by J. C. Staudt
“You’re looking for Gris-Mirahz? That’s where we’re coming from. I can see you’re not slavers.” The eh-calai indicated Zhigdain’s fetters. “We’ll take you to it. It isn’t far.”
“We’re not looking for extra company. Now tell me—”
“We’re going back,” the eh-calai said, looking around at the other slaves, then lifting his chin in the direction from which they’d come. Their chained feet had left a set of long, shallow troughs in the sand. “We’re headed in the same direction as you now. We can follow behind, tethered like oxen, or you can unlock us and we’ll add our strength to yours.”
“Or I could cut you each a second mouth and be done with it,” Zhigdain said, flexing the rapier blade between his fingers.
The eh-calai turned his gaze to Lizneth, with a look that indicated he was about to try gaining more sympathy from her. “You there… do you feel the same as your friend here? Would you liberate a fellow slave only to kill him?”
Fane responded before Lizneth had a chance. “Fellow slaves?” he said, balking. “If you mean we’re both weak and stupid enough to let ourselves be subjected to a life of enslavement, that much is true. But we’re no more fellows than I and that clump of rock over there.”
“Gitch-getch,” said the agouti. “Gitch-getch. Vilckeh. Vilckeh.” He was pointing off into the vale in the same direction.
“Told you he speaks gibberish,” said the eh-calai.
“Eh-calai krahz,” Fane muttered, giving the light-skin a derogatory gesture. “Do you speak Ikzhethii? How do you know what he says?”
The eh-calai shrugged, hands chained at his waist. “I don’t. What did he say?”
“Sometimes in Ikzhethii, a small word has a big meaning,” Fane said. “Vilckeh means ‘the village one is from.’ He wants to go home.”
“We all do,” said another ikzhe buck, a fawn with fur of bright orange, the color of sand set on fire. “The raids may never stop, but it’s better living in fear than in chains.”
Lizneth heard chains behind her, and turned to see that Bresh and Dozhie had emerged from their hiding place to join them.
“Stop tormenting these poor zhehn and unlock them, Zhigdain,” Bresh said. “Can’t you see they don’t mean to harm us?”
“Careful. That’s an easy promise to make, but one you may live to regret,” said Zhigdain.
Bresh cocked her head and stared at him, frowning. “We were in their place only hours ago. Have you forgotten already?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Zhigdain said. “I haven’t forgotten the reason we escaped, either: because we didn’t take pity on those slavers when they were burning alive belowdecks. Fane is right; we have no more in common with this lot than we did with the krahzehn who brought us here. Look at them. Scent them. These are the lowest of the low; invalids and simpletons, too soft-minded for their own good. The agouti’s mind has gone to mutton. And these eh-calaihn are uglier than most. No doubt they’re hungry. Desperate. If we set them free, they’ll turn on us in an instant. The blind-world is merciless, Bresh. One must be careful not to let mercy overtake one’s good sense.”
“Mercy makes perfectly good sense,” Bresh said sharply.
Zhigdain flared his nostrils and took in a long breath. He drew his arm back, whirled, and flung the keys across the vale with a grunt. They jangled, soaring over the sands until they vanished in the daylight. “Bah. That’s the extent of my mercy, and the same should be said of yours if you have any sense at all,” he said.
The keys must have traveled far, because Lizneth never heard them land.
Zhigdain opened one of the waterskins he’d found and took a long draught from it, then offered it to Fane, who declined. “Come on, take it,” Zhigdain said. “My tail feels hotter than a live hearth. You must be—”
The eh-calai lunged at Zhigdain, no longer able to subdue his anger. His estimation of the distance was poor; his chains went taut before he’d gotten far, and he went sprawling into the sand at Zhigdain’s feet. Zhigdain took a surprised step back, then laughed. The other slaves shuffled forward to help the eh-calai up, some giving Zhigdain threatening looks.
“Now, now,” Zhigdain said, waving his rapier. “Everyone stay calm. I’ll trade you your keys for a pair of those nice eyeglasses.”
