Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  It took Toler a moment to register what had happened, delirious as he was. When he saw the head of his old horse ruptured and slumped on the floor, he began to cry like a child. Lokes helped Weaver pull the shepherd to his feet.

  As they began to drag him away, he reached out for the animal, opening and closing his fingers. He began to speak through the tears in phrases that were stunted and incomplete. “Take my… get my… it’s there. I want… don’t leave it. My… not you. Don’t take me… leave me my…”

  Weaver realized he wasn’t reaching for his horse, but for something among his belongings. They set him down, and she knelt beside him. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “Sa—sad… Sad…”

  “He’s sad,” said Lokes. “Big deal. Let’s go.”

  Weaver shook her head. “That’s not it. Saddle. He wants his saddle.”

  “No way I’m humping that thing around on my back.”

  “Go get him his saddle, will you?”

  “The dway’s got two broken legs. How you figure we gonna carry him and that saddle both?”

  “I don’t think both his legs are broke. I think the one’s just a sprain. Seemed like he could put weight on it.”

  “Okay, Doctor Dubya. Whatever you say. Regardless of the particulars, he can’t walk. I ought to do for him, same as his horse.” He mimed a gun.

  “Will. You lay a finger on that boy, I’ll bury you with him.”

  Lokes cackled. “‘Bout time someone got around to it, eh? You know, that saddle ain’t gonna fit through the gate anyhow.”

  “We’ll make it fit.”

  Lokes sighed and trudged over to the horse, grumbling as he unhooked the strap and shouldered the saddle.

  Nothing’s ever easy with ol’ Lokes, Weaver thought, and couldn’t help but think it fondly.

  Lokes didn’t stop when he reached her and Toler; he went straight to the Longworth’s gate, where he put his back to the wall and pushed the metal grille with his foot until he could finagle the saddle through the gap. He dropped it on the other side, shoved it across the floor with his boot, and came back. “Don’t you say a word,” he warned, throwing Toler Glaive’s arm over his shoulder.

  Weaver didn’t. She took the other arm and helped Lokes drag the injured man across the remaining distance. It was a hassle getting Toler through the gate. He didn’t seem to know where he was half the time, or who they were the other half. Between his injuries, his withdrawal and his starwind sickness, the dway was in bad shape.

  “What’re we gonna do with him now?” Lokes asked after they’d made the shepherd as comfortable as they could.

  “We get some sleep. We hope the rain stops overnight and figure it out in the morning.”

  “I guarantee you, there ain’t no magical solution gonna pop its way into that pretty little head of yours while you sleep. Ain’t no way we can take him with us. That’s just the way it is.”

  I’ll think of something, she wanted to say. “No use fretting over it now.”

  “Who’s frettin’? I’m facing facts, is all. One of us has got to. Now, uh… where were we?” Lokes began to remove his leathers.

  “I don’t think so,” Weaver said. “Not while he’s sitting right here.”

  “Aw, shit, Jal. Really? The dway don’t know up from down…” He saw the look on her face and knew she wasn’t going to budge. “Come off somewhere with me then.”

  “I ain’t leaving him and all our gear for the city-scum to take.”

  “We won’t be gone but a second…”

  Don’t I know it, she thought, slipping into her bedroll. “G’night, Will.”

  “Jal. Jal… come on, now.” He came over to her. “What’s the matter?”

  She knew it was hardly worth the effort of telling him what the matter was, but she gave it a try anyway, hoping he might show a little understanding for once. A little compassion. “You know, when I fell back there, you never once asked me if I was alright.”

  “Didn’t have to ask. I could tell.”

  “I wasn’t, though.”

  Lokes sighed. “What’s wrong with you then?”

  “I’m fine now. Forget it.”

  She could hear him breathing, his lungs betraying an attempt to still his anger: two quick breaths out, followed by one slow, measured inhale. “Suit yourself.”

  When he reached for her arm, she shrugged away from his touch. “Goodnight.”

