Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (47 page)

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.

Many of these houses had served as zoom dens at one time or
another, Merrick had no doubt, but they were all so old and rotted now that
only wild animals had inhabited them in recent years. “Trying to heal that
mutie child was a bad idea,” he said. “And it was yours, if I’m remembering
right. This idea is way better.”

Raith sighed, but said nothing.

“The Kilnhurst Klick is one of the most violent gangs in the
city,” Merrick said. “If anyone can help us take the north by force, it’s these
guys.”

“I guess it’s about time I told you, then.”

“Told me what?”

“We’re leaving.”

“Who?”

Raith gestured toward the other Decylumites, who were inside
the house taking a paltry midday meal of wild brambles and cactus meat in a
thin nettle soup. “All of us.”

“Are you kidding?” Merrick asked. He waited. Raith didn’t
make a sound to the contrary. “So you’re giving up the search for your
friends.”

“No one we’ve spoken to these last weeks has seen or heard of
anyone from Decylum. It seems there’s no one left to find.”

Merrick frowned. “What about my training? What about helping
me fight the Scarred?”

“You’ve had plenty of training now to carry on by yourself.
Repeat the exercises we’ve been working on and you’ll continue to improve. As
for the city north, it sounds like you’re going to have plenty of help.”

“No, I won’t. You’re the key, Raith. You and the other
blackhands. I—I need you. Now more than ever.”

“You don’t. You have throngs of people ready to do your will.
We’re nothing more than faces in the crowd.”

Merrick’s chair toppled to the floor when he stood. He turned
his back to Raith and gripped the balcony railing to overlook the street below.
His hands ached, though the skin there was fresh and new.

This was the last thing he needed. His following had only
just returned to its former strength. Raith and his blackhands were worth a
dozen fighting men each, or more. Their presence was good for morale, too.
Without them, he would never inspire the kind of aggression his army needed to
break through the Scarred barricades. “Where will you go? Home? You don’t even
know how to get there.”

“We’re going to Bradsleigh,” Raith said. “Theodar thinks
we’ll find answers there.”

“Bradsleigh? Bradsleigh is a dinky little town in the scrubs.
Why would anyone ever want to go there?”

“The Glaive family lives there.”

“No,” Merrick said, shaking his head. “The Glaives live in
Unterberg. At least, the one I know does.”

Raith’s brow darkened. “You’ve met a living member of the
Glaive family?”

“Yeah. He’s the guy I healed… the first time I ever used the
gift. Can’t stand the dway. He tried to force me to go to Unterberg to heal his
sick girlfriend.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Glaives?”

Merrick shrugged. “Beats me. He said his family built all
these desert cities. Unless he was lying. I don’t think he had a reason to
lie—not about that. He seemed pretty jaded about the whole thing, being from a
rich family with that kind of a legacy.”

“What was his name?”

“Toler.”

“The man we heard about was named Daxin. He was said to be
from Bradsleigh. Maybe there are more Glaives than we believed, living in
different towns.”

“Could be.”

“We were told Decylum was built by Glaive Industries under
contract from the Ministry. If any record of Decylum’s whereabouts exists,
we’re hoping the Glaives still have it in their possession. Is it possible this
Toler Glaive is still in Belmond?”

“Nah. I doubt it. The last time I saw him, the Scarred were
sending a shitload of hot lead his way. Either he’s dead, or he and his buddies
ran off before they could get him. Besides, that was back when I lived in the
city north. The dway is a shepherd for Vantanible, Inc. Riding with the trade
caravans, he pretty much gets a free pass into the north. Hasn’t been one of
those in months. I wouldn’t be surprised if the savages got him during a raid.
We could always look around for him once we invade the north. Of course, you’d
have to stay and help me take it over…”

Raith shook his head. “We can’t stay, Merrick. The chances of
finding one person in a city this big without knowing where to look… well, I
think we’re better off trying the fates in Bradsleigh.”

“What about food and supplies for the journey? Do you even
know the way there?”

“I’ve already spoken with Borain. He’s agreed to remain our
guide for an extended period of time.”

“I’ll be glad to see that coffing savage gone. He barely
talks to anyone, but he’s always shadowing us everywhere we go. I still think
he’s the dway who tipped them off to where we were.”

“No one needs to be tipped off about thousands of people
herding through the city, Merrick. And I’ve told you, it’s unlikely that he’s
in league with the nomads, given his past behavior. I believe he’s an exile of
sorts—maybe not from his people as a whole, but at least from the master-king’s
armies. He refused to come close to the factory camp when we arrived.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll still be glad to get one sketchy dway
out from behind me.”

“You’ve been awfully paranoid lately,” Raith said. “That’s
only going to get worse until you stop feeding your fears with every conspiracy
theory you can dream up. I worry for you sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need you worrying about me. I didn’t ask
you to, either.”

“Soon you won’t have to trouble yourself over it,” Raith
said. “We’re leaving tonight.”

“Good. The sooner I can start focusing on the finish line,
the better.” He kicked the fallen chair aside on his way toward the balcony
door. The resonarc was making him more irritable than he cared to admit. “I’m
heading over to talk with the leader of the Klick. If you’re gone before I get
back, have a nice trip.”

