Anthony Ryan
Sandrunners
- A Draconis Memoria Short Story -
Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Ryan. All rights reserved.
Cover design and illustration by Aaron Randall (www.aaronrandallart.com).
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 seen 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.”