Blighted Lands (Yen and I)

Snow looked at the sundial outside of her families hut and sighed heavily. She was late, which didn't bode well since this gathering was anonymous. People were inclined to leave if the person who orchestrated it didn't show. It could have been a weasel trying to work out insurgents. In this day when such people were sacrificed for such infractions as leaving the island without permission, no one would put their heads at risk if they didn't have to. But she had picked this hour on purpose. The Festival of Life was underway. A small gathering of people wouldn't look inconspicuous, at least not at first. These days folk were smart enough to dodge any incriminating questions, but staying in one place for long was suggestive indeed. In that case, she double her pace.

She checked and double checked her satchel. Inside were enough supplies, she presumed, to get them to land and a crude map of the old lands. Working as a scribe had its benefits, but most was drawn from memory, which didn't give the map much credibility. No small fry like her was allowed by the Artifacts for long lest her head become big with possibilities. It didn't take more than a glance peek her interest though. Fortunately, she was wise to hide her joy. She would turn her head up in mock disgust and say things like, "I don't know why any fool would want to return there." When in truth she was that fool. Or, maybe she was the only smart one. The next sacrifice could be anyone, but these days it was anyone who threatened the order. She remembered reading texts about things like free speech. It sounded less confining than her days tyranny.

Snow checked the strap of her bag, making sure she had threaded it properly to withstand unsavory conditions. Inside were also packed tailoring supplies. She had listed what to bring, but resources were tight and she had an advantage being in a family of governing servants. Once she felt secure and swallowed her fear, she took her first step outside.

She threw a multicolored scarf around her head, knowing her hair was a dead giveaway. Redheads were no longer common, especially in such warm climates. Twas why she was named snow. A rare sight, but a welcomed reminder that the world was once not covered in blight. With one look around she began to hustle to the beach, formulating a lie for the officials along the way. Any lie about meeting friends was blotchy at best. Scribes had little friends because of the lives they had to live. Learning all day of the old ways and languages, and then not allowed to speak any of it. They were paid well to preserve the past for t;he day he world was "ready".

Reaching the beach was no problem. It was once she arrived that the trouble began. Immediately, she knew it had all been too easy. Getting the word out, getting the boats together, and meeting no police along the way. Three people were on the beach, face down tied up with a policeman's foot pressing in their backs. Another officer was at the boats, securing them in case someone broke free and tried to escape. One remained to be secured and so far no officers noticed her. She hadn't thought to pack a weapon, didn't have access to any anyway.

When would humble little scribes need to know combat?

Khale was a Madman. That was, most immediately, a nickname for his trade, and more broadly a commentary on his sanity. Still, what Snow had suggested wasn't the sort of thing a sane man would readily listen to. Khale volunteered before the pitch was even over.

This didn't likely strike Snow as odd. Khale was a miner. All the islanders could dredge out of the ground were toxic, volatile, and corrosive chemical substances. But processes had been invented that let you draw power from them, enough to keep the lights running for the extremely wealthy. Those that chose to work in the deep mines were given a title that reflected their chosen profession. They were called Madmen. Three kinds of men did this job. Young men who didn't respect the years they were cutting off their life, old men who needed money for their family and couldn't make it any other way, or men that didn't care if they lived or died. Khale was the third, and for surviving almost a decade of work that killed many men in five years he was richer than any man born as poor as he had dreamed of in years. At least he had been. It had been converted into material wealth. Small amounts of precious metals as could easily be carried, gear befitting such a trip, and, most obviously, a weapon hanging on his hip from a bygone age. It was the sort of thing the nobility carried around when they had something to prove.

Really, being the only person not living in a mansion who actually had a gun wasn't the only thing that made Khale frightening. First and foremost there was the fact that he wore tall leather boots and long gloves of the same material. They were both new, obviously for the journey. No one had to ask to know why. No matter how good you were at his job, the chemicals would eat through your boots and gloves now and then. After nearly 10 years at the job his legs and forearms were bound to be messes of scar tissue. Today would mark the first time Snow had ever seen his full face. He usually wore a breather over the lower portion. After spending so long with one on, unfiltered air was unpleasant in its thinness. Goggles protruded from his chest pocket and his jacket had a chemical hood on it to make up the rest of the outfit. He might have been considered handsome, in a somewhat sad way. She knew he wasn't much more than 21 but he looked like he was pushing 30. The years were not kind to madmen. Still, he had a surprisingly kind face for someone who might keel over of a dozen different ailments after any given day. Beyond the obvious tole taken by the job he was fairly ordinary looking, his deep brown hair and eyes not a bit out of place on this island.

