Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (19 page)

“What about Hastle Beige?” Raith asked, hopeful.

“He led the advance,” said Brence. “Did a fine job while you
were under. When the blackhands ignited and took off toward the city, he was
with them.”

Gregar Holdsaard cleared his throat and swallowed. “I was
next to him when it started. Center of the line, middle of everything. I raised
my shield right away. Looked over and saw him on the ground. Not hurt, just
taking cover. He went shields-up right before I bolted. Hit the city a few
seconds after I did. I saw him take down a couple soldiers, and then… he got
hit when he wasn’t looking. One of those cocksuckers shot him in the neck. I
tore the bastard apart, but… by the time I could get over and give Hastle some
of my warmth, it was too late. He was already gone.” Gregar looked down and
began to rub the dark knuckle at the base of his missing finger.

A hole opened in the pit of Raith’s stomach. Heartache and
sorrow washed over him, followed by a wave of relief. He knew the truth of it
now.
So you
are
gone then, old friend. Rest with the fates, brother.
Soon I’ll join you where you are
.

The group’s mood grew somber. Diarmid seemed to sense this and
took his leave for the night.

“It’s a shame, what happened,” said Hayden. “What those
Scarred people did to us.”

“Raith got them back for it,” Jiren said proudly. “Killed the
dway in charge.”

Hayden looked up in astonishment. “You did?”

“I would’ve let him keep his life, but he refused to free us.
He chose to let his pride determine his fate.”

“You met him? Talked to him? Why’d they do it?”

“They’re lunatics,” said Derrow.

“They’re arrogant and territorial. They desire dominance,
even if they have to kill to maintain it. We were right to fear for our lives
when we left Decylum.” Raith lowered his voice. “These nomads have their
aggressive tendencies, just as the Scarred do. Our own Rostand Beige is facing
dire peril as we speak.” Raith explained at length the situation with Ros and
the master-king. “That’s why we were hoping to find a navigator amongst you.
Not that we aren’t glad to see each and every one of you…”

“Why don’t we go in there and take Ros back?” suggested
Gregar. “Flee the nomad city and find our own way home?”

“I speak,” said Jiren.

Derrow nodded his agreement, but he knew as well as the rest
why they couldn’t.

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Raith. “If we take the
master-king’s palace by storm, there will be blood, and not just on their side.
The king has thousands of men at his command. If we make enemies of an entire
nation of nomads, how will their caravans treat our hunters then?”

Gregar frowned. “Seeing as how Wickman and Staley are both
dead, what other option do we have? We want to get Ros back and go home, don’t
we? We sure as shit aren’t about to lead the savages back to Decylum. Excuse my
language. You’re not going to do that, are you Raith?”

Raith sighed. “I will do everything in my power to avoid that
outcome. I hope you’re all with me on that score. It’s been suggested that we
lead the nomads on a wild goose chase, but I don’t see that ending well.
There’s also talk of tracking down the architects of Decylum and asking them
for guidance.”

“The Glaives?” asked Ernost Bilschkin. The historian’s eyes
lit up like a child on his birthday. “They’re still around after all these
years?”

“Dead, as it happens,” said Raith. “One of them, at least.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lethari Prokin requested the master-king’s leave to bury a
friend of his… the man was a Glaive.”

“Wha—this is news to me,” said Ernost.

“It was Theodar’s idea,” said Raith. “I wanted to keep it a
secret until we knew whether Wickman Garitall was here. The nomads cannot be
allowed to discover the Glaives’ affiliation with Decylum. Anyway, it’s an
option. There are others. Why don’t we discuss them in the morning, after we’ve
had a chance to clear our heads?”

Raith wasn’t the least bit tired, but the news of Hastle’s
death had fallen on him like a weight. He’d known Hastle’s survival was
unlikely, but even the faintest glimmer of hope is a world away from none at
all.

Around the camp, the nomads were putting out their fires.

Hayden yawned. “I guess it’s getting to be time for bed. You
all must be exhausted after traveling such a long way.”

Jiren grinned. “Actually… we just woke up. A lot of times the
nomads travel at night and find shade during the day. Really makes things
easier in the desert.”

“Someone should’ve thought of that on our way here,” said
Brence.

