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Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1 - Sand and Scrap: Dregs of the Culver Waste, #1
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereValutazioni:
Valutazione: 3 su 5 stelle3/5 (1 recensione)
Lunghezza: 532 pagine13 ore
- Editore:
- Chris R. Sendrowski
- Pubblicato:
- Dec 29, 2015
- ISBN:
- 9781386242161
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
Do you love Brandon Sanderson and Joe Abercrombie? Are you thirsting for a sprawling fantasy tale filled with action and deep world building? Then dive into the complete Dregs of the Culver Waste duology and prepare for a fast paced adventure across the dark and unforgiving world of Retrac Daor.
Years of magical warfare have transformed the once beautiful Culver into a desolate, polluted wasteland forgotten by much of the world. But great riches await those brave enough to explore its war-torn landscape, treasures and relics so valuable men gamble their lives to retrieve them.
Men like Michael Carter.
But when Michael and a group of ragtag scrappers unearth a mysterious chamber, the eyes of the world quickly turn upon the Culver. For within the chamber lies a magical rock long sought after by the magic men of the world. A mineral so powerful its wielders can control both the land and sky.
Now Michael and his companions must race across both the Culver and a sea of acid in the hopes of hiding the weapon from those who would exploit it.
For the fate of the Culver, and possibly the entire world, now rests upon their shoulders.
Dregs of the Culver Waste is an action packed, grimdark fantasy series from the mind of Chris R. Sendrowski. If you love deep world building and a large cast of scoundrels and heroes, you'll love the world of Retrac Daor. Grab your copy of the complete omnibus today and prepare for one hell of a ride!
Informazioni sul libro
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1 - Sand and Scrap: Dregs of the Culver Waste, #1
Valutazioni:
Valutazione: 3 su 5 stelle3/5 (1 recensione)
Lunghezza: 532 pagine13 ore
Descrizione
Do you love Brandon Sanderson and Joe Abercrombie? Are you thirsting for a sprawling fantasy tale filled with action and deep world building? Then dive into the complete Dregs of the Culver Waste duology and prepare for a fast paced adventure across the dark and unforgiving world of Retrac Daor.
Years of magical warfare have transformed the once beautiful Culver into a desolate, polluted wasteland forgotten by much of the world. But great riches await those brave enough to explore its war-torn landscape, treasures and relics so valuable men gamble their lives to retrieve them.
Men like Michael Carter.
But when Michael and a group of ragtag scrappers unearth a mysterious chamber, the eyes of the world quickly turn upon the Culver. For within the chamber lies a magical rock long sought after by the magic men of the world. A mineral so powerful its wielders can control both the land and sky.
Now Michael and his companions must race across both the Culver and a sea of acid in the hopes of hiding the weapon from those who would exploit it.
For the fate of the Culver, and possibly the entire world, now rests upon their shoulders.
Dregs of the Culver Waste is an action packed, grimdark fantasy series from the mind of Chris R. Sendrowski. If you love deep world building and a large cast of scoundrels and heroes, you'll love the world of Retrac Daor. Grab your copy of the complete omnibus today and prepare for one hell of a ride!
- Editore:
- Chris R. Sendrowski
- Pubblicato:
- Dec 29, 2015
- ISBN:
- 9781386242161
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Chris Sendrowski is a writer of dark fantasy and works as a cinematographer and editor in his hometown of Oakland, New Jersey. When he's not juggling time between his two professions, he's either out photographing and exploring abandoned psychiatric hospitals and prisons, or playing video games with his two little boys.
Make sure to visit www.chrissendrowski.com to learn more about his upcoming work and free offers.
And if you're interested in seeing some of his photo or video work, check out the links below: https://m.flickr.com/#/photos/sendro/sets/72157624076232916/.
https://vimeo.com/home/myvideos
Correlati a Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1 - Sand and Scrap
Anteprima del libro
Dregs of the Culver Waste Book 1 - Sand and Scrap - Chris R. Sendrowski
Prologue
The flames sputtered like the wings of a golden bat, warming his flesh against the tunnel’s biting cold.
I sense you, Narthax Menutee thought as he descended through the dark. Down here in the cold. And you’ve been waiting long for me.
A rock fell in the distance, the clap echoing deep throughout the unnatural tunnel.
The group froze, every eye drawn to the scorched ceiling. A thousand tons of frozen earth stood between them and the mighty Karak range above. And it takes only a breath to bring it down upon us, Menutee thought.
A frail servant boy named Belnius approached him. It grows colder,
he whispered.