Khale stood at the meeting place in plain sight, clearly unafraid of any scrutiny he might draw. First of all, few people questioned the actions of a madman. Plenty of the chemicals they were surrounded by would literally make you into one. Next of all there was the simple fact that he was armed and didn't look like the sort of person who'd shy away from trying out the gleaming weapon at his side on anyone who found fault with his standing wherever he damn well pleased.

Snow wasn't too bold, which is why she took the precautions the way she had. So, this meant that there was no courage left within herself to protect the unfortunate would travellers. They all knew the risk of simply assembling together on the docks and thus they could not shame her for what had fallen to pass. She was no more an authority than the rest of them. She simply recorded things, and in a world where illiteracy was ever growing that didn't count for much. Still, not everyone was presently arrested. There was one left and he stood also at the other end of the beach. The Madman. He put shivers down her spine, unpleasant ones, but he was just what she needed. A man who had already guaranteed his own death by working in those toxic mines had no reverance against standing against ancient beasts. What was the difference at the end of the day?

Maybe that one may keep you alive while twirling your entrails around one clawed finger, she thought sickeningly. She shook off the dreadful thought and decided to skirt around the edge of beach, around the dense trees and long leaves. It hadn't occured to her that a bust of this magnitude would be thorough with standing guards in areas where it would be easy to hide. With her eyes focused on the scene in the center of the beach she slammed headlong into a tall authority, sending her on her bottom on the ground. The policeman seemed unphased, but clearly alert of the little thing that had entered his personal space. In a span of several seconds, many things happened. Many of which Snow quickly regretted.

First the policeman noticed the lock of red hair boldly peaking through the scarf. Next, he scanned and saw the over stuffed bag that hung at her back. The rest was in the hands of the Makers. Or, it would have been if Snow had better plans than being sacrificed to some greedy Gods. His tall lumbering self bent over to grab her by the scruff of her robe, but she ducked down and barrelled into his muscled legs. Unprepared for the courageous approach she knocked him off balance and sent him too tumbling to the ground. Snow tried to make a break for it. She pushed off of his bulk and began to race away. The officer grabbed her ankle and pulled her down, sending her face first into the twigs and pebbles.

He rolled over, still holding onto her ankle and pulling her toward him. She grabbed at anything but refused to scream for help or else draw uncessary attention. So far the other officers were unaware of the scramble, but it wouldn't be long before the hulking mass called for help if she continued to fuss over him. Never before had she been frustrated with the inability to slash someone's throat than she was now. Without so much as a daggered to prick his fingers she was a complete disadvantage. So, she resorted to undisciplined kicking and thrashing.

Khale didn't move like a human did. He sort of hunched over when he ran, his hands poised and ready. It was the sort of run that would work well in a low mine shaft, it also kept him low and ready to bowl over anyone he crashed into. Anyone watching was forced to wonder how many times he'd scrambled over the dead and the dying to go on living one more day. He may not have been afraid of death, but giving up was clearly not something Khale knew how to do.

The first policeman he grabbed didn't have time to shout even before Khale's momentum took him past the man, wrenching his neck around with a sickening crack. He didn't stop there, continuing to run down the docks as people fled to their boats. He didn't make it too much further before crashing headlong into a series of metal drums. He was quite obviously dizzy and light headed, fumbling for his mask as the men advanced on him.

If you've never worn a gas mask before it is worth mentioning that every breath you take is harder. You have to force air through a series of filters, something that human lungs aren't used to doing. In Khale's case, however, the last 10 years have been spent almost entirely behind one of these masks. Without air felt too thin and his lungs, long since used to the thicker feeling of air pumped through a filter, received too much oxygen for him to process, giving the same results as hyperventilating. Once he had the mask back on his breaths became longer and more natural, just in time for him to see two men standing over him with metal rods, ready to cave his head in for what he'd done to the other policeman.

