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

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 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.”

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 warpaint, 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.”

They were on the river now, the wagon’s cargo unloaded onto a large flat-bottomed barge the day before. The trading post’s owner, a man near as broad as Clatterstock but with a genuinely lustful leer to him, had grown angry when Wittler refused a contract to spend a week hunting Greens. “Going for Red, this trip,” he said. “Black if I can get it.”

“My ass you is,” the trader replied. “You goin’ t’the Red Sands again. Didn’t lose enough good people last time, huh? Spoiled’ve got your scent now, Wittler. They won’t be best pleased t’see ya.”

Ethelynne had noted how the trader’s fierceness dissipated and his face grew pale under Wittler’s silent and prolonged gaze. “Grateful if you’d have a care for our animals,” Wittler said eventually, tossing the trader a purse. “We’ll be needing the barge.”

Brother Two found her at the prow of the barge as they came to the point where Wittler had chosen to moor up, a shallow cove where the canyon walls descended to a gentle slope. They had cleared the jungle four days back, the Greychurn now winding its way through high, curving walls of pinkish sandstone.

“You wanna learn a thing, miss?” Brother Two said, putting an arm around her shoulders, light enough not to cause offence as he turned her towards the southern horizon. “See those peaks? Tell me what you see.”

He held up a spyglass which she duly took and trained on the distant heights ahead. She stared at the peaks for a time, seeing only rock, though it was oddly coloured, mottled all over as if pock-marked. “What is that?” she asked.

“Red Hive,” Brother Two said. “Their spit’s loaded with enough bile to eat the rock. Wait a mite longer and you’ll see.”

She did and was soon rewarded by the sight of a dark shape emerging from one of the marks in the stone. It seemed tiny from this distance but she had seen enough of them in the pens to recognise the shape, and knew it was as big as a horse. She watched it crawl from the hole and onto a ledge, wings spreading to catch the warmth of the rising sun.

She heard a metallic snick and turned to find Brother Two loading his long-rifle, sliding the cartridge into the chamber and working the lever to close it. “Just under a mile I reckon,” he said with a wink before raising the long-rifle and firing with only the barest pause to aim.

The range left sufficient time for her to raise the spyglass and find the Red again to watch the bullet strike home, except it didn’t. She saw the Red flinch as the bullet smacked into its rocky perch, mouth gaping and head lowering in an instant threat posture. The beast was too far away to make out its eyes but Ethelynne had no doubt of its ability to discern the source of its distress.

“You missed,” she told Brother Two, a somewhat redundant statement as the Red had now taken to the air, wings sweeping as it gained height, growing in size until it filled the lens of the spyglass.

“Shitdammit!” Brother Two hissed, feverishly working to reload the long-rifle, cartridges scattering across the deck as he fumbled, swearing even louder.

A high, peeling cry echoes along the canyons, the Red flattening its wings as it flew lower, less than two hundred feet away. The scream sounded again as it neared, mouth gaping to reveal rows of razor teeth, and its eyes… First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.

Ethelynne tossed the spyglass aside and reached for the box on her belt, extracting the Black and thumbing the stopper free, raising it to her mouth…

A single rifle shot sounded behind them, the drake’s scream choking off as it veered away twenty feet short of the barge. It twisted in the air, flailing wings raising water from the river, before colliding with the slope ahead. The drake slid down the rock and screamed again, the cry plaintive now, desperate. Its claws scrabbled on the sandstone until they found purchase and it began to scramble up, blood trailing across the rock, wings spreading in preparation to fly. Another rifle shot sounded and a cloud of blood erupted from the drake’s skull. It collapsed onto the slope, tail and wings twitching as it slid towards the water.

Ethelynne’s gaze went to the starboard rail where Wittler stood, smoking long-rifle in hand. He turned to her and she saw judgement in his narrowed eyes, perhaps also disappointment, before they tracked to Brother Two. “And the purpose of this?” he asked.

