Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “I’ve never seen or heard anything about spirits haunting the wasteland.”

  “‘Course not. They’re spirits.”

  Toler shook his head. “Whatever you say.”

  “Alright, enough jawing. Let’s get on the road while the rain’s holding out.”

  “Give me a hand with him?” Weaver asked.

  Lokes scratched his head. “How we gonna get a man with two broken legs onto a horse? How’s he gonna ride? Seems to me we’d be better off making a travail to pull him in.”

  “Where you gonna get the wood for that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m spitballing here.”

  Toler knew where. “Got any rope?”

  “Sure. Same rope we tied you up with. What you thinking?”

  “The banisters in the mall. The handrails are made of wood. If you can detach a couple from the iron posts, we could make those into a sled. A saw and a wrench should be all we need.”

  “Got you covered on the saw part,” said Lokes. “But a wrench? Who carries around a wrench?”

  “I’ve seen gangers use them as weapons to beat people over the head with,” Toler said.

  “Naw, forget it. Ain’t gonna work. We ain’t got all day to sit here building you a go-bed.”

  “Then lift me.”

  Lokes was skeptical. “That’s gonna hurt like nobody’s business.”

  “I know it will. Just do it. I’ll manage.”

  “Either of your arms hurt?” Weaver asked.

  “Nope. It feels like the breaks are below the knees, so I should be able to hold myself in the saddle.”

  “You’re going to bawl like a baby,” said Lokes.

  Toler shrugged. “Beats dying.”

  “Lookie here, Jal. We got us a tough ol’ Shep, don’t we?”

  “Sure do,” she said.

  “Welp. Let’s get him up.”

  They brought Weaver’s filly over and supported Toler on either side as they lifted him to his feet. Pain stabbed through him, but with Lokes’s help he hoisted himself onto the animal and threw a leg over. Meldi snorted and stamped, but she held steady for him after a moment of Weaver’s soothing.

  Once Toler was as comfortable as he was likely to get, Weaver led Meldi by the reins and circled the room a few times to get man and horse used to each other. His legs hurt so bad he couldn’t use the stirrups, and every step the horse took shook him with fresh pain. It wasn’t until the second lap that Toler noticed his own saddle and knew he would have to leave it behind.

  “There’s no way to bring my saddle, is there?” he asked.

  Weaver wrinkled her mouth. “Now I see what we’re up against, I don’t think so.”

  “I done told you that,” Lokes said. “Too big and heavy. We gotta leave it here, Shep.”

  “At least tuck it away behind a counter somewhere,” Toler said. “Maybe it’ll still be here when I come back for it someday.”

  “Wouldn’t bet on it, Shep. I’ll do you a favor and hide it real good for you.” Lokes stowed the saddle beneath a sales counter toward the back of the store and laid some thin fiberboard paneling against it. “That’s about as good as I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Toler said. As he ducked beneath the doorway and ventured into the streets with Lokes and Weaver ahead of him, he felt anything but good about leaving his father’s saddle behind. It was like leaving a family member, only worse, in a way. There were the familiar pangs of loss at letting go of something sentimental, as though the object itself were his only remaining link to the person who’d given it to him.

  He would never forget his father, for what few memories remained of him. But that saddle—every crack and groove in the leather, the way it smelled, the oiled feel of the horn in his palm—it was the embodiment of not only his family line, but his whole adult life.

  Daxin had never talked about their father, except when he was repeating, ad nauseum, every anti-Vantanible sentiment the man had ever shared. Toler had hated him for that; for being so closed-off about their family’s history, even though Daxin had known Lyle and Priella Glaive a decade and a half longer than Toler had. Toler hadn’t found out until he was almost twenty years old that their parents had borne another son before him, Jerevish Glaive, who had died in infancy.

  Since Daxin never spoke of his own parents, he would surely never utter a word about the brother they’d lost before they knew him. Toler had only learned about Jerevish through a journal of his mother’s he’d found in the family library.

