Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (11 page)

Inside the buildings, torches began to go out one by one. The
villagers in the street dashed forward with their buckets, dousing the
calai
torches with sand and water. The light in the cavern diminished, then died.

What had begun as an orderly operation devolved quickly into
madness. The confused cries of the
calaihn
rang across the village as
they stumbled around like blind new-births, lost and helpless. Lizneth and her
fellow villagers could see and scent them well, and they wasted no time taking
advantage of that.

With their strength divided and their sight lines dwindling,
the
calaihn
lost all interest in fighting. They began to flee. Few
seemed to recall in which direction the tunnels lay; such was the disorder of
their scattering.

Marauders flowed into the streets, glinting like armored
beetles. Wherever a
calai
could be found, there were two Marauders to
end him. Some hu-mans tumbled down the riverbank and fell splashing through,
until Rotabak’s black-cloaked scouts emerged from the gloom to make the river
run red. Others ascended the rise and had their legs slashed out from behind.
But most of the
calaihn
didn’t get that far. Most died in the streets
with Marauders crowding around them like hooligans, awaiting their turn to kick
or scratch or bite. They bit with blades, and painted the streets with their
crimson
haick
.

When a big sweating hu-man stumbled into Lizneth with wild
grasping arms, she drew her dagger and shoved the point through the hard muscle
of his stomach. She felt a sudden tightness as his abdomen tensed around the
blade, a sensation that made her queasy. She slid the weapon free and stepped
clear to let him slouch over beside her, writhing and groaning.

When the fighting was over, the Marauders had lost only a
handful of their number. Among the villagers, Gowgin the tanner was the only
casualty. There were a few minor injuries and some damage to homes and
property, but that was the extent of Tanley’s losses. Silence and darkness had
won them the day.

When Lizneth went to retrieve her siblings from beneath the
river bridge, they stared up at her as though she were a stranger—as though
they were afraid of her. Malak licked his forepaws and fidgeted, eyeing the
dagger at her hip with cold apprehension.

“What is it,
cuzhe
?” she asked.

“I saw you…” he said.

“You saw me where?”

“Over there.” He lifted a hand. “You… fighted.”

“Fought,” she corrected him.

Malak tried the word, wrinkling his snout at its strangeness.
“Fought. You made a
calai
get dead.”

She sighed, lost on how to explain it to him. “Sometimes—not
often, but sometimes—it’s okay to hurt others. But only if it’s clear they want
to hurt you very badly, and only if you have no other choice.”

“Like a wrestle with Raial and Hasquol?”

“That’s not really the same thing,
cuzhe
.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to get Thrin and
Raial.”

Malak and the others followed her out, shying away from the
lifeless bodies swaying in the river current. At the top of the rise, Rotabak
stood stalwart, sporting a deep gash along his neck. Adriga the seamstress was
trying to sew up the wound for him, but he complained and flinched away
whenever she tried to make a new stitch.

“Rotabak… I’m taking my brothers and sisters home now,”
Lizneth said.

“Go then, and good riddance.”

“You still have Raial and Thrin.”

Rotabak squinted at her through his lazy eye, then swatted
Adriga’s hand away as she tried to raise her needle and thread. “And?”

“And I’d like to bring them home. With the rest of my
siblings.”

He snorted, then twitched his whiskers. When he feigned
indecision, his voice made a sound like an old hinge. “Eh-h-h-h. No. Now’s not
the time.”

“The battle’s over,” Lizneth said.

Anger flashed in Rotabak’s eyes. “Can’t you see I’m in the
middle of something?”

“It won’t take up any of your time to tell your
keguzpikhehn
to release my brother and sister.”

“Are you getting insubordinate with me? Questioning my
leadership? Doubting my ability to carry out Sniverlik’s will?”

“No, not any of that,” she said. “I just thought… since I did
what you asked when the
calaihn
came…”

“I didn’t ask. I commanded. For a lowly
parikua
to
carry out my command is as it should be. It’s no reason for a reward.”

“I’m not asking for a reward. I’m just asking you to return
my—”

“Yes, yes, your little brother and sister. Yes, I heard you.
Be silent now, and leave me to be tormented by this terrible old
needle-mistress.”

Adriga frowned. “You ordered me to—”

“I know what I said. We’ve won the day, and yet my neck is
still bleeding like a goat at the slaughter. What’s the remedy, you decrepit
old bat? You ancient relic? What have you done to stop my imminent demise?”

