Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (54 page)

“You tell me,” Merrick said. “You’re the one who knew we were
coming.”

It was Wax’s turn to laugh. “I’d heard rumors, yes. Didn’t
know where or when, though. I quadrupled security along the Row and it still
wasn’t enough. Lesson learned.”

“Too late for lessons, Wax. Time to pay up.”

“What is it you want, Mr. Bouchard? Leave my advisors and I
unharmed and I’ll give you anything within my power.”

“It just so happens that the thing I want
is
your
power.”

Wax snorted. “
You
want to be Commissar…”

“Is that such a crazy idea?”

“Since the position has already been filled… yes. It is a
little crazy.”

“And why are you the Commissar, Pilot? Why is it you, and not
any of these other men, or any of the thousands outside these walls, who rules
the city north? What is it that makes a man a ruler? I’ll tell you what. The
same thing that makes a gold nugget more than a hunk of worthless metal.
Belief. Belief in its value, and the belief of others that it has that same
value.”

“It’s more than that,” Wax said. “I’m the Commissar because I
built this city into what it is today. I’ve proven I can handle the job. Have
you?”

“I will, in time. Of course, your approval will go a long way
toward convincing our citizens of that. That’s why I’m not going to take the
city north or the Scarred Comrades from you. You’re going to give them to me.
We’ll gather everyone together for one of your big announcements. Except this
one will be your last big announcement. You’re retiring, and you’re handing off
the reins to me, Merrick Bouchard, your more-than-capable replacement. And
you’re going to make it believable.”

Wax smirked. “And you’re going to kill me if I don’t.”

“Oh, no. I’ll kill you if you do. If you don’t, I’m going to
keep you alive for a very, very long time. I can do that, you know. And I
promise you’re not going to enjoy it.”

“So it’s torture or death. Those are my options?”

“What I’m going to put you through goes far beyond torture.
Help me and I’ll guarantee you a peaceful death. Don’t, and I’ll try out a few
of the tips I picked up while I was a comrade. I learned from the best, after
all. And if you think I’m talking about a measly hanging by the ankles from the
top of this tower, you haven’t even scratched the surface. I’m way more
creative than that.”

One of the captains, a pinch-faced man whose waves of brown
hair fell feather-light over a pronounced forehead, stood from his seat.
Anatton “Natter” Buckwald, former Lieutenant of the Second Platoon, appeared to
have been given command of Mobile Ops. That meant Merrick’s former commanding
officer, Malvid Curran, must be dead.

Merrick saw Natter’s hand twitch for the pistol at his side.
“Ah-ah-ah. There’s no reason for that. The rest of you are safe as long as
you’re willing to pledge me your loyalty. Refuse, and I’ll find someone to take
your place.”

Captain Robling stood as well. “I believe I speak for us all
when I say we’ll not stand for this. We are prepared to fight tooth and nail,
and yes, to lay down our lives if necessary. Lower your weapon, Mr. Bouchard.
Enough have died already in this pitiful attempt of yours. Let us arrange some
other agreement without descending into further pointless bloodshed.”

“If there’s any more bloodshed, it’ll be yours,” Merrick
said. “You can’t kill me. I’m far too powerful to die. Now, I can begin my
reign with the existing division commanders in place, or I can wipe the slate
clean and start over with new ones. Which is it going to be, Captain Robling?”

Wax drew his sidearm and fired two shots that struck Merrick
in the gut.

Merrick stumbled backward, dropping the rifle to let it hang
by the shoulder strap.

Wax fired two more times. The first round struck the wall.
The second hit Merrick in the face and exploded through the back of his head.

Merrick ignited, burning bright and hot. He felt the life
draining out of him; his mind glitched, as if the substance which had just
exited his skull had stolen all reason from him. But there was a warmth to
follow, to cradle that oncoming death like a flood of saltwater into a fresh
wound: painful, yet cleansing. He gasped, slumped against the wall while the
heat surged through him. His strength returned, along with a shuffling flicker
of memory. When Wax shot again, Merrick’s shield turned the bullets to slag.

