Chapter Seventeen: Bonewhite Tear
Nil knelt, perched on the balls of his feet, and frowned.
Machine parts lay strewn on the slushy snow around him. Steel bones and ropey muscle. Armor plates and serrated gears. Slithering cables and flickering batteries. There was symmetry in their arrangement. As though every bolt and connector inside the beast's body vanished, and it fell apart into a hundred pieces. Every bit seemed generic and standard, like raw meat at a butcher's counter. Only the curving horns beside the fragments of its head proved what it once was.
He plucked up one of the armor plates. Its paint was scuffed along its edges, and he scratched at old blood spatter as he considered it. Then he rose, tucking it under his arm, and carried it over to a workbench.
It was a lonely shelter, nestled on a snowy ridge overlooking a gorge, deep in Sky country. He could spy their aerie stronghold in the frost-hazed distance. Their Bulwark was the pinnacle of arrogance. The Tenakth clan lounged in their tower, the surrounding mountains and icy rivers serving as their moat. Secure in their supremacy, their patrols were few, as if they were more performance than necessity.
A perfect place for a stranger like him to work uninterrupted.
The armor plate clattered onto the workbench. Beside it, more plates lay stacked and sorted by size. Their thicknesses and alloys varied, and he began to pick through them. Some bore cracks while others were warped, and he tossed the failed experiments under the bench. Scrap he'd need if he wanted to lure fire glinthawks later and hunt them for their blaze sacs.
He picked up a plate and turned it in his hand, his eyes narrowing as he pored over its shape, searching for defects. Finding none, he nodded with satisfaction and set it back down.
After shooting off armor from a dozen different machines, it turns out rollerback was his favorite. The metal alloy presented an optimal balance between durability and flexibility, unsurprising given how they leap and tumble in battle. But as it turns out, the most important factor was how remarkably lightweight their armor was. And on top of that, the purplish black ones possessed superior hardware which did well under shearing forces. He'd spent an entire afternoon in a field a few days ago, stripping one of every bolt in its body.
The rollerback plate was the right size too, so he didn't need to cut it down with the industrial shears mounted on the bench. But the plate did need reshaping.
He picked up a blow torch and checked the blaze level on the canister that fed it. The gauge read half full. More than enough. After adjusting the valves, he powered on the torch. It aerosolized the fuel and exhaled it from its nozzle in a constant woosh, like gusting wind blowing against his ears. The stink of blaze came with it, wrinkling his nose and tasting bitter on his tongue. His stomach churned, and he swallowed down, smothering his revulsion. Then he picked up a lighter and ignited the torch's nozzle.
A blade of sharpened fire cut the icy air and wisps of steam billowed around him. The blade burned bright amber along its edges with blue hinting at its center. He adjusted a valve, lengthening its shape, and then he put it to the armor plate. White paint peeled away under the heat, and slowly, the metal underneath began to glow orange.
Fashav was right. The Oseram did make the best tools when it came to fire and metalworking. He had encountered some delvers in the desert. It was the first time he had talked to an Oseram where his greeting wasn't an arrow to their gut. Not that they weren't prepared for anything less when they mistook him for a native Tenakth. A bulging sack crammed with harvested machine parts persuaded them to put their hammers and bows away. Not that he couldn't have scavenged what he needed from their camp after planting a few arrows through the delightful, metal rings that studded their armor. But they were traders. And if they didn't have what he needed, for the right amount of shards, they'd find it for him.
He smirked to himself, remembering how his fingers itched for the fletching of his arrows when they raised their weapons at him. Followed by his palpable disappointment when they eagerly put them away to drag out their metalworking wares. He was learning restraint, day-by-day.
Besides, dead men were terrible at sharing techniques on reforging scrap. Though the living ones seemed as bad, arguing amongst themselves over every piece of advice given.
He picked up the armor plate with a pair of tongs. Fire brushed against its surface as he swept the torch back and forth, turning the dull metal molten. Then he switched off the torch with his thumb and exchanged it for a mallet. The plate rang brightly as he struck it, the mallet's rounded face stamping its impression onto its surface. He hit it again and again, and each time it sang as he reworked the softened metal. He kept an eye on the armor plate he'd taken from the deconstructed beast laying in the snow. And slowly he matched its shape, transforming what once belonged to a rollerback to that which now belonged to a charger.