The younger Crawden blanched a little under the scrutiny but quickly rallied to offer a sheepish grin. “The young miss wanted to learn a thing…”

“The young miss is not your concern,” Wittler told him, each word spoken with considerable precision. He jerked his head at the dead drake on the slope. “Three cartridges to take this thing down and we ain’t got time to harvest a single drop.”

“Any cost can come from our share, cap’n,” Brother One said, moving between Wittler and Brother Two. His stance was respectful, but also firmly defensive. “Besides, there’ll still be blood in the heart for when we make our way back. Ain’t a total loss.”

“You let me assess the profit and loss for this company, Craw.” Wittler’s gaze narrowed further, his face showing none of the affable surety Ethelynne had become accustomed to. “Your brother’s here because you vouched for him. Best if he doesn’t give me further cause to regret deferring to your judgement.”

“He surely won’t, cap’n. My word on it.” The Elder Crawden took hold of his brother’s arm and led him to the stern, pausing to offer a respectful nod to Ethelynne. Wittler lingered a moment, his gaze now free of judgement and a certain warmth returning to his voice. “Careful with that, Miss Ethy.” He pointed to the unstoppered vial of Black in her hand. “We’ll need every drop before long.”

She watched him return to the tiller, calling to Clatterstock to make ready with the anchor. As the barge drew closer to the bank Ethelynne’s gaze was drawn again to the Red. It had stopped twitching now, its precious blood flowing thick enough to leave a dark stain in the river.

* * *

She drank half the remaining Green on reaching the Badlands, staggering a little as the effects took hold. Green was second only to Red as the Ironship Syndicate’s most valued export, a greatly prized medicine among the unblessed, curing infection better than any physic human hands could concoct. But for a Blood-blessed it was both panacea and ultimate tonic, banishing her exhaustion and filling strained muscles and nerves with renewed vigour. Ethelynne drew breath as she straightened from a sagging crouch, deep and long, the air sweet despite the lingering tang of the Red Sands. She cast a final glance at the rusty desert, experiencing a momentary satisfaction at its emptiness before her newly keen eyes picked out a plume of gunsmoke rising less than a mile away.

What are the odds he’d miss three times? There was no boom from the rifle, the distance was too great for that, just the whine of the bullet as she threw herself flat. It impacted on one of the narrow conical tors twenty feet ahead, chalky rock exploding into a pale white powder.

Ethelynne surged to her feet and sprinted forward, faster than any unblessed could ever run, the confused, jagged maze of the Badlands closing in around her. She kept running, pace only slightly slowed, hurdling boulders and leaping to bound from the surrounding rock, hurling herself onwards, following the marks left by Wittler’s charcoal. The lessons in Green had always been her greatest joy back at the Academy, outperforming all the other students as she raced around the cavernous gymnasium. There was no exhilaration now, just the fear and her thudding heart, and the lesson learned long ago. Red for the fire…

* * *

“Never been so cold my whole life,” Brother Two said, handsome face drawn in misery as he shuffled closer to the glowing circle Ethelynne had conjured in the sand. “Thought the wind over the southern seas was the coldest thing a man could feel, but it’s got nothing on this.”

“You’ve sailed the southern seas?” Ethelynne asked.

“Surely, Miss Ethy. Sailor on a Blue-hunter for more’n six years. Think Reds’re big, wait’ll you see a Blue…”

“Quiet,” Wittler said, voice soft as he rose to a crouch, eyes scanning the darkened dunes beyond their camp. Ethelynne noted he had drawn his six-shooter. A double-snick came from her right and she turned to see Bluesilk similarly crouched, a pistol in each hand. They had cleared the Badlands the day before, Wittler leading the way through the twisted labyrinth of chalk and granite. He set a punishing pace, pausing only to check his ancient map and scratch a black mark on one of the conical tors with a stick of charcoal.

“Don’t wanna lose your way in here,” Clatterstock said, sweating more profusely than the others though he showed no sign of slowing. “’Specially if the Spoiled come callin’.”