  There was a brief silence. She tensed up, unsure what to expect. Then she heard him stand. He stood above her for a long moment before skulking off into the darkness.

  He didn’t come back for a long time. For the rest of the night, there were only the sounds of hard rain on the roof and the doleful cries of the shepherd, trapped in a fitful sleep with the stuff of his nightmares.

  Weaver dreamed of Guildcross; of the Guildhall with its broad deepstone corridors hewn from the mountain itself, a mystery of locked chambers and forbidden passages. She dreamed she was in the sand pits, forming a cipher, when the sand came alive. It began to resist her control, pushing back against the shape she’d made for it, singing to her in its resonant voice, a million voices speaking as one. ‘Take us,’ it told her. ‘Use us. We are without number. Ours is the burden of consequence.’ When she could hold back the sand no longer, she dropped the cipher to let it swarm in and swallow her whole.

  She jerked awake with a deep inhale. Lokes still hadn’t returned. When she looked over at Toler, his eyes were closed. He was mumbling to himself, his head swaying back and forth, his forehead glistening with sweat. He’s having some horrible dream, too, she suspected. Or else the pain’s so bad it won’t let him sleep.

  She rolled over and tried to doze again, but she couldn’t. She lay awake a long time, listening to the rain and the strange empty sounds of the department store. She tried listening out for Lokes, but wherever the stubborn jackass had gone off to, he was being quiet about it. She listened too for the shadow, that shape of a man she’d seen on the balcony. She watched the darkness for movement, but there was none. Sooner or later she drifted off.

  When she awoke the next morning, Lokes was sitting by a fire he’d built in a nearby corner of the store. She didn’t know whether he’d come back to lay with her during the night or if he’d just shown up when morning came. The look he gave when he caught her staring at him said he hadn’t. Toler was awake too, though he was still lying where they’d left him the night before, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Men, Weaver thought, and the word might as well have been a curse. I got Lokes sore at me, Fink trying to kill me, and Toler too coffed up to know his butt from his boots.

  There was one piece of good news over which the men had no say, at least.

  The rains had let up.

  CHAPTER 35

  A Slave Among Brothers

  “Will you tell me how it happened, my master?” Diarmid Kailendi’s face was taut with concern as he leaned forward to hear his warleader’s tale. He and Lethari Prokin were sitting in the small office above the factory’s production floor while a pair of Diarmid’s men guarded the door from outside.

  Lethari began the tale, glossing over the details of Sigrede Balbaressi’s wounding while emphasizing the captain’s request for a merciful death. As for the singular detail which would’ve changed everything—that Sig had discovered the goatskin record—Lethari left that out altogether. Neither did he recount the exact words they had exchanged as Sig lay dying, though Lethari did not deny being the one to end Sig’s life.

  Lethari finished his story convinced he had portrayed his actions in a positive light. He had done Sigrede a simple favor and ended his suffering. Sig would not have survived the pale-skin’s wound, Lethari told himself.

  Diarmid was unsatisfied with Lethari’s explanation. “The proper thing to do when a man is wounded in battle is to bring him to a shaman. Sigrede Balbaressi was strong. He was one of your captains. More than that, he had a wife and child. Do you not think you were quick to grant his r
equest for mercy?”

  Lethari cleared his throat. “I was drunk with the lust of battle. If I was quick, it was only because my sand-brother was in agony. And because it was his wish. Were it up to me, I would have tried to save him, futile as that effort may have proven.”

  “Did he say nothing of his family?”

  “He did. He said, ‘Tell Shonnie and Harlais I will be with them again.’ He expected to die, Diarmid. Sometimes a man knows.”

  Diarmid frowned and fell silent for a time. “I will not lie to you, Lethari. No matter the circumstances, it will not sit well with the master-king that you have slain one of your own captains. It does not sit well with your captains either, from what I hear.”

  “Of this, I am aware. I assure you, my intentions were pure.” Lethari knew it was a lie before the words had escaped him. Killing Sig had ensured the goatskin record’s secrecy; Lethari had known it then, and he knew it now.