“We were naive about many things when we left home,” Raith
said. “And if one day we’re fortunate enough to look back on ourselves now, may
we have the wisdom to do it in the shade.”

The Sons laughed. They doused the fire and laid out their
bedrolls to settle down for the night. Their four reunited brothers were asleep
in minutes, though Raith knew he and the others would lie awake for hours yet.
Hastle,
you left us too quickly. There was so much more you could’ve taught us
.

Myriad came to him in a waking dream. There was a closeness
about her this time, a vivid quality he hadn’t sensed in his other dreams. He
supposed she had met the fates years before Hastle. Yet somehow she felt more
alive to him now than ever. Her presence was translucent; inexplicable, yet
pervasive.
What was her family name?
Raith tried to remember.
Who
were her parents?

Where in the bowtie-shaped octet of Decylum’s wings had
Myriad’s hab unit been located? Over the long years, Raith had forgotten
everything. Except her. Long dark hair, and the eyes like piercing night.
Slender cheekbones, milk-white skin, and a grace unparalleled in any woman he’d
ever known. What was it about her that made her so
different
?

The thought swept him up, struck him like some obstacle he’d
spotted in the distance and tripped over anyway. It was her
age
. How
well-preserved, the healer whose body replenished itself as if suspended in
time. Hastle Beige and Kraw Joseph were two of the few people Raith knew who
were older than Myriad. If anyone knew more about her, it was Kraw, or Hastle’s
widowed wife, Imogen. Both were in Decylum. Both, he hoped, were still alive.
He’d never know if he didn’t get home.

CHAPTER 16

The Healer’s Son

“Coffing magic, that’s what he does,” said Peymer. “No
other way I can put it. He’s a miracle worker.”

“I was there the first time he ever done it,” Rhetton agreed.
“I seen black fire come out his hands and cover the dway in this eerie sort of
light. Dway was half-dead, cut up and bleedin’ from every hole in his body.
Dried up and came back together in seconds, right before my eyes. Ain’t never
seen nothin’ like it. Wicked stuff.”

Merrick shook his head. Since the day he’d healed Cluspith in
the Ministerial History Museum, news of his gift had spread faster than he ever
would’ve believed. Rumors of that day’s events had only grown more imaginative
as they spread. Now, it seemed he was some sort of immortal angel who had the
power to wake the dead. People had gone so far as to bring the bodies of their
loved ones when they came to search for him, he’d been told.

It was a good thing the Gray Revenants were so good at
hiding. Merrick’s instant celebrity had garnered the organization more
attention than it wanted. That hadn’t stopped the Revs from chattering amongst
themselves, though—and it certainly hadn’t stopped the rumors.

The group of Revs listening to Peymer and Rhetton were from a
faction who haunted the territory along the southwestern edge of Belmond. Their
reactions were mixed; they glanced in Merrick’s direction from time to time as
various alleged eyewitness accounts unfolded. He wasn’t used to being the
center of attention—especially among those who’d paid no attention to him
before, even when he’d clamored for it.

It was happening too fast; Merrick wasn’t ready. Until he
knew what he was doing, he could never hope to lead a unified front against the
city north. He was famous in the north too, if the scant visitors who came from
Pilot Wax’s territory were to be believed. Healing Wax in the barracks
infirmary had started a buzz. Even across closed borders, word of Merrick’s
whereabouts had eventually found them.

The Gray Revenants, meanwhile, acted as Merrick’s
gatekeepers, turning away most who happened to find them. They moved often from
place to place, but never so often as in the past few weeks. They were also
keeping watch over anyone they saw entering the city south from across the
wastes. The first out-of-towners had arrived only a few days before, dragging
their sick loved ones over the long horizons to see the famed healer.

As yet, Merrick had done little actual healing. In order to
heal the sick in large number, he needed access to electrical power. Aside from
the coilguns’ power cells, there was no electricity to be found. What he really
needed was free admission to Wax’s energy station.

A messenger entered the cellar’s humid confines, breathing
hard. Merrick couldn’t remember the name or location of the building they were
in. They’d only been there a day or two, and they wouldn’t likely stay long.
The building’s damp basement was a fine hiding place, but it made a terrible
living quarters.

The messenger stopped in front of Peymer and came to
attention.

“Spit it out, Siler,” Peymer said.

