Thirty-Eight

Deserters – The Vanishing Isle – The Real Story – Tarpaulin – A Mirage, Possibly

The sun, the relentless sun.

Frey had briefly wondered why Ugrik had bothered to pack a sheet of tarpaulin while they were loading up the Rattletrap. He’d assumed it was another facet of the Yort’s general oddness. It wasn’t until dawn, when they stopped to fix the tarp to the roll cage with twine, that he saw the sense in it. Frey had brought water, but he hadn’t thought about shade. He never was much of a forward planner.

He drove stripped to the waist, his back running with sweat. The sand was bright enough to blind. The morning had been the worst, when they were driving into the sun. Now it was overhead, and the tarp was doing its work, but his eyes still hurt from the light and the sand thrown up by the Rattletrap’s wheels

He took a swig of warm water from a canteen and passed it to Ugrik in the passenger seat. Ugrik was also half-naked, revealing a scarred torso covered in tattoos. He had a bit of a gut on him, but he was built like a bulldog.

Ugrik had been muttering for an hour now. The conversation he was conducting with himself veered from argument to agreement and back again. Frey could only imagine what was being said. He couldn’t understand a word of the yawling, snarling Yortish tongue.

Eventually, Frey couldn’t bear it any more. He had to talk. He needed something to distract him from the monotony of the journey and of other, darker thoughts. And besides, he was beginning to feel left out.

‘So what’s your story, Ugrik?’ he asked.

‘Eh?’ Ugrik seemed confused by the interruption.

‘You’re an explorer, right?’

‘Aye,’ came the suspicious reply.

‘Explore anything good?’

‘Oh, plenty,’ he said. ‘I was on the first craft out after they found New Vardia. Spent years out there, I did. Trailblazin’ and so forth.’

‘Yeah?’ Frey was interested. He’d always thought of New Vardia as a possible bolt-hole if he managed to screw things up too badly in the country of his birth. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Wild out there. Every man for himself.’ He ran a clenched hand down the red braid of his beard and tugged at the end absently. ‘My kind of place.’

‘The broadsheets reckon that whole towns full of people disappear out there. Without a trace. That true?’

‘Aye,’ said Ugrik. ‘Gone. Hard to tell if they upped and left or if something did for ’em. Some head into the wilderness ’cause they don’t want to pay the Archduke’s taxes. They say there’s a whole lot of people all banded together in secret under a man named Red Arcus, who don’t answer to no Archdukes or Chiefs or God-Emperors, nor no Speaker for the Republic like they got in Thace.’

Frey steered the Rattletrap along the flank of a dune, careful not to skid on the loose sand. ‘You ever seen any of ’em?’

‘Not a sign,’ he said. ‘Lot of stuff goes missin’ out there, but it’s the frontier.’ He cackled. ‘Course, that’s only one story. Lot of worse tales they tell. Some say New Vardia weren’t as deserted as we thought when we set down, and them that were there don’t take kindly to sharin’ their land.’ He scratched his cheek and snorted. ‘But I got nothin’ to say about that.’

‘Ever been to Jagos?’ Frey asked, keen to keep him talking. He was better entertainment than the silence.

‘Aye. I was one o’ the first.’

‘What’s there?’

Ugrik’s face darkened. ‘Fog ’n’ shadows. Seems like the Wrack reaches right down into that land. A barren place, I saw, and damn if there’s not somethin’ fearful unnatural about it.’

‘Didn’t reckon on a famous explorer being superstitious,’ Frey said, with a sidelong glance.

‘I know what I know. Strange things happen there. They’re settlin’ New Vardia as fast as they’re able, but only madmen go to Jagos.’

Frey opened his mouth to point out the irony in that statement, then decided not to bother. ‘Anywhere you haven’t been?’

‘Peleshar,’ he grunted. ‘That’s next on the list. It’s a big ’un.’

‘You haven’t heard? It’s disappeared, or some such bollocks.’

‘Oh, aye? Your broadsheets tell you that, did they?’

‘Maybe,’ he said. He’d seen headlines in some of the more lurid publications. PELESHAR: THE VANISHING ISLE! Crake had sniffed at it and dismissed it as rubbish.

‘Well, this time they’re right. Sammies lost it.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t mean I can’t find it again.’

Frey raised an eyebrow. ‘Seriously? You actually believe there was a whole country that disappeared?’

‘Lot of things we don’t know about Peleshar,’ Ugrik said. ‘Only one aircraft came back from the Sammie’s first expedition out there, and the pilot had some tales to tell, but not many that made much sense. Then the stupid bastards sent a war fleet, ’cause that’s how Sammies are. Invade, invade, invade. Those fellers didn’t ever come back either.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Frey scoffed. ‘You’re making it up.’

‘Believe what you like,’ Ugrik huffed. ‘Only one of us is the son of the High Chief of Yortland, y’know. We got spies just like everyone else.’

Frey drove on for a while. He wasn’t sure whether Ugrik was taking him for a ride, or the other way round. The sun beat down, and the Rattletrap growled and sputtered.