  “You must leave it to Tycho Montari’s judgment, then. Rest assured, he will hear of this. Best you tell him yourself and face his judgment before he hears it elsewhere. If you believe your actions were true, so will he.”

  He will find my words truer if I return to him laden with spoils, Lethari knew. That was why he needed Diarmid’s support. If the other captains conspired to drag Lethari to Sai Calgoar in chains, the king would not see his crimes in the same light.

  Now that the routes written on the goatskin record were stale, and with his return to Sai Calgoar imminent, Lethari needed to get rid of it more than ever. What an agonizing twist of the fates that he had inscribed the record on so durable a thing. He had wanted Daxin’s dying words to last. To be permanent. Now, he wished only for their extinction. “I value your counsel, Diarmid. Let us now speak of other things. The camp looks well. How have you fared in my absence?”

  “These have been trying times,” said Diarmid. “But not all for the worse. Yarun merouil came to collect their brothers.” He opened one of the desk drawers and handed Lethari the smelted metal seal he had given Raith to ensure his acceptance at the camp.

  Lethari ran his thumb over the raised scorpion and the pair of olive branches to either side. Peace and poison, he thought. It is the Prokin way. “So they made it through the wasteland on their own, did they?”

  “Not entirely, my lord.”

  “Oh no?”

  “Borain Guaidir was their pathfinder.”

  Lethari nearly choked on his own spit. “Borain Guaidir,” he repeated. “Foirechlier.”

  “The very same.”

  “Did he enter the camp?”

  Diarmid shook his head. “He stayed well away. I only knew he was there because our scouts reported nine in their party, while only eight arrived at the gate. When I asked Raithur Entradi, he told me Borain had served as their guide through the desert.”

  “Do Raith and the others know of Borain’s treachery?”

  “I do not think so. He has been seen traveling with them even now.”

  “Yarun merouil are still here in the city?”

  “Yes, my master. They are disciples of the young healer.”

  “The young healer,” Lethari said, massaging his chin. “I know of no such person.”

  Diarmid looked surprised. “The healer has drawn a multitude of followers unto himself. He was once a tathagliath, but now has designs on the city north. He wishes to overpower the Scarred and depose their Commissar.”

  “The gray shadow-walkers,” Lethari said. “Are they his allies?”

  “No. They do not support his vision.”

  “Good. Good. Whoever this young upstart is, he must not be allowed to depose Pilot Wax.”

  “I know, my Lord Lethari. A change in power would be disastrous. I have waited for your return with great hope. Our combined feiach is large enough that we might end his bid.”

  “I agree. If the city north falls, its wealth will spill out to steal our advantage. This healer must be thwarted. Raithur and his people are with him, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many of their brothers did you find before they came to collect them?”

  “Four.”

  “And since?”

  “None, my master.”

  “Raithur Entradi and his yarun merouil are worthy adversaries. I bear no more love for him than any other lathcu, but we must respect his prowess. When we strike at this young healer and his followers, we must be swift and brutal. We must injure his efforts to the point of abandonment. My only worry in striking the pale-skins is that they may fear to trade with us.”

  “Some may. But the young healer has far from gathered the whole of the city south to himself. There are thousands who have yet to join him. As long as no caravan is allowed to reach the city, many lathcui will have no choice but to continue bringing us their trade.”

  “And what of the trade you have seen from them of late? How is it?”

  “They bring us puny vegetables, meats harvested from starving stock animals, hides and furs from creatures of the wild, clothing sewn from patchwork, scraps of steel and tin, and machine parts. In exchange, we give them rich coffees, tobacco, wood, grain, hides, milk, cheese, and new livestock to thicken their herds. The pale-skins are the best-fed I have ever seen them. They will thrive all the more with the plenty your feiach has brought. We are profiting twice by trading their own stolen goods back to them.”

  Lethari laughed. “Stupid mongrels. When the trade empire crumbles and the pale-skins are left with no choice but to depend on our goods, Tycho Montari will order our withdrawal from this camp. Then, the steel city will die.”

