by Rance Denton
His hand crashed into my ear. Needing no breath, taking no break, Partridge lunged at me. I grabbed the club in a horizontal grip and raised it. He bore down on me. His gnarled hands grabbed the middle of the club.
For just a second, being that close, I couldn’t help but notice all the mysteries of him: his skin was leathery and putrid like a colicky baby, a being moving despite the inevitable laws of rot in its muscles. Where his torn shirt hung around his flat chest and distended belly, I glimpsed a scar on his chest.
And in its center, fused into his skin, winked a triangular coin.
“You want to live like this?” I asked. “Is this living?”
“It’s whatever the hell I was given.”
“You didn’t ask for it,” I said.
“And I didn’t ask to die, so I’ll take my chances,” he said.
He punched me in the jaw overtop the club. Numb pain echoed in my bones.
The good news was that the nausea had mostly fled. Two cheers for Greater Problems.
He pulled the club out of my hands. Just like it was a twig, he snapped it in half. A spray of broken wood flew into the air. He hucked the two splintered halves over his shoulder. With one hand, he grabbed my collar, pivoted his hips, and threw me too.
I was in the air for what felt like an hour. Birds fly, I reasoned. Clouds do, too. I don’t. About fifteen feet away from Partridge, I finally hit the ground in a heap and slid for several more yards. Skin scraped off through my shirt.
With busted ribs snarling at me, I tried to sit up. Partridge didn’t run to me this time. He just jumped. He got into a crouch, slammed his brick-like fists into the sandy cave-floor, then leaped like a frog. A jump like that could have made him bound whole chasms. By the second, Partridge grew more used to his new strength and force.
A flashback in my mind carried me, for just a brief moment, to the Western Elbow, and those sandshades’ defiance against gravity and reason. His loose-soled boots mashed into the ground on either side of me. Power hummed inside him. The Magnate’s power. Partridge grabbed my hair with his hulking fist. “I could have liked you Faust, but you ruined me, and I’ll break you for it.”
Hair could grow back. My scalp tore like paper. I lunged for a shard of splintered wood. He clasped both of his hands together and swung them as one. I ducked under his wild swing, then came up and rammed the stake into his belly. The wood ripped through clothing, hesitated on hard skin, and finally popped through. Sand came dashing out instead of guts, splashing like sugar cane on the rocks.
Getting back out of Partridge’s range wasn’t as easy. Even doing his best impression of a broken hourglass, he didn’t tire. He threw a hook at my ribs. I buckled over as he hit me.
So much for brief victories.
A faster-than-normal punch smashed my lips into my gums, made me bite down on my tongue. My already-weak legs became water. Partridge came in for the kill.
I flicked the broken club out to slice him. It ripped alongside his arm and opened up one of the stitches in his skin. More sand. He flailed.
I couldn’t hope to last much longer, even with the advantage of movement. I turned and started humping it for the entryway to the cave where Red had gone. Should have thought of that first. If I put on enough speed, I might put some distance between me and Partridge.
Red was just beyond the exit, standing patiently beyond the cavern’s mouth. He made a grand motion with his arm…
I ran full-speed into a brick wall.
Couldn’t see it, of course. Even if I’d looked for it. The air of the cavern’s mouth was as hard as old granite. Between Red and me, right on the invisible threshold that separated this cave from beyond, a black triangle had been scraped onto the floor. In Red’s other hand, he waved a small piece of coal.
I threw a shoulder at it. I couldn’t cross the triangle. My body rebounded off the empty air with as much force as I gave it, sending me to my ass.
“Surprising,” said Red, though his voice was muffled like he was on the other side of a wall, “what a little bit of artistic talent can do, isn’t it, Faust.”
Above the ground, I knew how things worked. Don’t get yourself killed. Don’t break Poindexter’s glasses. Don’t piss off Peggy Winters. Down here, though, things seemed inverted. Sand for blood. Living dead men. Walls I couldn’t see. What was next, lizards in dresses, bears that could throw a lasso? Partridge had his chance. I knew he was taking it. I rolled to the side. His feet thundered by me. His fist cut through the air. If I hadn’t moved, it would have found its mark on my skull.