  That was why leaving that saddle behind put a sick feeling in Toler’s stomach. It wasn’t the starwinds anymore. It was the abandonment of his memories; the forsaking of all the loathing and curiosity and love he had ever felt toward his family. Yes, even love, as rare as the occasion arose. He loved Savvy. He would be crushed if anything happened to her.

  That was when Toler realized he had to see his niece again. Maybe not before he went home to be with Lenn and make things right with Nichel. But soon. As soon as he possibly could, after that. Much as he wanted to fight the notion, Lethari Prokin had been right. Savvy was on her own now, and Toler knew her well enough to know she was feeling every ounce of that loneliness, along with all the responsibility that came with it.

  Riding, meanwhile, wasn’t proving easy. Toler had ridden flatbeds over hard ground before—ground where you could feel every rut and pebble. This was worse. Every fall of the filly’s hooves was a hammer blow to his legs. His feet felt like lead weights, so he slipped them into the stirrups in hopes of relieving some of the pressure. It didn’t.

  At least it wasn’t raining. Clouds still brooded over the city, threatening to burst at any moment, but the puddles in the streets were drying out. Overcast days only came a few times a year, or whenever the starwinds were passing, but they were always a welcome relief.

  The old church was a long way off, to hear Lokes tell it. The travel could take all day, he said, and he didn’t expect the rains to hold out long. As the day drew on, Toler began to see how right he was. Thrice they had to find quick shelter from the sudden cloudbursts that broke overhead.

  In the late afternoon they came upon a rare sight in a city lined with asphalt and concrete: a field—or an open patch of earth which had once been a field. Clumps of brown grass sprouted between cracks in its parched surface. At its center stood a tall dry fountain, stately in its multi-tiered depiction of childlike figurines, who’d been spitting empty air for decades and were likely to continue doing so for the rest of eternity. The rains had left a thin layer of water in the fountain’s grimy green basin. Weaver grabbed Meldi’s bridle and pulled her away when the horse tried to lower her head for a drink.

  “That’s the place,” Lokes said, pointing.

  Like something out of a holy nightmare, the church’s pinnacled towers loomed behind high walls of dark stone. Men with crossbows stood sentinel on the parapets, as motionless as the statues on the dry fountain. Noticing them gave Toler the shivers. Not because there was something inhuman about them, but because the sight of silhouettes in the distance reminded him of the jackal man. As if to deepen the mood, thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “Looks like more rain,” Lokes said, nodding skyward. “How you reckon we gonna get in there while the walls are crawling with all them freaks?”

  “Let’s tie a note to a brick and toss it over,” said Toler. “See if anyone finds it. Maybe they’ll come to the gate.”

  “Well if that ain’t the dumbest idea I ever heard, Shep. You break a window, every one of us is getting shot in the neck.”

  “Why the neck?”

  “That’s where they like to put it, I hear. I also hear they don’t miss.”

  “I need to get home to Lenn,” Toler said. “Let’s figure this out and get it over with. I’m willing to try anything at this point.”

  “Don’t you go doing nothing crazy,” Weaver said to them both.

  Toler spread his arms. “Look at me. I couldn’t do crazy if I wanted to.”
/>   Weaver was skeptical. “You’re in love. Love makes people do crazy things.”

  “Only if they was crazy to start with,” Lokes said. “Got any other dumb ideas, Shep?”

  “If we want to get inside, maybe we should put our hands up and head toward the gate.”

  “Those dways don’t respond to surrender. They’ll poke us full of holes the second we’re close enough.”

  “Then you stay here, and I’ll do it,” Toler said.

  Lokes muttered a curse as fat raindrops began to fall. “Looks like you ain’t getting a chance just yet. Let’s get a roof over our heads.”

  They circled the fountain and entered the male half of the park’s public restroom, a whitewashed cinder block building from which they had no view of the church. The interior was a damp, echoing concrete room with a line of rusted stalls along one wall and cracked mirrors above porcelain sinks along the other. Since he couldn’t dismount easily, Toler had to sit astride Meldi and duck a little to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. He was anxious to get moving, but the sound of rain soothed him.