The eh-calai yanked the goggles off the babbling ikzhe’s head and tossed them to Zhigdain.
The soft-minded agouti whimpered and covered his eyes at the sudden burst of daylight.
“There,” said the eh-calai. “Now, the keys.”
Zhigdain smiled as he donned the goggles. “Good good,” he said, extending an arm toward the vale as he bowed. “They’re all yours. We should be going, since we’ll have to locate Gris-Mirahz without you. The trail you left us should make it easier.”
Bresh’s jaw locked down tighter than the manacles that bound her, but she took Fane by the arm and led him away while Dozhie helped Zhigdain carry the gear they’d picked up from the slavers. Lizneth stood astonished, the heat beating down on her with a force she could feel like a heavy arm across her shoulders. She’d known Zhigdain wasn’t the kindliest of twozhehn, but he’d saved her life, and Fane’s as well. He had owed her that much in exchange for setting him free. They all did, but she hadn’t worked her fingers to the bone loosening their chains so they’d owe her something. She’d done it because they had all been in a place they didn’t deserve to be. Just like the slaves that were standing in front of her now.
Lizneth hesitated, shielding her eyes and squinting into the distance, wondering how long it might take her to find the keys if she went off to look for them by herself. Her tongue felt like a lump of dry wool in her mouth, and the thought of taking another step in the wrong direction made her sick. If she went to find those keys, she was likely to die in the attempt. So instead, she followed her companions, leaving the slaves behind to fend for themselves, and she was thankful when Fane tossed her a full waterskin and let her drink from it until she’d had her fill.
CHAPTER 38
Coming To
Merrick found it hard to breathe beneath so much weight, and the bodies above and below were slippery with something too plentiful to be sweat. A fly landed on his nose and took flight again, leaving him with an itch. There was no other sensation but pain, each heartbeat pushing agony through him like water pumped from a well.
The scent of seared flesh was now stronger than that copper-iron blood smell he’d noticed when he entered the cell block. He felt around with his arms and legs to make sure they were still attached. His head was still on his body, though it felt like someone had been kicking it around the barracks yard for a few hours.
When he was confident he could still move, he pushed himself against the crush of bodies until a great mass of them slipped aside. He could finally take a deep breath, and he began to peel himself away from the ones beneath him. It was like removing bandages, the way some parts of him were melded to foreign flesh with dried blood as the adhesive. There was plenty of wet blood around, too. One of his knees was resting on someone’s neck; the other was squished between a pair of hairy buttocks. He pushed himself up to find that he was as naked as they were, his body a macabre patchwork of bright glistening red and grubby crusted brown.
The air in the cell block was heavy with the dust of pulverized concrete, as if the waning daylight that spilled through the tiny barred windows had taken on a filmy residue. His throbbing head made things look all the more vague, and there was a tinny rumble in his ears. It was enough to judge by the destruction around him that the prisoners from Decylum were gone. The Sentries didn’t stop them after all. But I guess I knew there wasn’t much hope of that.
All of him ached. When he looked down at his wounds, he was surprised he wasn’t dead. Any normal man would’ve succumbed to the damage his body had sustained, he knew. There were holes in him. Actual holes, where he could see into himself. It felt a little like perusing a shelf full of formaldehyde jars with a strange new specimen in e
ach one.
There was still too much pudge around his belly for his liking, even with some of it missing. You’re still fat. Even blown to pieces, you’re still coffing fat. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but now they itched, and he had to resist the urge to scratch parts of himself that might’ve fallen off if he did.
There was something inside him that neither Raithur nor the other prisoner had been able to explain; something that had pushed his gift into action when he needed it most. Necessity. The word rang in his already-ringing head. Necessity. It was the last word the prisoner had said to Merrick before he tried to kill him. If necessity was what it took to ignite, then Merrick would figure out how to need.