He pushed himself off the wall and hurtled across the room,
shoving chairs and men out of the way. Wax’s last few shots glanced harmlessly
off the shield before Merrick reached him, rending the gun in two and lifting
Wax off his feet by the throat. “You’ve made your choice,” Merrick said, voice
strained with anguish. “The pain begins now.”

CHAPTER 44

Savannah

Had Raith Entradi known Bradsleigh was roughly as far
from Belmond as Decylum was, he might’ve thought twice before undertaking the
journey. The further they traveled from Sai Calgoar, the more he began to worry
for Ros. If the Sons returned late to the master-king’s palace, Tycho Montari
might be driven to violence against the lad. Worse yet was the thought of Ros
hoping in vain to see his grandfather Hastle again.

Their growing distance from the City of Sand seemed to have
the opposite effect on Borain Guaidir, who became more easygoing and talkative
with each passing horizon. “I was the king’s warleader once,” he told them one
late afternoon by the campfire. “I served Aodhan Mairagh for many faithful
years.”

“What happened?” Derrow Leonard asked him.

“He died without a son. Aodhan Mairagh had only one daughter.
It is our custom that if the master-king has no heir when he dies, the throne
passes instead to one of his warleaders.”

“So his daughter didn’t become queen?” Derrow asked.

“What is
queen
?”

“You don’t have queens? It’s like the female version of a
king.”

“A woman master-king?” Borain laughed aloud, as if the very
idea was preposterous.

“Yeah. What do you call the king’s wife, if not the queen?”

“She is the king’s wife. What other name does she need?”

“Never mind. So the master-king died. You were supposed to
take his place?”

“I thought so. Tycho Montari disagreed.”

“Wait… so Tycho Montari stole the throne from you?”

When Borain laughed again, the sound was tinged with
bitterness. “King Aodhan had three warleaders: Tycho Montari, Eirnan Prokin,
and me. Though I was first in line, either of them had the right to challenge
me for the throne. Tycho Montari did. Eirnan Prokin chose not to. His challenge
came by another means.

“The king’s daughter Cinae was fair and beautiful, you see,
and I loved her. When Tycho issued his challenge, I declined. I showed my
weakness and refused the throne so I could be with Cinae. In the end, she chose
Eirnan Prokin over me.

“Young fool that I was, I attacked Eirnan without first
issuing a formal challenge. He defeated me anyway, but spared my life, for
reasons I have yet to understand. Tycho Montari stripped me of my rank and
titles. I was labeled
foirechlier
, bringer-of-weakness. I lost
everything—my home, my purpose, the throne… and her.”

The Sons had been listening intently to Borain’s tale.

“Wow,” Derrow said. “That’s terrible.”

“I have come to accept my mistakes,” said Borain. “Every man
must do so.”

Derrow nodded thoughtfully. “This Eirnan Prokin dway… any
relation to Lethari?”

“Eirnan is Lethari’s father.”

“So that makes Cinae—”

“—his mother. She rests with the fates.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Time has closed that wound. Though that is truer for me than
it is for Eirnan.”

“Have you ever tried to apologize to him?”

“I sent him my regrets when she died. Otherwise, we have
stayed clear of one another. It is better that way.”

“If you say so,” Derrow mused. “So Lethari is the former
master-king’s grandson, on his mother’s side. Huh. That’s interesting.”

“Why?” Borain said.

“Because you have to figure… if your customs were different,
that’d make Lethari the king right now.”

Borain shrugged and leaned back on his elbows. “If ever Tycho
Montari were to die, Lethari Prokin would become king anyway. Tycho Montari has
no sons, so Lethari’s claim is strongest. He is first warleader. The blood of
Aodhan Mairagh runs in his veins. And if Diarmid Kailendi or Neacal Griogan
were to challenge him for the throne, he would prove fiercer in battle than
either of them.”

Their afternoon rest at an end, Raith and his companions
doused their fire and saddled up for another long night of riding. They headed
southwest as daylight waned across the wastes. After a time they began to see
dark flecks on the horizon, gnarled and twisted shapes with long shadows.

“
Coille cenaim
,” said Borain. “The forest of bones.”

“The Skeletonwood?” asked Ernost Bilschkin.

“That is the pale-skin name for it.”

“What’s the Skeletonwood?” Edrie Thronson wanted to know.