“I’m trying—”

“Not hard enough. Now for the last time… will someone get
this dirty
scearib
out of here? I’m finished listening to this dismal
yammering.”

“I want Thrin and Raial back,” Lizneth demanded.

Rotabak’s guards stepped in front of her and began to corral
her away from him.

Rotabak raised his voice to call after her. “You’ll receive
nothing until Sniverlik arrives, and then only if he decides not to make an
example of your family for the
calai-thalighehn
you are.”

After that, Lizneth had little choice but to be on her way
home. The nestlings were unusually quiet and orderly as they followed her down
the cavern road.
I should never have brought them to the fields today
,
she thought, cursing herself for a calamity she couldn’t possibly have
prevented.
What will Mama and Papa say when I tell them I’ve surrendered two
of their cuzhehn and watched the Marauders destroy our entire crop?

Lizneth bore little faith that she could salvage a harvest
from what the Marauders had destroyed. If Rotabak and his troops didn’t pick
the mulligraw fields clean, the villagers would scavenge what was left. Things
were far from back to normal in Tanley. War was truly upon them now, and the
conflict was larger than Lizneth was ready to admit.

CHAPTER 10

Warleader

“I should crush that liar where he sits,” shouted Jiren
Oliver, fists clenched to ward off the pain his ignition had caused him.

“There was fear in the master-king’s eyes,” said Derrow, trying
to calm him down. “Didn’t you see it? He’s afraid of us. Keeping Ros hostage is
the only way he can control us, and he knows it.”

Raith agreed. “He can’t hold Ros forever, and I believe he’ll
see that in time. If he doesn’t, we’ll make him see it. We should’ve expected
his schemes from the beginning. We’ll be wiser in the future. Right now, it
seems he’s too concerned with his wars to step away from his throne. And that’s
to our advantage.”

“The world is dying,” said Jiren. “Who has time for war?”

“War does not wait. Not even at the end of time. The king is
allowing us to return to our brothers in Belmond. We should be glad of that.”

“Personally, I’ll be glad when we’re done with this place.
Coming to the above-world was—” Jiren stopped himself, too late. They all knew
what he’d meant to say.

“A mistake,” Raith finished, reminded once again of the
tragedies they’d faced since they left Decylum. He would never forgive himself
for the disaster his decisions had wrought. The expedition’s failure was no
excuse for self-pity, however. For the sake of his people, he would forge ahead
until he’d rescued the lost Sons of Decylum and returned them home. He could
only hope Cord Faleir and the rest of the council would forgive him when he
returned, though the outlook on that score was doubtful.

Jiren softened, remorse written on his face. “I didn’t mean
it. This wasn’t a mistake. The Scarred Comrades are a mistake. They’re the
cause of our troubles. It’s not anything you’ve done that’s gotten us where we
are. If anything, we owe you our lives.”

Raith knew that was a gracious version of the truth, but he
didn’t object. “I’d wager the Scarred Comrades are in shambles by now. Their
Commissar is dead, and we dealt their forces a heavy blow before we left.”

“You’re sure you killed Pilot Wax?” Derrow asked. “You
haven’t told us what happened in the Hull Tower that day.”

“He was hit in the chest with a barrage of molten lead. I
don’t know how any man could’ve survived that. I had only enough time to study
his map—his model of the city—before I fled for the prison to get you. I feared
there were more soldiers coming. As weak and tired and hungry as I was, I felt
in no condition to face them. So I didn’t stay to watch him die. If I’d had the
option, I would have.”

“I hope that bastard rots,” said Jiren.

“You’re not alone,” said Raith. “I’m sure we’ll hear news one
way or the other when we get to Belmond.”

Derrow nodded. “We should talk to Lethari. Ask to ride with
him. The wasteland is much easier to navigate with the nomads to guide us.”

Raith nodded. “First we’d best return to Sig’s and give news
to the others.”

The shadows lengthened and the market swelled with
late-afternoon crowds as the three Decylumites ascended the tiers of Sai
Calgoar toward Sigrede Balbaressi’s home. They arrived to find the others
waiting with anticipation; Ernost Bilschkin was pacing the floor while Mercer
Terblanche and Peperil Cribbs played a game of godechente on Sig’s ivory set.
Theodar Urial was putting fresh bandages on Edrie Thronson’s wounds. The men
looked up as the three blackhands entered the abode’s dark coolness, their
faces drawn with grave looks.

“What news?” asked Ernost, stopping in his paces.

