“Although the individual stories of the Ourance cycle vary from group to group all take on roughly the same character. The origin story of a reptiliad adventurer from outside the Wastes makes contact with the host culture and through a great feat of magic or prowess is accepted as preeminent amongst that group whereupon this hero joins with variously ennumerated companions to wanders the Wastes and engage in various escapades whose tone can range from the comic to the tragic. The most popular tales are those coming from this latter group…

Prejudices regarding the superstitious nature of the Wastelanders lead many to believe them guileless children but in many of the camps I visited the chief Waterman would proudly exhibit for me a selection of radiosaur hides belonging to charlatans who thought to pass themselves off as Ourance Returned. Such is the danger in abusing the credulity of simple savages.”

Dr. Sek Schul
Among the Barren Wastes

[Transcript except from interview of Prisoner 09682 by Under-Deputy Xiang-Ping thirty minutes prior to the Arrival.  Transcript includes only answers from Prisoner 09682 and no question/comments from Under-Deputy Xiang-Ping.]

Why does your mouth ask questions if you do not have the ears to hear?

You accuse me of speaking in riddles? You, who live your life telling other people what to do, but ignore what you tell yourself?  You, who preach the nobility of choice from one side of your mouth while the other reprimands what is chosen?  You are the riddler, my beloved.

I speak no more riddles than the sun.  And, like the sun, I prefer to provide warmth and light, but I can also be persuaded to give death to the insolent. Which do you prefer?

Riddles. You accuse me of riddles, imprison me because you do not understand, and yet I tell you plainly that I cannot riddle because existence itself is a riddle, and everything that resides within is truth. Are you, Xiang-Ping, ready to hear the truth?

You have this obsession with me, as if knowing me will help you understand yourself.  But what is in a name?  What matters it to you if I am Phillip, or Kim, or Xenopribrius?  Thyme or Sage?  Gold or Iron?  I have tried to tell you before, but you would not listen.  Perhaps, Xiang-Ping, you will now.

I am sex.  I am the Neotroglas.  Neotroglas’ mate when a female injects her penis into the male’s vagina. This penis scoops up the sperm in his vagina and transfers it to the female. This process could take several days, and if the male attempts to break away at any time, the female’s penis will rip him asunder.

I am love. I am the Latrodectus.  Once he has impregnated his wife, the male Latrodectus leaps, willingly, upon her fangs.  This is not a trick, nor is he forced or coerced. He impails himself so that his wife has the nutrients she needs to give birth.  His children will never know the word “father”, but he kills himself so that they may live.

I am shelter. I am the Aphonopelma.  While tarantulas normally feed on toads, they provide shelter to a Gastrophryne.  These particular toads nestle under the spider’s protective legs in their skin-moistening caves, snapping at nest-pests that would otherwise consume the tarantula’s eggs.

I am food.  I am the Pieris.  Sometimes I emerge a butterfly, others a buffet. If I am destined to the latter, a Confesia wasp injects her eggs into my fat catipillar flesh.  When they hatch, the young eat me alive so that they can grow into strong adults that lap nectar from flowers.

Do you now understand who I am?

No?

Ah, my beloved. You are still confused, and I am short of words.  The time of the Arrival grows near, so I am forced to provide you with a name you will recognize but not understand.

Who am I?

My beloved… I am the Mad Priest.

“Take ye one brown snake or two small spitters, beat them well, by the tail hang them skinne and all into a spring of acid til it be goode and donne.”

The Compleat Wastelander

“For a time the seventh sub-sector of this district became a haven for failed challengers, caste rebels, escaped slaves and other miscreants who sought to flee the scientific purity of naturally ordered society. These outlaws, bearing such colourful names as Radiation Rem, Billy Blind-Eye, Jobediah the Messessiah, and The Acid Washed Kid, existed in a precarious balance with the savages of that region and cast a brief but bloody glamour over that troubled territory.”

I don’t know how you do it, Phillipe cast about the enclosed viewing suite, regardless that the servants could “hear” him.  They’re everywhere!  And you even let them speak in your presence.  He pointed a hoof at an engineer whose head was buried in a hole in the wall.  What is it doing here?  I say, it turns out my council wasn’t exaggerating – the Wastes truly is a backwards place.

Human servants hurried about their tasks, scuttling in and out of the suite.

Darkheart’s feathered talons nudged an enormous clay bowl of watercress toward the nest prepared for the Brachylophosaurus.  I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, ambassador.  But, you see, I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.  Please do not misunderstand.  I am delighted to have you, but in order for you to better enjoy the festivities, I am having that woman install a heat-signature screen.  As you say, we may not have the culture of our esteemed cousins to the south, but the festivities will show that we do know entertainment.  The Deinonychus’ indigo snout bobbed up and down at the screen they lounged behind.