“A cursed place. A place of death, where the souls of those
yet to meet the fates often wander.”

“Ghosts,” Derrow said with a chuckle. “The sav—the nomads are
scared of ghosts?”

“Souls are nothing to fear,
dueieh
. They are to be
respected. Not all
calgoarethi
hold reverence for them, just as not all
lathcui
believe in the fates themselves.”

“What’s to believe?” said Brence Maisel. “The fates are just
an idea. Something we swear by, and blame for the bad things that happen to
us.”

“The fates are as real as you and I,” Borain said.

Brence gave an exaggerated nod, as if to indicate that
pretending agreement with a crazy person was less work than arguing with one.

Jiren Oliver rode in unaffected silence, eyes straight ahead.
It saddened Raith to think of how lively a discussion this might’ve been with
Jiren’s input. The young hunter had never shied away from delivering his
opinions, no matter who he was disagreeing with. There was no trace of that man
anymore, though.

The memory of Jiren’s former personality gave Raith an idea.
If the Skeletonwood was a place where spirits roamed, perhaps it was an apt
location for the end of this pseudo-lifelike state to which the young man had
been reduced. Raith regretted the idea as soon as it came to him. He doubted
the others would be persuaded to go through with it, especially Derrow.
Nor
should they
, he decided.

Jiren deserved better than his current paltry existence. He
lived, and breathed, and ate, and slept. Beyond that, he was not himself. After
weeks without a single sign of improvement, Raith was beginning to believe he
was destined to be stuck that way forever. “Something ought to be done with
Jiren.”

Derrow eyed him suspiciously. “Like what?”

Raith felt a pang of guilt. “He hasn’t spoken a word since
Merrick brought him back.”

“I know that. What are you suggesting?”

Raith took a deep breath. “Maybe it would’ve been better if—”

“If he hadn’t brought Jiren back at all? How can you say
that?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve longed for his recovery
every bit as much as you have. It doesn’t look likely, and I think it’s time we
consider what Jiren would want.”

“You don’t know how likely or unlikely it is,” Derrow said.
“None of us do.”

“The point is, we can only go by what we
do
know. This
constant travel has been hard on us. Jiren most of all.”

“I’m sorry he’s been such a burden on you.”

“Derrow, that isn’t fair.”

“How is it fair for us to make a decision like that for him?
He can’t tell us what he wants.”

“He hasn’t been able to tell us what he wants for weeks.
Would you prefer this life to a meeting with the fates?”

“There’s that
fates
garbage again. Killing is killing.
It’s not sending someone to a better place. It’s just death. It’s just…
nothing.”

“Even if it
is
nothing,” Raith said, “wouldn’t it be
better than a life devoid of joy, sorrow, pleasure, or pain? What is life
without any of those things? Is it life at all?”

“You’re starting to sound like Cord.”

Raith reined up. “What did you say?”

“I said… this is no different from the cycle of chosen
births, which you were always so determined to stop Cord and his cronies from
instigating.”

“This has nothing to do with the cycle of chosen births,”
Raith said.

“You’re suggesting we deny someone the right to live. Someone
who has just as much right as the rest of us. You’d take away his only chance
because he possesses attributes you find unsavory. That’s no different from
what Cord wants to do back home.”

“It’s not about whether he’s savory or unsavory. Either Jiren
is alive, or he’s in the midst of something that happens to resemble it.”

“He’s alive, Raith.”

Raith wasn’t convinced. He felt he should clarify his
intentions; make it plain that he had only brought up the subject for
discussion, not because he was set on ending Jiren’s existence altogether. A
beat passed, and with it went the opportunity. Raith let the conversation lapse
into a tense silence which lasted until they made camp in the morning.

“You can go get yourself set up,” Raith told Derrow after
they’d helped Jiren down from his saddle. “I’ll look after him for a while.”

“I’ve got him,” Derrow said curtly.

“Take a break for a few minutes. You look exhausted.”

“I said I’ve got him,” Derrow snapped.

Raith swallowed his anger and went to tie off the horses.

