by J. C. Staudt
Merrick considered his answer before he gave it. “They have some information I want. Information that might help us bring down the north.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Swy. “You mind if I bring my cousin?”
“Who, Eldridge? Yeah, absolutely he can come.”
“I should take Clus, too. I don’t want to leave him here by himself two times in one day. He’s gone through enough. Don’t worry though, he’ll behave.”
“Sounds good,” Merrick said. It didn’t sound good, but what choice did he have? It was go alone, or go with whoever Swy wanted to bring. If they managed to find the Decylumites, any talk of the gift would have to wait until Merrick could catch a moment alone with Raith or one of the others.
The four Gray Revenants left the Fantique Theater and headed down Sheridan Avenue, Swydiger taking point and Eldridge bringing up the rear. It was a ritzy area, lined with blocks of hotels and restaurants and theaters and jewelry stores. They’d gone about three blocks when Swydiger saw something and ducked into the doorway of a little eatery called the Taste of Nebulai.
“Down,” he said in a loud whisper.
Merrick and Cluspith scooted into the adjacent storefront, a place called the Style Loft Boutique.
Behind them, Eldridge hugged the corner of the building and leaned out to watch for Swydiger’s signal. Eldridge was a solid man who bore the family’s narrow facial features, but unlike his cousins, he had a full head of flowing hair the color of burnt sienna and a back shaped like a broad arrowhead. He held his coilgun at the ready, custom-painted with black and yellow stripes and the word STINGER decorating the receiver.
Some dways are a little too serious about their guns, Merrick thought, looking down at his own empty hands. Caliber hadn’t deemed him worthy of being issued his own coilgun. Now that Caliber was dead, Merrick wasn’t sure if he’d ever get one. He missed Birch. He found himself hoping his silvered handgun was still in his footlocker at the barracks, though he might not be back to claim it for some time. Some other comrade has already claimed my poor Birch for himself by now, I’m sure, he thought gloomily.
Swydiger signaled. Someone was approaching from between the Kelling Events Center and the half caved-in Amber Trust Bank building on the opposite corner. Gangers, with spiked bats and heavy wrenches and fireman’s axes, wearing street-sign armor and gridiron helmets and leather earflap hats. They were winding down a curved section of road, all strut and swagger, making their presence known.
Merrick couldn’t read his companions’ faces beneath their masks, but by the way Swy flicked his fingers at Eldridge, he knew they were getting ready to engage them. Eldridge nodded and disappeared around the corner.
“Where’s he going?” Merrick asked.
“Stay here. Keep Clus with you. Don’t move.” Swydiger crept through the storefront’s shattered window display without waiting for Merrick’s reply.
Merrick drew his knife—the one he’d suspected Kugh of dropping the night they’d left him in the desert to die. My own venture, and I’m not even taking part in it. What’s worse, we’re in for a fight and I’ve only got this to defend myself with.
One of the gangers held his arms out to halt the others, then pointed. Merrick ducked to avoid being spotted. He was about to tell Cluspith to run, but the gangers fled first.
They scattered like flies from a carcass, scrambling off the road and diving behind broken-down walls into the ruins of the Amber Trust Bank. They were out of sight in seconds. Swydiger and Eldridge reappeared moments later. There was no celebration, no slapping of hands or cuffing of shoulders. Even Cluspith stayed quiet.
The Revs are used to being feared, Merrick realized. As a Scarred man, he’d grown used to being hated and antagonized. He didn’t doubt that some gangs offered bounties for the heads of Scarred men. Not so with the Gray Revenants, it seemed. The Revs incited a different emotion within the city south’s residents: fear. Is it their weapons, or their mere presence that inspires such terror? he wondered. Shadows masquerading as men. If the gangers are afraid of the Revs, that means they’re afraid of me. That was a strange awakening. It was an odd feeling to be feared. It was new and exhilarating, and it made the blood course hot through his chest. Without warning, his fingertips ignited beneath his gloves. He flinched, then shook his hands off like someone who’s just held onto a live matchstick for too long.
“You okay?” Swydiger asked.