Raith neither moved nor responded as Merrick went inside.

The Decylumites occupied every available chair, couch and
countertop across the open room within, which consisted of a half-gutted
kitchen, a living room, and a formal dining area with a large, overbearing
table. Few looked up from their meals as Merrick crossed the floor and trudged
down the two flights of stairs to the ground level. He could’ve used a couple
of dangerous-looking individuals to back him up during this meeting, but his
pride kept him from going back to ask Raith for help. He’d be fine without the blackhands.
Raith had taught him everything he needed to know; if the gangers tried
anything, he wasn’t going to heal them by accident this time.

The Klick hideout, he’d learned from an informative follower,
was aptly located in Kilnhurst Elementary School, one of the most recognizable
landmarks in the Kilnhurst neighborhood. The school’s parking lot and athletic
fields were open to the surrounding streets, so there was no fence or other
obstacle to get around. Merrick beat a direct approach, marching across the
front parking lot toward the main entrance, where a row of doors awaited him.
He could feel eyes on him, but he didn’t mind; he wanted them to know he was
coming.

Merrick pounded on one of the many doors, then stood back and
waited in the glow of the late afternoon. He thought he saw movement within,
but no one came. He tried again, knocking louder this time.

A door creaked open; not the one he had knocked on, but the
one at the leftmost end of the long line of doors. A woman’s face peered out,
covered in what Merrick thought at first to be broad smudges of dirt. Shortly
he realized the smudges weren’t dirt, but a web of neatly inked tattoos.

“What you want, dickhead?” asked the face.

“I want to talk to whoever’s in charge here,” Merrick said,
too determined to be afraid.

The door opened wider. The woman came out, dragging behind
her a signpost pipe spiked with nails. “Get lost,” she said. “Whatever
shit-town rems you’re selling, we got the game on it.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Merrick insisted, hands raised.
“I’m buying.”

She sneered. “Find a coffing seddy den, if that’s your shit.
Clear it, jacknaggit.”

Merrick backed off a step. “It’s not dope I’m after. I want
to hire you to help me with something.”

“We ain’t for hire, nutwaller. I got dways there and there
who don’t take so sweet to zoomers like I do. Frigg yourself and go.
Shit-sucker.”

“I’m not leaving until you let me talk to someone in charge.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Didn’t you just. It’s the sharps
for you, cockmaster…” She raised the pipe and hefted it in two hands, taking a
step toward him.

“I won’t hurt you if you just—”

She took a swing at him.

Merrick ignited his shield, a sphere of red.

The woman’s arms came out missing most of her weapon and one
of her hands, partway up the forearm. Threads of skin hung like cobwebs, and
Merrick’s gray trencher was spattered in bloodspray.

She looked down at herself and gasped. The pipe clattered to
the ground. She fainted, but Merrick caught her by the shoulders and lowered
her gently. When he ignited again, it was for the sake of help rather than
harm.

The skin closed around the raw wound, leaving her short an
extremity but very much alive. Her eyes rolled back, then focused on him in a
series of woozy blinks. “What you did to me, shit-sack?”

“I killed you… and saved your life.”

She tried to spit on him. A few shining flecks shot upward,
but the rest bubbled from her lips and dribbled down her cheek.

“Real grateful around here,” he muttered, more to himself
than to her.

“Coffing ugly, bittie-dick-choking zoomer,” she said, glaring
up at him with malice in her eyes.

Merrick knew he wasn’t the most pleasant person in the world
to look at. Not anymore. Not since the last gang he’d run afoul of had tried to
kill him. And especially not since the muties in their tower commune had tried
to finish what the gangers had started. He’d been stabbed, slashed, burned…
even electrocuted, though that was his own doing. Yet the fates would rather
see him horribly disfigured than let him die. They—or some crueler power—wanted
him alive.

He helped her to her feet, only to be shoved away as soon as
she found she could stand on her own. She knelt to pick up the hunk of melted
slag which had once been the business end of her weapon. She then spent a
moment studying the nub of her forearm.

“You some son-bitch,” she said, bewildered.

Don’t I know it
. “Take me to the dway in charge.”

She dropped the mangled metal and pointed at the
half-disintegrated remains of her hand, now lying in a puddle of gore on the
sidewalk. “You give me this back? If I take you?” Her look was pleading,
crazed.

Merrick shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
At least I
don’t think I can
. He wondered whether he could attach anything to anything
else—a foot to a forehead, or an ear to a groin—let alone two body parts that
belonged together. He didn’t think so.
The body heals as it’s meant to
,
Raith had told him once. Maybe if it had been a clean cut, like ham sliced with
a butcher’s cleaver, he could’ve tried. This, however, had been anything but
clean.

The woman’s gaze wandered to her shortened arm. Her eyes went
wild again, sober with panic. She began to pant, halfway between pummeling him
and having a meltdown. Her heavy breaths turned to loud, mournful sighs. Then
she was wailing, grief-stricken. She ran shaking fingers over the end of her
nub, as if to convince herself it was real.