Menutee sighed as he gazed upon the boy. At only fifteen, Belnius already stood hunched beneath a frozen cloak, his once youthful gaze now distant and dim. The debt of my company, he thought.
Belnius shifted uncomfortably. His exposed flesh was snow-burnt and black, his lips a bloody horror. We continue then?
Menutee nodded.
Behind them, the remaining three apprentices flickered like ghosts in the meager torchlight. I fear for the future, Menutee thought as he gazed into their trembling eyes. Weak born and frail, they were of a generation nurtured in the shadows of women. And it will only get worse, Menutee thought. Inbreeding and meridium withdrawal would see to that. Even now, what remained of the once powerful lines were but a whisper of the Circle of old. But they will have to do, he thought. My army . . . my flock. A gaggle of children and cravens.
A cry rang out in the distance.
Menutee glanced over his shoulder into the yawning black. Not more than a call ago, two apprentices tried fleeing back to the surface. Haran and Otanim, he thought, both of Tower Proper. In their haste, they had fallen through a weak spot in the tunnel floor. Now they lay broken at the bottom of a hundred-foot chasm, dying a slow and agonizing death. It will be long for them, Menutee thought as the cries rang out again.
The remaining apprentices trembled atop blistered feet, their eyes widening with every scream. Perhaps this will harden them, he thought. For their sons’ sake, one can only hope.
Menutee turned to the tunnel’s icy walls. His reflection wavered in and out of existence amongst the wet ripples, a six-foot post of a man skulking beneath a damp, black cloak. Of his face, only a few pallid patches peeked from beneath a nest of oily, black hair. A far cry from the boy I once was on the Isle, he thought with a laugh.
It seemed so long ago now: his schooling, his trial. Thirty turns gone in the blink of an eye. Yet I can still taste my first dose. His teacher had awoken him at dawn, a chip of meridium trembling atop a red, velvet pillow clutched in his liver-spotted hands. A chip within a chip, Menutee thought. Barely large enough to cover one’s fingernail. But it had been strong, exposing his life force like a blossoming flower. How I yearn for that sensation again.
One of the apprentices coughed, his lungs wheezing like a broken bellows. Menutee eyed him with disdain. They were so weak, this new class, so frightened. They reminded him of lambs, all huddled together in the torchlight. The thought flooded his heart with anger. Unlike himself, they were rich born to upper houses; privilege and rank handed down like so much bread. They would never earn their chip as he had and never stand before a gyrating firestorm with only the power of the rock to save them.
But I have. And that’s why they follow me now. Sighing, Menutee rubbed his weary eyes. Winter in the Karak had been hard these past months. Ten-footfall snowdrifts plagued the southern slopes, driving the last of the summer game into the warmer valleys below. For almost three moons, his dwindling caravan had eaten nothing but pack animals and snow dogs.
Thirty men I set out with, he thought. Thirty followers, accompanied by three wagons weighed heavy with provisions, plus forty horses conscripted form Guild House Natrane. Yet now only the shredded remains await us above.
He clutched his trembling hand. He was exhausted and hungry, his nerves all but shattered. This place, this pit is my last hope, he thought. It was all he knew now, his obsession, his quest. We must find it, and soon.
He glanced down at the Isle coggle ring, which glistened upon his middle finger. It was his most prized possession, a trophy issued upon surviving the Tower Proper trials. But I am a traitor now, a pariah, he thought. He pulled the ring off and tossed it into the dark. Belongs on a better finger than mine.
As the ring clattered into the shadows, his thoughts drifted back to the dark months since their departure. Like a barbarian horde, his caravan of devotees had plowed across the Culver, squeezing both rumor and truths from any villager who could scream. The price of my Atuan, he thought.
Dust drizzled from the ceiling as the group drifted past scorched walls and yawning pitfalls. The Atuan burned hot and long to get this deep, Menutee thought as black ash swirled at his feet. By his estimation, the tunnel was at least thirty footfalls tall and wide. That could only mean that the Atuan was the same. Wealth beyond all imagining, he thought.
Belnius approached, his torch crackling as moisture dripped onto the flames. Menutee warmed at his presence. The boy was his most loyal acolyte; for two turns now, he’d followed him across the Culver, obeying every command no matter how harsh or bizarre. And he’ll be rewarded when the time comes, Menutee told himself.
Belnius raised his hand, bringing the group to a sudden halt. Do you hear that?
he whispered.
Menutee closed his eyes, sucking in a deep, icy breath.
There . . . there it is again, lord.