Thank you for that consideration, and flexibility.  Phillipe craned his neck so that he could study the coliseum.  The waning sun’s light barely touched the massive forest in the middle.  Some levels of the outer wall, like the one on which they presided, had private viewing suits.  Others were just one big balcony, from which to watch the games.  Humans were restricted to the top balcony, unless they were under the employ of a spectating radiosaur.  Impressive, for the Wastes.  And I am looking forward to learning more about tonight’s entertainment, but at the moment I am more interested in learning more about what happened to my clan’s expedition party.  He bent his muscled neck; his powerful bill snatched up a handful of watercress.

Darkheart shoved his snout into his arm’s calico feathers, nervously stroking their barbed vanes with his tongue.  It would be a personal honor ambassador, but the debriefing meeting isn’t until tomorrow.  Besides, it would be the antithesis of appropriate for me to conduct the debriefing.  Instead, let me tell you about the entertainment we’ve prepared for you.

The Brachlyophosaurus chattered his two front hooves together, and quit adding to the cud-ball in his voluminous cheek.  I beg to differ.  Yes, the governor and other feds might be more appropriate if I were only looking for the official story.  But I want the complete story.  And who would be more appropriate to provide information on an Enigma than the mayor of the town that that Enigma made famous? 

The Deinonychus kicked at a few branches that made up his nest, pretending to be preoccupied with settling in.  And, to be sure, ambassador, I eagerly await the opportunity to provide you any and all information that might be of use to you tomorrow, as scheduled.

Phillipe huffed.  The loud, warm blast of air lifted watercress out of the bowl, scattering them across the floor.  Look at it this way: by talking about it now, I’ll be more equipped to ask better questions tomorrow.  My clan will be in your debt.  And you have my word that I will be discreet.  Besides, I never knew you Wastelanders to go by the book.

A massive telepathic blast brought Phillipe to his feet, causing him to loudly blort.  He was bombarded by I hope your senses are good tonight, because I have an amazing line-up for you!  To whet your appetites before the main course, I’ve procured the gore-fest we all know as Alice the Atrocious!  Just as soon as Phillipe blocked that particular telepathic channel, a cacophony of roars, screams, and blorts shook the coliseum to its foundation, causing Phillipe to stumble to a knee.

Darkheart could do nothing to help the ambassador rebalance.  Ambassador, are you ill?

There’s a yelling voice in my head…  Phillipe got back to his feet and frantically looked out into the coliseum.

 That is just the announcer, ambassador.  Casting from a single psy-enhancer.  Surely you have psy-enhancers in the south?

The brachylophosaurus slowly stumbled back into his nest.  After he collected himself, Of course.  But we use several, less-powerful ones.  This one is difficult to modulate.  I’m afraid it interrupted our conversation.  You were just about to tell me about my expedition party.

The Deinonychus couldn’t stop himself from flattening his chest and pinning his eyes at the ambassador.  He was thankful that both were still in the process of nesting, so that Phillipe didn’t notice.  Ambassador, if only you would ask something else of me.

Your Enigma swallowed a host of my best scientists, a platoon of their servants, and priceless equipment.  Where did they all go to?  What are those purple flying orbs?  Is it true that time stood still at the same moment they were said to disappear?  What did the Mad Priest really say to you when he returned?  Why are the Humans so interested in Engimas?

Ambassador, I am certain that…

A servant, who was pouring water into the trough next to Phillipe, accidentally overfilled the trough.  As the ice-water collected around the Brachlyophsosaurus, the Ambassador gasped, and once again jumped to his feet.

Before the servant could apologize, Darkheart launched himself over Phillipe, and splintered the wooden bucket when he landed on it.  The retractable claw on his left leg swung out, scything the man deeply across the arm.  Worthless krill!  He braced himself, preparing to jump on the man’s chest.

Leave it for later.   Instead, let’s put aside the questions for now, and instead make a gentleman’s wager.  Phillipe’s powerful tooth-filled bill ground the watercress into slime.

Darkheart eyed the bleeding and trembling servant, pinning his pupils.  His reversed fangs thirsted for flesh, and killing would be a good distraction from the ambassador’s relentless questions.