“Sure, yeah,” Merrick said, as the heat dissipated.
Swy’s filtermask was a ghastly sight, painted a fleshy green color to resemble the face of an emaciated ghoul with empty black eyes. Cluspith’s was brighter, grayish-blue skin with a spongy orange beard to look like the lightburned face of a wind gargant. Eldridge’s mask had a cotterphage’s wild cactus-spike teeth and slitted yellow eyes. Merrick had yet to come up with an idea for his mask. For now, it would keep the clay hound’s glowing red eyes and dark snarling jaws it had been painted with when they gave it to him.
“The factory is a pretty long hike,” Swy said. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Those gangers sure took off in a hurry,” said Merrick. “Did either of you fire a shot?”
Swydiger shook his head. “Nah, but we might’ve had us a big herd of gangers to sell to the nomads tonight, if they’d stuck around longer.”
Eldridge tapped his filtermask. “What’s the difference between a ganger and a slave?”
Merrick shrugged.
“Me.”
Swydiger snorted. “I speak.”
“So that’s what happened to all the dways from my unit who’ve gone missing,” Merrick said. “It was you Revs, snatching them up and selling them to the nomads.”
“Scarred men becoming slaves? Oh, no. Not a chance. No nomad is keeping a Scarred man as his slave. He doesn’t want to bring that kind of ridicule onto himself and his family. To the nomads, sparing a comrade’s life is weakness of the worst kind. That’d be like snaring a bushcat while you’re starving and letting it go free again. There’s just no excuse for it. Any cases of missing comrades are pure coincidence.”
“And you’re trying to tell me—a former comrade—that everything’s going to be fine when I walk into a camp full of savages? Forget it, I’m turning back now. I don’t need to find those foreigners that much.”
“Cool off,” Swydiger said. “You didn’t think we were gonna tell them you used to be Scarred, did you?”
“No, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“It should. You do want to find those foreigners—don’t fool yourself.”
Merrick slumped his shoulders. “Alright, lead the way.”
The walk to the nomad camp took most of the day. They ate dried fruit and nuts, with spiced jerky that came from some animal Merrick didn’t recognize. His daily food ration since joining the Gray Revenants had consisted of two small meals from the rooftop gardens and just enough water to leave him wanting a little more. He hadn’t gotten used to the meager diet yet, and his stomach was always grumbling. On the plus side, he’d lost some weight. He didn’t see that trend changing until he was all skin and bones, like most of the others.
Aside from a few of his more harrowing missions with Mobile Ops, Merrick couldn’t ever remember having been more terrified than when the first glimpse of the factory’s ancient smoke stacks appeared on the skyline. He checked his gloves. He was afraid of igniting again while he wasn’t paying attention, of burning through them without realizing it. If the savages hated the Scarred as much as Swydiger claimed, there could be no slip-ups, no second guessing himself when they were around.
A narrow street of old body shops and consignment stores brought them down the final stretch of pavement to the factory. They slipped through a tear in the fence and began to cross the parking lot, where a circle of concrete blocks and some overturned fifty-gallon drums surrounded the smoldering remains of a campfire. As they neared the factory building, nomads began to materialize from behind doorways and aband
oned vehicles and stacks of industrial containers.
There was an uneasy tension as the two groups came together. Swydiger and Eldridge extended their hands to greet the nomads around them. Merrick did the same, greeting a man with a serpentine scar on his chest and tied black hair that was braided along his scalp. When the savage cuffed him on the forearm, the grip was severe. The man was staring at him through eyes so violent and piercing that even behind his mask Merrick felt the compulsion to look away.
“Good to see you, Diarmid,” Swydiger said.
Diarmid was preoccupied with Merrick. “Who is this one, with the face of a hound?”
“This is a newcomer. His name’s Merrick.”
“Let me see his face.” Diarmid pulled off an imaginary mask.
The inside of Merrick’s filtermask had begun to fog up while the nomad was staring at him. He looked to Swydiger, who nodded his consent, before removing his hood with one hand. With the other, he gripped the round drum filter and lifted the mask. His hands felt damp and sweaty inside the black leather gloves. Diarmid was eyeing him up and down, taking particular notice of his midsection. For a moment, Merrick thought he might soil himself.