Thrummm . . . thrummm . . . thrummm . . .
The pulse, Menutee thought. He had sensed it atop the southern pass, an ancient heartbeat lingering at the edge of his perception. It’s close,
he said. Keep moving.
The tunnel sloped down, its surface coated in black ice. Watch your footing here,
Belnius warned as he took the lead.
Menutee pulled his cloak tight about his body. With his free hand, he thumbed the meridium chip jostling about his pocket. He had found it at the mouth of the tunnel, a charred shred of the Atuan awaiting him within. As his fingers glided across its smooth, shalelike surface, his soul ached for its power.
I will be regarded as a god upon my return, he thought, his heart quickening. For few, if any, had ever laid claim to an Atuan such as this. Not only would his right of passage be complete, but he would also now have enough meridium to feed an entire generation of acolytes. No longer would he be forced to scour the Isle mines for mere scraps or jockey for the protection of a more powerful clan for a simple taste. No, now he was the master of his own destiny.
As it should be, he thought. My reward for fourteen turns spent devouring the tomes. His brain recoiled at the memory. He’d spent his family’s fortune bribing his way through the Isle library. How many candles did I burn studying the celestial charts, searching the sky for star trails and showers? he wondered. How many dead ends and heartbreaks endured so that I might stand here this night before my Atuan?
His friend Kytle came to mind. The boy had begun searching for his Atuan during the eighteenth turn of his schooling. Guided by scraps of rumor gleamed from smoky brothels, Kytle had ventured deep into the Zarin waste, where he roamed for almost three months, baking beneath the merciless sun. In the end, though, the boy returned empty-handed. No meridium, no power. Nothing. Only to be exiled to the Isle mines, Menutee thought. A horrible price to pay for failing to find one’s Atuan. He still remembered the last time he saw Kytle, toiling with the other exiles at the mouth of the Kremwala Vents. A ghost, Menutee thought. That was all that remained.
He sighed. Will that be my fate as well?
Menutee leaned against the wall and scratched at his boot. One of his remaining toes burned mercilessly. So much so that he wondered whether it, too, had the bite. For during the two-month trek through the teeth of the Karak, he’d lost both his outer right toe and both big toes to frostbite, as well as a good chunk of his right ear. A small price if we are successful, he reminded himself. But as he tried to awaken his remaining digits, he wondered whether he would feel the same when he returned home a cripple.
A breath of wind raced up the tunnel, snuffing out Menutee’s torch. As the wick smoldered, Belnius grasped his shoulder. Don’t move!
Menutee stood silent, his pulse quickening as the wall of black swallowed him whole. By the gods,
he whispered. No man should know such black.
Belnius lit another torch, cradling its flame as it struggled to life.
Even the fire fears this void, Menutee thought as he watched the flame waiver.
One of the dying boys cried out in the distance. Instinctively, the apprentices drew closer to the torch.
Belnius leaned toward Menutee’s ear and whispered, Should we have left them?
They knew the risks.
But to leave them . . . alive . . . down there, lord?
What would you have me do, eh?
Menutee hissed. Call in the others with rope and ladder so that they might meet the same fate?
Belnius stood silent, his eyes averted to the floor. They will be dead soon enough, if not from their wounds then certainly this cold.
And with that, Menutee took the torch from Belnius and pushed on.
He’s right, though, Menutee told himself as he negotiated the icy floor. Leaving the boys had cast a shadow on their hearts. A final nail in the coffin that was once my soul, he thought,
Another cry rang out, this time from Haran.
Menutee flinched at the sound. A boy of twelve, Haran was barely old enough to pleasure himself, let alone understand his dark appointment. Yet still he followed me, Menutee thought. Just like the others. Even now, what remained of his flock stood freezing in the snow above them, only a few barrels of salted horse and dog left to sustain them. Few would survive the return journey. And of those, only a handful would remain whole. But Haran was of Circle blood. Son to Charger Mendrain of the Dilback Clan, he thought. The father will be much to deal with upon our return.
Sire,
Belnius whispered. Look!
Menutee froze. A hundred footfalls down the tunnel, a gentle glow throbbed in the dark. By the gods, he thought as he stepped into the ethereal light.
The meteor stretched from floor to ceiling, a great, black hulk contrasting sharply against the Karak’s gray granite.
Menutee took in a deep breath. The air smelled charged, alive. This is it.
Slowly, he approached the rock. When he was within arm’s reach, he bit down on his glove and pulled it free. Bring the others,
he said.
Belnius smiled. The excavators as well?