Instead of striking me, his knuckles exploded against the illusory wall right near where my head had been. His force had been ten times greater than mine. Ready to kill. A ripple of motion rolled through the skin and muscle of his arm, all but tearing it apart. I heard bone snap like twigs. Sand burst from the opened skin, spewing in a pressurized arc.
When the sand wafted across one of the nearby torch flames, the color of the fire changed. It blossomed up, leaping like an angry orange mouth. Some of the grains became hot sparks. They’d brought the fire to life.
Good news.
Sandboy was flammable.
Even with my brain thumping at the pace of my heart, I shot to my feet and ran for one of the torches. It had a long, bronze stick and a wide base. I grabbed the thing in both hands like a spear. Burning oil seeped out of the wrapped end, running down my arms, splashing to the floor.
With my left hand wrapped around the shaft of the free-standing torch and the end of it propped under my right elbow, I went for him. For the first time in my encounter with him, Partridge didn’t come for me. He ran from me. I swept the torch left and right. It made a fluttering noise like flapping cloth. He hopped out of the way of each swing.
“I want information,” I said over the torch. “I want to know more about what he did to you, Partridge. I want to know about this place and what the hell is going on down here.”
He kept backing up as I jabbed the fire at him. I could see fear on his stiff face, twisting his lips up like rawhide. “What do you expect me to tell you,” he said, flattening himself against one of the walls. “You think I’m tuned into this whole operation?”
I took a step forward. Some of the fine sand that had fallen out of him crunched beneath my boot. I brandished the fire just to the left of his cheek.
“You killed a boy,” I said.
“You really think I give a damn? Those Fultons are no different than a thousand others like them, just good-for-nothings, boring and alone and…” Flame came close to him. The fire flashed against his silver, the lifeless reflection giving him the look of a molting snake. “Look, all I know is that we’re built to serve the Magnate. Our own ambitions are moot.”
“So you’re slaves,” I said.
“Disciples.”
“You do his bidding.”
“A purpose that feeds the whole. I’ve got no love for the bastard anymore, but given what he’s put inside me, I think I could start getting used to this—“ he showed me the sand still pouring out of his deflated hand, “—and all the advantages that come with it.”
“Until what? He doesn’t have use for you anymore?”
“That’s life,” Partridge said, “ain’t it?”
I took a few steps back, not really knowing what else to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Red wave one of his gloved hands. The way that neither Partridge nor I could, he stepped across the threshold of his coal triangle and smeared it with a boot-tip. A low hum accompanied the motion, then a pop like a bursting bubble.
When he came into the cavern, six other robed figures swirled into the room with him. Their cloaks looked exactly like his, pointed top and all, except that they were black. They floated like bad nightmares, surrounding me. They possessed a grace and ease that Partridge, in all his lifeless newness, hadn’t yet adopted. He was a clumsy child; they were otherworldly, engorged with unnatural potential.
“You’re hard to crack, Marshal Fa
ust,” Red said. “I half-expected to be in here mopping up what was left of you.”
Red pushed aside his cloak and unholstered his sidearm. A sawed-off double-barrel. Red jabbed it into my ribs, smashing it into the tender spot where they’d been broken.
“Kill him,” Red said to me.
Partridge was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Wall behind him, fiery torch in front of him, black robes everywhere else. “That’s not how this works,” he said.
“That’s not a job I’m willing to do,” I said.
“Your antics in Blackpeak have proved otherwise. More dead bodies every day. Don’t try to reduce your accountability. He’s served his usefulness.” Red motioned with the shotgun to all of the black cloaks around him. “There are plenty more where he’s come from, Faust. Consider this a formal invitation to join us.”
You know where the Well is, the Magnate said. This is an opportunity to embark on an endeavor that will benefit the world.
“As a locomoting sandbag?”