Ethelynne had been obliged to take her first taste of Green in order to keep up, just enough to make her legs move at a decent pace, though even then she found the going hard. It took almost a full day to traverse the Badlands, whereupon Wittler allowed a pause to survey the vast redness of the Sands.

“No sign, cap’n,” Bluesilk said, sweeping her eyeglass across the dunes. “Maybe they’ll leave us be this trip.” Ethelynne detected a note of forced optimism in gun-hand’s voice, something Wittler evidently saw no need to succour.

“They’ll be along,” he said. “Spoiled don’t forget a scent, nor turn from a feud when there’s still blood to be settled.”

Ethelynne watched him sniff the air now, seeing a grim acceptance settle on his face. She caught it then; an acrid stain on the easterly wind, redolent of corrupted flesh and stale blood. They drink it like wine, Clatterstock had told her back on the wagon. Untreated, undiluted. And somehow, they stay alive. They was here long before us, so I guess they had time to learn many a thing. Never learned to fear though. Must’ve left near a score lyin’ on the sands last trip, but still they kept on comin’.

Wittler briefly scanned the camp, checking to ensure they had all drawn weapons, then moved to Ethelynne’s side. “Well, here’s where you earn your share, Miss Ethy,” he told her in a whisper. “You remember what I told you?”

She nodded, finding she had to swallow before she could voice a response. “The arrows.”

“That’s right. You leave the killing to us. But keep those arrows off.” He paused to peer deeper into the dark and she fancied she saw a smile play on his lips. “Need us some light too, if you could oblige.”

She reached for her box and extracted the Red and the Black, surprised to find her hands weren’t shaking. She removed the stoppers from both vials and drank, Red and Black mingling on her tongue in bitter concord before she swallowed it down, feeling the power building inside, a fierce intoxicating rush. “How far out?” she asked Wittler, raising herself up.

“Thirty yards should do it.”

She sought out a patch of sand at the specified range and concentrated. Some Blood-blessed were given to theatrics when utilising their talents, their hands describing elaborate gestures as they intoned cryptic phrases in ancient languages. But that was all farce. The only tools a Blood-blessed needed were a disciplined mind and a decade or more of practice.

Ethelynne summoned the Red, feeling the power surge and the air between her and the patch of sand thicken with heat. She had taken a large gulp and the results were immediate, the sand taking on a fierce glow. She stood and turned in a slow circle, the glow spreading and following her gaze until the camp sat surrounded by a ring of melting iron, the dunes beyond lit by a soft yellow light. She heard Brother Two give a low whistle of admiration and forced the resultant smile from her lips. Emotion is the enemy of focus, Madame Bondersil had said more times than Ethelynne could count.

For a second nothing happened, the newly lit desert silent and empty, then came a faint hiss of something small and fast cutting the air. Ethelynne instantly switched to the Black, instinct finding the arrow before her eyes did. Black for the push. She caught it a foot short of her chest, watching it quiver as she held it in place. The head was fashioned from crudely shaped iron, the shaft a length of whittled bone and the fletching a ragged tail of dried grass. She blinked and broke it in two, letting it fall to the sand as a great hiss rose from the surrounding dunes.

“Best hunker down!” Wittler called to her but she ignored him, moving to the centre of the camp and raising her gaze skyward. The arrows fell in a black hail, perhaps a hundred arcing down out of the dark. She let them get within ten feet before unleashing the Black, sending out a single pulse of power, the arrows scattered and shredded like chaff.

“Hoo-yah!” Brother Two whooped. “How’d ya like that, y’stinky bastards?”

She saw them then, low black shapes beyond the circle’s glow to the south, scattering dust as they charged, the light catching on spearpoints and hatchet blades. The Crawdens’ long-rifles fired simultaneously, two shapes falling, the others coming on without pause. Bluesilk began to fire when they reached the circle, standing and blazing away with both pistols, more shapes twisting and falling, the rest leaping the circle amid a chorus of inhuman snarls. Ethelynne could see their faces now, dark and scaly with spines protruding from forehead and jaw, their eyes bright yellow, slitted and full of hate, just like the Red back at the river.