After one final strike, the mallet thumped onto the workbench. Then he quenched the plate in an old ammo drum brimming with icy water. Plumes of steam enveloped him as the metal sizzled, its bright glow fading until the plate disappeared into the shadowy bottom. He plunged his tongs after it and searched for an edge with its jaws. When he found it, he dragged it out, dripping wet, and set it back onto the bench. He opened a small cache of sandpaper and fumbled through its sheets until he found the grit he wanted. Then he set to work smoothing out the mallet strikes.
He wasn't Oseram. He hadn't grown up tasting metal in his food or with hands scarred by a forge. But years of processing machine parts as he tailored armor and accessories for nobility was coming in handy.
The sandpaper rasped as he blended away crescent-shaped dents until he couldn't tell the difference between one armor plate and the other. With one final scuff, he clicked the blow torch back on and ignited its tip.
Behind him, something bleated.
"Patience," Nil chided warmly as he bathed the plate in fire. "I have to temper it still."
It burned white-hot, his tongs gripping its only cool edge. He could feel its heat through the chill air, flushing his skin with beaded sweat. There was something silently dangerous about it. Fire flickered and crackled, but the bright metal simply glowed as though he held the sun in his hands. A blasphemous idol, and he felt tempted to whisper a prayer to the solar deity above.
But he didn't.
Instead, he dunked the plate back into the ammo drum, and the water around it boiled violently, quenching its power. Swiftly, it cooled, and he drew it back out. He wiped it down with a cloth and picked through a jar overflowing with hardware, his fingers seeking the right bolts, washers, and nuts.
Another bleat.
"Almost ready," he said, smiling as he palmed the hardware, and then he turned around.
Red-Eye watched him from under the shade of an ancient fuselage, the remnants of a great bird once flown by the Old Ones. Except for one black gap, bare-metal plates gleamed on the charger's body under the morning light. And beneath them, new cables and hosing coursed, each plugging into fresh junctions. Its red eye, now clear through a perfect lens, glared at the machine parts lying in the snow.
Nil followed its line of sight and raised an eyebrow. "You're not still mad about that, are you? I needed a template. Besides chargers die by the dozens every day. And it's not like I let it suffer."
It continued to glare.
He scoffed and walked towards it, armor plate and hardware in hand. "I've killed so many machines in the past week. Rollerbacks, sunwings, stalkers, and glinthawks to name a few. Even a slaughterspine. And when I did it, you couldn't care less. But now, when you're faced with your own mortality, you balk."
It tossed its head.
Nil rolled his eyes. Then he knelt beside it, his knee soaking up the slush, and he prodded at the gap in its armor. The new plate seemed like the right fit, and he smiled as it slotted in like a missing puzzle piece. The brackets for the hardware required a little work to line up, but soon he was screwing in bolts, securing the plate in place.
Red-Eye stamped its hoof, digging a rut in the snow.
He sighed and slipped his socket wrench behind the plate. It rapidly clicked as he levered its handle, tightening the last bolt. "You might have the heart of a behemoth beating in your chest, but you're a charger, and that gives you the strength and durability of wet paper. Grazers are tougher than you. So, all these upgrades are for your own good, especially if you want to hang with me."
Once the bolt was fixed in place, he withdrew the wrench and checked the plate. As expected, it felt secure, with no play or rubbing where it shouldn't. Then his fingers traced the line of muscle beside it, and he bit the inside of his lip.
His thoughts drifted to the windswept desert. There he imagined the riders clashing against each other as they raced over the sand, their whoops and screams rising like the arid heat.
It wasn't enough.
Like armor plates and hardware, not all muscle fibers were forged the same. Their density and the speed with which their electronic nerves reacted mattered. And then there was the motor that powered them.
He needed to harvest from something fast and savage. Something that could propel itself across the ground and rip a man apart in the space of a heartbeat.
His gaze rose, and he looked up at Red-Eye. Its horns gleamed in the golden sunlight. Like fire amid the blue shadow of snow.
And he knew what he had to hunt next.
OOOOOOOOOO
Nil knelt in the tall grass. Its red, feathery seed-heads brushed over his shoulders and against his cheek. An icy breeze swept through the thinly forested dell around him, rustling the grass and chilling his skin where it was bare. Sky country wasn't as cold as the Nora or Banuk territories, but he still pined for the desert and for its hard sun baking his back.
A storm had blown in overnight, blanketing the ground with fresh snow. It glittered white in the sunlight, and across its perfect surface, a trail of machine tracks stalked. There was something feline in their shape, and from their gait, he spied the easy confidence of a predator. It wasn't unwarranted. Its many kills lay half-buried in the snow, and he caught glimpses of their charred skin painted in blue and pink.
