Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  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.”

  “What are you getting at, Theodar?” Raith asked.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private,” said the apothecary.

  “Certainly. Excuse us, Lethari.”

  The two men left the sitting room and stepped outside.

  “Tell me what this is all about, Theodar.”

  “How did Hastle find his way back to Decylum all those years ago?”

  Raith tried to remember whether that was a conversation he and Hastle had ever engaged in. “I don’t know that he ever told me.”

  “He worked for Glaive Industries, you remember,” said Theodar.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “The Ministry never released Decylum’s location publicly. It was a well-kept secret. Whoever was heading up Glaive Industries in those days must have had access to the facility’s schematics.”

  “The council has several copies of the schematics.”

  “Yes, but we don’t. If Lethari is bringing this Glaive fellow back to his home, it’s possible someone there has information that could lead us to Decylum. Information that’s been locked away for decades, and that they may not even be aware they have. Decylum’s exact coordinates, for example.”

  Raith pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s possible. But Lethari’s already denied us his escort.”

  “Then all we need do is ask Lethari which city the Glaive fellow called home.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to search Belmond for one of our navigators, or locate the commscreen so we can send a signal home?”

  “Of course. Of course. This is merely a backup plan. There are no guarantees in this life. You know that. Our journey to Belmond may turn up Wickman Garitall and your commscreen as well. But if it doesn’t, we’ll be right back to where we started. And if we return to the master-king empty-handed, unable to deliver on our promise, Ros is as good as dead. Let’s use this fortunate coincidence to our advantage. If there are surviving relatives of the Glaive family, we should know where they live.”

  “If Lethari figures out what we’re up to, what’s to stop him from asking these Glaives about Decylum on the master-king’s behalf? If the nomads discover Decylum’s location on their own, we’ve lost our bargaining chip. Then Ros is as good as dead anyway.”

  “Not if you trust him.”

  “Why would I trust a man like Lethari? He’d die before he kept a secret like that from his king.”

  “And yet, what other option do we have?”

  “If our trip to Belmond proves fruitless, we’ll go there ourselves.”

  “And in order to do that, we must know where there is. So again I say, let’s ask…”

  Raith had to smile. “You’re a wiser man than I, Theodar Urial.”

  “And you, the stronger,” the apothecary said with a nod.

  Back inside, they found Lethari’s wife asking Jiren and Derrow what it was like to be yarun merouil, much to the young men’s enjoyment and Lethari’s chagrin. She seemed to have overcome the shock of seeing them again, no doubt intent on avoiding her husband’s apt suspicions. She didn’t flinch when Raith came back into the room.

  “Thank you for being generous, Lethari,” Raith said. “We’ll find a guide and head to Belmond on our own. Come, gentlemen. Let’s leave the Prokins to their afternoon.” As the others filed out, Raith asked, “Where did you say he was from again? Your friend who passed away?”

  “I did not say, Raith Entradi.”

  “Forgive me. Theodar is a bit of a history nut.”

  Lethari frowned. “Nut?”

  “He likes history, and architecture, and things of that nature. He was just curious to know which of the great Glaive cities the family chose to make its home.”

  “Ah. I understand. The Glaive family lives far from the city. Bradsleigh is only a small town in the crescent of the Skeletonwood.”

  “So they opted not to live in the cities they built. Interesting.”

  “A man’s work does not often interest him in his household,” Lethari said.

  “True enough. I hope the fates are kind to you in your travels, Lethari.”

  “And to you, Raith Entradi. Go in peace, and with my favor.”

  As Raith turned to go, his eyes met Frayla’s. Her glance was both restive and relieved. Her chest rose and fell, hinting at hidden disquiet beneath a tranquil surface. She was sliding her arms around her husband’s waist as Raith lost sight of them.

  Oisen left the Sons outside the front doorway with directions to the home of a well-known tracker, as well as the names and locations of two respected horse breeders he knew. Lethari’s coin would not afford them the finest mounts available if they were to have anything left for supplies, but at least they wouldn’t have to walk.

  Raith wondered whether he should’ve warned Lethari of his wife’s unfaithfulness. He bore the nomad no ill will and believed Lethari deserved to know. But Raith didn’t know the whole story, and he certainly wasn’t familiar enough with the nomads’ customs to pass such swift judgment. In the end, he decided it best to steer clear of affairs not his own.

  The Sons of Decylum bought eleven horses from a stout gray-bearded breeder called Ialaign in the low outer market. Corsils were too expensive to purchase wholesale, and Ialaign advised them that a mixed herd of horses and corsils would be harder to manage.

  As for their wasteland guide, the man Oisen had recommended was away. His elderly mother sent them elsewhere, to a tracker by the name of Borain Guaidir. Though well on in his years, Borain was fit and limber, with narrow eyes and a forehead like a shovel. They hired him on the spot and arranged to meet him at the edge of the market plateau at dusk.

  When they’d packed up their food and fresh water, they returned to Sig’s house to pay their respects. Sig was busy preparing to leave, but he stopped his preparations to bid them a fond farewell.