Menutee nodded. Just don’t speak of its size.
Belnius bowed. Very well, master.
The apprentices watched in horror as Belnius ran back toward the surface.
Why is he leaving us?
a boy named Rud whispered.
Be quiet,
the boy beside him hissed.
Menutee raised his bare hand and closed his eyes. He could feel the meridium’s familiar charge tickling his fingertips and spine. None have ever known an Atuan such as this, he told himself. With such power, he could change the face of the planet, master both the weather and seasons. The Menutee line would be the most respected clan in the Isle, if not the world.
We become the gods now.
Slowly, he placed his hand on the Atuan’s surface. You’re not like the others, he thought as a surge of energy pulsed through his flesh. It felt good, invigorating even. But within seconds, it grew more powerful.
Too powerful.
Pain burst beneath his flesh, coiling through veins and muscle. He opened his mouth to scream, but his lips would no longer move. And when he tried to pull back, his muscles remained locked in place.
Master?
Rud shouted, stepping forward. The other two apprentices cowered behind him, their eyes wide with horror.
Menutee heard Rud calling his name, but when he tried to reply, nothing came out.
Prepare for us,
a voice said. Prepare for our coming.
Menutee snarled as burning agony slammed into his skull. Seconds later, a deafening roar overwhelmed his conscience, like a thousand voices coalescing into a single maddening din.
Horrified, Rud reached out and took hold of his master’s shoulder. But when he tried to pull him free, Menutee remained anchored to the Atuan. Stave!
Rud screamed over his shoulder. By the gods, I need help!
Stave stood silent, a great blot of moisture blossoming across his pants.
STAVE!
Rud cried again. FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, HELP ME!
Trembling, Stave forced himself forward. But after only a few steps, a layer of ice began creeping up his arm. Forget this!
he shouted before running back up the tunnel.
Rud’s heart shot into his throat. STAVE!
he cried. But the boy was already gone.
The remaining two apprentices watched in horror as ice crept over Menutee’s body.
W—what now, Jarma?
one of the boys stammered.
Jarma, a frail, redheaded apprentice, stood wide-eyed, his teeth chattering violently. I—I d—don’t kn—know.
A loud crack erupted inside the Atuan. Moments later, the rock split in two, and a blinding white light flooded the tunnel.
Jarma staggered backward. G—Gil?
he whispered. D—do you s—see th—that?
Gil froze. Not more than a few footfalls away, a creature as black as shadow stood scanning the tunnel with a pair of glowing orange eyes.
Gil!
Jarma hissed. We should run!
But when Gil tried to turn, his legs remained anchored to the floor.
Menutee strained every muscle, struggling to break from his icy tomb. Both his arms and legs were completely frozen, and he could feel the ice creeping toward his mouth. I must not fear, he told himself, remembering his training. I must be strong. He closed his eyes, focusing on his heart rate. It took a few moments, but finally he relaxed his muscles and opened his eyes.
The black shadow stood silent, watching him. Neither man nor animal, it bore no discernible features, save for the two legs upon which it stood.
In blur of wild motion, it lunged forward and grasped Menutee by the forehead.
Who calls upon us?
it hissed.
Menutee tried to speak, but his lips were frozen shut.
Who awakens us before the seeding?
It reached out a sackcloth black claw and squeezed Menutee’s forehead.
Searing pain instantly burned into his skull, as thousands upon thousands of alien memories flooded his conscience. In one, he was an insect crawling across a plain of orange ice; the next, an ethereal form drifting through blue and purple clouds. On and on it went, a maelstrom of images and sensations burning into his soul as thousands of voices cried out to him, begging and pleading.
LEAVE ME! he thought. But they only grew stronger.
The creature withdrew its hand and tossed Menutee to the floor. It stood only a few footfalls away, its body a black cloud coiling about the air like a living nightmare. Menutee reached out to touch it, but orange veins of light exploded across its form.
The creature screamed as flames engulfed it. Seconds later, it crumpled in on itself like a piece of burning parchment, leaving nothing but a heap of ash upon the floor.
What have I done? Menutee thought as the Atuan fell dark. He stared at it for a time after, eyes blank as alien power coiled around his soul. The voices were still there, tearing at his waning strength and sanity. But much of the power the rock had granted was already gone.
A torch appeared in the distance, accompanied by frantic voices calling out his name.
Menutee closed his eyes. What has happened to me?
Footsteps approached, frantic and haphazard. When Menutee opened his eyes, Belnius and half a dozen men surrounded him.
