emotion of his discoveries from the previous night, his mind awash with new questions and ideas, but having only snatched a couple of hours sleep before dawn, his body was beginning to feel the effects. No longer a spring chicken, he physically couldn't handle endless nights of studying. It was not something that pleased him.
Today was different, though.
There was no pressing need for him to be there as the recovery operation could have been overseen by any of his lieutenants. In truth, even though the battery was important, that wasn't why he was there. No, he was there to conduct an experiment.
He knew himself too well; despite the weariness of his limbs, he realized he had to test his theory as soon as possible, otherwise his curiosity would have wiped out any chance of further rest.
He waited until the battery had been loaded onto the sled and secured. Then, as it was being dragged along, crushing the trash in its path, he called for Vanadium, who'd been directing the operation up to that point.
The Boggart immediately left the others and hurried up the ridge, his armor of plastic washers clacking as he went.
He was the biggest, brawniest warrior Waspider had ever had as a lieutenant. Despite his rough physical appearance and his tendency to stare blankly, he was anything but an idiot. Years before he'd lost his tongue when a Boggart girl had bitten it off as he tried to rape her - or, if the rumors were correct, did rape her, despite the stump in his mouth spurting blood. Waspider had always preferred silent people. He felt that nothing but stupidity came from bigmouths. Or shouting, as when the king lost his patience.
Vanadium bowed his head when he reached the cardboard sunscreen, waiting for Waspider to give him orders. His eyes were still swollen from the poison that a Goblin warrior had spat into them the day before, during the clash for the battery.
The king gazed at the sled as it slid behind the ridge and along the side of the mountain. "Show me where you found the prisoner yesterday."
Vanadium turned towards the ridge and pointed to a spot much lower down on the mound.
"But nobody saw him arrive, right?"
Vanadium shook his head in confirmation.
Waspider pointed to a closed bag lying nearby. "The prisoner is in there. Get him out and wake him up. Then, get two men and take him down there, where you found him."
Vanadium rubbed his forehead in confusion, but did his master's bidding without hesitation. He undid the knot that closed the bag, picked out the prisoner by his shoulders and shook him until he raised his head and opened his enormous, permanently terrified eyes.
That morning, Waspider had tried to get him to sleep using a range of poisons, but none had worked, just as the poison from his claws had been useless. In the end, the king had fallen back on a timeless method; a whack on the head. It was essential the prisoner was unconscious, otherwise the Boggarts who were carrying him might forget what they had on their shoulders halfway to their destination.
Vanadium kept the prisoner pinned to the ground with his knee as he turned the rope from the bag into a sort of lead to put around the prisoner's neck. He gestured for two warriors to join them; handing one rope and telling them to head down the mound, while kicking the prisoner to get him up.
The warriors moved away, dragging the prisoner. Vanadium was about to follow them, but Waspider ordered him not to.
Vanadium turned to the king.
"Wait here."
Vanadium nodded and went back under the cardboard sunshade.
"Be ready," the king whispered to him in a low voice, making sure nobody else heard. "Rush down there as soon as I tell you."
Vanadium stood unmoving, his dark face like a mask, painted with charcoal.
The two Boggarts moved down the ridge, one behind the other and the prisoner stumbling along between them, flapping his arms like a drunken bird to make sure he kept up with his guards and to avoid tripping on the uneven ground.
Then, roughly halfway between the ridge and the destination, the two guards slowed at the same time, seemingly having received some order.
Waspider was tense, waiting.
As he watched, the Boggart that had been at the back walked forward uncertainly, catching up with the guard in front and moving past the prisoner.
The prisoner remained still for a second, then grabbed the rope around his neck and yanked it. The other end of the rope slipped out of the first Boggart's hand without him even noticing as he continued to walk on, alongside his fellow guard.
Waspider raised his hand to his mouth, extended his claws and licked them thoroughly, covering them in Glamour-filled saliva.
The prisoner moved frantically, managing to free the noose from his head before he headed off at right angles to the other two Boggarts, who just moved on as if he was still there. Seconds later, the cries of the Pale Deaths cut through the air, as half-a-dozen birds plunged down to the ridge.
The guards next to Waspider jumped backwards, only just managing to keep the sunshade up. The king didn't seem to notice. His eyes remained firmly fixed on events down below.
The seagulls filled the air above the two Boggarts, shrieking madly at each other. It was only then that the two warriors seemed to wake up to the mayhem, but all they had time to do was look up before two birds dived down at them, one after the other. The snapping of each beak was accompanied by a scream that was soon drowned out by the flapping of wings.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the mass of seagulls disappeared, all flying off in different directions.
