Sandrunners--A Draconis Memoria Short Story Read online

  Sandrunners

  - A Draconis Memoria Short Story -

  By

  Anthony Ryan

  Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Ryan. All rights reserved.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review on your outlet or forum of choice, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

  Cover design and illustration by Aaron Randall (www.aaronrandallart.com).

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Sandrunners

  About the author

  Discover other titles by Anthony Ryan: | The Draconis Memoria

  Raven’s Shadow

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  Table of Contents

  Sandrunners

  About the Author

  Sandrunners

  Blue for the mind. Green for the body. Red for the fire. Black for the push... And white. She paused in the recitation to issue a giggle, so shrill and barely controlled she could scarcely credit it came from her own mouth. White for the madness.

  The sand gave way beneath her feet, tipping her face first into the dune she had been climbing, rust stinging her lips and invading her mouth. She choked and gagged, finding she had no spit to clear the metallic tang and scraping at her mouth with feverish fingers. “The Red Sands,” Wittler had said when they first caught sight of the crimson dunes three days gone. He had shouldered his long-rifle and crouched to scoop up a handful of the red dust. “Except it ain’t sand, Miss Ethy. See?” He held out his hand and she peered at the tiny flakes in his palm. “Rusted,” Wittler said, holding his hand up to let the wind take the flakes away. “All that’s left of whatever stood here before the Crater.”

  The Crater... She stifled a sob, closing her eyes against the memory. Only a day ago, when Wittler had still been kind. Big and scary, but also kind...

  The bullet gave a soft whine as it careened past her ear and buried itself in the dune barely an inch from her head. She gave a hoarse shout and jerked to her feet, reeling to the right, then the left, scrambling up the dune in a cloud of dust, hoping to confuse his aim. Six seconds to reload a long-rifle. Never saw him miss before.

  The second shot came as he crested the dune, plucking the sleeve of her duster, leaving her arm numb but unbloodied as she tumbled down the far side in a tangle. She reached the bottom with a pained yelp, lying spent but forcing herself to wait for the dust to settle before drawing breath.

  Must’ve been at full range, she decided when her babbling thoughts calmed enough to draw a conclusion. Puts him a mile behind me, less if he’s out of Green. Green or not, the two missed shots told another story, even at full range Wittler wouldn’t have missed twice. He’s truly as mad as a Blue-soaked dog.

  Blue... She sat up, trembling hands exploring the felt-cushioned box on her belt, sighing in explosive relief on finding her vials unbroken. She held them up to the light one by one. All the Red had gone back at the Crater, when the night grew so cold they thought they’d freeze before morning. The Green was still two thirds full, but still best kept for direst need. The Black was reduced to just a smear at the base of the vial, and the Blue... Enough for only one more taste.

  She resisted the impulse to gulp it down there and then. She won’t be expecting me yet, she knew, recalling a deeply instilled mantra. When the sun’s half-set. Not before. Not after.

  She returned the vials to the box and reached for her pack, feeling what was inside roll a little. Checking it for cracks was redundant. They never break. But still she undid the straps and peered down at the pale, round shape, fingers tracing over the marble-like surface and finding it cold. They were always chilled to the touch, waiting for the waking fire.

  She closed the pack and got to her feet, eyes scanning the surrounding dunes for the most likely course. Getting clear of this desert was her first priority, back to the Badlands where at least there was cover. Out here she risked Wittler’s eye every time she climbed a dune and what were the odds he’d miss three times?

  She unslung the canteen from her shoulder, still half full thanks to the company’s strict water discipline, and washed the iron from her mouth before taking a drink. Only as much as you need, Wittler had said every time they filled the canteens. Never as much as you want. Indulgence kills out here. He had smiled his kind smile, big hand resting on her shoulder for a second, eyes warm, so different from the wild, terrorised stare she saw back at the Crater. And his voice, hissing, thick with accusation: “Miss Ethy... You know what I saw...”