  “You have inflicted great damage if you believe the trade caravans will cease so quickly.”

  Lethari leaned back in his chair. “The fates smile upon us. Our offensive has unfolded better than I expected. Each caravan falls more easily than the one before it.”

  “You impress me,” said Diarmid. “Never before has a feiach won so many victories in so short a time.”

  “You have won many victories of your own,” said Lethari. “I will be certain to report them to the master-king upon my return. I know he will be pleased to hear of them.”

  “I welcome your favor, my Lord Lethari.”

  “I am glad to give it when you have overseen everything so well.”

  Diarmid sucked air through his teeth. “There is still the matter of Cean Eldreni, my master.”

  “What about him?”

  “His men have raised a complaint.”

  Lethari was troubled. “They have expressed their discontent to you? Why have they not come to me?”

  “They did not think you would hear their plea.”

  Lethari rose and went to the window. “I am warleader here. The authority in this camp is mine.”

  “That is why I wished to meet with you, my master. Something must be done.”

  “They wish him released, do they?”

  Diarmid nodded.

  Lethari sighed. Cean Eldreni’s men were right; had they come to him, he would not have assented to their request to set him free. But the fact that they had gone to Diarmid instead irked him all the same. He could not keep Cean locked in the slave cages forever, he knew. Cean’s threat of abandoning the feiach to ride for Sai Calgoar was no cause for an extended imprisonment. The longer Lethari held him, the more suspicious it would look. “I will release him when we ride for the City of Sand in a few days’ time. Not before. He will remain with the feiach as I have commanded. If he attempts to ride ahead, he will travel home in chains.”

  “What about the attack on the young healer and his followers? Cean Eldreni’s men will not fight for you until you release him.”

  “They will fight for me,” Lethari said. “I am their warleader, and they are sworn to me above their own captain. Any who refuse me will be held in contempt before the master-king. See to it that all are reminded of that.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “When was the last time you were home, Diarmid?”

&
nbsp; “It has been a long time.”

  “Do you wish to return?”

  “I wish to serve my master and my king,” said Diarmid.

  “There is no need to be formal, Diarmid. If you need rest, I will pursue the master-king’s mercies on your behalf. We will appoint someone to take your place here for a time.”

  Diarmid rose from his chair. “Do not send me away, my lord. I have not been wounded. There is neither wife nor child waiting for me in Sai Calgoar. If I have done something to displease you, I—”

  “You have done nothing wrong,” Lethari said. “Do not forget; I oversaw this camp myself for many a year before you came. I know how trying are the burdens of the man who leads it. I suggest you take time to rest. The post will be waiting for you when you are ready to return. It is easy for a young man to put success above his own well-being.” That is easy even for an old man, he thought.

  Diarmid was silent for another long stretch. “As my master wills it. I trust you will lead the attack against the young healer?”

  “I leave that to you. Make it your final triumph before the king fetches you home. I offer you Sigrede Balbaressi’s men, who are without a captain, to aid you in the effort. Govern them as if they were your own. They may not enjoy being kept longer from home, but they are fine warriors and will give your feiach the strength it needs to overwhelm this young healer. As for me, my journey to the City of Sand must not be delayed. I would stay and fight with you otherwise. I will keep the remainder of my men to conquer any pale-skin caravans I encounter on the way home.”

  In truth, Lethari was expecting to encounter at least one caravan before he reached Sai Calgoar. According to the goatskin record, a group of traders would cross his path just before the long year ended. If he was successful in stopping them, it would be a long time before the traders attempted to reach Belmond again. This would allow Diarmid the time he needed to secure the calgoarethi stranglehold over the steel city.

  This young healer, whoever he might be, was already proving a thorn in Lethari’s side. Had he not needed to leave Sig’s men behind, his chances of victory against the caravan would be greater. But the fates had smiled on him thus far, and he did not think they would turn their backs on him now. This final boon provided by the goatskin record would be its last. After that, he would find a way to destroy it once and for all.