  Night was coming on by the time the storm let up. Curious whether the church’s guardians had stayed outside in the rain, Lokes dismounted and left the restroom to take a peek. When he came back, he had an astonished look on his face.

  “Ain’t nobody up on them walls now. Rain done cleared ‘em out, looks like.”

  “So how do we get inside?” Weaver asked.

  “Tell you one thing. Ol’ Shep here ain’t going nowhere on his own. I reckon even with them bum legs of his, he might still have a mind to make off with your filly.”

  “I’m volunteering myself,” Toler said. “I’ll show them I’ve got no weapons and see if they let me through the gates, but you’ve got to let me ride there. And I should probably bring that iron star, unless you want to come along. I understand if you’re too scared.”

  “I ain’t scared,” said Lokes, “but I ain’t no blockhead, neither. Go on, then. You be all the dumb you want to. I’m gonna laugh when they put a bow-needle in your ass.” Lokes tossed him the key.

  Toler noticed the smirk on Jallika’s face, and smiled a little himself. “I’m in so much pain I might be laughing with you. It’s about the only thing I can do anymore.”

  “Better hope the fates are on your side,” Lokes said, “‘cause I think you’re dead meat.”

  Toler had no idea whether the church’s guardians were as dangerous as Lokes was making them out to be, but a certain part of him felt like a crossbow quarrel through the throat wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to him. His life had been nothing but pain and disappointment these last few weeks; his smuggling ring back in Unterberg was probably in shambles, as were his relationships with the people he cared about most. If Daxin had hired Lokes and Weaver to bring him here for protection, that plan had backfired. Toler was weaker and more exposed now than ever.

  Leaving the humid restroom for the cool evening air was sweet relief. Toler put his hands above his head and guided Meldi with his thighs, showing the sentinels from far away that he meant them no harm. The corner of a tall building slipped past, bringing more of the strange robed men into view. He saw them level their crossbows in his direction. At the end of the long street ahead stood the church gates, a cobbled mass of iron and steel sheeting.

  He stopped. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he shouted. “I just want to talk to someone about this.” He held up the key, letting it dangle from its leather thong. The sentinels didn’t move. He was still a great distance away, probably out of range for a straight shot. If they decided to fire a volley, though…

  “Okay, I’m going to come forward nice and slow,” he said. “I don’t have any weapons. I’m not going to hurt anybody. Just want to talk.”

  The sentinels gave no reply.

  Toler kept his hands high, iron key still dangling. He gave the horse a verbal prompt and used what power he had left in his legs to get her moving. If I survive this, it’ll be a coffing miracle. Hooves on the pavement felt to him like the ticking of some sadistic clock, counting down the final moments of his life. Between the shooting pain in his legs, the lingering effects of the starwind sickness, and the longing for a taste of liquor or something good to smoke, his thoughts of the end didn’t feel so terrible.

  The closest sentinel fired. Toler heard a thick punching sound. He looked down to find the quarrel between his ribs, sunken halfway up the shaft. Stunned, he drew in a breath. His chest felt stiff and tight. He managed to rein up and stop Meldi, but he’d already come too close.

  Two more bolts pierced him through chest and shoulder. The iron key fell from his hand and clattered to the pavement. Toler went down next, landing on a pile of rubbled sidewalk.

  The next bolt struck Meldi in the shoulder. The filly screamed, stumbling on her front leg as she took off toward the gate. The sentinels stopped firing and let the animal come, perhaps having meant to hit Toler with that last bolt as he fell. Lokes was right, Toler thought, as he lay gasping for breath on the sidewalk. Their aim is perfect.

  Lokes wasn’t a bad shot either. But Toler already knew that. When he heard the gunshots, he thought he was dreaming at first. The men on the parapets began to drop, sprays of blood and flesh glistening in the starwinds’ light. Three went down before the rest ducked behind the wall’s defenses. Toler didn’t see how either the sentinels or Lokes could be so accurate in the twilight.