“Guard Miss Ethy!” Wittler yelled, rushing to Ethelynne’s side and loosing off a rapid salvo with his revolver, two Spoiled falling dead as they reached the edge of the camp. The rest of the company followed suit, Bluesilk crouching as she replaced the cylinders in her pistols with a swiftness that seemed incredible, the Crawdens blasting away with their revolvers whilst Clatterstock emptied his repeating carbine with practised efficiency.

A lull descended as the Spoiled drew back, lingering in the shadows beyond the diminishing glow of the circle, the air now filled with their guttural snarls. Ethelynne scanned the surrounding sands, snaring the intermittent arrows launched by the Spoiled and snapping them before they could reach the company, the Black diminishing with every catch. The chorus of snarls increased in pitch, building by the second, a discordant but definite cadence becoming discernible among the babble, almost like a chant.

“Shit,” she heard Clatterstock growl. “Death song.”

“If you got anything left, Miss Ethy,” Wittler said. “Now would be about the time.”

She reached for the vial of Black once more, drinking deep, leaving only one last drop. “You need to be quick,” she said. “I won’t be able to hold them all for long.”

The snarling chant rose to a crescendo and the Spoiled came surging from the dark, yellow eyes gleaming and malformed lips drawn back from wicked sharp teeth. She stopped them ten feet short, summoning the Black to snare each one, some caught in mid-air with club raised.

“Aimed shots!” Wittler said, raising his pistol.

It took maybe five minutes but it seemed an age, Ethelynne feeling the Black ebb away like water from a leaky cistern as the Sandrunners methodically put a bullet into each and every frozen Spoiled. When it was done, and she had let them fall, they counted eighty-six bodies on the sand.

“Looks like we bagged us a whole tribe, cap’n,” Brother One said, drawing his knife and crouching beside a body. “Ironship pays cash-money for every Spoiled head.”

“Leave it,” Wittler told him, casting a disinterested gaze over the corpses before turning to the south. “Got us a White to find.”

* * *

She used up the Green before getting clear of the Badlands, feeling the last of it drain away as she leapt to propel herself onward with a shove against one of the tors, landing hard on suddenly weak legs. She fell face first and lay still for a time, willing herself to move, but finding only the strength to keep breathing. “Black…” she murmured, lips dry against the stony ground. “Black for the push… Red for… Red…”

Her eyes were already half-closed when she heard it, echoing through the Badlands, rich and vibrant in its utter madness. “You know what I saw, Miss Ethy!” Wittler screamed, voice growing louder with every word. “You know what it showed me! I ain’t gonna burn! You hear me, girl? I AIN’T GONNA BURN!”

Ethelynne abandoned all pretence of focus and let the terror seep into her, filling her with a single desperate urge; stay alive.

She yelled with the effort of raising herself up, wept as she gained her feet, stumbling on and voicing curses so foul she didn’t realise she knew them, regaining focus, mind fixed on a single goal. There’ll still be blood in the heart…

* * *

Ethelynne had been hearing or reading about the Crater all her life, the centre of the Red Sands, site of a calamity great enough to turn an iron-rich mountain range into a desert and, some said, provide a birthing ground for the fabled White Drake. In the event she found it a disappointment, just a circular gouge in the red wastes about sixty feet wide and ten deep. No great colony of Whites nursing nests full of precious eggs, no treasure to reward their perilous quest.

“You, uh, sure this is it, cap’n?” Clatterstock ventured after they had clambered down the steep but not unassailable wall to the Crater floor.

Wittler ignored him, eyes locked on the ground as he roamed about.

“I mean to say,” the harvester went on. “The map is plenty old. Could be there’s other craters to the south…”

Wittler stopped and held up a hand, waving him to silence, eyes now fixed on something next to his boot. Abruptly he went to his haunches and began to scrape away at the sand with his hands, Ethelynne hearing a laugh of unalloyed triumphed as the dust rose around him. After several minutes digging he rose and stood back, the others coming to his side to peer down at his find. It was maybe six feet in length, longer and broader than either a Red or a Black, and more bulbous, perhaps to accommodate a larger brain.