  “You and your people have earned my confidence, Raithur Entradi. And that is a difficult thing to earn. I will never forget the day this young man sundered the walls of my cage and set me free.” He shook Jiren’s hand.

  “And we won’t soon forget the goodwill you’ve shown to us, pale of skin though we are,” Raith said with a joking smile.

  “Be well, yarun merouil. Perhaps we will meet another day. Until then, wherever death and danger find you, may they find you at the ready.”

  That evening, as the light-star’s last embers faded from the mountaintops, the Sons of Decylum followed Borain Guaidir into the rocky gorge that would lead them onto the open desert. Rostand Beige and the City of Sand slipped away behind them, and the impossible glimmer of their last hope stretched out ahead.

  CHAPTER 11

  Den

  Merrick burst
through the Unimart’s back door into the pink-skied morning. He could hear the scuffling of the gangers’ feet on the concrete floor behind him, so close it sent a shiver through him. The door slammed shut. He ran.

  He heard it scrape away from the jamb an instant later, footsteps piling into the alley behind him. The gangers were shouting, hitting their stride as he darted into the narrow lane between the building and the fence. Just as he slipped past the still-sleeping couple beneath their ragged quilt, a ganger leapt off the roof ahead of him, landing in his path.

  The others rushed up behind him as he slid to a halt. Three lines of razorwire ran along the top of the chain-link fence to his left. One glance and he knew he was trapped. Even if he could climb out before the gangers grabbed him, the wire would tear him to shreds. Where were Peymer and the others? Had they left him here to fend for himself? Was this the real trick they’d been planning all along—death by abandonment?

  The ganger from the rooftop swung his spiked bat. Merrick leaned away and felt the wind of it on his face. Rough hands shoved him forward, and he found himself stumbling toward the ganger as the man reeled back for another swing.

  There was only one way out of this. Merrick flexed his gloved hands, willing himself to ignite. He needed to make one of the red orbs he’d seen the Decylumites generate on the outskirts of Belmond. Raithur had produced one; the prisoner in the cell block had used one to deflect the rounds from Merrick’s rifle. How did the other blackhands trigger them? All Merrick had ever managed with his gift was to heal people; he’d restored a shepherd’s vision, saved Pilot Wax’s life, and closed the wounds of a few soldiers in the barracks infirmary. He didn’t want to be a healer right now; he wanted to be a killer.

  Try as he might, no sudden revelation came to him. No glowing fingertips, no melting gloves; not even a rush of warmth in his chest. Just… nothing. Have I lost my gift altogether? he wondered. Did something in the zoom kill it off or take it from me, like medicine to a germ?

  The ganger’s bat sailed in. This time there was no way to avoid it. Half a dozen rusted nails punctured Merrick’s chest with a damp thunk. Pain exploded through him as the ganger tried to wrench the weapon free. When it came out, the pain sprouted anew in a gush of blood. Merrick tottered backward, wide eyes cast down at himself in disbelief. He didn’t get far before something shoved him forward again.

  It was not a hand that shoved him forward this time, but a weapon, whose impact sent a shock of agony up his spine. He tried to inhale, but the effort was like drawing water through a sieve; no amount of breath delivered the air he craved. More blows followed the first. A blunted flurry erupted through his shoulder blade, hip, and thigh.

  From around the front corner of the building came a gray shape, swift and silent. A filtermask shone in the rising light, painted with the sharp brown scales and fiery orange eyes of a Bleakshore deldrake. The masked Revenant leveled his coilgun, unspeaking.

  The blows from behind stopped, replaced by fleeing footsteps. Merrick heard the gangers send up a frightened shout and looked back to see Peymer’s men sprout from the surrounding terrain like mushrooms. Ball bearings cracked on brick and asphalt, sinking through skin and muscle. Revenants vaulted down from the retaining wall to meet the gangers in combat.

  Merrick leaned against the building, gasping for breath. The couple beneath the blanket scrambled to their feet and fled past Peymer, who let them go without a fight. Meanwhile, the gangers behind the supermarket were fighting for their lives, ferocious to the last. The Revenants killed the ones who refused to give up and subdued the rest with the butts of their coilguns.

  Peymer took Merrick by the arm and guided him down the alley, speaking through the filtermask in a muffled voice. “You bleedin’ fool. Why didn’t you call for help?”

  Merrick tried to speak, but couldn’t for lack of breath. His lungs felt deflated, like an empty waterskin with the cap sealed tight. After a few steps, it was too much even to walk.

  Peymer let his coilgun hang by the strap and helped Merrick down, cradling his head until it was resting on the hard black asphalt. He lifted the tatters of Merrick’s shirt to assess the wound. When he saw the damage, his brow creased. “They got you pretty bad, comrade. You won’t—” he began, but something stopped him. He leaned closer, then pried off the filtermask and squinted at Merrick’s wound. His mouth dropped open.

  The heat was swelling in Merrick’s chest. He shut his eyes, trying to stop it. No, no, no. Not now, not here. This is wrong, all wrong. They can’t know. I can’t show them. It’ll ruin everything I’ve worked for. They’ll lock me away like one of their precious relics. I can’t prove myself to them if I’m a novelty.

