by J. C. Staudt
I want to leave, Lizneth almost said. But even as she bid herself to turn and exit Jakrizah’s hut, the memory of the blind-world froze her in place. The oppressive heat of every grueling footstep, the way her tail had burned and her eyes had gone dry; the idea of enduring it alone kept her feet planted where they were. She remembered how far the walk had been from Sai Calgoar’s port—a place she could see over the Omnekh from the beach in Gris-Mirahz. How much further the distance must be from here to Tanley. Many times that, at least. If it had taken weeks to sail here in a straight line, with the oars propelling the ship at full bore, how long would it take to cross the mountains on foot? Lizneth gave a deep sigh. “Show me what I have to do.”
Artolo eased. “First you should find something to eat and take time to rest,” he said. “My eyes are starting to feel better now. Tomorrow I go into the blind-world to see how they do. Go back to your friends and stay with them. I’ll come visit you when I can. In a few days, I’m going to take you fishing.” He gave Mama Jak a look. “I’m going to help Lizneth get the eh-calai for you.”
“I knew it would only be a matter of time before you offered,” said the old dam. “Fine. Just don’t go getting yourself caught.”
CHAPTER 45
Escape From Belmond
Raith glanced at Sig. “What do you mean these aren’t your people?”
The dark figures were pouring over the slanted concrete bank and into the channel, rushing toward Raith and the Sons of Decylum like a black tide, silent as death. Raith saw Jiren Oliver and Derrow Leonard through the dim twilight, their hands stretched out, mustering whatever was left inside them. So this is how the Sons of Decylum meet their end, Raith thought. Or something worse than an end. And yet I’m powerless to save the few of us who remain. Another promise I made to Decylum that I’ll never be able to keep.
“They are not my people. They are gangers,” Sig said. “Look behind you. Those are my people.”
Raith turned. Another group of dark shapes was swarming over the lip on the opposite bank. Two opposing forces were about to clash, and he and his people were sandwiched between them. A cry rang across the channel. Whooping shouts broke the stillness, and he felt the air stir around him. The oncoming gangers began to fall as arrows and javelins pierced them. Jiren and Derrow were herding the Sons into a tight group, circling them like brengens protecting their cubs.
The gangers were close now. Raith remembered hearing about gangs like these before they’d left Decylum. They were the true scavengers of the city, and scum of the purest form, it was said—loose-knit bands of war-like people who survived by terrorizing the defenseless. We must look quite defenseless at the moment, Raith surmised. He could begin to make out the details of them in the twilight; a rabble of lean bodies in mismatched wardrobe, the vestiges of a life of survival. Spiked pads on knees and elbows, masks and sports helmets, metal gauntlets and fingerless leather gloves. They wore thick hide over tattered cloth, and some had armor fashioned from old highway signs, plates of green and white and red and yellow, cut and hammered into shapes that fit around shoulders and torsos.
Just before they arrived, Raith made a judgment call; he decided to trust Sig. “Jiren, Derrow,” he shouted, pointing toward the gangers. “Those are our enemies. Our allies are behind us.”
Raith stepped into the advance, tearing through the gangers as they came. Clubs, bats, heavy chains, and hand-made flails came at him through the darkening air, stray thrusts and swings from what felt like a thousand different directions. He took command of his shield, severing wood, metal, and flesh in bursts of electric red. For each man he cut down, two more came to fill the space. He could only hope he had been right to trust Sig, and that the nomads behind them weren’t preparing to butcher them while their backs were turned.
Soon Raith was in the thickest part of the crowd, with ferocious gangers swarming him on all sides. His hands made molten work of their bodies; shattered bones, seared flesh, holes in street-sign armor. It was then that he felt his power begin to flicker. He ignited, but his hands sputtered like dying lightbeams. His shield winked on after a short delay, saving him from an oncoming swing at the last possible instant. The gangers were all around him, swatting, bashing, and kicking him with the kind of ferocity that only the daily struggle for survival can engender. He knew he was close to burning out for good when the first of their blows found its mark.