  She started for a low series of dunes to the north, hoping he’d stick to the higher ground, and moved on at a half-run, fighting memories.

  * * *

  They had set out from Carvenport near two months before, five seasoned members of the Honourable Contractor Company of Sandrunners and their newest recruit. Ethelynne Drystone, recently granted employee status in the Ironship Trading Syndicate, officially contracted Blood-blessed to the Sandrunners. She was the youngest Academy graduate to ever accept such a position, and not without opposition.

  “I had hoped sanity might prevail,” Madame Bondersil had said with a faint sigh of exasperation as Ethelynne stood before her desk. “Clearly twelve years of my tutelage was insufficient to imbue you with basic common sense.”

  There had been no real venom in the words, Ethelynne knew, just a maternal sense of concern and a well-concealed pride. “I want to see...” she began but Madame Bondersil waved her to silence with a flick of her elegant hand.

  “What’s out there, yes. As you have told me many times. Too many books, that’s the problem. Filling your head with adventurous notions.” She fell quiet, regarding Ethelynne with a steady eye and a grim smile. “I have agreed to act as your liaison for this little jaunt, with the Syndicate’s blessing, naturally.”

  Ethelynne had stopped herself reaching for Madame Bondersil’s hand, knowing displays of affection were never very welcome in her office. “Thank you, Madame. An honour.”

  The tutor’s smile faded and she went to the window, gazing out at the fine view it afforded. The Academy stood on one of the ten hills across which Carvenport had sprawled since their people came to this land two centuries before, seeking riches and finding more. Out in the harbour an iron-hulled ship ploughed its way towards the sea, great paddles turning and stacks trailing smoke as the Blood-blessed in her engine room drank Red to stoke her fires. Her hold would be filled with barrel upon barrel of product, mostly Red and Green, with a small and heavily guarded stock of Blue and an even smaller stock of Black. But nowhere on that great ship nor any of her sisters, would you find a single barrel, or even a vial, of White.

  “This man,” Madame Bondersil said. “The captain of these Sandrunners.”

  “They call him Wittler, Madame.”

  “Yes, Wittler. He’s truly convinced he can find it?”

  “He has a map, Madame. Very old, showing a route through the Badlands to the Red Sands... and the Crater. Last season they made it as far as the Sands. He believes he can make it to the Crater with the assistance of a Blood-blessed.”

  “The Crater,” Madame Bondersil repeated with a soft laugh. “Where the Whites are said to still soar.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “It’s a myth, Ethelynne. Just another hopeless search for a long dead legend.”

  “The Whites are real, or at least they were. We know that from the records left by the first colonists.”

  “And none have been s
een for a century and a half.”

  “All the more reward to be reaped when we find them.”

  She saw Madame Bondersil shake of her head before stepping back from the window, going to her desk to extract a box from one of the drawers. “Finest quality,” she said, opening it to reveal the four vials inside. “Wild blood, not bred stock. It cost a tidy sum, I must say.”

  Ethelynne approached to peer at the vials, the contents all a different shade of crimson. Light and almost clear for the Blue. Opaque with a faintly amber hue for the Green. The Red dark and the most viscous, clinging to the glass like oil. The Black was little more than slightly reddened pitch. The colours were not natural but the product of the harvesters’ art, a result of the various chemical additions to stop the contents spoiling and alleviate the effects of imbibing undiluted product, effects that would be dangerous for a Blood-blessed but fatal for others.

  “When the sun’s half-set,” Madame Bondersil said, extracting the Blue and tapping it lightly against Ethelynne’s nose. “Not before. Not after. I do have a schedule to keep.”

  * * *

  The Badlands remained stubbornly beyond the horizon as the sun began to dip, heralding the fast descending chill that made traversing these wastes such a trial. This sea of iron would retain heat for only a short while, becoming sheened in frost by the time the sky grew dark, and cold enough to strip skin from unwary hands as the night wore on. Ethelynne closed the duster and tightened her belt before pulling on her gloves, green-leather like the duster and perfect for protecting flesh from extremes of temperature. But she knew this chill would not be easily assuaged and she was so tired.