  Next he knew, Lokes and Weaver were there, revolvers smoking in the deadeye’s hands. Lokes put himself between them and the church, watching the walls while Weaver helped Toler drag himself behind the closest building. Each time a sentinel popped up, Lokes snapped off a shot as though he could see the shadowy figures as clear as day. When Toler and Weaver were safe behind the building, Lokes ducked behind it himself.

  “Them dways don’t go down easy,” he said. “Not unless you put one in the head or the heart. Something not right about ‘em. Oh, shit…”

  “What is it?” Weaver asked.

  “Come take a gander for yourself.”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around the bolt in Toler’s shoulder and gave him a readying stare. “You holler all you want. It’s gonna hurt. Lots.”

  Toler nodded.

  It did. Yet he could only find enough breath for a pathetic whimper.

  Weaver turner her attention to the bolt in his ribs, but this one didn’t come as easily. It took her a minute to work the tip out, then one final yank to get it free.

  The last bolt—the one in Toler’s right pectoral—was embedded deep. Each time he tried to inhale, all he could manage was a shallow wheeze. His senses were beginning to fade with the lack of air. Everything hurt. Everything, pain twisting like screws in his skull.

  “This one’s gonna be tough,” Weaver said. “I got a feeling it’s in your lung.”

  “Do it,” Toler whispered.

  She looked doubtful, but she produced a vial of sand the color of seaweed and dumped it into his lap. “This’ll only last a little while,” she warned. “If your lung holds out, you might be okay. Otherwise…”

  “Do it,” he repeated, his voice a dry hiss.

  She pulled.

  The bolt came out. Toler expected the tightness in his chest to recede. It got worse. Now when he tried to inhale, it was like breathing through a plastic bag with its sides stuck together. Panic set in. His vision began to swim and fade.

  Weaver’s fingers were shaking as she began her cipher.

  Green sand marched up Toler’s leathers and sank into the bloody mess of the wound.

  “What’s going on out there?” she asked.

  “It’s them gates,” Lokes said. “They’re opening.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Dereliction

  Merrick Bouchard couldn’t remember the last time he’d shut his eyes more than to blink. He wasn’t tired, though. The resonarc affixed behind his ear pulsed like the bead on a scorpion
’s tail, invigorating him with its artificial energy. If he was supposed to be tired, he couldn’t tell. Nor could he let himself fall asleep. He had too many enemies now. Too many would-be assassins. He couldn’t risk letting one of them succeed.

  His followers had gathered more quickly this time, returning to him after the nomad attack like swatted flies to a corpse. The rains had kept them away for a time, but the growth which had taken weeks at the beginning of his tour of Belmond now took only days. His fame was spreading, and his enemies were powerless to stop it. The savages had tried to keep him down, and they had failed. So had the mutants, for all that.

  Merrick didn’t blame himself for failing to heal the infant. He hadn’t meant to hurt the child, but neither did he feel remorse over its death. He’d saved the child from a tormented life and rid the world of another mutant. That was a fact he could live with. When Raith recounted what the parents had done after he lost consciousness, Merrick knew he had burned that bridge behind him.

  There was more to that bridge than Raith knew. Merrick had never told him about the children in the cistern—the ones he’d gunned down during his solo mission with Mobile Ops the year before. Merrick did blame himself for those murders. He carried their memory with him everywhere he went. He would always carry it. In some small way, he had hoped to find atonement in the healing of the mutant child. But that was not to be, and he would have to find some other way to make things right.

  Since Merrick had eliminated the mutants as allies, and since the savages were against him, and the Gray Revenants insisted on remaining neutral, and the Mouthers were cooped up as always, with no interest in anything outside their walls, where else could Merrick turn? There was only one place—or rather, several of the same sorts of places—that could offer him the kind of help he needed.

  “This is a bad idea,” Raith tried to tell him.

  They were sitting in the shade of a third-floor balcony within the row of antique townhomes where the flock was currently staying. The rains had finally moved off after several days of heavy downpour, and it was the first time they’d been able to enjoy the outside for some time.