The stroke glanced off his hip and crashed into the side of his stomach. It unmanned him like a flash of light, and he stumbled backward. Without his shield to protect him, a host of heavy blows began to land, sharp and sudden. He raised his arms to ward off what he could, but every strike met him with unbridled force. So much pain, he thought. I never knew there was so much pain. The darkness was growing and the shadows were lengthening as Infernal sank below the horizon. Raith’s last hope was sinking with it.
Then there came a bright flame, and the air was so hot and alive that Raith could see everything the night had stolen away. There were nomads in their midst now, rushing in alongside them, swords running red and glinting in the firelight. Something made Raith lose his footing and fall backward, and he found himself on the ground, looking up into the night sky.
When the flames died, men were on fire. There was a wet hissing sound, and a second gout swallowed the tranquil stars above and caressed Raith’s face in dry warmth. He saw the gangers’ looks turn to terror as the flames broke over them and swept through their ranks like a tidal wave. The flame retreated, and the gangers were lit and screaming as black smoke carried the stench of oil and burning flesh away into the night.
Raith rolled over and climbed to his knees to watch the grisly dance. Whoever had tripped him up was still beneath him, two bodies squirming and struggling to rise. He grabbed the first man by the throat and pulled him close. It was Theodar Urial. The old apothecary had apparently thought it safe to stand behind Raith, but he hadn’t been able to get out of the way fast enough when Raith began to retreat. Raith shoved the old man aside and yanked the other body toward him in the same fashion. It was one of the gangers.
When Raith tried to ignite—more out of instinct than good sense—he felt himself falter again instead. It was then that he knew he had nothing left.
The ganger slung his fist and connected. Raith felt his head wrench sideways and his face go numb. There was a cold stinging in his cheek, as if the ganger had embedded some metal device in his glove. The ganger pitched his other hand around and hit Raith in the forehead, and there was the bite of cold metal again. Raith’s neck snapped back and his skull began to throb. The sleep might’ve come over him then, had it not been for the adrenaline firing through his body.
He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, the man beneath him flailing both arms now and finding pieces of Raith’s face with each wild swing. There was another gout of flame, and in the light from the fiery blast, Raith could see his foe’s rotting gums and bloodshot eyes, crazed and smiling within their sockets. Raith set in with blows of his own, one hand still around the throat and the other slamming straight down into the man’s face. Ignoring the sting of every successful strike against him, Raith ploughed in again and again, until he felt something come loose where the man’s nose had been. Blood gushed out, soaking both his hands, and the ganger lay still.
Nomads swept forward, bringing fine forged steel to bear against the gangers’ handmade bats and clubs. The wielder of the flame stepped past him, a metal cylinder strapped to his back, a candle burning in the orifice at his weapon’s muzzle. He assumed a wide stance and braced the apparatus against himself, flicked it open. A hiss, and liquid orange heat burst forth. The nomad swiveled from side to side, bathing his foes in the firespout.
The gangers began to retreat. Those who were still rushing toward them stopped in their tracks and fled from the sight of their burning brethren. The injured limped and stumbled away into the darkness, some of them still on fire, while the nomads pursued them and shot after with their bows.
Raith turned to Theodar Urial and helped the old man to his feet. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not a mite. I’m a bit scratched up, but that wasn’t on your account.”
Raith was relieved to see Jiren and Derrow come over, both still on their feet. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Heniard Limshire,” said Jiren.
“And Rikkert Weiber,” said Derrow. “Both dead. Sombit Quentin is beat pretty bad, and Edrie Thronson got stabbed again.”
“Infernal wretches,” Raith said, massaging his temples. He felt himself breaking down as the fever of battle wore away, the stress of days’ worth of hunger and exhaustion and heat taking their toll. “Wretches,” he said again. “This city is a deathtrap. We’re falling faster than I can handle anymore.”