Waspider raised his hand and drove his claws into Vanadium's arm, passing on the Glamour-filled saliva that would make him invisible. Vanadium went rigid, but only for a second.
The king pointed to the prisoner with his other arm as he ran madly among the rubbish, seemingly invisible to the seagulls. "Go. Bring him back!"
Vanadium dashed down the ridge with the speed and sure-footedness of someone who'd known the mound his whole life. Waspider watched on, his eyes betraying a touch of nervousness. The giant Boggart cut across to the prisoner's apparent path, arriving just behind him and covering the final steps in a flash, before he hurdled himself on the little creature, pinning him to the ground.
At that very moment the world began to crumble.
Waspider felt the wave of Glamour rising up from the earth, recognized it and, instantaneously, tried to channel all his mental strength to resist it. He hadn’t expected something like this, so sudden and intense. His focus waned and shrank, like a candle in the wind.
He fought to maintain consciousness, to remember why he was there and what he was doing. It
took him a bit of time, but he managed because his mind was strong and trained, and because he knew the nature of that unusual Glamour.
When he opened his eyes again, the top of the mound was a scene of chaos. His guards had dropped the sunshade and were scurrying off in different directions, any direction. The other Boggarts on the ridge were either moving without any destination or were simple unable to move. Vanadium was back on his feet, but bewildered, while the prisoner was trying to get up.
Everyone had forgotten to use Glamour to hide themselves.
The Pale Deaths were swirling around, a single mass of cawing bodies from which countless feathers wafted down. Waspider cursed without opening his mouth and charged off down the slope.
He'd gone no more than twenty inches before his legs betrayed him. As he landed awkwardly on one leg, his old knees were unable to compensate and he found himself tumbling through the garbage, his long garments wrapping around his ankles and his braids flying in all directions. He crashed into an old frying pan, winding himself. For a couple of seconds he lay there unable to move. When he did try to get up, his own entangled garments prevented it..
He unsheathed his claws and shredded them.
Vanadium was there in front of him, his nose pointing upwards as he looked vacantly at two seagulls above him, fighting for the right to devour the morsel below. Behind him, the prisoner was getting away.
Waspider darted forward, using his Glamour to move faster. He'd rather have conserved it because he knew he'd need as much as possible soon, but he saw no other option. His feet became lighter and he almost hovered over the garbage. He went straight past Vanadium and caught up with the prisoner, sending him sprawling with a kick.
Up above, the Pale Deaths let out a blood-curdling scream.
Waspider jumped on top of the prisoner, holding the creature firm as it struggled widely. The king placed his claws on the prisoner's chest and pushed down with all his might, feeling them dig into flesh.
The prisoner cried out and a seagull responded to his call, diving towards him.
Waspider breathed out a larger cloud, twisting his essence with such effort he screamed. Anyone who possessed Glamour could use it as a shield, with enough time and determination, but Waspider transformed it using Gramarye.
The seagull went straight for them, but bounced off the see-through shield, solid like glass. The enraged bird flapped its wings and hacked at the shield with its beak, each blow causing Waspider's bones to vibrate madly. He gritted his teeth and blew out more Glamour, again and again. Inside the cloud, the stench of burned ozone became almost overwhelming.
The seagull seemed to grow even wilder with rage, raining ever-harder beak blows down on the shield. The king shouted again and let out another wave of solid Glamour to make the shield even stronger. In the corner of his eye, he saw Vanadium had woken from his daze.
The massive Boggart trembled, looked at the bird, drew his knife from the sheath on his back and pounced.
The seagull's fury was solely concentrated on the barrier, leaving Vanadium to attack unnoticed. His blow struck the base of one of the bird's legs. The Pale Death squawked and turned to face its attacker. Vanadium dodged its lunging beak and planted a second blow, only just missing the bird's eye, but managing to draw blood on the side of its neck.
The confused and surprised seagull screeched again, fumbled against the shield and then took off.
"Here!" shouted Waspider at his warrior, and expanded the cloud to include him.
Vanadium ran to his side.
In the seconds that followed, the sky was alive with birds squawking, feathers flying and wings beating.
Then suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switch, calm returned.
Waspider counted to ten, slowly, and only then did he risk raising his head and allowing his bewitched cloud to dissolve.
Nobody was to be seen on the side of the mound. Much of the garbage now had a freshly strewn look, with plenty of pale feathers and the abandoned sunshade.
Waspider carefully got to his knees, forcing himself not to groan. It felt like his skeleton had been torn from his flesh, put back together differently and then thrust back into his body. Had his magic been less powerful, the three of them would no longer still be on the side of the mound. He'd made a serious mistake however and paid dearly.
But, he'd learned something. It was a lesson that opened some imposing doors.