Limitations have to be set. Every dog needs its lead.
Partridge licked his dry and cracking lips. “You don’t want to do this, Faust.”
“The problem,” I told the Magnate, “is that the only way to get to the Well as I know of involves riding a bullet pony. It didn’t exactly give me a treasure map.”
We’ll forge our way. Maps can be made. Trails can be found and discovered. Ours is a country of pioneers, Faust. Why should the next horizon be any more difficult to find?
“You can’t force loyalty out of me.”
But I’m going to. That’s a matter of fact. How much of you you retain is really up to you.
Six sandshades. A whole room full of invisible power. Red and his tricksy coal tricks. I considered taking a gamble, turning around on them, letting the torch do its business on their sand-stuffed carcasses. Maybe Partridge would appreciate it and join me. We could crush sandy faces together and find out what was under Red’s hood. Sure, Partridge wasn’t Cicero, but I suppose I was in the market for new one-time friends.
But the lucky rabbit’s foot had been shoved so far up my ass as of late that I was afraid it was nowhere to be found.
What the hell was I thinking. Partridge probably didn’t even know who Shakespeare was.
I spun the torch and lunged its fiery edge down onto the floor.
The sand Partridge had dropped was as volatile as gunpowder. A darting snake of fire shot across the cavern’s floor, following the path he’d left. I heard Partridge let out a frightened shout before, like a rag dipped in oil, his whole body went up into bright, orange flames.
The burning skinbag that used to be Partridge Gregdon withered into a pile of loose ashes on the ground. Little glowing embers winked in and out of the gray dust.
When the show was done, Red held both of his hands out in front of him. A strong burst of air whisked through the cavern’s interior, kicking up Red’s cloak like he was standing in the middle of a storm. Wind bellowed out of his hands at the ashes, scattering the pile into nothingness across the rocky floor.
Red leaned over where Partridge’s ash-pile used to be. Between his fingers, he picked up a small piece of metal that had been left behind, flipped it like a coin, and caught it in his leather glove. He marched over to me and slapped it in my palm.
“This was his,” he said. “And now, Marshal Faust, it’s yours.”
All the pain in my body sunk back into me. I became aware in an instant of my bruised ribs, my near-to-exploding head, all the countless other nips and scrapes and scratches I’d endured. I dropped the torch.
Still hot from the fire, a tarnished medallion in the shape of a triangle sat in my grasp. Flakes of burnt skin clung to it. I closed my hand around it.
“I want to see the Magnate,” I said.
36
They obliged, because of course they obliged. Red wrangled my arms and slapped some rusty shackles around the wrists. He nudged me on with the barrels of his sawed-off and trucked me through the bowels of the caverns.
“You won’t shoot,” I said as we rounded a corner lit by a blue flame.
“Protocol. Just playing it safe. You’re a slick one. People around you wind up dead.”
The black-robed sandshades fluttered and slipped and slithered in a diamond formation around me. The rocky halls were as windy as a snake’s spine, damp as hell and lit only by an occasional torch. The world was just a bunch of shadows, silhouettes, and flickers of light.
The corridor opened up into an adjacent cavern lined with barrels, bags of feed, and crates full of whatever trade-goods could be stuffed in them. More sandshades, dressed just like my escorts, milled around, moving some of the stock into different locations. Silver flashed under their hoods. Some stacks of crates and barrels had to have been four or five men high. I smelled cedary pipe-smoke, the tinny aroma of fresh whiskey. On the side of one of the crates, there was a painted stencil that read, Crown Rock General Goods. “Kallum alright with this, I suspect?”
Control the trade, control the people, the Magnate said.
“I thought this was about the Well, not the town. This like some kind of double-or-nothing?”
Only a damn fool takes one approach. Distribution of influence. Choke it, burn it, make friends, murder enemies, I don’t care what I have to do. Be a good boy and I’ll keep feeding them, the Magnate said. It’s all up to you.