“You are fat for a gray ghost,” Diarmid said. Then, “Meith dom tathagliath.”
The other nomads laughed.
I’m skinnier than I was, but still fatter than the rest of these dways by a long shot. “I eat a lot.”
“Merrick Bouchard eats a lot,” said Cluspith, fidgeting.
Diarmid grinned. “You and me should trade food, I think. If I am like you, I will crush my wife to lay with her. Then I will have no wife.” He shrugged. “Bad things happen, eh?”
The nomads who understood the Aion-speech laughed.
“So, Maigh Porter, what makes you come this way today?”
“We’re looking for some people,” Swydiger said. “The strangers who came to Belmond from the east.”
Diarmid was intrigued. “The pale-skins, yes. Yarun merouil. The people of the hidden sands.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Of course I know where they are. They’re here.”
Swydiger shot Merrick a look. “Can we see them?”
“Yes.” Diarmid said the word as casually as if Swydiger had just asked him for directions to the nearest abandoned building. The nomad turned and beckoned them to follow.
Around the side of the factory, a ramp led down into a sheltered courtyard where more than a hundred nomads were swarming around half a dozen holding pens. Some were filled with livestock, others with slaves. Merrick’s heartbeat quickened at the sight of so many savages in one place.
As they crossed the courtyard, something hit Merrick hard on the back and tangled up his feet. He tripped, but caught his balance and turned around. A nomad carrying a heavy cloth bag over his shoulders had collided with him. The savage sneered and spat out a stream of rough words. Merrick tensed up, but the nomad continued on his way.
Diarmid brought them into one of the loading bays, where the shade offered them a welcome respite from the day’s heat. “Hayden,” he called, once inside.
There were three of them, gaunt and thin, with blistered pink skin and clothing fashioned from synthetic fabrics. The one called Hayden stood and approached them, still chewing the bite of roasted meat he’d just taken. Like the other two, he had fingernails, and the skin on his hands was as pink as the rest of him.
I don’t recognize these men, Merrick thought. Not from the jailhouse. And none of them have the gift. He rubbed his eyes and mopped his brow. He was tired, hungry, sweat-soaked, and scared out of his mind that the nomads might somehow uncover his past. “Did you come to Belmond from the east a couple of weeks ago?” he asked the man.
“We’re from Decylum,” Hayden said with a slight nod. He had sad eyes, dark wavy hair, and a month’s worth of stubble clinging to his sharp cheekbones.
Merrick turned to Swy and shook his head. “These aren’t the dways I was hoping to find here.”
Swy frowned. “These are the foreigners, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but I needed to talk to someone in particular. One of the dways I met—” He stopped himself short, swallowing.
Diarmid narrowed his eyes. “You know more of yarun merouil? Where are they?”
Merrick could feel his mouth going cotton-dry again. “I ran into them… by the outskirts.”
“Which outskirts? Where?” Diarmid was excited, almost frantic.
Merrick realized then that the nomad wasn’t suspicious of him; he just wanted to locate more of the Decylumites, for some reason. “About ten blocks south of Bucket Row,” he lied. “It was weeks ago now.”
“My warleader commands me to find every oen merouil in the city and bring him here. The others are searching for them.”
Diarmid had Merrick’s interest now. “There are others?”
“Many others. Many. Not here. In Sai Calgoar. All go to Sai Calgoar, with Lethari.”
Merrick looked at Swy. “Sai Calgoar is four days away, isn’t it?”
“At least,” Swy said. “But you’re not thinking of—”
“You can go,” said Diarmid. “We send them to Sai Calgoar. After we find more, we send them, next time. You go, too. Find the others. The ones who go with Lethari last time.”
Merrick didn’t like the idea of traveling to Sai Calgoar. Being among a few hundred savages had already driven him to the edge of reason. He couldn’t imagine how dangerous it would be to visit an entire city full of them. That isn’t worth it, he decided. “Nope. Forget this whole thing. Come on Swy. I’m sorry I dragged you all the way across town for nothing.”