Raith recounted the details of their meeting with the
master-king, starting with the king’s reluctance to leave the city in the midst
of war and ending with his refusal to release Rostand Beige into their custody.
The men were outraged to hear of Ros’s continued imprisonment, but Raith
placated them with the promise that they now had the freedom to go and find
their brothers in Belmond.

“Does this mean we have to cross that deathly wasteland by
ourselves again?” asked Ernost, worried.

“We hope not,” said Raith. “Lethari Prokin came to the king’s
palace while we were there. He requested leave to bring his friend’s body home
for burial. If we can catch him this afternoon, perhaps he’ll let us join his
caravan. I don’t know where this friend of his was from; only that he wasn’t a
nomad.”

“And you know this man wasn’t one of ours?” asked Ernost.

“Yes. I heard Lethari say the name Glaive.”

Theodar Urial was intrigued. “A member of the Glaive family…
still alive?”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

“May I come with you to Lethari’s home?” Theodar asked.

Raith wasn’t sure why the old man was so interested, but they
didn’t have time to get into it at the moment. “I think we should all go.
Strength in numbers, you know.”

They were standing up to leave when Sig’s shadow fell over
the doorway. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. “Hello, my
friends. I have just come from Lethari Prokin’s household. He gathers his
feiach
,
and has honored me by making me one of his captains. I regret that I must leave
you tomorrow, but you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

“I’m glad for you,” said Raith. “We all are.”

The others agreed.

“And so you should be,” Sig said, beaming.

Raith smiled. “Lethari’s house is where we were just
heading.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“We want to go with the…
feiach
.”

Sig’s look was dour. “I do not think you will like the answer
he gives you.”

“Is he traveling north?”

“Not north. But not in the way you might wish to go.”

“Where?”

“I do not speak for my masters. You must speak with him
yourself.”

“Very well. Thank you, Sig. You’ve been most generous. We’ll
go to him now.”

Sig gave a shallow bow, then turned and ascended the steps to
the upper loft, where his wife Shonnie was sweeping the floors. Raith heard
them greeting one another as he crossed the threshold toward the noise of the
bustling city.

Raith Entradi had never been a man of absolutes. He knew who
he liked and who he tolerated, just as well as he knew those he despised.
Lethari Prokin was not only a skilled warleader, but a fair man, bold and
dauntless. He was a figure for normal men to fear, but Raith didn’t fear him.
Raith respected his ability to lead. If there was a way he could convince the
warleader to bring them to Belmond, he would find it.

When they arrived at Lethari’s sandstone palace, a stooped,
aging man in fine brown linen greeted them at the doorway. “How may I help
you?” he asked them in a coarse Aion-speech.

“We’re looking for Lethari Prokin,” Raith said.

“The master is with his wife at the moment. May I tell him
who calls?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m Raith Entradi.”

“You may wait here.” The servant turned on his heel and
vanished into the cavernous depths of the house.

He returned several moments later and told them Lethari would
be with them shortly. In the meantime, he led them into a lavish sitting room
and told them to make themselves comfortable. The Sons threw themselves onto the
pillows and cushions, sinking into plush red satins and purple velvets, green
silks, brown camel’s hair and white cashmere.

When Lethari finally appeared, he had shed his weapons and
gear and was wearing only his loose-fitting alabaster pants and tabard.
“Raithur Entradi. It troubles me to find you in my household after such a
dishonorable display.”

“I must apologize for that,” Raith said. “We’re deeply sorry
for any distress we’ve caused you or your king.”

“I vouched for you. I believed you to be friends, and so I
gave the master-king my word that you were. Now you have threatened the king’s
life. You gave him your own word that you would take him to see your homeland,
did you not?”

“I did, but—”

“The master-king has made clear his terms, and you have agreed
to them. Tycho Montari does not answer to your demands,
lathcu
. Not in
his own home. Nor do I, in mine. Now tell me why you have come, for I have much
to do.”

There were any number of points Raith could’ve raised in
response to Lethari’s simplified assessment of the situation, but getting
straight to the point seemed a better tactic. “We’re here because we’d like to
come back to Belmond with you and your army.”

“You bother the wrong man. I will not bring my
feiach
to Belmond. Not yet.”

“We’ll stay with you until you do.”

“It will not be for many turns.”

“We’ll split off from the caravan when you get close, then.
We don’t have the experience or the means to get there by ourselves, but if we
went part of the way with you, perhaps we could tackle the remainder of the
journey on our own.”

“My answer is no. I do not wish to bear the burden of your
company.”

“Nice guy, huh?” Raith heard Derrow whisper behind him.