The sandshades all looked at me as I walked by. I gave them my best stink-eye, squeezing my fist tighter around the hot triangle-coin still in my palm. A few more windy halls, a couple of rocky corridors held up by strong, wooden beams. Sometimes the earth rumbled like the whole place was going to come down. There were spots where moisture squeezed through the rock like blood through a towel.
Finally we came to a door. It was heavy, tall, fastened into the rock with rusty hinges. Looked like something from the Middle Ages. Red bashed a black-gloved fist against the fortress-like door. There were triangles etched all in it, looking like they’d been burned in the wood with a hot stick.
A metal eye-slit whipped open. Two beady eyes stared out.
“Let us in,” said Red.
Ivanmore’s voice carried through the crack. “Do you have the package?”
“Hey, Ivanmore,” I said. “I’m right here.”
Deadbolts slid, scraped, screamed, and the massive door opened. I saw the undertaker standing there, decked all out in the same reddish robes that Red wore, pointy-topped hood and all. “Sandshades,” he barked, and all the black-robed folks around me snapped to attention. “Drag our guest in. We’ve got a place all ready for him.”
They converged on me like vultures on carrion. Despite the shackles, they all grabbed me by the arms, the elbows, and the shoulders, pushing me in front of them. One of them hammered me in the ribs with an elbow. Again with the damn ribs. Ivanmore snared me by the hair. “Don’t be shy. We’re not going to hurt you too much.”
His nails dug like little rocks into my forehead. I might have noticed the pain, but to be honest, I was too busy staring in amazement at the place around me.
The dull browns and bleak grays of Blackpeak had made me nearly forget matters like art and architecture. I stared like a kid seeing lightning-bugs or shooting stars for the first time. The cavern’s ceiling vaulted fifty, sixty feet above us, chewed right out of the stone. The rocks of the floor had been smoothed down to a vague shine that reflected the thousands of candles flickering all around us. It was a circular chamber, walls bastioned by firm beams shaped up against the countless tonnage of earth. A stone altar jutted up from the middle of the floor.
There were two levels. Between two shoulder-high torches was a channel of steps carved into the wall-stones, winding up to a terrace where wooden pews sat in rows. Onlookers saw everything from that angle, like an audience to a medical theater. There had to have been thirty pairs of silver jewels leering at me, watching me like beasts in the shadows. I felt like the main character of a traveling show.
But when I looked beyond the altar, I realized that I wasn’t the main character. I was just the supporting role.
At the other end of the room was a platform like at the front of a church, where a priest would give his homily. There was a chair there carved out of sturdy wood. Next to it was a little side-table where there was a bottle of alcohol, a little glass, and a musty old book made of fine vellum.
“You have a habit of exceeding expectations, Elias,” said the familiar man sitting on the chair, one foot casually thrown over an armrest. “I take it you enjoyed the gift?”
“You’ve been too kind. You’ve given me so many, I can’t even remember which one you’re talking about.”
He dipped his chin toward my fist. The coin.
“A chance to settle old debts,” he said.
The Magnate, who wore the same bloody-colored robe, drifted with preoccupation. He took up the glass and pushed himself to his feet. Underneath the wrinkles, I could see the strength of his youth, the hardness of fieldwork and farming. He wore a pair of copper-rimmed spectacles this time. His jowls looked like an angry dog’s. “Shades, put him on the altar.” He waved his glass like a wand. “Elias and I have a lot to discuss before we get down to business.”
The sandshades took their pains to yank me up by the collar, twist me around, and sit me on the edge of the stone table like a doll. Even though my head was spinning, I tried to stay balanced. I squeezed my fist around the triangular coin.
The Magnate finished his drink, then grabbed up a small tin next to him and stood. His limpy swagger made him look both dangerous and feeble at the same time. As he descended the platform, the ocean of sandshades around me broke apart and gave way, though Red and Ivanmore stood at attention. “The best part about convincing dullards like Partridge to join your cause is that gold and money blinds them outright, and when they die the first time, you just raise’em right back up for a second try.”
“And then you let your new friends burn them alive for amusement?”