Phillipe thought, Leave us.  And get healed.  Darkheart wouldn’t want you to bleed out before he has a chance to discipline you.  In fact, close the door.  I don’t want any more of you ruining tonight.  The ambassador’s heavy tail gently brushed against Darkheart’s calico-feathered back.  Unless you don’t appreciate a friendly bet.  I find that adding personal investment to a sport gives it more spice.

Darkheart kicked the servant away.  You heard the ambassador.  Get out of here and don’t die before I can kill you.  Overjoyed that the ambassador had stopped questioning him, and that he was going to have his own sport that night, the Deinonychus skip-hopped over to Phillipe.

The two radiosaurs looked out the window.  The heat-sensor screen was up and running.  A raptor-sized shape skirted away the north side of the coliseum, sneaking through the underbrush.  Three human-sized shapes huddled together at the south side.  Phillipe and Darkheart could actually see and smell the humans.  They smelled deeply of fear.

This will hardly be a good hunt, but you must suspend your judgment until the main event, ambassador.

Phillipe walked parallel to the screen, then turned when he reached one side.  But it is exactly this event for which I wish to place the wager.  I bet on the Humans, fifty-to-one.

Fifty-to-one?!  Ambassador, surely you misunderstand this game.  Even if the Humans win, which they most certainly will not, it’s last man standing, so…

The engineer suddenly popped her head out of the wall.  “Echo, it’s open.”

Darkheart’s head pivoted to the engineer, suddenly realizing that the scent of fear was also coming from within the room.  What are you talking about, krill?  My name isn’t Echo, and who gave you permission to…

The Brachlyophsosaurus’ tail slammed into Darkheart’s skull.  It wasn’t clear if it was this or the subsequent collision with the wall that snapped his neck.  The engineer and the “ambassador” anxiously watched the screen.  The raptor approached rapidly from the north, while the humans just stood around.  The raptor got closer and closer until, finally, another set of human-shaped blobs appeared outside the extreme south-east side of the coliseum.  They breached the coliseum just as the imprisoned humans in the coliseum got to them.  The coliseum was filled with crackling and popping.  Then the raptor went down.

The engineer sighed, as if she had been holding her breath for years.  “They did it.  They found the door.  Thank god.  And thank you, Echo.  You were amazing.”

Thanks, but I wasn’t able to get any more information on the Enigma.

“Echo, we just rescued the mother of the resistance… I’d say our mission was a helluva success.”

Now we just got to get out of here alive.

“Frances leaned in close as the Troodons scurried around Harold, clamping the exoskeleton onto his hulking frame.

“Don’t let them win,” she said, her black slits of pupils narrowing. “You are more powerful than any of them.” She stood back.

Two Troodons guided 15-foot mechanical arms toward Harold’s dwarfed appendages, and when the clamps bit down on the frame the controls were now within reach. Harold grabbed the one-button handlebars with each of his small arms, close to his tremendous green-and-brown chest, and gave a starter tug. The system gasped and shot steam across the hangar, and the Troodons — a quarter of Harold’s size, nimble, brilliant — sped off to control stations and to outfit the next warrior.

Harold clenched the controls and watched as his mechanical arms responded in kind, reaching, twisting, grabbing, swinging. To counterbalance the weight and the motion, he planted his enormous, muscular legs onto the hangar floor and stretched his tail — itself the length of the mech — far behind him. It swept a gale of dry earth in its wake as he turned, and nearby scientists and warriors, so busy preparing for battle, had to flit their lower eyelids to protect themselves from the debris.

As the dust settled, he slowed himself gracefully, took stock of his new mech, and let out a powerful sigh. Frances stepped close again. She was larger than him, and a deep purple hue darkened her crust of flesh. Harold had long avoided making eye contact with anyone, and especially her. But now his neck craned up and he nudged her long neck with his broken snout. He raised his head up to her level, his left eye connecting with her right. She pulled back, surprised by the gesture, and the flesh around his jaw became a cracked and scarred snarl. His nostrils sucked the oxygen from the air as he raised his head high and let out a roar that shook the stones and dust from the hangar walls and brought the legion to a standstill. The roar continued, and onlookers — those brave enough to do so — could see his mangled, toothless mouth; gums raw from years of gnawing without blades to tear.

Two fellow Rexes, smaller than Harold but with all their teeth, fell in behind him. A forward guard of thirty raptors marched ahead and 12 dactyls spread their wings from their perch, all screaming for the battle ahead. As Harold’s roar died down, so did the rest. His maw closed as he looked at Frances one last time. For the first time in as long as he could remember, she looked afraid. Good, he thought, and he raised his mech arms, lifted his tail, and charged.”

Brandon Vernon
Excerpt from The Thunder of Battle, Vol. 3

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