Hold still,
Belnius said. You’ve been bitten by the ice.
The boy handed his torch to a fresh-faced apprentice and sat down beside his master.
Manga Tare Yor,
Belnius whispered as he placed his hands on Menutee’s chest.
Thank god he was given his dose, Menutee thought as sensation slowly returned to both his arms and legs.
Standing behind Belnius, two fresh-faced apprentices watched in awe as Menutee’s blackened flesh began to heal.
What’s happened to him?
one of them asked.
Be silent!
Belnius hissed. He withdrew one of his hands from Menutee’s chest and touched it to his brow. Moments later, warmth crept back into Menutee’s extremities.
Stay still,
Belnius said. The others are coming.
A fur-clad man approached, his watery eyes darting between Menutee and the cracked Atuan. Is that it?
Belnius nodded.
And what of him?
Take him to master healer Charda,
Belnius said. Once he’s safe, bring your excavators and several more apprentices. I fear the two we passed will be of little use to us now.
The fur-clad man nodded and signaled the apprentices to move forward.
Menutee tried to speak then, but he was still too weak and could only stare at the Atuan as they lifted him onto the stretcher.
Belnius knelt down beside him and slowly whispered in his ear, Now we hold the reins, master. Now we hold the world in our hands.
Menutee looked up at his servant and tried to smile, but Belnius shook his head.
Rest now,
he said as he placed a hand over Menutee’s eyes.
Menutee felt warmth overwhelm his body as the world faded into darkness. But before he drifted into a dreamless sleep, he heard Belnius whisper one last thing into his ear.
By the grace of the gods, the final Atuan can now truly begin.
1
100 Turns Later
Michael Carter squinted against the angry sun, his back aching with the weight of four gallons of precious water.
Before him, the Culver work line stretched far into the distance, it’s hundreds of sunburned backs anxiously awaiting the morning work call.
Another day, another coin, he thought. Exhausted, he raised a cracked cup to his lips and swallowed. The water tasted of steel and age. Piss, he told himself. But it would sell.
Water here!
he cried, liquid sloshing against his back. Ravenous eyes followed him, sizing him up. Michael kept his distance. Only two days past, he’d seen a waterman torn to pieces for a mere cupful of brine.
One coin a cupful,
he shouted.
A man approached. Like most Culver rats, he was shirtless, his teeth black and skin blacker. Michael watched as he fumbled a coin from his pocket.
Clean?
the lout asked.
Michael nodded.
The man dropped a filth-encrusted coin into Michael’s palm. Full cup now, you hear?
Michael raised his dented cup to the cask’s rusty spout. When it was full, he handed it to the man and watched as he gulped it down.
Others looked on longingly as water splashed down the lout’s chest. Michael grew tense; this was how trouble started.
Finished, the worker belched and tossed the cup at Michael’s feet. Thanks . . . water boy.
Michael quickly picked up the cup and moved on.
Water! Water I say! One coin a cup!
Sweat dripped down his face and back, precious fluids lost to the Culver scorch. It’s hotter than usual, he thought. A brutal, dry bake drawing sweat from every pore. And the sun isn’t even at its peak. He picked up his pace, shouting louder as he moved down the line. It would be best to finish within the call. Before the thirsty grew desperate and deadly.
Water! Water I say! One coin a cup!
The remainder of the morning passed without incident, and when his cask was almost empty, he ducked into a ruined hovel in search of shade.
It was several degrees cooler inside the ruin, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized he wasn’t alone. On the far side of the shattered room, a man lay half-conscious atop a pile of bleached hay.
Flies buzzed about the stranger’s head, plucking at his chapped and bloody lips. His eyes were wider than most men and his nose was nothing but a scarred hole.
A damn gob, Michael thought. Of late, they had been pouring into the Culver by the thousands: cast outs, thieves, whores. The metal city’s useless and unwanted. And like ghosts, they existed on the fringes of the cities, nightwalkers and pariahs whose twisted and grotesque forms justly garnered them their nickname.
He’ll be dead soon, Michael thought. The thirst ‘will see to that.
A single, bloodshot eye followed Michael as he stepped across the room.
I pray for death,
the gob said, his voice but a whisper, and what do I receive . . . but a boy?
Tritan trash, Michael thought. He would never accept them. Not after what their machines had done to the Culver. And to father.
That water you got there?
the gob asked.
Michael hesitantly nodded.
Can I trouble you for two sips?