The messenger spoke quickly. “Couple of ours down southside
spotted some dways coming off the wastes at dusk. They fit the description
Merrick gave us, except they weren’t wearing synthetics.”

Merrick wiped the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve.
“South end of the city, you said?”

“South, uh-huh.”

“How were they dressed?”

“Like savages. All in white, thin and baggy.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

“Riding or walking?”

“All of them riding.”

Merrick leaned forward, elbows on knees. There’d been more
than nine of the Decylumites when they escaped Wax’s prison. There
had
to have been more than nine; they fought off two regiments of Scarred soldiers…
“Nope. Doesn’t sound like them. Thanks for the report.”

The Revs had brought Merrick several reports since they’d
disallowed him from climbing the Armitage Building every morning to look for
himself. They’d all been false alarms. He was now too valuable a commodity for
them to let him out of their sight. So he’d bargained instead for a special
bulletin to be sent out to every sect of Revenants in the city south,
describing Raithur and his companions. The reward for a positive report? Why,
Merrick’s special talent, of course.

“But…” the messenger stammered, “… they all had fair skin…
burnt pink, like you said. Well, all but one of them, anyways. They went
straight to the nomad camp when they got here. And a couple had dark hands.”

Merrick shot to his feet. “They went to the old chemical
factory?”

Siler nodded excitedly. “That’s the one.”

When Merrick looked to Peymer for permission, the man’s face
was a brick wall. “Nope, sorry. Not possible.”

“It’s more than possible, you just want to keep me tied up in
here like a rabid dog.”

“It’s for your own good, Merrick.”

“My own good is going to get a lot better if I can just see
those foreigners. It’s for the good of the Revs too, and you can count on it.”

“If we lose you, Merrick…”

“I’m the coffing
healer
,” Merrick said. “If there’s
anyone you
don’t
have to worry about losing, it’s me.”

“It’s not about losing you. It’s about you getting
discovered.”

“Taken, you mean. I’ve already been discovered. They’ve heard
of me in Rimford Springs, for Infernal’s sake. You can’t just keep me here
forever. I wanted to be a Revenant, remember. A proper, official Revenant. That
was back when I was a nobody. A washed-up comrade with the swift spanking of
exile still stinging my ass. When Caliber died, I tried to show my worth. Rally
you all to a bigger cause. You laughed me off the stage… literally. Told me to
sit down and keep my mouth shut. So the way I see it, you’re all fair-weather
friends until proven otherwise.”

“Sure, I hear what you’re saying. You want respect, and for a
while you didn’t get it. That’s all changed now. We want to keep you safe, and
the nomads are no safe people to go messing around with out there.”

“The nomads scare me shitless. But I’ve got to talk to those
foreigners. I’m going to that camp with or without you. If I find the dway I’m
looking for, there’s going to come a day when you’ll all wish you’d been there
with me. I used to think I had to
become
something else to take the city
north. Now I know that isn’t true. Arbal was right; my gift could change the
world someday. All I’ve got to do is learn how to use it.”

Peymer unfolded his arms and pushed himself off the wall he’d
been leaning against. “My team and I are coming along. I can only speak for
myself, but personally I’m inclined to sit back and see what happens with this
foreigner before I roll the dice. It’s going to take a lot to convince the Revs
you’re worth throwing our weight behind.”

An awareness came over Merrick then—one so profound it made
his heart skip in his chest. If Raithur Entradi was really there at the nomad
camp, and if he could be convinced to teach Merrick about the gift, the
conquest could begin. He could leave his handlers behind and start traveling
around the city south, gathering support wherever he could find it. If Peymer
and the rest of the Gray Revenants wanted to ‘
roll the dice
’ and lend
him their support, they were welcome to. But Merrick was going to need more
than the Revs to overthrow Pilot Wax.

“Siler? Was that your name?” Merrick asked.

The messenger nodded.

“You better be telling the truth with this report of yours.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Your dways say that’s what they saw. Let’s go find out how
good their eyes are.”

“Can’t we at least wait until dawn?” Peymer asked.

Merrick gathered his things. He only had a few, so it didn’t
take long. “The future doesn’t wait, Peymer. They could be gone by tomorrow.”

“We’ll find them again.”