“We all agreed to this, come what may,” Jiren said, resting a hand on Raith’s shoulder.
“What’s coming is that we’ve taken up with slavers,” said Ernost Bilschkin, dusting himself off. “We were the bait in this fight. We’re the prize they were fighting over. The winning side won the right to do with us as they please.”
Sig gave Ernost a shove. “You are alive. If you were bait, you would be dead. Now stop your whining and come. Or stay, if you want to wait until the gangs come back looking for bodies to plunder.”
“I don’t want to be plundered,” Ernost muttered.
Raith took a quick head count, finding his men one by one in the growing darkness. There were ten left, including himself. Ten men of the eighteen he’d rescued from the jailhouse. Ten of the eighty who’d come to Belmond. They would have to leave Heniard Limshire and Rikkert Weiber where they lay, their bodies on hard cement instead of beneath the ground where they belonged. It grieved him that they hadn’t been able to bury so many of Decylum’s dead, but his chief concern was still keeping the others alive, and that left little time for digging graves.
Edrie Thronson, the engineer who’d been shot through the thigh during their approach to Belmond, was bleeding from the shoulder now as well. Sombit Quentin had been beaten with spiked clubs and chains and was bleeding from dozens of tiny puncture wounds. Both men could still walk, but neither looked well enough to run.
If only the healer had joined us, Raith thought. Whatever he hopes to find here in this Infernal-forsaken city, it won’t be what he expected. “Our injured can’t go on for much longer without help.”
“And they will get it,” Sig assured him. “It will not be far to our camp from here.”
When the nomads surrounded the Sons of Decylum, Sig greeted his kinsmen and spoke to their leader for a minute. They lit torches and began to make their way toward the monstrous steel bridge that spanned the channel. They left the concrete riverbed and crossed the bridge, heading south. Sentinels watched from the shadows of great steel girders all along the bridge’s length, waving them toward safety as they passed.
There was a derelict factory ahead, cold smokestacks like the spires of some mechanized temple jutting up between rows of storefronts. Beyond the factory, the cityscape was fading into darkness. At the end of the bridge, a pylon sign heralded the Oplethorpe Hotel, its blank exterior clad in crumbling stucco. A tenement building stood across the street, dead planter boxes in its cracked brick window sills.
The nomads were silent, watchful and serious as they moved. Aside from a few scattered words of caution, there was no conversation or laughter between them. To Raith, it felt just like when the Scarred Comrades had led them through the city, only now they were surrounded by guardians instead of captors.
“Feels like we can’t go anywhere in this city without being mugged or captured,” said Ernost.
“You haven’t been captured,” Sig said. “And you’re being protected so as not to be mugged.”
“You’re surrounding us for our own protection, are you?”
Sig gave him an agitated look.
“What’ll happen to us?”
“We are taking you to our warleader, Lethari Prokin. He will decide what is to be done with you.”
A chain link fence topped with razorwire surrounded the factory, but there was a gaping hole where someone had snipped through the links. Half a dozen nomads kept watch over the opening, sitting around a fire they’d built in the parking lot within. Sig and Tally made the rounds, greeting each of them in turn. One of the nomads said something in Calgoàric, and half the men around the fire switched places with those in the war party. Sig tilted his head and nudged Raith to keep moving.
They circled the main building and passed a row of gigantic storage tanks laced with pipes and gauges. A ramp in the pavement took them down to the loading docks, an L-shaped confluence of buildings that formed an enclosure half a story below street level. There was open sky above them, but the enclosure was hidden from view to anyone approaching from outside the factory grounds. Raith could see the shapes of sentinels posted at intervals along the flat rooftops. When they came around the last corner, he almost didn’t believe what else he saw.