‘Really?’ he asked at length, unable to resist. ‘I mean, the Sammies had a war fleet? And they lost them?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why didn’t anyone hear about it? I mean, it’s bad enough that they have a war fleet at all, but—’

Ugrik muttered something to himself, then waved a calloused hand at Frey. ‘Most people don’t know a thing about what goes on down here. Anyway, that was more than twenty years ago. A few years before the First Aerium War. They had plenty o’ aircraft then.’

‘You’re joking. They’ve known about Peleshar for that long? That’s . . .’ he worked it out, ‘That’s before Crewen and Skale discovered New Vardia.’

‘Crewen and Skale were lookin’ for Peleshar,’ said Ugrik.

‘Bullshit!’ Frey said. ‘You’re having me on.’

‘Course they were! Your lot heard about what happened in Samarla, with your spies and whatnot, and you sent your fellers out to look. Only the Great Storm Belt was kicking up again, and with aircraft not being so good back in those days, lot of men got lost and some got blew off course. New Vardia was an accident.’

‘Bullshit!’ he said again, although he wanted to believe it. It fitted with his sense of the world, that it was a random and ridiculous place.

‘You don’t have a bloody clue, do you? Half the reason they had the First Aerium War was ’cause Samarla felt threatened by having Peleshar over there – that ’n’ wounded pride – and they needed the aerium to tool up an even bigger fleet!’

‘Bullshit!’ Frey cried.

Ugrik roared with laughter. ‘It’s true! Then the Storm Belt really kicked up, and for the next fifteen years or so you couldn’t even get across the Ordic Abyssal from Pandraca, and meantime we were all at bloody war and no one much fancied goin’ the other way round the planet to try ’n’ find it again. After the storms cleared and everyone had stopped killin’ each other, they all headed out west again. But Peleshar wasn’t there no more.’

‘It’s been seven years or so since they’ve been heading west to settle!’ said Frey.

‘Aye. Seven years since the Sammies knew Peleshar had gone. Seven years since your Archduke knew, and my father, and everyone else wi’ spies in the right places. Took your broadsheets a sight longer to catch up.’

Frey shook his head. ‘That is quite a tale,’ he said. ‘I could dine out on that one for a while.’

‘Heh,’ said Ugrik. He took a swig from the canteen.

They drove on into the late afternoon. Ugrik drowsed in the heat. Frey steered the Rattletrap across the dunes, always heading east by the compass.

He found himself unexpectedly light of heart. He’d cast himself out into the wilderness, alone but for his guide, and there was liberation in that. He wasn’t intimidated by the endless emptiness of the desert or the punishing sun. He welcomed the threat of it all.

For the first time in years, he only had himself to worry about. His crew were behind him. Their fates were beyond his ability to influence. Trinica was gone, a remnant of an old life. He put her out of his mind as best he could. He’d grieve tomorrow, if he ever got there.

All he needed to think about was tonight.

His life had been compressed to a handful of hours, and the proximity of death unburdened him. If he survived, if he somehow evaded the doom that awaited, the years would stretch out before him again, unfolding like a concertina into the future. Then he would have to return to the Ketty Jay and deal with his broken aircraft, his marooned crew. But for now, just for this one day, he was free. It was only now he realised how heavily his responsibilities had laid on him.

‘It’s gonna be alright, Darian,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Gonna be alright.’

The Rattletrap’s engine sputtered, clunked and juddered before coughing its last in a wheeze of noxious black smoke. The buggy rolled gently to a halt.

Ugrik opened his eyes to find Frey thumping his forehead against the steering wheel. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and looked around.

‘Why’ve we stopped?’ he asked.

Frey had never thought of himself as a man prone to homesickness. After all, he’d never had a real home. Patriotism was an affliction for people like Malvery and Harkins. To Frey, his country was just the place he happened to be born.

Not today, though. Today he dreamed of familiar shores. He’d have given anything for one honest Vardic raincloud. Or better still, a nice slate-grey sky, like you got in the North most days in autumn. He’d always found them depressing in the past, but he promised never to bad-mouth the weather at home again, if only someone would relieve this endless bloody heat.

The sand gave easily beneath his boots, making every step a struggle. Ugrik trudged alongside him. Each of them wore one half of the black sheet of tarp, which Frey had split down the middle with his cutlass. They’d put it across their backs and tied it with twine to their wrists and shoulders. It overhung their heads like crude cowls, it flapped in their eyes, and it caught around their calves and ankles. Ugrik assured him that exposed skin would burn quickly in the desert heat, but Frey would almost rather that than this. The tarp was ungainly, uncomfortably hot, and worst of all, he felt ridiculous. They looked like lost manta rays, or a pair of particularly rubbish kites.

They laboured up the flank of a massive dune that cut across their path. Ugrik was muttering to himself, as was his habit. Frey wasn’t sure if he was insane or just eccentric, but either way he didn’t trust the explorer’s competence. The sense of liberation and freedom he’d enjoyed had faded quickly once the discomfort of the march set in, and he began to wonder, far too late, if Ugrik was leading him on a wild goose chase.

