- TMK -

Joh clambered up the Hollow slums. Hazh’s satchel was heavy against his shoulders. His claws scraped against rusted metal, flaking off oxidized steel with each step. The twang of laundry cables followed his ascent through the urban canopy. At last, he gripped the slum roof, hauling himself into the light.

           

Another Salamander was there, leaning against a jumble of mismatched chimneys. A navy diamondback pattern ran from his snout down his spine. The Salamander took notice of Joh with glazed eyes, a puff of narcotic smoke churning from his nostrils. In his hand, a corkscrew pipe of colored glass fizzled with the last ironbite embers.

           

The Salamander held up a beige, scaly hand. “Yazaz, Joh.”

           

Joh pulled the rest of his bulk onto the roof. He took heavy strides to the other Salamander, plopping Hazh’s satchel down.

           

“Fost.” Joh sat cross legged by the Salamander. “Anything new?”

           

Fost pulled back the skin over his lipless snout, his gums stained with ironbite’s trademark grey. “Speaking Odovan all a sudden?”

           

“I have to be in the Ivory Quarter tonight,” Joh said, poking the satchel with his foot for emphasis. “Gotta practice if I want to get past the dedalat.”

           

“Smart.”

           

Fost fumbled in his own satchel. He emerged from the bag with a brick wrapped in butcher paper. He peeled the paper with a folding blade. Scooping a thimble of metallic powder on the tip, Fost filled the pipe’s bowl. A match came alive as he set the powder alight, taking a deep breath from the glass corkscrew. More smoke filtered through the diamondback-lined holes of his snout, Fost handing Joh the smoldering pipe.

           

“Bite?”

           

“Nah.” Joh pushed the pipe away. “Don’t shit where I eat.”

           

Fost rolled his dilated pupils. “As if the footmanders don’t.”

           

“Runners and footmanders are different. Why do you think the Coterie makes us speak Odovan?”

           

“Not like being a runner makes us a Jahr in their mind. We’re still in the Hollow, licking rust, baking mud. Just like the rest of the footmanders.”

           

“Baking mud is better than being dead.”

           

“Not according to that dungwagon.” Fost gestured to what Rat Hollow considered a plaza. There, a crowd of dour forlorn gathered. They surrounded a tarnished bronze pillar in the center of the square. At the pillar, a Salamander, too clean and well-robed to be one of the downtrodden, spoke to the mass.

           

Hissing Nassian fell over the forlorn mob. The Salamander spoke of the North, the colonies established by Lysänder. It talked of yellow farmlands and beautiful snowcapped peaks. Most of all, it spoke of a future that never existed for the forlorn of Halicarnassus. Joh knew that silver-robed Salamander was embellishing Lysänder’s project at best. Hazh spoke of the Coterie’s investments in Harralheim, how much of their slaves were lost to Skald raids or Arrcosi customs seizing their pelts out of Port Lyth. Harralheim had a reputation even among the forlorn of being a frozen hellscape. This Salamander, however, made it seem misunderstood. Not a wintery land of vicious savages and slavers.

           

No, he painted a picture of a wild, untapped paradise whose riches would go to those who could take them. If they were strong enough to weather that unforgiving land, they would prove themselves equal to a eugenic citizen of the Kingdom. They would become the only breed available to the most exceptional of the forlorn.

           

Jahr.

           

Free to pick any occupation and caste, free to mate with any spouse and sire any children. Becoming one of the Jahr meant citizenship for those Salamanders who survived as a blemish on the fringes of Nassian society.

           

And as Joh listened to the Salamander in silver robes sell Lysänder’s vision to the crowd, he almost let himself believe such an endeavor was possible.

           

“You believe the shit coming out of that croc’s mouth?” Fost asked indignantly. “As if Lysänder would ever make that lot Jahr.”

           

“What makes you say that?”

           

“He’s not even left Vandeirus and he’s asking us to trek to Harralheim? He’s trying to get rid of us, Joh,” Fost explained, his forked tongue sliding over his mouth. “Can’t blame him either. Look how many of us bottom feeders there are now.”

           

“There’d be easier ways.”

           

“How?”

           

“Not like Lysänder would bring the hammer on the dedalat should they decide a culling is in order. Remember last Snowdawn?”

           

“Who doesn’t?”

           

Silence fell over the pair as the citizen by the pillar droned on. He raised his hands as each embellishment of the north became tangible promises to the forlorn. This was different than the altars of Vandar or whatever aloof deity existed in these plains. Instead of selling magic or arcane boons, this Salamander, or Lysänder, sold an idea:

           

That in the north, one’s caste, one’s pedigree, meant nothing if they were willing to work hard.

           

Such a promise resonated with the forlorn more than priestly fire ever could. And despite the skepticism years in the hollow had left Joh with, a part of him wanted to believe in Lysänder’s promise.

           

“Sure you don’t want a taste?” Fost finally spoke as the Salamander by the pillar spun more northern platitudes.

           

“If Hazh found out, he’d hang my skin outside the shop. I’m surprised you haven’t been peeled yet,” Joh reiterated.

           

“Please.” Fost prepped his ironbite pipe for another puff of narcotic. “As long as the Hawkers get the satchels, no questions are asked. Nobody’s going to blink twice about a few missing jurads. Fuck, there’s usually some at the bottom of the bags anyway.” 

           

Joh sighed. “Like I said, surprised Hazh or Tzipa haven’t peeled those diamonds off you yet.”

           

“There’s a first time for everything. Just not for me. Been doing this for weeks,” Fost grinned, showing grey gums once more.

           

“Weeks is all you’ll have if you keep it up.”

           

“We can see who’s being rookshit at the end of the day.” Fost brushed aside Joh’s comment. “For now, I think I’ll take what I’m owed.”

           

Before Joh’s quip left his mouth, a shockwave silenced the whole of Vandeirus. Where the pillar had been, a plume of white smoke rose into the sky. Bits of pink and scale fell over a crowd of forlorn thrown to the ground by the blast. A resonating clang followed as the bronze pillar cratered the plaza. When the rumble finally died down, high-pitched screeches became the midday music.

           

The forlorn in the square scattered.

           

The dispersing crowd opened a sightline to an arc of mangled lizard corpses. Snapped bones, the maroon of congealing blood and scraps of organs blanketed the dirt where the pillar had stood. Legless survivors crawled amidst the carnage, groaning as steel-clad dedalat rushed to the area.

           

“Ghámon theíoz!” Fost cursed, scrambling to stash his pipe. “Joh!”

​

“I know!” Joh shouted back. He grabbed Hazh’s satchel, running for the roof edge before the dedalat saw them. “Fost, hurry!”

​

“I’m coming.”

​

Fost threw his exposed ironbite bricks carelessly into his bag, following Joh. The pair leapt to the side of the slum walls, their feet catching on railing. 

The horrors of the square vanished while the shouts and shrieks of dying Salamanders echoed behind them. All the while, Joh and Fost descended the sheet metal building, hoping not to join the nightmarish chorus on the other side.