While securing one of the animals to a tree, a rancid smell
came to him on the wind. He returned to camp and told Theodar Urial he was
going to take a look around, then summoned Mercer Terblanche and Brence Maisel
to accompany him. The light-star pierced the horizon and shed golden morning
light across the landscape, forming spindly shadows that melded and separated
from the trees as they walked.

Half a horizon from the camp, they came upon the source of
the smell: the rotting remains of an enormous scaled green lizard with four
clawed limbs and the stub of a thick tail. Little remained of its torso aside
from a few scraps of skin and meat hanging from a rib cage, but Raith sensed
the build of a predator in its long jaws and razor-sharp teeth. A desert fox,
its snout smeared with dark blood, darted off from the corpse as they
approached. The two hunters knelt to inspect it.

“This is a sanddragon,” said Brence. “I’ve seen a few in my
day. Never this big, though.”

“What’s big enough to kill a creature this size?” Raith
asked.

“Isn’t size that makes a kill like this,” said Mercer. “It’s
numbers. Brengens. Wolves. People. The three of us could’ve done for this thing
if it had attacked us.”

“Are there people living in this forest?”

Brence shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve never been here before.”

“We’d better set watches, then. I don’t want anything
sneaking up on us while we sleep—people, giant lizards, or otherwise.”

They returned to the camp and told the others what they’d
found.

Borain was particularly intrigued. “Sanddragons crave the
heat. They are southern creatures who keep to the open wastes. It is a surprise
to have seen one this far north of the gulf. Will you take me to it?”

“It’s dead,” said Brence.

Borain stared at him. “How fortunate that only a small task
remains to me.”

The others wanted a look too, so Mercer stayed behind with
Theodar and Sombit, who were more tired than curious, while the rest headed
toward the site. After answering the initial barrage of questions about
sanddragons and their behaviors, Borain drew the small knife at his belt,
crouched beside the beast, and wrenched its jaws open. From the back of the
throat he incised two small sacs—venomous, he warned them—and wrapped both
inside a pouch he made from a scrap of scaly skin and a length of leather cord.

“What are you going to use those for?” asked Ernost.

“It is doubtful there is much venom left by now,” Borain
said. “If there is, I will tip my arrows with it. This will make for good
hunting.”

“What about other sanddragons?” asked Brence. “Can’t they
smell the venom from horizons away?”

“Only so long as the blood runs in the animal it infects.
When it dies, we eat its meat, tan its hide, and burn its entrails. The blood
boils off and there is nothing left for other sanddragons to scent. It should
be done quickly when one is alone. Not so when he has companions.” Borain
spread his hands.

Raith didn’t like the idea of being hunted by those hulking
dragon creatures. By the looks he was getting from the others, neither did
they. “Infernal’s coming out,” he said. “We’d better get under shade and have
ourselves a rest.”

They rested for a few hours before traveling in spurts
throughout the day. The terrain was hillier here, with more frequent
opportunities for shade and more plentiful food for the horses than in the open
desert. It was only another day or two before the trees opened onto a landscape
more lush and green than any Raith had ever seen. Even the Calgoar Vale could
not boast such greenery. The dirt was coarse and sandy, interspersed with areas
of rock. But sand often gave way to pastures strewn with dry yellow grass, and
shrubbery dotted the barren ground in considerable patches.

Fortunately, Raith and the Sons didn’t encounter any more
dragons on their way through the Skeletonwood. There were scorpions, yes;
bushcats by the handful; songbirds and vultures in flight; even a murbider or
two. They often heard the distant howling of wolves and coyotes in the night,
along with the squeaking of bats and the yipping of fox kits. But no
sanddragons, thank the fates.

Bradsleigh was a sleepy little town nestled on a hillside
where, according to botanist Peperil Cribbs, the abundance of shady trees
included olives, desert willows, and junipers. Raith found it strange that such
trees could thrive here when an entire forest of dead ones stood only a few
horizons away in every direction. There was something strange or special about
this place for it to support such life.

At the top of the hillside, where the scrubland terrain
sloped away toward the town’s many dwellings, lay a series of enormous fenced-in
pastures enclosing livestock herds of various size and species. It was there,
beside one of the largest pastures with the largest herds of cattle, that Raith
stopped to ask a local where they might find a member of the Glaive family.