Jiren Oliver seemed to agree. “The burden of our company?
Aside from a few meals and some shade over our heads, what possible burden
could we be to you? We slaughtered hundreds of the Scarred Comrades—your
enemies—to make our escape. Or don’t you remember?”

“When Sigrede brought you to me, my cages and chests were
full with the spoils of war, my goats fat and pregnant, my corsils dusty and
tired. I was preparing to come home. Now, I make my return to war, riding fresh
mounts, pulling empty cages, and commanding warriors thirsty for blood. My
feiach
will not learn one
lathcu
’s face from another’s. In the midst of battle,
no warrior of mine will spare your life over that of any other pale-skin dog.
You may have caused the master-king to believe you cannot be killed, but I know
that is a lie. I have seen you bleed. I know you die the same as other men. So
heed my counsel: go your own way.”

“We don’t need special treatment,” Jiren said. “We can keep
up, and we’ll stay out of your way.”

“So says the blind
muirrhad
to his daylight master.
Beyond these reasons, I have others, which are my own. My answer is final.”

“I can’t believe this,” said Derrow. “You’re refusing to give
us any help at all?”

“Here is my help. When you arrive in the steel city, take
this to the factory camp and give it to Diarmid Kailendi, who is warleader
there in my absence. Then he and his
feiach
will know you are neither
enemy nor slave.” Lethari handed Raith a small round seal made of smelted
metal, a scorpion set between two olive branches.

“Surely we could follow you,” said Raith, taking the seal.
“Make our own camp, but keep our distance. Stay in your shadow.”

If Lethari had been angry before, now he was something else
entirely. “Beggars! Ungratefuls!
Poacaire! Thangaeli! Yarun aitraei fabhor,
diaon, baid… ias fathas yarupoac
.”

Raith stood his ground. “We need to get to Belmond, Lethari.”

“Then go! I do not stop you.”

“You heard the king. Your men have located a few of our
brothers. We’ve got to find some way to get home.”

 Do you see me standing in your path? Go!”

“Without food and water, we’ll—”

“Oisen!” Lethari screamed.

The hunched serving man materialized in the doorway. “
Tha,
gisheino
.”

“
Oria. Anis
.”

Oisen was perplexed. “…
Gisheino?
”

“
Ai ticluinn. Oria
.”

“
Tha, gisheino
.” The servant bowed and left. He came
back with a small leather pouch, which he handed to Lethari.

“For you,” Lethari said, producing a dozen gold coins and
dropping them into Raith’s hand. “Trade this for food and horses. Hire a guide
to take you to the steel city. I cannot bring you with me.”

Raith was humbled. He felt ashamed for having been so
demanding of a man who had already given them so much. In Decylum, he and his
people were wealthy. Out here they had nothing left of value aside from the
clothing on their backs, and even that was a poor alternative to the nomads’
thin, loose-fitting cloth. “We can’t thank you enough, Lethari.”

“Then do not. You owe me nothing.”

Footsteps approached. A tall, slender woman in a green beaded
dress appeared next to Oisen in the doorway. “My love… what is all this loud
noise you are making?”

Lethari said something to her in Calgoàric. Then, addressing
Raith and the Sons, he said, “My wife, Frayla.”

Raith couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the woman from the
empty market; the woman they’d found in the tent with Oale Haelicari. He could
see the scar running snakelike down her leg, ending at the ankle, just below
the hem of her dress. It had been too dark in the tent to see her face, but
Raith would’ve recognized that scar anywhere.

The woman froze when she saw him. “Hello,” she said, her eyes
passing over the crowd of faces before her.

Lethari said something else to her.

“
Maetha
,” she replied, leaning against the doorframe
to wait.

“I have given you more than you need,” said Lethari. “Yet
still, here you are in my house. What more do you want from me?”

Theodar Urial took a meek step forward. “There is the matter
of your deceased friend,” he said. “The one you’ve asked the master-king to
take home and bury.”

Lethari stiffened. “Yes… what of him?”

“His family name was Glaive, you said.”

“Glaive, yes. His ancestors were the builders of the steel
city, and many others like it.”

“That name does sound vaguely familiar, now that you mention
it,” said Derrow.

The old apothecary smiled. “You should’ve paid more attention
during your history lessons. The Glaives built many of the desert cities. One thing
you certainly don’t seem to remember is that the Glaives also designed and
built Decylum. The Ministry commissioned them to create a self-sustaining
underground facility, of which they are said to have designed several
prototypes before producing a functional build. The HydroPyre station that
powers our home is their invention.”