Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (12 page)

“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 into 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.

Jinks and Mellobar donned their masks and added their fire to
Peymer’s. The gangers darted from barricade to barricade, sprinting across
rooftops and ducking behind debris. They were outgunned now, but their saws and
clubs and cleavers would be more than a match for the Revenants if they got
close.

One of the captured gangers bent his legs and plunged his
feet into Mellobar’s knee. Merrick heard the snap from several fathoms away.
Mellobar cried out and collapsed, dropping his weapon. Another captured ganger
reached out to take it, his fingers scrabbling over the stock.

Merrick raced over and snatched away the coilgun just before
the ganger could get a grip on it. He kept his distance from the prisoners and
examined the weapon. He was no stranger to firearms, but the coilguns were
unlike any he had operated before.

Thick and front-heavy, the weapon’s receiver and foregrip
were smooth black boxes of fiberglass and metal. Reflective blue panels ran
along either side of the sight rail. These, Caliber had told him, absorbed the
light-star’s energy and stored it in the weapon’s power cells.

Power cells
, Merrick remembered. Caliber had warned
him about the risk of electrical shock if any of the coilgun’s internal
components became exposed while the weapon was powered on.
I’ll get more use
out of it right now by leaving the batteries full
, Merrick decided.

Peymer and Jinks were having trouble holding off the gangers.
Merrick raised the coilgun and began to fire down the wide alley, snapping off
shots at everything that moved. The weapon wasn’t as accurate as his old rifle,
but it was lighter and simpler to use. There was no recoil when he pulled the
trigger; no deafening ballistics explosion. Just the
ping
of the heavy
ball bearing as it zipped through the muzzle at thousands of feet per second,
followed by the rapid rising pitch of the capacitors as they charged up for the
next shot.

If he pulled the trigger too fast, the subsequent shots seemed
weaker, so he fell into a rhythm, using the half second or so between charges
to draw a bead on his targets. He tagged ganger after ganger, smiling that for
once there was no ammunition inventory to worry about. Fighting beside the Revs
was a surreal experience—perhaps because his contact buzz from the zoom hadn’t
quite worn off yet.

Merrick put a round through a ganger’s thigh and sent him
sprawling to the pavement before he could duck behind a stack of plastic bins.
Despite his solid marksmanship, he and his three cohorts would be in trouble
soon if the other Revs didn’t emerge from the den to help them. The gangers’
aggressive advance unsettled him, given that most gangers were afraid of the
Gray Revenants. This gang appeared desperate, either to free its captives or to
save its zoom lab. The incomes from labs like this formed the economic backbone
that allowed many souther gangs to survive, Merrick knew.

One of the bound gangers managed to climb to his feet, and
began hopping toward his friends. Merrick rushed forward and slammed a shoulder
into the man’s back to knock him down. He found himself standing among the
captives, and they wasted no time flailing about to try and knock him off his
feet. He suffered only a few glancing blows to the legs before he was able to
escape their midst, but the damage had been done. Those few precious seconds of
distraction had given the advancing gangers the time they needed.