Michael glanced at the cask. There was a mouthful left, enough to earn a coin or more along the line. But then he remembered the bloated dead lying in the sand, their swollen tongues and peeling lips frozen in eternal agony. It was a death he wished upon no man. Not even a gob.
Please, friend,
the gob pleaded.
Michael emptied the last few drops into his cup and handed it to the man.
The gob quickly sucked it down. Thank you,
he gasped.
Michael nodded.
But as much as I appreciate it, I am afraid I’ll have to ask for more.
The gob pulled a crude-looking Tritan crossbow from the hay and leveled it at Michael’s chest. And I’ll take whatever coinage you got as well.
Michael cursed himself as he stared at the bolt. I should have known better than to trust him.
Let’s go,
the gob said, gesturing to Michael’s pockets. His widened as Michael withdrew a bulging sack. Well, well, well! What have we here?
Michael tossed it into his lap. This how you always get your coin?
The gob smiled as he weighed it in his hand. Is there a better way, boy?
He shouldered the empty cask, making sure to keep the crossbow leveled at Michael’s chest. See you around kid.
And with that, he ducked outside into the blazing light.
Michael waited until his footsteps faded from the ruin before withdrawing another leather satchel from his pocket. You forgot these, though,
he whispered as sunlight glinted off his real stash of coinage.
Within the call, Michael was back along the lines. And as he walked, defeated and forlorn, several past patrons perked with delight.
Bet you’d fetch a coin for that cock now, eh brother!
a man shouted behind him.
Come on, boyo . . . fetch us a cup!
Fetch us a cock, more like it!
Michael ignored them. But without the weight of water on his back, he felt incredibly vulnerable and exposed.
Get to the cistern, he told himself. Just get to the cistern.
He’d found it only three weeks earlier. A gift from the gods concealed on the outskirts of the lines amongst the ruins of an abandoned bathhouse. Since then, he’d been careful to keep it secret, visiting it only at night and when necessary. It won’t remain secret for long, though, he thought. There were too many eyes in the Waste, too many desperate men seeking refuge from thirst and sun.
More men eyed him as he walked down the line of sickly, skeletal shades who would think nothing of killing him for a sip of water. Michael picked up his pace. When he reached a bend in the road, he broke from the others and ducked into a crumbling ruin.
Inside, a few chairs lay shattered on the floor, crushed beneath what remained of the fallen, thatched roof. Michael went out the backdoor onto a cracked and weed-choked courtyard, where dozens of draba bird skeletons sprawled across the shattered slate. Probably got caught in an elemental, he thought.
The storms were everywhere these days — cyanide clouds, firestorms, sandstorms, ice clouds — leftover weapons from the Meridium War. And like animals, they preyed on warmth and flesh, always hunting, always killing.
Three more hovels surrounded the back of the ruin, all shattered and falling to pieces. Between each were tangles of fireweed and bramble. Michael approached the patch on the right side of the center building. When he was sure no one was around, he knelt down and pushed aside the weeds.
A metal cap jutted from the sands, another cask stashed close beside it.
Michael quickly pried the man-sized cap loose and looked down into the yawning cistern. It was enormous, capable of holding more than a thousand gallons of water. As he took in a deep, moist breath, his reflection stared back at him from the water’s mirrorlike surface. By the gods, I look like a ghost, he thought as the bucket shattered his image. When it was full, he hauled it back up and resealed the lid.
Well, well, well,
a familiar voice crooned behind him.
Startled, Michael turned. The gob stood a few footfalls away, the crossbow aimed at his back.
A funny thing happened this day,
the mutant said. Here I thought I might get a taste of some real Culver wine, when don’t you know it, I’m told my coinage ain’t worth shit!
He tossed the sack of slugs at Michael’s feet. So I got to thinking. If this fop slung me some fakes, perhaps he’s still got worth fetched somewhere on him.
The gob snapped his fingers. Moments later, an enormous brute emerged from the adjacent ruin.
The brute stood shirtless, revealing dozens of faded tattoos scratched across his sunburnt chest. In his hand, he held a bent and rusted dagger.
Michael stood up and gauged the two as best he could. The gob’s crossbow hand was trembling, probably due to thirst and hunger. He figured he could avoid the bolt. But then there is the brute to deal with.
Let’s move it!
the brute spat. Unless you want to gift some blood to the sands.
Michael reached into his pocket and withdrew the sack of real coinage. But instead of handing it over, he kicked the lid off the cistern and dangled it above the hole.
You drop that, it’s your throat, boy!
the gob hissed.
Michael squeezed the sack longingly. It contained over a hundred in coinage.
