Scavengers - Chapter One Revision - Extract

Scavengers - Chapter One Revision - Extract

A figure crouched atop the twisted rock spire. Her long, prehensile toes firmly gripping the edge, striped brush of a tail hold slightly aloft for balance, she gazed across the landscape whilst the dying sun set the horizon afire. The dark fur about her eyes and muzzle protected her eyes from the worst of the glare.

“Abigail,” a voice rose in a petulant whine from below. “You should come down now, they’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”

Abigail glanced down, where some distance below her companion gazed up with worried eyes. Niamh, a gentle Chinchilla lass, was shy of heights, and worried herself unnecessarily. Abigail knew she would not fall – did the blood of the Lemur not flow through her veins? Diluted somewhat, perhaps, but present none-the-less. She pushed herself upwards, casting her gaze out further, surely they were close enough, surely she was high enough – she should be able to see it. The wind caught her chestnut tresses, tugging at it with incessant fingers and for a moment Abigail was filled with the strange sense that were she to thrust herself into the air, she could fly away like a great bird. It was a familiar sensation, but not one she dared ever test.

The Deadlands landscape spread before her, a messy and broken map of spires and arches of rock rising amidst dark gullies and immense cairns of boulders. The ground was covered in a carpet of sharp pebbles, shining metal fragments and tangled red coils of rust. Amongst it very little grew, save creeping oily-black fronds of the coral fungus blackemarr, reaching its many fingers skywards and trailing its crawling vines into the darkest of places.

The road slashed across it, a vivid white scar, boundaries carefully marked with small cairns of pebbles. In the Deadlands, to stray far from the path could be fatal. If you did not stumbled upon a hidden crevasse, chances are you would be tore apart by the fearsome monsters that lurked in its dark and secret places. And there was always the Wasting Sickness to worry about.

“Abigail!” Niamh’s voice rose again, more insistent now. “If you can’t see it, come down – we’ve camp duty soon.”

“Don’t get your tail in a knot,” Abigail retorted, but the wind twisted and whirled her words away. It was then that she saw it, a dark shadow against a distant cliff-face surrounded by what appeared to be the lush green of the forest. It was the first decent woodland she had seen since leaving behind her hometown of Eriwyn half a moon’s span ago. There were trees in the Deadlands, certainly, but they were scraggly things with twisted limbs and flaking grey-black bark. It was hard to make out the structure, from this distance it looked almost like a black spider, but with far too many limbs, crawling up the mountainside. A strange and surreal castle.

“Tirra-Inle,” she breathed. There it lay, the renowned University of Magic. Her father had studied there, and within a few short days, she too would begin her first year within its walls.

“Abi…” Niamh was starting to get distraught. “Please, come down now.” She was pacing back and forth at the base of the spire. “They’re going to notice.”

Abigail relented. She had seen what she wanted to see, after all, and clambered down the rock face. The hand and footholds were plentiful – she could not understand her friend’s concern. She landed easily beside Niamh. The Chinchilla’s light grey fur seemed to shine almost lilac in the twilight. She narrowed her eyes, flashing her large, blunt incisors in a grimace.

“About time. They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”

“I saw it, you know,” Abigail stated, feeling the urge to defend herself. “And it was weird.”

“We’ll be seeing it soon enough anyhow,” Niamh responded, her tone tentative, “unless we get expelled afore we even arrive there for missing our chores.”

“You worry too much,” Abigail said. “Although if we stand around talking, we will be late.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” was Niamh’s answer, but it was too late for Abigail to hear, for the taller girl had already darted off, running barefoot across the sharp pebbles. The Chinchilla was forced to hasten after her.

Niamh and Abigail had never met before joining the Caravan that travelled between the cities of Eriwyn and Windhaven. There was safety in numbers, for the Deadlands held many dangers, and the Caravan was a large and eclectic procession of merchants, gypsies and travellers of all shapes and species. As Tirra-Inle lay about halfway between the two major cities, it also played host to a number of students and Apprentices. This was the last Caravan from Eriwyn before the start of the University term, and as such around two dozen students had joined it. Many others would have arrived earlier. It was Abigail that had approached the shy Chinchilla lass and extended the first paw of friendship. Since then they had been almost inseparable, even if Abigail’s somewhat reckless nature did lead her friend to distraction.

The sounds and scents of the Caravan reached them before they reached the sheltered glade where it rested. Not that “rest” was an accurate term, for there was very little of that for the many travellers. The hump-backed zebu cattle, one of the main pack animals of the Furrae-kin, surrounded the campsite, staked between the hodge-podge of caravans. Here a gaudily painted gypsy wagon brushed shoulders with a black-and-gold stagecoach, there a farm cart sagged beneath its load of hay, whilst beneath it two small gypsy kitlings laughed and giggled as they hid from their chores. The zebu belched and lowed, chewing their cuds in their placid way. A more highly strung pony, shaggy and stout, fidgeted and nickered, eager to reach a nearby produce wagon. The two girls wove their way through arguing families, skirting around a group of nobles, who were seated beneath their fine pavilion and pretending very hard that they were not amongst rabble. Aside from the beasts of burden and a few pigs and sheep, brought along for their meat, there were no quadrupedal animals (or non-sentients as the Furrae referred to them) amongst the Caravan. Furrae did not tend to keep pets, lest of all when travelling.

The students had made their camp at the far end of the valley, beneath what could be called a “tree” for want of a better term. It was a pathetic and scraggly thing, its spindly branches coated in the sticky-green fronds of young blackemarr. The few leaves that clung to its pitiful frame were shrivelled and black. A blazing bonfire and overflowing barrel of water showed that at least someone had not been tardy in their chores. The students had organised themselves in various small groups, scattered around the fire and beneath the tarpaulins, erected to fend off the ever-threatening rain. Barely any of them even glanced up as Abigail and Niamh staggered in.

“Just in time to wash up and eat, I see,” commented a dry voice, as Scalloway swaggered over to them. A sardonic, silver-furred Canid, he was their appointed Guardian for the journey. With his preference for dark, almost formal clothing, even when travelling through the barren wilderness, Abigail found it hard to take him seriously. Unfortunately, this had not lead to good feelings between them.

“We’re on dishes duty tonight,” Niamh ventured.

“So you are, so you are,” the Guardian stroked the absurdly pointed fur tuft that adorned his chin. “But I do not think that is any excuse to go gallivanting off all alone. Is it now? What if the scrittlings came?”

Niamh fell silent and would not meet his gaze.

Abigail suffered from no such sub-ordinance. She met his golden eyes squarely with her own blue-green ones. “It is uncommon for a scrittling to attack a fully grown Furrae,” she stated, adding as an afterthought - “sir.” Scrittlings were one of the monsters that lurked in the Deadlands. They were cockroaches rumoured to be the size of a non-sentient dog. It came as a bit of a disappointment that after nearly half-a-span in the Deadlands, Abigail had not laid eyes upon one of them.

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Scalloway drawled, “although I would say that I have a few more years experience on your … hearsay. For your insolence, you two shall receive only one ration of stew between you, no meat. And I think you will generously do all of the washing up.” He waved one hand dismissively over his shoulder, “the rest of your Chore Group can take the night off.”

As Abigail lapped her few mouthfuls of watery vegetable stew, she reflected that it had been worth it – for just that one glimpse of her future. Although perhaps she should behave herself, at least for now. It was, after all, hardly fair on poor Niamh.