  She had cleared the taller dunes a mile back and now laboured across the flat expanse forming the border with the Badlands. She was keenly aware of the complete lack of cover, taking only scant comfort from the fading light and the empty desert revealed by her frequent backward glances. Could have lost him in the dunes, she thought, knowing it a desperate appeal for luck.

  She stumbled to a halt as the half-sun finally appeared on the western horizon. Her shadow stretched away across the sands, an unmistakable marker to any pair of eyes, but it had to be risked now. Despite the gloves her hands still shook as she opened the box to extract the vial of Blue. The tremble grew worse as she fumbled with the stopper, almost dropping it and choking down shout of panic as the precious crimson drops retreated from the lip of the vial. She cast one final glance at the way she had come, seeing only her footprints in the carpet of deepening red, then poured the remaining Blue into her mouth.

  For an unblessed the taste of Blue was bitter, vile even, leading to an instant, often unbearable headache and nausea. For a Blood-blessed, however, it was always a profound experience. The acrid taste faded as the trance took hold, normal vision segueing into the mists of memory and imagination. Losing oneself in the swirl could be blissful and Ethelynne’s early lessons at the Academy had been rich in warnings regarding addiction, but today the fear and panic made it a dark trance, the mists storm clouds amid which recent events flashed like lightning. Fortunately, Madame Bondersil had evidently been awaiting this moment and the warm concern in her greeting was enough to calm the impending storm.

  Ethelynne. What has happened?

  Dead they’re all dead apart from Wittler and he’s trying to kill me...

  Calm. Focus. Ethelynne felt the storm abate further as Madame Bondersil’s thoughts flowed into her, replacing panic with sober reflection. Tell me.

  The Crater, Ethelynne replied. We reached the Crater. She paused to refocus as the upsurge of memories threatened to reawaken the storm though Madame Bondersil was quick to interpret the images.

  You found a White? she asked, her thoughts conveying a sense of amazement Ethelynne had thought beneath her.

  Yes... No. We found bones, a skeleton. Too large for a Black. It had to be a White... And an egg. I have it.

  The others? What happened to them?

  Clatterstock, the Harvester, he thought the bones might contain marrow, so he broke one, powdered it... The powder did something to them... Something that made them fear, and hate, and kill... Bluesilk killed the Crawdens, Clatterstock killed her... Wittler killed him.

  But not you?

  No. It had no effect on me. When the killing began I took the egg and ran... Wittler is coming for me, Madame... He’s tried twice now... He said something to me, when it happened, just after he shot Clatterstock... ‘You know what I saw.’

  And do you?

  No. I saw nothing but madness.

  Where are you?

  On the Red Sands, near the Badlands.

  A pause, Madame Bondersil’s thoughts now forming their own storm. Ethelynne found a crumb of comfort in the deep affection she saw amongst the roiling frustration. You have product left?

  Ethelynne replied with an image of the vials, concentrating on the empty Blue and the meagre stock of Black.

  Madame Bondersil’s storm became more concentrated, flashing as it shifted through the memories Ethelynne had shared of the journey, settling on something from just a week ago, something from the river. What is the first thing I taught you? the tutor asked.

  Her memories calmed, forming into an image of a little girl in a new dress, a dress Ethelynne’s mother had spent a month’s wages to buy. The little girl stood among a dozen other children of the same age, all with their hands outstretched, displaying the patch of white skin on their palms. Not burnt like the thousands of other children tested that year, their parents bound by law to present them to the local harvester and watch as he used a long glass pipette to drop a single bead of undiluted blood into their hands. Most screamed and cried as the blood left a dark, black mark, but some, only a very few, stood and stared in wide eyed wonder as the bead seeped into their skin and turned it white.