There must have been close to two hundred people in the courtyard, most of them nomads. Those who weren’t nomads appeared to be new slaves. Iron manacles were fastened about their ankles and necks, and they were confined within two pens situated in adjacent corners of the yard. In the darkness, it took Raith a few moments to notice that the captives were segregated by gender. Open loading garages held horses, chickens, hogs, corsils, and goats in pens of their own. Sacks of grain, feed, and other non-perishables were stacked against the building. Fires burned in steel drums. The whole place was alive with activity, but somehow it was so quiet that Raith couldn’t hear much until they’d reached the bottom of the ramp.
Some nomads were cooking; others played at contests of skill or strength, while still others slept or sharpened their weapons. As they entered the courtyard, Raith felt their eyes on him. He saw faces darken, and he realized that most of them probably thought he and his companions were being brought in as slaves too. That made him wonder if they were right. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough, he thought.
The nomads led a group of female captives from the pen at the far corner and prodded them into a line. Then they began to move down the line, inspecting teeth, hair, eyes, legs, hips, and breasts, as if each slave was a piece of livestock.
“We have to run,” Ernost Bilschkin whispered, tapping Raith on the arm.
“Calm down. We’re not running.”
“Why don’t they bind their hands?” asked Rostand Beige, staring.
“You have a good eye, dueieh,” Sig said, and chuckled. “A slave is bound by the feet so he cannot run, and by the neck so he cannot blend in as a free man. A slave with unfettered hands has ownership of only one thing: his choice. The choice to please his master or dissatisfy him. All slaves must serve, but a good slave chooses to bring favor to his master.”
Rostand nodded, but said nothing, still entranced by the glistening bodies of the slave women. Most were thin and malnourished, but the young man’s eyes didn’t stray for an instant. One of the nomads was pulling a slave up the ramp and into one of the garages. He pushed her down beside the goat pen and began to unclasp his belt.
Rostand snapped out of his trance. “Why isn’t anyone stopping that man?”
Sig shrugged. “She is his slave. He can do what he wants.”
As they crossed the yard, nomads began to jeer and taunt them. A few spat on them. Others made rude gestures and revealed parts of their bodies. This is an odd way to treat slaves, Raith thought. Then he remembered that his companions were still wearing their Scarred uniforms.
Sig raised his voice over the clamor. “Gisheino, aigueir.”
A man turned from where he was inspecting the slaves and approached them. He wore loose-fitting cloth, with a thick leather belt and a bandolier across his chest. A pillar of curly black hair leaned sideways on his head. His black eyes were shrewd and critical, but his demeanor alone spoke well enough of his authority. “Tileir chaeladi,” he said, smiling.
&
nbsp; “They are not gifts, Lethari,” Sig said.
Lethari’s smile faded. “Why else would you bring this filth into my camp?” he asked, flinging a hand. His accent in the Aion-speech was less pronounced than Sig’s.
Ernost leaned close to Sig and whispered. “This is Lethari Prokin, the one you told me about?”
Sig ignored him. “These are friends, Lethari. They took Tally and me out of the prison with them.”
“These are no friends. Have they softened your mind?”
“They have not,” Sig said, frowning.
Lethari Prokin’s smile returned wider than before. “Ah, now I understand. They are your payment to me.”
“No,” Sig said. “We owe them a debt.”
“We owe nothing to these lathcui but the disgrace of a slow death. The only debt that matters is the one you owe to me.”
Sig exhaled, but gave Lethari an obedient nod.
Other nomads were gathering to witness the exchange.
“Whatever he owes you, we’ll pay it,” Raith said. “We only ask for your help. I have wounded men who need attention.”
“I will never give help to the beasts of the steel city,” Lethari said.
The crowd flared up with coarse shouts and more spitting.
“There’s no reason we should be at odds,” Raith said. “We have a common enemy. We can help each other against them.”
Lethari gave him a fierce look. “I know no other enemy but you.”
“You’re at war with the Scarred Comrades, aren’t you?”
“You know this. We have warred with you for long years. Since the beginning.”