No sense trying to keep it quiet now. He drew the silver weapon at his side and clumsily pointed it at one of the men. The man who'd sold it to him had given him a basic idea of how the sights were used to aim it but at this range it was a moot point. He pulled the trigger and technology of a bygone age flashed to life, expending one of the rounds in the weapon and letting loose a blast of sound that reminded him of mining explosives. His arm snapped back and he became fairly sure his shoulder was dislocated. New rule: always hold the weapon with both hands. The man he'd been aiming at came out of it worse though, no longer having much resembling a torso. Khale pointed the weapon at the other, drawing a fairly good bead on the man's back as he began to run for his life. The sound of the weapon firing had probably made a fairly good distraction for the other officers for those who could take advantage of it.

Khale didn't fire it again. For all his previous wealth he'd only actually managed to get three rounds for the ancient weapon and he wasn't about to waste one of the two remaining ones on a fleeing adversary. He was going to get on one of those boats now and get the hell out of here. He did, however, decide to help himself to the collapseable metal rod that the dead policeman had planned on killing him with, figuring that it might help him hang onto those last two rounds a bit longer.

Snow struck luck as a series of wild swings landed solid blows against the officer's thick noggin. The distraction was enough for her to continue beating and banging mercilessly until she heard snaps and cracks at his skull. Blood gushed from his nose, his eyes were swollen nearly shut, and yet a brain washed duty compelled him to hold on. She felt her stomach heave at the gruesome act of murder. The man didn't seem like his actions were conscious anymore, but a built in duty to obey. His grip began to loosen and soon she wiggled free of his weakening hold. Scrambling free she stood and looked at the black, purple, and red splattered heap she'd left behind.

Not a whole hour on her voyage and she was already taking lives with her own hands. She looked down at the weapons, unsure of what she had just committed to. Her knuckles were bloody, a mix of both bloods but the pain did not register. A faint voice in the far reaches of her subconscious called to her, reminding her she could not stop here. It nagged her to move on, bottle up the experience, and be strong. Not until a loud CRACK! nearby brought her back to reality. She knew the festival had fireworks, but it was much too early for that. Besides, it sounded too close by. With her mind free of the atrocity she had committed she ran towards the sources. Was there explosives on the beach?

No, that was quite an extreme measure for such a situation. Snow broke out of the trees and back on sand to see the tables turned. Those who were not too sorely beaten had run to the boats, hope was lost here anyway, and several policeman lay unconscious. One nearby was dead with a hole in where his liver and guts would be. It was as if he had swallowed a small bomb. Already weakened from earlier she bent over and hurled where she stood. What was this mayhem? We were supposed to leave so peacefully...

Finally, she turned away and started for the boats. She realized another one that was running was Khale the Madman. Had he done this somehow? The things those workers had access too made it plausible. But if he can do something like that, maybe it was a good idea to bring him along. What if we meet something worse?

"Madman!" She cried out to him, waving a bronze hand as she ran to the boat he was heading to occupy. "Don't forget me!"

He couldn't have left her if he'd wanted to. Khale had literally zero idea what to do with the rigging on the ship to make it go. He'd been doing well enough to pull the rope off of the dock. Most of the other boats involved in this little endeavor were already released, whisking their occupants away to a hopefully safer destination. Not even Khale believed that it actually would be, but in his case, death was certain if he stayed. Not today and maybe not tomorrow, but a man in those mines wouldn't outrun the reaper very long.

Khale reached for the rope that was supposed to connect to the dock and tried to toss it back on the post. Nope, too short. And there was no way in hell he could either slow the boat down or turn it around. Not that it was drifting away from the dock very fast. It had nearly cleared the end anyway though and it certainly would by the time she could reach it. He took hold of whatever sturdy bit of boat his fingers could wrap around and leaned off the back end as far as he could, fingers outstretched towards her.