  “You’re closing up…” said Peymer, the words barely escaping his lips.

  As absurd as it sounded in that moment, even to him, Merrick would sooner have suffocated than revealed his gift. It was more important that he be accepted on merit than exploited for his inborn aberration. He could not stop the heat now; he felt it moving through him while Peymer crouched beside him, watching the gift do its work.

  Merrick took his first deep breath in what seemed like ages, as if he’d been a long time underwater. He heard his bones crack, and the searing pain shooting down his spine dissolved like vapor.

  His gloves, too, were dissolving.

  The smell of burning leather preceded the holes that began to erode around his fingertips, revealing the charred, glowing skin beneath. By the time it was over, the skin on his hands had already returned to a soft, supple pink. I’m healing faster now, he realized. Maybe faster than I ever have before.

  “I must be going blind,” Peymer said.

  I once helped a man do just the opposite, Merrick thought, sitting up and pulling the tatters of his bloodstained shirt over the scars on his chest. “He didn’t get me that bad. It was just a scratch.”

  “But you—” Peymer began. He sat in disbelief, as breathless as Merrick had been a moment earlier.

  Merrick gave Peymer a hand and pulled him to his feet, then spoke up as the other Revs finished binding their prisoners. “There’s a huge stockpile of zoom in there, just like we thought. It’s dark, though. No windows in the stockroom and plenty of junkies and gangers hiding in the shadows. Keep your masks on unless you want to come out tripping. Now get going. They’ll have been alerted to our presence by now.”

  “What did you just do?” Peymer asked him as the men hustled past.

  Without answering, Merrick turned toward the building to watch. Rhetton pounded the stockroom door three times, then took a step back. The instant it moved off its frame, he planted a heavy kick square in its center. The door slammed into the junkie who’d opened it, making him stumble backwards.

  Half a dozen Revenants piled in. On his way, Rhetton struck the junkie in the forehead with the butt of his coilgun. The man flew off his feet into the darkness. The door shut behind them, leaving Merrick and Peymer alone with Mellobar, Jinks, and their four prisoners.

  “I asked you a question, comrade,” Peymer said. “Who are you, really? What happened to you just now?”

  Mellobar studied Merrick’s half-melted gloves and frowned. “What’d he do, Peymer? He some kind of mutant or something?”

  “I don’t know,” Peymer said uncertainly. “Something’s wrong with him. I swore those gangers had just about ripped him apart. Next thing I know, the holes are closing up and he’s fit as a foal.”

  “Closin’ up… what do you mean closin’ up?” asked Mellobar.

  One of the bound gangers wriggled over and tried to bite Jinks on the ankle. He shoved the man away and came toward Merrick, his curiosity piqued. “Show us where you got hit, comrade.”

  Peymer tried to grab Merrick’s shirt, but he moved aside. “Get off me. I told you, it’s not that bad. That mask of yours must be dirty.”

  At that, Jinks and Mellobar removed their masks as well. “Show us, fat boy. Give us a look.”

  Merrick backed away until he stumbled int
o the Unimart’s rear wall. Defeated, he lifted the bloody hem of his shirt. “Here. It’s just a little scrape, see?”

  The nail holes were nothing more than circles of scar tissue now, but the skin on his chest was still wet with blood. Older scars laced his chest and belly, reminders of his near death in Pilot Wax’s prison.

  The three Revs came in for a closer look. Peymer was surer of himself now; Jinks and Mellobar were still in doubt.

  “See? There you go,” said Peymer. “Fresh holes closed up like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “This isn’t even my blood,” Merrick lied. “One of the gangers you shot ran into me. Asshole ruined my favorite shirt.” He’d been hoping for a laugh, but the others were still appraising him with curious stares.

  Mellobar scratched at the lone tuft of thin brown hair clinging to his bald spot. “He ain’t no mutant… he’s one of them sand-lickers, I think.”

  “I’m not a mutant or a sand-licker. I got a little blood on me… so what? Why are you pestering me about it?”

  Peymer was unconvinced. “You did something to yourself… or something happened to you—one or the other. Your gloves are all tore up. What is it you’re trying to hide?”

  Merrick peeled off his melted gloves and tossed them to the ground. “Fine. I have no fingernails. Look. Happy now? Get in a few more jokes with the other dways when they come out.”

  The men said nothing.

  One of the gangers began to scrape his metal shoulder plate against the ground, sending up sparks. “Over here. Hey. Over here,” he shouted, writhing like a worm on a hook.

  “Quiet down, you,” said Jinks, giving him a kick.

  Someone was running down the next street, beyond the row of stores adjoining the Unimart. A woman, dressed in spiked leather and riveted aluminum, her short hair dyed blue and chopped off above the neck. She looked over when she heard the man’s shouts, then turned and cocked her head to signal someone behind the far building.

  Gangers by the handful flocked from behind dumpsters and pallet stacks. The three Revenants shared a look. Peymer lowered his filtermask and swung his coilgun to bear, loosing a fast barrage in their direction. The gangers scattered; some scaled the retaining wall, others climbed the ladder bolted to the side of the building or took cover behind the dumpsters and refuse piles strewn along the alley.