He slithered down the mountain of flesh, standing only after he’d reached the certainty of level ground. His legs felt like pudding, and he had to stand in place for a moment to make sure he could keep his balance. How long was I out? he wondered. Why hasn’t anybody been sent to clean up this mess? Something terrible must’ve happened to make the city north’s usual order fall into such disarray. His gut roiled as he considered several grim variations of what that might be.
If the escaped prisoners from Decylum had fled into the wasteland, all the better. If by some luck the Scarred had managed to undo them, their corpses should be hanging from the Hull Tower by now. More probable than either of those two scenarios was that the Decylumites were still at large somewhere in Belmond. If they knew where Raithur had been taken, they’d want him back, and that meant the Commissar was either in harm’s way, or he was already dead.
Who did the order of succession fall to if something happened to Wax? Was there an order of succession? The commanding officers must have arranged a strict chain of command in case of an emergency. Captain Malvid Curran came to mind. As head of Mobile Operations, he had more tactical field experience than the others. Perhaps he was next in line, in which case Merrick’s luck might be changing. But he was getting ahead of himself; first he had to find out what had happened here.
And before he did that, he needed some clothes.
Limping between the cells on wobbly legs, Merrick conducted as thorough a search as he was able, but the comrades had all been stripped of the clothing and gear they’d worn. There were faces of men he knew among the dead. As he began to recognize them, his hatred of the foreigners rose like a red tide in his chest. Lieutenant Algus’s bowels were spilling out like lengths of fat sausage. The two cell block guards, the wavy-haired Private and the old Corporal with the rug burn, were as full of holes as he was.
When he’d finished searching the cell block, Merrick sat on the cleanest and closest bed he could find. He was still naked, and now he was exhausted to boot. He was beginning to think his fortunes hadn’t changed after all. There were lockers where the desk guards kept extra clothing, but getting into them would be tricky. In the long hallway that led to the front desk, the security gates were bent and mangled and ripped apart. With some new measure of determination, Merrick forced himself to his feet and labored down the hall, using every wall and handhold he could find.
The lobby was just as devoid of useful items as the cell block. The front desk was a wreckage of parchment, tossed boxes, and overturned chairs. Most of the windows were shattered. Spent rifle casings littered the floor. The smoky scent of gunpowder lingered thick in the air, and the front doors were gouged with bullet impressions from the far side. When Merrick tried to open the right-hand door, he found its arc obstructed, so he squeezed through the narrow gap.
Outside, he found himself on a battlefield; the bullet-riddled corpse blocking the door had been one of the men from Decylum, his hands black at the fingertips and fading to gray at the forearms. In the oncoming gloom, Merrick noticed two more Decylumites at the bottom of the steps and a few others mixed in amongst the bodies of his dead comrades. Good riddance, he thought. Every one of you who’s died is one less this world has to worry about. Seeing so many of his comrades dead was stirring up his rage anew. The small twinge of emotion he’d felt at learning his mother might be from Decylum was gone now. He wanted to exterminate every last one of these foreigners, whether they were related to him or not. They belonged in the same category as his mother—people who meant nothing to him.
By the time Merrick had found a pair of trousers and undergone the ordeal of putting them on, the rough fabric was chafing against his wounds so badly he decided not to put on boots or a shirt. Instead he limped barefoot down the broken road, away from the carnage and up Pollson Avenue, a run-down neighborhood of antique shops, liquor stores, fuel stations, and salvage yards. The fading daylight rejuvenated him, and soon he was walking at an almost-normal pace. With each step, the trousers continued to rub at the holes in his body, but he didn’t let the pain deter him.
It wasn’t until he reached the barracks that Merrick got his first glimpse of the real trouble. Body bags lined the yard outside the infirmary. The retinue of guards at the front gate had been tripled. Off-duty comrades were clustered across the yard, and the dormitories were full. Full of soldiers holed up in their rooms instead of roaming the streets in search of the invaders. That meant they were still waiting on orders—orders that should’ve come hours ago. Merrick had never seen the barracks in a more lively state. As much as he often dreaded coming home to the whitewashed walls of his crowded dorm room, Merrick was happy to see the building now. Perhaps his comrades were gladder of it than usual, too.