This Glamour was so powerful and so quick to react when the prisoner had been attacked in that part of the Landfill. It was a cloud so large that it was impossible that only one body had produced it...
The prisoner moaned softly and the king took his claws from his chest. Vanadium automatically grabbed the prisoner's arm, twisting it to keep him still. Then he looked at the king.
"What happened?" Waspider mumbled, giving voice to Vanadium’s question. "What I expected. And more." He was silent for a moment. "Much more."
Vanadium blinked as the king's thin lips slipped into a crooked smile. "Enough to forge a new future. For all of us."
8
In the early afternoon sun on such a clear blue day any pool of water would have sparkled silver and reflected like a mirror.
But not the Lake.
Needleye looked down on it from one of the surrounding trash mounds and, although she'd seen it dozens of times before, she couldn't help but sense the cold trepidation that was rising up in her.
It was said to lie at the very heart of the Landfill, but nobody knew for sure. The Landfill was a giant space, with every square foot jealously protected by some tribe or another. Exploration came at the risk of death, rendering comprehensive mapping a futile exercise.
The Lake had always been there, as old as the Landfill itself; a pool of rainwater that had collected there and, for inexplicable reasons, never dried up. The vegetation that grew around it was filled with clumps of long grass, as hard as plastic string, thorny green bushes, patches of nettles towering over three feet and other hardy plants that could survive the toxic surroundings. The water could only be seen from a slight distance atop one of the garbage mounds and it certainly wasn't an inviting sight.
Every time it rained rivulets and streams ran down from the heaps of rubbish into the basin, taking all the poison with them. Afterwards, the Lake would rise slightly, but it always looked the same.
The surface was black, a deep opaque black, darker in places. The edges were covered in a greenish yellow froth, resembling a moldy coating. Away from the shores the surface was freer, but often covered in patches of oil that shone iridescent in the sunlight. From a distance, it looked like a single vast living creature; a fluid alien lying quietly between the hills until the Landfill breeze caressed it, sending ripples of restless dreams across its surface.
Needleye moved down the side of the mound cautiously, adopting a zigzag approach and taking care to remain covered at all times. She couldn't see anybody, but that certainly didn't mean noone was around.
She should have come straight after leaving Two-horns' tent, but it had proved impossible. She'd eaten as much of the sorcerer's food as she could find - mainly dried rat meat, but also an entire lizard tail and a large, delicious jar of fresh fly larvae jam, wiping up the last bits with her finger - and then dug herself a little hole under a broken ceramic jug far from the tents. There she had slept, exhausted.
She awoke when the sun had already passed it zenith. Two-horns would have definitely had time to come to and sound the alarm, and it would hardly have required a genius to work out her destination. Still, there'd been no other way. Food and rest were vital.
Reaching the Lake without moving into the open was straightforward, as the shoreline was long and the vegetation generally covered the whole basin, right up to the mounds of trash. Of course, Needleye knew well that cover for her also meant cover for others, for those hunting her. She needed to be exceptionally cautious and quick. She wondered how long she'd need to speak to the Sirens.
Luckily, sh
e only had to fear her brothers (perhaps she should say, ex-brothers now?). The entire basin around the Lake was neutral turf, a tacit agreement that meant no tribe attacked another down there, even when enemies found themselves side-by-side to trade with the Sirens. The reason for this had never been clear, but Needleye imagined it was because nobody could predict how the Sirens would react.
The truth was, the Sirens had never officially claimed the basin as theirs - they never claimed anything as officially theirs - but nobody wanted to test the waters. Ultimately, anything relating even slightly to the Lake ended up relating to them.
Needleye chose a spot where clumps of hardy grass mixed with bits of rubbish for her final approach to the Lake, making sure to keep low enough to not be seen, but not so low as to push aside the grass, causing it to move on a windless day.
Everything was silent. Needleye walked doubled over, almost on all fours, and even the gentle rustle of her boots seemed unbelievably loud. The sun shone down, but was filtered by the tufts of grass, casting unmoving shadows in a chiaroscuro effect on her planned path. Needleye forced herself to keep moving forward, swiftly and steadily. She couldn't remember a time when she'd felt more exposed, more hunted.
She didn't know that side of the Lake well. She'd always gone into the basin using the tribe's normal path, and never alone. At times she'd gone there to trade, but normally it was for executions, a relatively common event in her father's reign.
As a child, she'd been told that it was part of the pact the Moryans in the Landfill had with the Sirens. It was part of trading with them. It was human life in exchange for the mysterious creations the surface dwellers couldn't produce alone, items made by freezing siren hands in the depths of their sunless realm. She knew the other tribes also threw their condemned prisoners into the Lake, although she'd never seen it firsthand.