Frey stopped just before the ridge of the dune and turned around with some difficulty, the tarp tangling around him like a sail. He rested his hands on his aching thighs and caught his breath.

It was getting towards evening, and the sun was lowering towards the horizon in the west, reddening the sky. The sight filled him with dread. Soon the night would come. He was suddenly seized with the horrible notion that he might have wasted the last day of his life slogging pointlessly through a desert with a cackling Yort nutbag for company.

Ugrik was lumbering up the slope in Frey’s wake, the relic clutched to his chest. Each step caused a miniature landslide. Frey was happy to let him carry the burden. He wanted to touch it as little as possible.

‘How much further?’ Frey asked.

‘Not far now, not far at all,’ Ugrik said blithely. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned by their predicament.

‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ Frey murmured. He straightened and took a swig from his canteen. It was almost empty.

Ugrik climbed past him and up to the ridge of the dune. Frey screwed the top back on to the canteen, sighed, and followed.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Ugrik threw over his shoulder. ‘According to my calculations, we’ll be there well before nightfall.’

Frey joined him atop the crest of the rise. What he saw there took the last of the strength from his legs, and he dropped to his knees.

The desert stretched out before him, all the way to the horizon. As far as the eye could see, there were only dunes, shimmering in the heat-haze. It had to be fifteen, twenty kloms to the limits of his vision, and in all that distance, there was nothing but sand.

‘According . . .’ he muttered, and swallowed. ‘According to your calculations?’ He felt rage boiling up within him.

‘Allowin’ for a small margin of error, o’ course,’ Ugrik said cheerily.

Frey got to his feet and flung out one arm towards the empty horizon. ‘That’s what you call a small margin of error?’ he demanded in a strangled voice.

‘Here, now, there’s no need for losin’ your rag,’ said Ugrik.

‘You crazy son of a bitch!’ he screamed. ‘This is my last day alive! Don’t you get that? I could’ve been drunk, or stoned, or at the very least trying to get a sympathy shag out of Ashua! But instead I’m going to die here in the desert, in the dark, and there won’t be a single person here who ever gave a shit about me! You’ve killed me, you dumb Yort bastard! You’ve killed me, and what’s worse, I’m still wearing this stupid bloody tarpaulin!’

He flailed ineffectually, trying to dislodge the tarp from his back, then launched himself at Ugrik and clamped his hands round the explorer’s throat. All his pent-up fear had turned to fury, directed at this grinning idiot who’d cheated him out of the final precious moments of his existence. He was going to die in the same absurd manner as he’d lived, and it was too much to bear.

His fault, he thought, as Ugrik’s eyes bulged. His fault.

Then Ugrik rammed the relic into his belly. Frey’s foot slipped in the sand, and then the two of them were tipping, rolling, bouncing uncontrollably down the far slope of the dune. This flank was steeper than the one they’d climbed up, and there was no stopping themselves as they fell. They tumbled end over end, black tarp flapping around them. By the time they came to a halt at the base of the dune, they were thoroughly battered.

Frey pulled his face from the sand and pushed the tarp out of his eyes. He blinked.

He didn’t believe what he saw.

Swimming in the heat-haze, less than a klom away, there was an enormous oasis. Tall trees were densely packed together, thick with deep green leaves. Above the trees he could see the tips of strange structures, their details obscured by the haze. Thin towers, and arched constructions that curved like ribs.

He wiped his crusted lips and coughed. ‘Ugrik!’ he said, looking around.

The Yort emerged from beneath the desert like some mythical horror, sloughing off sand as he rose. He was still clutching the relic. ‘A-ha!’ he cried.

‘Tell me that’s not a mirage,’ said Frey.

Ugrik cackled. ‘What are you, mad?’

Frey stumbled to his feet and finally fought his way clear of the tarp. He threw it aside and glared at it. ‘How come we couldn’t see this place till we got close?’

‘Same reason your craft went down, I reckon,’ said Ugrik. ‘Same reason Peleshar’s gone missin’. Same reason you got that manky hand. They made it happen.’

Frey wasn’t so amazed that he couldn’t summon up a bit of indignation. ‘My hand is not manky. I’m cursed, alright?’

‘Whatever you say, Frey,’ he said, then chuckled. ‘Frey, say. Say, Frey, whaddya say?’

Frey ignored him. He’d be entertaining himself with that rhyme for hours if he got any encouragement.

‘I reckon,’ he mused, studying the oasis, ‘those ancient Samarlans were actually pretty bloody clever.’

Ugrik gaped at him. ‘You think the ancient Samarlans did this?’ He bellowed with laughter and lifted up the relic in his hands. ‘This thing is more than ten thousand years old! The Sammies could barely scratch their own arses back in those days!’

‘So who built them, then?’ Frey asked, pointing at the structures beyond the oasis.

Ugrik grinned his infuriating grin.

‘Azryx,’ he said.

And he walked off towards the oasis, leaving Frey staring after him.