Three weeks’ worth of sweat and dreams.
The brute inched closer, the dagger leveled at Michael’s chest.
They will kill me either way, though, Michael thought as the gob glanced from the sack to the hole. Better this way than to give this lout some pleasure back in town.
Sighing, Michael dropped the sack into the cistern.
NO!
the gob cried.
Michael rushed forward and knocked the bow from his gnarled hand.
Enraged, the gob swung at his face, but Michael ducked past the blow and used the mutant’s momentum to toss him headfirst into the black hole.
The brute lunged forward, slashing the air with his knife. Michael ducked just as it whipped overhead. When the brute rounded on him, Michael grabbed a fistful of sand and tossed it into his face.
Fuccckkk!
the brute cried, shielding his eyes.
Michael took off through the ruins, crashing over shattered tile and rooftop. Get to your bag, he thought as he entered open desert. Just get to your bag. It was hidden in a patch of fireweed on the far side of a massive dune. Inside it, his meager possessions: a compass, water skin, matches, and clothes. Most important, though, his rusty dagger.
The dune was just up ahead, looming beside the line like some slumbering giant. Michael gasped, his lungs on fire, his legs cramping. He was almost there. He just . . . had to keep . . . running.
Michael plowed into the fireweed. The world spun dizzily around him as he swept his hands beneath the sand. When he finally found the bag, relief washed over him. But it was a short-lived sensation.
Don’t move, kid,
said a calm, raspy voice, and it was close.
Michael froze. To his right, a lone figure sat atop a tumbled pillar.
Another goddamn plunderer? he thought.
Drop the pack,
the man ordered. He withdrew a small, hand-sized crossbow from the folds of his filthy white cloak and aimed it at Michael’s chest. Now, please.
Michael let it fall at his left side a few inches from his feet.
You the water seller whose been working the west end of the line?
Who wants to know?
The man raised the bow and fired, grazing Michael’s cheek.
Michael swallowed. What’s it to you if I am?
The man quickly reloaded the weapon and leveled it at Michael’s crotch. I’ve watched you creep the sands for two days now, disappearing into these surrounding ruins. And every time you come back with a full cask. So I ask again. Where is it?
The brute rounded the dune. His face was beat red and his chest pumped wildly. You!
he cried.
Michael looked at both the blade and the plunderer’s crossbow. If I run, this one will strike me down, he thought. But if I stay, they will both have their way with me.
Michael gestured over his shoulder at the brute. Ask this one. He knows.
The plunderer cocked an eyebrow. And who, my dear, are you?
The last thing you’ll ever see if you don’t lower that bow,
the brute replied.
The plunderer turned back to Michael and smiled. It appears there’s one too many snouts at the trough today, eh, boy?
Michael tensed. He wanted to run. But before he could move, the soaking wet gob rounded the other side of the great dune and cut him off.
You owe me blood,
the gob spat, his mouth a crimson ruin.
The plunderer shook his head and laughed. Another guest? That’s unfortunate. I fear there is room for only one at this table.
There was a sudden thwack, like the sound of a club hitting meat.
Moments later, the brute stumbled forward, an arrow shaft protruding from his stomach.
As the plunderer reloaded, Michael pushed past the stunned brute and ran back into the desert.
To the lines, he told himself as sand sucked at his feet. No blood can be spilled along the lines. He expected an arrow to slam into his back at any moment. But he kept running, sweating, gasping, and breaking every rule he had ever learned about life in the Waste. It wasn’t until a crossbow bolt cut across his path that he finally regained some semblance of his self and halted.
Stand fast, lout!
a voice shouted.
Michael froze. To his left, an armored guard stood atop an ancient, sun-bleached platform, an empty crossbow in hand. Behind him, Michael could see a portion of the work line snaking off toward Cumlety.
Two more guards broke from the line, their crossbows aimed at Michael’s head.
Michael raised his hands in the air as they approached.
What’s your business running about like a fool?
the tower guard shouted.
The plunderer appeared behind Michael. But when he saw the guards, he quickly turned and retreated back into the desert.
That one with you?
the guard asked.
Michael shook his head. A thief,
he gasped, stole my coinage and water cask.
The guard laughed. Get back in line, dreg. Before I have you sent to the Nagra Plains.
Cumlety justice. eh?
Michael shouted as the two guards took him by the arms.
This is Culver, son,
the tower guard laughed. The only justice here lies beneath the sands.
Michael stood silent, baking beneath the merciless sun. Death was on the wind, a pungent, gassy stink that flowed into his nose like a river of waste.