Merrick knew the Decylumites hadn’t come to Belmond to harm anyone. But they have harmed us, and now they need to face the consequences. He hobbled down the sidewalk, eager to be through the barracks gate and off the streets. I just hope nobody makes a big deal about my wounds. He doubted the infirmary had the resources to treat him right now, anyway. If he could make it to his room, he could put on some fresh clothes and grab Birch before he made for the Hull Tower.
As he was about to step off the curb and cross the street, a hand took him by the shoulder and spun him around. It was Toler, the blind shepherd who could see again, thanks to him. He tugged Merrick around the side of the building and shoved him against the wall, barring his neck with a forearm.
“I thought I told you to take care of yourself,” Toler said. “You look like garbage.”
Merrick turned his head, trying to take a gulp of air, and managed to rasp out a few words. “Rough couple days. On my way to get these looked at, so if you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.” When Toler brought his face in close, Merrick could smell the stench of cheap liquor on his breath. “I’ve been waiting here all afternoon for you to come out of your room. Imagine my surprise when you walked by. Where you been?”
“At work,” Merrick croaked.
“Lucky I spotted you when I did. ‘Fernal knows I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”
“What’s this about?” Merrick said.
The shepherd was pressing him into the wall so hard he could hear the air whistling through his windpipe. The bricks were scraping like sandpaper over the wounds in his back.
Toler let his arms fall to his sides. Then he jerked them up again and slammed Merrick into the wall, pressing down on his throat even harder. There was a fierce glint in his eyes, something wild and angry that chilled Merrick’s blood.
“You’re leaving Belmond with us tonight,” said the shepherd.
“Why am I gonna do that?”
“Because I don’t think you’ll enjoy living here when everyone in the city knows you’re a mutant.”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not going mutie, you—”
“Tell that to your comrades once the rumors start spreading. I’m sure Commissar Wax will believe you when he sees these sores all over your body. Your commanding officer, too, and all your friends down at the bar. Refuse me, and I’ll make it so. I’ll have everyone in my caravan spreading the word. Even that slut girlfriend of yours will be blabbing about you before the week’s out. Tell me, what do they do in the city north when someone goes mutie, Corporal Bo
uchard? You think they’ll treat you any different than the others? You think they’ll let you stay? Nurse you back to health? Maybe they’ll make you the first-ever scurred mutie. No, I’m afraid we both know that won’t happen. Mutants aren’t welcome in your idealistic little society. You’ll be hunted down and strung up with all of Wax’s other trophies.”
“You bastard,” Merrick said, his voice breaking under the force of Toler’s arm.
Toler let up. The crazed look drained from his eyes. When he smiled it was as though the look had never been there. “You should be thanking me. This is no life for someone with your talents. My boss is one of the richest men in the Aionach. He’s going to be very happy with you. In a few short years, he’ll make you a rich man too.”
“You mean you’ll be a rich man, and I’ll feed off the scraps from your table,” Merrick said. I was right to think my luck would change once people found out I was a healer. I never thought it would change quite this way.
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Toler. “I was born into wealth. I’m no stranger to it, and I have little need for it.”
“That’s a good one,” said Merrick. “I’m sure you’re a shepherd because you love the work, not because you need the hardware. I bet I could find more copper if I bled you dry than if I shook out your pockets.”
Toler gave him another dark, cutting smile. “You don’t know my last name, do you? Time for me to flaunt my distinguished ancestry, I guess. Tell him, Blatcher.”
One of the other shepherds, an ugly, hulking man with deep scars running across his nose and cheek, rolled his eyes. “This is Toler Glaive.”
The name sounded familiar, but Merrick couldn’t place it. He shrugged. “Okay…”
“Glaive, as in Glaive Industries. My ancestors built the city you’re standing in. Planned and designed the whole coffing thing. Ever heard of HydroPyre? Pollson Glaive invented it. You know Pollson Avenue, a few blocks down? That’s named after my great great great grandpa.”