“Go,” she slurred. “Make all this… worth something.”
Haliden shook his head. “It won’t be worth anything without you.”
She arched her back as another spasm gripped her. When it passed, she took a deep, labored breath and touched his cheek. “I love you, Haliden. I always have.” She closed her eyes and kissed his lips.
And then she fell silent.
“Milane?” Haliden whispered. “Baby, don’t go! Don’t leave me again.”
But she was already gone.
Time stopped as he squeezed her lifeless hand. He couldn’t leave her. Not like this. So much unsaid, he thought, weeping. So much.
Bitter smoke filled the chamber, snuffing out the torches.
I’ll see you again, he thought as darkness swallowed him.
32
She glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling.
I love you, Haliden.
She climbed onto Instar, stroking the garron’s flowing mane. I always will.
The two turned and slowly vanished into the night.
Wait! Haliden cried into the darkness.
But they were already gone.
Golden light rushed in, sweeping away the darkness. It grew brighter and brighter, revealing a horizon stretching east to west for as far as the eye could see.
Haliden smiled as his pain and anger drifted away.
There was life again. Millions of souls writhing and dancing in the glorious nether.
Live your life, Milane said. For both of us. It’s not over yet.”
Haliden coughed.
“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” a voice said.
The artist slowly opened his eyes.
Muted gray sunlight splashed across a rusted railing.
There was a cough behind him, followed by the slap of water against a metal hull.
Haliden turned to find a scraggly, soot covered man pumping away at a set of laptane covered oars.
“He awakens!” the man said. “Figured we’d be tossing you to the currents before nightfall.”
Haliden sat up, wincing as his withered muscles protested.
“Take it easy,” came a familiar voice.
Haliden turned. Evetner sat behind him at the bow, bald and unarmored, his undergarments scorched and covered in ash. “Welcome back,” the boy said, smiling.
Haliden stared at him. Is this real? Are we real?
“It’s done?” he asked.
Evetner nodded. “Done.”
The once barren shoreline stood a hundred yards to port, bustling with activity. Lines of men unloaded crates from landing sloops moored at ancient docks, horse-drawn wagons weighed heavy with food stores and crates rolled up and down the beach. And all under the watchful eyes of armored sellswords freshly arrived from the various cogs anchored offshore.
An enormous flock of seagulls squawked and swooped above the rocky shore, their scorched beaks plucking up whatever scraps the freshly arrived humans dropped.
“What is happening?” Haliden breathed. “Who are all these people?”
“Lot owners,” Evetner said. “Come to claim land sold before the Breath.”
Haliden squinted as a ray of sunlight washed over him. When he took in a deep breath, his lungs felt like two sagging bags of hot coals.
He glanced about the inside of the boat. Boxes and sacks lined the hull, some stacked three layers deep.
Haliden tensed. “Wait—the boys! Where are they?”
“Safe,” Evetner replied.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Haliden sat back against the hull. Burns covered his scalp, face, and neck and his muscles trembled as the coxil weed lingered in his bloodstream.
“How… how did you find me?”
Evetner laughed. “Wasn’t hard. You were the only corpse that coughed when they dragged you out of the third wing.”
“There was a woman with me,” Haliden said. “Where did they take her?”
“Don’t know,” Evetner said. “If she was gone, they’re burning the bodies up shore.”
Haliden’s heart dropped. So I failed, he thought. There would be no second chance now. A thousand leagues… through the hells and back, he thought. And for what?
“Who was she?” Evetner asked.
Haliden stared westward, where an enormous pillar of black smoke coiled up behind the Block.
“My world,” he breathed.
“Well I’ll tell ya, fellow,” the oarsman cut in. “You’re one lucky bastard.”
Haliden looked at him. “You a runner, too?”
The man laughed. “Not quite.” He raised his arm. A single word had been burned into his flesh: Pagan. “Makwa City didn’t take too kindly to the presence of a runner. This here was my parting gift before I escaped.”
Haliden shook his head. What’s happened to us? It was as if the fire had sucked every ounce of humanity from Alimane.
“I hooked up with a group of runners out of Seckwa Downs,” the man continued. “But we were lucky. A lot of others were killed along the road.”
“Godsdamn vultures,” Evetner spat.
The oarsman laughed. “And more are coming. You know how fertile the land will be in a few turns? Just twenty acres will be worth a knightship. These armored fools know that, and now they come to stake their claim.”
Evetner huffed. “Where were they when the Breath was riding up our asses?”
“Waiting,” the oarsman said, “for turns of investment to finally come to fruition.”