“Contractors,” Wittler said in a formal tone. “I give you the skull of the White Drake.”

It took a full day to dig it out. They had no spades and were obliged to rely on hands and knives to scrape away the soil, but by nightfall they had revealed a complete skeleton some thirty feet long, sixty including the tail. It snaked around the body in a tight protective arc of revealed vertebrae, and there, nestled, between its two great forearms, a single white egg.

“We’re gonna be so Seer-damn rich,” Brother Two breathed, then laughed as he lunged for Ethelynne, lifting her up and whirling her around. She found she couldn’t contain a giggle when he set her down, sank to one knee and took her hand to formally propose marriage.

“You’re only after my money,” she laughed, gently but firmly disentangling her hand.

Clatterstock stroked his thickening beard as he ran a hand along one of the great ribs. “Don’t look so old,” he mused. “Old bone turns to rock after a time. Could be there’s still some marrow to be had here.”

“Marrow?” Ethelynne enquired.

“Surely, Miss Ethy. Grind up drake bones and the powder’s still of use. Not so potent as blood but it’ll fetch a fair price. I’d hazard this here beauty will fetch a sight more.”

“Just one,” Wittler said. “The smallest. Wanna keep her as intact as we can.”

“Certainly, cap’n.” After some pondering the harvester chose one of the claw bones, only as long as Ethelynne’s forearm.

“Well now,” he said, laying the bone on a leather ground-sheet and hefting his hammer. “Gather round and watch the show…”

* * *

She had feared it might not be there, scavenged to nothing by its own kind or slipped into the river and carried away. But there it was, the skin already peeling and shrouded in flies, but still wonderfully, actually there. She slid down the slope, grunting as she collided with the Red’s corpse, the flies voicing an angry buzz as they rose from their banquet. She hauled herself over its thick neck, crouching next to the sternum and fumbling for her box.

“ETHYYYY!” The voice was hoarse, the madness even more evident in its roaring croak. And also close. Too damn close.

Ethelynne lifted the vial of Black and tipped the last remaining drop into her mouth. She let it burn its way down, staring at the patch of desiccated skin on the Red’s chest. Focus.

“You… You stop that now!” A hoarse yell and a shot. A pistol this time, meaning he was finally out of long-rifle shells. She heard the bullet impact somewhere on the drake’s corpse but kept her gaze firmly locked on its chest, summoning the Black and using it all up in a single frantic spasm. Black for the push… and also the pull.

The Red’s chest exploded in a fountain of half-rotted flesh and shattered bone, Ethelynne opening her arms to receive the gift that burst forth.

“STOP THAT!” Another shot, landing somewhere in the river judging by the splash. Ethelynne looked up now, seeing him at the crest of the slope. His hat was gone as was his duster, his shirt and pants ragged and torn. He moved towards her, gun-arm outstretched and pistol wavering as he staggered like a drunkard but with an odd, desperate appeal in his gaze.

“You know what I saw,” he croaked, taking another shuffling step closer. “You know… I gotta…”

Ethelynne raised the Red’s heart, throwing her head back and mouth wide as she squeezed, and drank.

For an unblessed the slightest taste of undiluted drake blood is invariably fatal. The Blood-blessed are more resistant to its effects but do not enjoy complete immunity, survival being dependant on the quantity imbibed. Ethelynne choked down two full mouthfuls before the fiery agony forced her to stop, leaving her collapsed against the Red’s flanks, heaving and retching.

“Won’t save ya’!” Wittler yelled. “Think you gonna burn me now? You show one inch o’that pretty head, I blow it off, ya hear?” A snick as he cocked his pistol. “Just one inch…”

Ethelynne convulsed and vomited up a good supply of blood before managing to choke down her gorge. She shrugged off her pack, blinking sweat from her eyes as she ripped away the ties to reveal the egg. Cold, she thought, pulling it free of the pack, laying it down and scuttling back. Waiting for the waking fire.