"Jump for it, sane-girl." He growled. It was hard to tell whether he was angry or not. She'd heard him speak before during the brief planning meetings they'd held in secret and as far as she could tell the port on the mask that allowed him to speak was designed in such a way that you always had a faintly metallic growl to your voice. Not that he'd spoken much about anything. The others coming on this ride had fears, uncertainties, questions inumerable for her. Khale simply didn't care. He was trading certain death for probable death and that was good enough for him.

Even with the gear she'd brought with her the second her hand reached his he'd be hauling her on board. Khale was every bit as strong as he looked.

Already from behind her Snow could hear reinforcements coming, no doubt in response to the unauthorized noise from the beach. It was as if every detail of their lives had been put under one permission or another with the mildest infraction punishable by death. How desperate had times becomes that they felt to kill so many off these days? These were thoughts hard to consider while she was pushing the limits of her frail body. Blessed with an easy life of a Scribe there wasn't much else but fine food and even finer books. Hard running and death defying stunts were not included in her academic training. Still, she hadn't calculated all the recent impossibilities. She tucked away a mental note to never underestimate the Order first and to stop overestimating her cleverness from here on out. But she had always been the hard headed type.

Khale called out to her, blatantly in defiance to the nickname she called him on. He was already to safety on a boat passing the clearing at a speed that promised she wouldn't make it even if she swam. Her heart sank and she began to slow until she realized he was reaching out to her. In truth her existence was a necessity even if it were wiser to keep the load light. Without her there was no map several miles passed the island. Not that starving to death floating at sea sounded worse than submitting to the Knife, the holy man who sacrificed all. The irony. A new life revitalized her stinging lungs and she ran with new vigor, reaching out her hands to catch his calloused own. Then it struck her, Save the bag first.Salt water would ruin the bag and everything within.

She tore the bag from her back and long passed it to the deck. For a moment it teetered on the edge, then a good rocking of the boat tipped it in. Then with one solid leap she jumped for the madman. At the same time a rock collided with the back of her head. The grip she secured on Khale loosened as a wave of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed her. She went from a controlled weight to suddenly dead weight sodden down with the water that waved up and lapped the end of her long robes. In the dark reaches of her mind she screamed to her wavering consciousness to hold fast or a rock the head was the best hand the world would have dealt her. That dark reminder reignited her strength but not by much. Snow still felt sure to faint at any moment and the freely dripping blood from the back of the head gave a good enough excuse. Will alone possessed her.

From the beach fresh officers had fist sized rocks, throwing them with such force as to puncture wood and create holes. They would sink in the shallow waters and be submitted to the Knife. If not that, kill with a blow to the head or cripple them. They hoped most to injure severely and leave them to drift with infection and fever. The order was not a merciful lot and it showed in the officers they trained.

Khale couldn't be sure what was in the bag but even he wasn't so greedy as to begrudge another human their life for whatever gain might be had by saving the bag. Admittedly though, she wouldn't have been the first person he'd killed to save his own hide if it had come to that. Sometimes there's only but so much room on an elevator and anyone who stays behind is going to be waist deep in acid in a few minutes. Khale had obviously done a great deal to make sure he was never left behind.

At the same time... She wouldn't have been the first person he'd dragged to safety. Snow didn't even need to hold onto Khale. The second her hand was in reach his grip was locked around her wrist. He couldn't have cared less if he snapped her bones like twigs, if her hand didn't come clean off of her arm she was ending up on this boat. Needless to say, even a waterlogged Snow wasn't much of a load. Khale lifted her onto the boat quickly, though not so fast as to avoid her getting clobbered by the rock. That wasn't good. He knew all about catching rocks to the head and he also knew that there wasn't a damn thing he could do for her if something important was broken.

He set her as far forward as he could, trying to keep her behind him as he turned to face the men on the docks. He drew his weapon once more, training it more or less in their direction and letting out a cry of anger that would have shaken the bravest of men to the bone. Two rounds left, he wasn't firing a shot unless someone got brave. "Wake up. I don't know how to sail or swim." Khale growled in a low tone that the men on shore couldn't hear. Even now, after only a few hours of owning a gun, Khale realized something. He didn't need to have enough ammo to kill every enemy he had. Everyone assumed that there was a round with their name on it and, with any luck, none of them would be willing to test that theory