“Hold on,” said Hayden. “Who else have you met from Decylum? Who were you hoping to talk to?”
Merrick hesitated. “The dway’s name was Raithur.”
Hayden seemed to brighten at the mention of Raithur’s name. “Well, don’t you worry. Raith will come back for us. If he’s still alive, he’ll come back for us.”
CHAPTER 56
Sniverlik’s Marauders
On her way through the dark tunnels toward home, Lizneth felt anything but brave. She was more afraid than she’d ever been, and her fear only grew with every stride. Never in all the times she’d been captured, tortured, attacked, worked to the bone, half-drowned, or forced to flee for her life had a feeling of dread bitten her so deep.
There was no way she could face Sniverlik without first knowing whether her family was alright. It paralyzed her to think that there might be nothing left of the life she’d come all this way to return to. Other doubts, too, began to nag at her. When she was standing before Sniverlik, would she be able to remember everything Neacal wanted her to say? Would she have the courage to say anything at all?
Border towns brushed by like glimpses from a dream. The scents started to become familiar as she neared Tanley; there were the comforting smells of earth and gray stone, along with traces of haick she knew. Her parents’ house sat near the bottom of a dip in the road, a lone ironwood door in a wall of stone. She knocked hard, out of breath, her heart pounding against her insides. There was no answer, but the handle moved when she touched it, so she pushed the door open and went inside.
Empty. The furniture was there, the ironwood table with its benches and its gnarled round stools, Mama’s rocker and Papa’s armchair, fresh straw bedding in the recesses, warm ashes in the hearth. But her family was gone; Mama and Papa, rambunctious Malak, Kritz the leader, sweet Thrin, gentle little Raial, and all the others. The mulligraw fields, she realized. They must be there, readying the harvest by now.
Lizneth ran harder, down the path toward her family’s plot. She arrived to find the stalks grown tall and the leaves thick and browning at the edges; a veritable jungle of overgrowth, untrimmed and unkempt. They’d been watered on an irregular schedule, at best. No one had pruned or plucked them in weeks.
Fear tightened its grip on her. Farther along the path, she could see the other fields, the doors in the st
one, and the thatched cottages across the river bridge, where Tanley’s villagers were milling about under their usual cloud of gloom. She called to Skrikkit as she made her way to where the mushroom tender was fertilizing a new pad.
“Lizneth,” Skrikkit said, turning in surprise. “I thought I scented you. Where have you been, cuzhe? Your Mama and Papa are beside themselves with worry. They’ve spent weeks trying to find you. They asked me to tend your family’s fields while they’re gone. I’m afraid I haven’t done a very thorough job of it.”
“That’s fine, Skrik,” said Lizneth. She was so anxious to find them, she thought she might burst like a bittermelon. “Where are they? Where did they go?”
“To Bolck-Azock, of course. They followed you there, and they’ve been going back every chance they get. The nestlings are with Nurnik and Skee, probably still out in the pastures. Didn’t you scent your Mama and Papa on your way back?”
I didn’t come back through Bolck-Azock, she might’ve said, but it was too long a story to explain. She didn’t have time to climb up to the pastures, let alone run to Bolck-Azock. If she didn’t face Sniverlik soon, Neacal and his forces would think she was in trouble and storm the village. I have to make sure the fighting takes place in the blind-world. If they go to war down here, innocents will die. Neacal’s calaihn don’t know the difference between an ikzhe who’s in league with Sniverlik and one who isn’t. Once they’re on the warpath, they won’t stop to ask questions. Then there’s Deequol and the others to think about… “I have to go, Skrik. When Mama and Papa return, tell them to wait for me. I’m coming back.”
Sniverlik’s stink was all over Tanley. His officers and levy collectors reeked of corruption, though that was more in Lizneth’s opinion than in the quality of their scent. She followed the haick down the passage to the rime caves, where the seawater floods had washed layers of salt sediment over the rock like a thick coat of fur. The icy crystals glimmered a deep blue in the darkness, but when the light shone upon them they flared a translucent turquoise, as saturated as a midday sky.