Focus was beyond her now, the pain raging from throat to belly too intense for anything other than a single, explosive release of heat. She had seen it many times in the breeding pens, an endlessly fascinating spectacle, the brood drakes breathing fire on their eggs when they judged the time right. She had loved to watch them hatch, though it was always somewhat sad, for the hatchlings were immediately taken away, leaving their mothers to voice their distress in long, keening screeches.

The fire raged for only a few seconds, Ethelynne reeling and huddling from the heat of it, more intense than anything she had conjured before. When it faded she looked for the egg, finding it blackened and cracked, a faint glow pulsing inside.

“Stop!” Wittler came reeling into view, eyes wide as they tracked from her to the egg, then back to her. His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile, the lips cracked and bleeding as he snickered in triumph as he raised his pistol.

He pulled the trigger, Ethelynne shrinking back, eyes closed tight in expectation, but hearing only the click of a hammer meeting an empty chamber.

Wittler stared at the revolver in baffled consternation for a moment, then tossed it aside. “Got other options,” he said, reaching for the knife on his belt and starting forward.

Ethelynne’s toe delivered a gentle nudge to the egg and it rolled away, coming to a halt at Wittler’s feet. He stared at it, all vestige of triumph vanished from his face. “Not…” he said, weeping now. “Not gonna b –”

The egg exploded in a blaze of combusting gas, the shell, harder than any stone, transformed into shrapnel by the force of the blast. It shredded Wittler’s legs below the knees and sheared away much of his right arm, leaving him a gibbering red mess, his remaining hand slapping feebly on the sandstone slope as flames licked over his flesh.

Very slowly, Ethelynne got to her feet, every breath hurting as she dragged air down a ravaged throat. A deep, worrying pain lingered in her belly but her limbs still worked enough for her to limp towards Wittler, and the small White drake crouched amid the remnants of the egg.

It stared up at her with bright, slitted emerald eyes, mouth opening to issue a faint hiss. Although a new born, Ethelynne knew on meeting those eyes she gazed upon something ancient, something that understood. It knows what I am, she thought, her gaze going to Wittler as his scorched, lipless mouth issued a final, rattling gasp and he lay still, flames dying to embers on his blackened flesh. I ain’t gonna burn…

She looked again at the White, watching it cock its head in apparent curiosity, wings spreading into an experimental flap. “The future,” she said. “That’s what lies in your blood.”

The White hopped forward, wings flapping with greater force, a screech issuing from its mouth followed by a gout of yellow flame. It met her gaze a final time with its terrible knowing eyes, then turned about and leapt nimbly onto Wittler’s corpse, head bobbing as it began to feed.

Ethelynne turned away and hobbled to the barge. It took a while to haul up the anchor, but when she did the current began to take the craft downstream. It would follow the river south then west, skirting the Badlands and winding back into the jungle where, she knew from Clatterstock, another trading post waited. She allowed herself one last look at the White. It sat with head raised, serpentine neck bulging as it swallowed a chunk of Wittler’s flesh, then gave an appreciative squawk before returning to its meal, paying her no mind at all as the barge drifted on and she saw it no more.

END

Thank you for reading Sandrunners. If you have enjoyed this story you can learn more about The Draconis Memoria here: https://anthonyryan.net/the-draconis-memoria/

About the author

Anthony Ryan was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven’s Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale.

For information on where to find these books, free audio downloads, news and general wittering about stuff he likes, check out his blog at: http://anthonyryan.net

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Discover other titles by Anthony Ryan:

The Draconis Memoria

The Waking Fire

The Legion of Flame (coming July 2017)

Raven’s Shadow

Blood Song - Raven's Shadow Book I

Tower Lord - Raven’s Shadow Book II

Queen of Fire - Raven’s Shadow Book III

The Lord Collector - A Raven’s Shadow Novella

Slab City Blues

Slab City Blues

A Song for Madame Choi

A Hymn to Gods Long Dead

The Ballad of Bad Jack

An Aria for Ragnarok

Slab City Blues - The Collected Edition (all 5 stories in one volume)