Dozens of rowboats drifted alongside them. Some were so weighed down with crates and provisions their hulls were barely visible above the water.
“Where are the boys?” Haliden asked again.
The oarsman pointed at a massive cog bobbing a few hundred footfalls to port. Its hull was covered in gray laptane flesh and its sails glistened with flame retardant oil. Atop the tallest mast, a single white flag emblazoned with a gold candle snapped in the acrid breeze.
Haliden sat up and watched as dozens of small silhouettes ran across the deck.
“Orphans,” the oarsman said. “Going to Ithliad.”
Playful laughter echoed from the ship, an almost alien sound after the months of misery and turmoil they had endured.
“They’re with them,” Evetner said. “I saw to it.”
“And that makes them the luckiest bunch to escape this godless rock,” the oarsman commented. “Most of us will be lucky to end up in Alg or the Culver.”
Ithliad, Haliden thought. His heart swelled. The land of milk and honey. It was one of the few empires to know relative peace these last thirty turns. A place Haliden had always dreamt of visiting.
Two silhouettes suddenly midship accompanied by a group of dogs.
“There… look!” Evetner said, pointing at them.
Haliden stood. He could just make out Bran and Jon waving at him from the railing as the punchers barked and jumped beside them.
“They’ll be well cared for now,” Evetner said as the cog slowly raised its massive anchor.
“I’d hope so,” the oarsman laughed. “You could have choked a verax with that sack of gold you gave the captain.”
Haliden turned to Evetner. “Gold?”
“Two venermin… two thousand coinage.”
Haliden’s jaw dropped.
“You mean to tell me you didn’t know?” Evetner said.
Haliden shook his head.
“And here I thought you were just in it for the coinage.”
“What of the trapper?”
“Going with them, punchers and all,” Evetner replied, nodding at the ship. “I paid his way from my share. He earned it as much as us.”
“They’ll know happiness now,” the oarsman said. “The orphanages of Ithliad are tended by the Priun Order. Mothers of the deceased. They’ll find the life they deserve there.”
A horn echoed aboard the cog. Moments later, oars extended from dozens of small ports lining its hull.
Haliden wa
ved at the brothers as the ship slowly drifted out to sea.
“Goodbye,” he whispered.
The boys ran along the deck, keeping in sight of Haliden and Evetner until the cog finally dipped below the horizon line.
Haliden stood silent for a time after.
“I’ll miss them,” Evetner said.
Haliden nodded. “Me too.”
The oarsman hocked a wad of phlegm into the Acid’s deadly currents. “Well… it’s about that time, gentlemen. The Verax’s Bitch awaits.”
Evetner huffed. “Fitting name for our ride, don’t you think?”
Haliden lay back atop the skiff’s clutter, exhausted and aching. Above them, a single seagull drifted back and forth on an invisible air current.
Evetner looked down at him and smiled. “So what will you do with your new life?”
Haliden sighed. “Start over.”
Cotton-like clouds expanded and dissolved across the blue sky, each filled with hope and possibilities.
Evetner nodded, his hand resting on his father’s sword. “A blank canvas.”
At this, Haliden smiled.
“A blank canvas indeed.”
About the Author
Like most of my characters I lie. I do it everyday, whether on the page or in my head. It's what writers do. We dig and toil amongst our private wastes, sifting through toxic sands and sipping swill alongside beggars and scoundrels. It's where I'm most at home, at peace. But like all things in life, it sometimes comes from darker times, darker places. It's a toll worth paying, though, and perhaps what's necessary to spur my particular muse. After all, I'm no hero, no wise cracking thief or brilliant engineer. I've never stared down a dust storm or stormed an impenetrable fortress. I can't fight and if you turned on a Sunday football game I'd quickly sink into a blank state of despair. But when I write I am who I want to be: the good, the bad, the heinous and everything else in between. That's why I do it. That's why I love it.
But writing isn't my only bag of tricks. I'm also a videographer and editor with a successful business I run out of my home town in NJ. Also, when the desire hits me, I enjoy exploring and photographing abandoned buildings and institutions. You can check out some of my adventures here!
I'm also an enormous fan of cinema (I went to SVA and majored in film/video editing). If you have free time be sure to check out my thesis film and documentary, both of which I produced and directed.
Enjoy and keep checking in for more info about the Culver and the adventures of my dregs.
Also by Chris R. Sendrowski
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1 - Sand and Scrap
Coming 2019 to Amazon
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 2 - Requiem for the Bastards
Thank you again for taking the journey with me. If you
enjoyed the book visit me below for future giveaways and news on upcoming releases
www.chrissendrowski.com
Haliden's Fire Page 29