He glanced at the ground beside the line. Dozens of bodies lay half buried in the sand, draba birds and baby scorps tugging at their rotting flesh. Will I be next? he wondered as he looked away in disgust.
The line of dead and dying inched forward like a silent funeral procession. Few would find work this day, and of those, only a handful would return alive. As for the rest, starvation and thirst awaited them on the lines. Even now, Michael could hear the familiar frantic shuffling of feet as yet another soul succumbed to the dreadful heat. When the dust cleared, silence would engulf the line. Death had arrived, and none wanted to draw its attention.
Keep it moving, you slogs,
a guard bellowed atop a ramshackle tower. His rusty armor glinted dully in the sunlight, casting shards of golden light into Michael’s bloodshot eyes. Two more days of this, and I’ll welcome the madness, he thought as the boy in front of him stumbled.
One foot for the Culver, one foot for your lives!
another guard shouted as he marched down the line.
The tower guard raised a dented brass horn to his chapped lips and blew a guttural call.
The line quickly stiffened to attention, every blistered lip trembling with anticipation. It was the first work call the Circle had put forth in almost two weeks, and no one dared to exclude himself from the selections.
Move! Move! Move!
a guard shouted as the line lurched forward.
Michael stumbled along as indignant grumbles intermingled with frantic footsteps.
Water! Water here!
a stumpy merchant shouted as he raced alongside the line. He wore a cask similar to Michael’s, but there was a strange, brown liquid sloshing within.
Several desperate men called out to him, their coinage held high in trembling hands.
Keep moving!
the guard shouted. There’ll be water enough for those selected.
Michael glanced about at his fellow hopefuls. There were bald-headed Garfaxmen; the mutated Tritanese with their black, diseased encrusted flesh; the Nefrafe Isle men, cast outs with large X scars branded across their faces. There were even races he had never seen before, no doubt from Alg or beyond the Isle. Men covered in piercings and tattoos, woman with great patches of scar tissue where their breasts had been. He even saw a man with gems in place of his eyes, most likely a criminal who had been caught stealing in the island nation of Jarink.
But we all have one thing in common now, Michael thought. And that was the hunger for work, for coinage — the siren call that drew them from their many slums and rat-infested swamps.
Third sun of the fifth quarter,
a timekeeper cried in the distance. As the eagle flies.
Michael’s stomach growled like a caged beast. It had been days since his last meal: a vile mix of sand rat and draba he’d won in a scorp duel.
Move it along,
a guard barked beside him. Like all Overwatch men, he wore a patchwork of rusted metal molded together beneath a rotten tunic. His pants were fashioned from laptane flesh dyed brown to match the Overwatch colors, and his feet were bound in leather wrappings woven together with wire and rope. As he approached, Michael noticed a black brand glistening upon his neck: a long sword split in half by a bolt. Another cast out, Michael thought. Even the Overwatch sends its dregs here.
Michael staggered on, sweat coursing down his face and back. When he tried to wipe it from his eyes, he stepped into a coil of wire that wound about his ankle and sliced into his flesh. Damn it,
he growled, tossing the wire into the nearest heap.
Leagues of garbage lay simmering beside the lines, long since abandoned possessions dropped out of desperation or exhaustion. Even the horizon betrayed wreckage of the past, great silhouettes of forgotten outposts and bunkers baking beneath the unyielding sun.
Michael pressed on, his father’s voice echoing through his skull. Culver makes a man of ya. That much I know, boyo. One day in that place and you’ll be carved out of steel.
His words stabbed at Michael’s soul like a thousand daggers. It had been almost six turns since his death, but he could still see his purple body hanging from the rafters of their shack.
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grandpahobo
When the author says dark, he means dark. The disturbing images start on the first page and there is no let up throughout the book. It takes quite a while until the semblance of a story begins to emerge (as opposed to just a litany of gory stuff).
On the other hand, the author is very effusive and effective at painting a very vivid picture, even if it is disturbing.
If you want to read really good writing, and can take the a story that is very dark, more than a little gory, without any real sense of hope, I would recommend this.
I was provided with a complimentary copy of this book, through Reading Deals, and I gave an honest review.
Rating: 3On the other hand, the author is very effusive and effective at painting a very vivid picture, even if it is disturbing.
If you want to read really good writing, and can take the a story that is very dark, more than a little gory, without any real sense of hope, I would recommend this.
I was provided with a complimentary copy of this book, through Reading Deals, and I gave an honest review.