The Hollow

Junk

The debris grew into ever larger buried structures, until it became apparent that numerous ship hulls had been fractured, scattered, and covered by the dunes.

"Windships?" wondered Dev.

Nom nodded. "Many must have gone over the edge of Mamidi Daruni. The others veered here, where hitting the mountains was a better option."

"There's a large collection, there," Omega said, pointing. The group headed over. Massive steel-shod wheels, broken hulls as large as the Pelican, and long masts thrust out of the sand, monuments in a graveyard of dead technology. Rusted gears, chains, bits of cloth, and splintered wood littered the ground between the large mounds. Nom picked through the trash with his staff, unsurprised when he uncovered human bones. A narrow and clear path wound through the junk piles.

"Stay alert," Ahden said. They crept along the path, but could not help rattling and shifting bits of debris as they went, though the sounds blended with the clinks and clanks of wind-shifted garbage.

"So these ships really did sail across the land," said Dev, obviously enthralled by all the machinery laid bare. "The Rabidian technology must have been amazing."

Ahden tamped his hand in the air, motioning Dev to lower his voice.

"Any culture could have come up with the technology," Nom said quietly. "The vast, flat steppes are the key to making it work. Hundreds of leagues of open space, generating huge winds."

The sounds from the junkyard became a semi-regular pattern of clinks and ringing. "Wind chimes, maybe," said Dev.

They rounded a corner, and in a small clearing found a shelter dug into an old ship, patched together with scrap and bits of rope. Wind chimes and whirligigs made out of old machinery parts hung off the structure, and stood mounted on poles scattered about. Three long tables sat in the clearing, laden with more junk, albeit slightly cleaned up. A man sat at one of the tables, sanding or polishing a small assembly of parts. He wore a plain skirt and a tall hat, and was adorned with necklaces made out of rope, gears and nails. He paused and watched them calmly as they approached. Ahden stepped forward to address him, but the man spoke first.

"You are my first patrons in two years," he said. "Please, you may choose your favorite." He put down his project and swept his arm at the other tables.

"Oh," said Ahden, surprised. He reached out and picked up the nearest assemblage, regarded it, and set it back down. "Very nice, but no thank you."

"Is that the right thing to do?" the man asked.

"Excuse me?" Ahden said with furrowed brow.

"You make such strong choices as a leader. So respected by your comandees," the man gradually shifted to a sarcastic tone, "But how many times have you failed your charges? So many dead!"

Ahden was taken aback, exclaiming, "What? No!"

The man slammed his hands on the table and stood. "How many?" he asked menacingly. "Is not one too many? You know who I mean."

"Don't listen to him Ahden," warned Omega. She stepped forward and placed a hand on him protectively.

He pushed her hand down. "No, that wasn't my—that skirmish never was supposed to happen."

"You made the choice, Ahden!" yelled the man, tapping the table with two fingertips for emphasis. "You chose for them, to do—the—right—thing!"

Ahden fumbled for words. "We thought Caberia was invading, and—"

"Ahden," said Nom, "step away, now. He's shattered by darklight, or just crazy from the heat." But Ahden inched forward, beseeching the stranger helplessly with open arms.