The machine was a scourge.
And he was waiting for it along its war path.
Though, he wouldn't wait long as approaching thumps sent water rippling in nearby puddles. Clumps of snow fell from overhanging branches and spattered onto the ground. And from around the winding mountain trail, a dark shadow slinked.
A scorcher appeared, weaving its way down through the trees, and its tufted ears swiveled as it scanned its surroundings. Battered arrows jutted from crevices between its hardplate armor, the trophies it collected from its fallen enemies.
It stalked towards Nil, following the worn-in trail. He could feel the heat of the fire roiling along its underside and curling from its maw. Then its large eyes flicked from cool blue to yellow.
Nil swallowed, and his grip tightened on the sharpshot bow in his hands. He already had an arrow nocked, but if it spotted him now, he wouldn't have time to loose it before it ripped him apart.
The scorcher crept towards him, its head low and ears forward. Nil thought about Aloy and how she scythed through the grass. How her body moved with its rhythm and disappeared within its blades. But he was never one to breathe that harmony. To feel that connection with the world and let it wash through him.
And yet, his body flowed with the grass as it rippled with the breeze, and in return, its seed-heads fluttered over him, breaking up his form. He could feel himself melting into its embrace, and with a sigh, he relaxed and let it happen.
The scorcher loomed over him, its senses searching, and its low growl rumbled in his ears.
Then its eyes flicked back to blue, and it moved on, heading down the trail.
Nil shifted, pivoting on the balls of his feet, and took aim at the orange module mounted high on its back. The arrow flew from his hands. It sliced through the air and struck the module. Fire and exploding sparks followed as it blew apart. The scorcher stumbled, its legs giving out from beneath the blow, and Nil burst from the grass with his dagger already free from his scabbard.
He leapt onto the scorcher, and its lapping fire blistered his skin. Gritting his teeth, he pushed past the pain and buried his blade into its neck. There was no blind stabbing like he had done when he fought the one in The Cut. Instead, he wielded his dagger like a scalpel, slicing through fuel lines and hydraulic tubing. Blaze and ichor gushed, spilling over the ground.
The scorcher roared with rage and a vortex of fire swelled around it, fed by the fountaining fluids. Nil dove off the beast and rolled across the snow. And when he came up, his eyes widened as he watched it flying after him, its pounce almost faster than he could follow.
Then a shining silver blur smashed into it.
The scorcher tumbled over the ground, splintering trees, until it crashed into a boulder and webbed it with cracks.
Red-Eye snorted and stamped its hoof. It stood proudly in the trail, watching the scorcher writhe. Sparks snapped from where one horn sheared off and the other dangled from a wire.
"Get out of here, you stupid fucking charger!" Nil shouted as he reached for his bow.
Then the scorcher was back, its powerful motor propelling it across the field like arcing lightning. It slammed into the charger and its claws raked its side.
Red-Eye screamed.
Terror seized in Nil's chest; its strangling agony more piercing than every arrow he'd ever taken in battle. Then he watched as another swiping claw tore at the charger. It screamed again, its pain resonating in his ears.
And what horror he felt flashed into boiling anger.
His face darkened, and he stormed towards the scorcher, arrows flying from his hands. They thumped into its modules, reducing them to fiery ruin. And they buried deep into its neck, splitting conduits in showering sparks.
The scorcher spun towards him, spitting and snarling. But he could see its weariness. In the sloppy way its paws slipped in the fluids puddling under its body. He took aim at one of its large eyes and planted his final arrow. Glass shattered as it blasted through the lens and sunk deep into its neural nexus of processors. The beast shuddered, its claws scrabbling with the impact. Then its eyes blinked out, and it collapsed lifelessly onto the ground.
Nil's panting breaths exhaled plumes of steam as the battle's end registered in his mind.
"Red-Eye…" he whispered, and he rushed across the field, hope loosening the knots wrought by terror and anger.
In a ditch carved by claws, he discovered the charger. It glared up at him, the lens over its red eye cracked again. Great, raking scratches marred its hardplate, but it had held up. No splitting and no shearing. His hands in the form of armor had saved it when his arrows couldn't.
It bleated its pleasant greeting at him.
And relief bloomed in Nil's chest. With it came tears, and they spilled down his cheeks. He hastily swept them away with the back of his hand and chastised the charger with a grin. "You fucking asshole. You just like making me cry."
Red-Eye bleated in reply.
As though it couldn't disagree.