  Blue for the mind, the children chanted in unison. Green for the body. Red for the fire. Black for the push.

  Red for the fire, Madame Bondersil’s thought was implacable, emphatic, the accompanying images unnervingly clear. Now you need to get moving.

  * * *

  Despite their coarse manners and coarser language, Ethelynne still found reason to like each of the Sandrunners. Clatterstock was a wall of green-leather criss-crossed by belts festooned with knives. His face was a slab of stubbly granite with thin lips that parted to reveal a smile that was three parts gold to one part teeth. She liked him for his knowledge; a lifetime harvesting blood made him an expert in their quarry.

  “You ever see a wild one, little miss?” he asked two days out from Cravenport. The inland road they followed wound through dense bush country that would soon transform into thick jungle where contractors still came to hunt for Greens, though they were fewer in number every year. She was obliged to travel on the supply wagon with Clatterstock, sitting next to him for many an uncomfortable hour as the oxen hauled them over countless ruts. “A real live wild one,” he went on, leaning close, a glint in his eye she might have taken for a leer but for the humour she heard in his voice. “Not those sickly, tooth-pulled things in the breeding pens.”

  She gave an honest shake of her head, provoking a laugh as he drew back, snapping reins on ox rump. “Well, that’s one thing we’ll fix for sure. You mind me well, little miss. When it comes to the blood, it’s all me. You watch all you want, but you leave the harvesting to me. First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.”

  Unlike Clatterstock, who carried just a repeating carbine, Bluesilk had guns aplenty. Petite and buxom with a thick mass of blonde locks tied into a shaggy ponytail, she wore a pair of six-shot repeaters on her hips with a third under her arm. The arsenal was completed by the shotgun strapped across her back. Next to Wittler, Ethelynne found her perhaps the easiest to like. At night, when done cleaning her guns, she would sit cross-legged, one hand holding a small compact up to her face whilst she applied various powders and paints to eyelids, cheeks and lips.

  “Where’s your warpa
int, love?” she asked Ethelynne one evening, eyes fixed on her mirror and a broad-headed brush leaving a faint red blush on her cheeks. They had come to a small trading post, a collection of huts and storehouses with a long pier extending out into the broad, rapid waters of the Greychurn River, their route to the Badlands and beyond.

  “We weren’t permitted make-up in the academy,” Ethelynne told the gun-hand. “It was said to be unseemly.”

  “Y’mean they told you it’d make you look a whore, right?”

  Ethelynne blushed and looked away.

  “You keep on this track, girl,” Bluesilk went on, “and you’ll find there’s much worse people than whores in this world.”

  Ethelynne’s eyes went to the holstered six-shooters lying atop Blueskin’s shotgun. “Will you teach me to shoot?”

  “Shit, no!” Blueskin gave an appalled laugh. “That ain’t proper for a girl like you. Besides it ain’t your role in this grand company. You’re here for the Spoiled. Those I don’t put a bullet through, that is.” She looked up from her mirror to offer a half-smile, waving her brush in invitation. “You come sit by me though, and I’ll put some rosiness on those cheeks.”

  So she didn’t learn to shoot, not from Bluesilk and not from the Crawden brothers. Like Wittler, they both carried long-rifles in addition to the pistols on their hips. “Brother One, this young lady would like to fire my rifle,” the younger Crawden had said to his sibling, mock indignation on his face. He was by far the better looking of the two, clean shaven where his brother was bearded, and with a tendency towards mockery she might have taken exception to but for the evident regard in his gaze. “Surely she must know this is a weapon of great delicacy, only to be operated by the most expert hands.”

  “Be nice, now, Brother Two,” the elder Crawden advised before offering Ethelynne an apologetic smile. “Long-rifle’ll take your shoulder off, miss. ‘Sides, it ain’t...”

  “My role,” Ethelynne finished. “I know.”