“We’re going to find them tonight.” Merrick donned the gray
trencher and filtermask the Revs had provided to help him blend in. He’d
managed to get hold of a new pair of gloves to hide his scar and his lack of
fingernails, but they still hadn’t issued him a coilgun.

Peymer’s group escorted Merrick in tactical silence through
the nighttime city. They were a long way from the factory camp, and the
anticipation made the trek feel even longer. There was a slow build to it that
brought tandem waves of fear and excitement.

Sooner than he expected, Merrick spotted the factory’s twin
smokestacks through the darkness, concrete cylinders bathed in silver
starlight. He and his companions entered through the break in the chain-link
fence, but the border guards stopped them in the empty lot beyond. The savages
outnumbered them two to one, and Merrick could see the silhouettes of others on
nearby rooftops.

“Why do you haunt us at such an hour?” asked one of the
nomads.

“We’re here to see some visitors who arrived earlier this
evening,” Peymer explained.

“
Yarun merouil
. They are here not three hours and
already you have come for them.”

“I told you I’d be back when they were,” Merrick said,
removing his filtermask.

The Revs flinched at Merrick’s blatant exposure, scanning the
fence line as if there might be someone watching from the night-shrouded city
beyond. The savages didn’t appear to recognize him.
I must look as bland and
indistinct to them as they do to me
, Merrick realized.
I’m the same as
any other aion, with or without the mask
.

Except that Merrick wasn’t the same. He needed to stop
belittling himself that way, or he would never kindle the kind of loyalty he
desired. His gift might inspire fanatical devotion in some, but there were
others who would drain him like a cup and toss him aside when they’d drunk
their fill. That was why he’d have to use it sparingly; so he could keep their
attention longer. Once he had the south’s attention, he would make them hear.

Merrick was proud of himself for recognizing that—for having
the wisdom to forecast what it would take to elevate himself in the minds of
the people. Maybe he was growing up after all. He certainly wasn’t growing out.
Not anymore. The city-south diet had made him the thinnest he’d ever been
before.
Maybe the savages would’ve recognized me if I were still fat
, he
thought with a chuckle.

“My warleader will not allow you to enter the camp until
morning,” said the savage.

“I’ll wait,” Merrick said. “As long as I have to.”

“Might as well paint targets on our backs if we’re going to
sit out here in the open,” said Peymer. “Every ganger on the block’s going to
get a good look at us when the light-star rises.”

“If you want to go, then go,” said Merrick. “I’m not making
you stay.”

“You mean that? ‘Cause if we go, your mask and trencher go
with us,” Peymer warned.

Merrick slipped out of his trencher and let it fall to the
dust. He tossed the mask on top of it. “You seem to think there’s anything in
the world could stop me from talking to these visitors. What do you think I’d
do if you tried to drag me out of here? I’ll show you, if you want to find
out.”

Peymer glowered at him, then shifted his gaze to the savages.
“Is there anywhere closer to the factory where we can hunker down until your
warleader lets us inside?”

“I can allow you to go no further. Until the morning watches
are set, there are many places you may go to remain unseen.” The savage pointed
out beyond the fence line.

“Fine. I’ll go,” Merrick said with a sigh. “But not far.
We’ll come back at dawn.” He snatched up his mask and jacket and followed them
through the fence.

The factory sat at the edge of a vast industrial zone full of
towering cranes, long low buildings, and other factories like it. Knowing gangs
often nested there like flies, the Revs fell back to the quieter commercial
section they’d come through. They spent a restless few hours huddled in the
alley between a hotel and an auto body shop, waiting for daybreak. Merrick
sensed their annoyance with him, though no one mentioned it out loud.

Just before dawn, there was a small noise at the back of the
alley. The Revs brandished their coilguns, but Peymer waved them off. From
beneath a mass of refuse crawled a child; a girl with blonde hair and blue
eyes. Her skin was dirt-smudged and her scalp was oily with unwash. Merrick was
startled to see such a young child, and one unattended; a rare occasion in this
part of the city. Her wild-eyed expression brought to mind some feral animal.

The girl froze when she saw them. It was then that Merrick
noticed her tiny shelter for what it was—two palettes angled against the alley
wall and covered with plastic bags, cardboard boxes, and various patched-on
weatherproofing.

“Who’s that back there?” asked one of the sentinels posted at
the mouth of the alley.

Oban grunted. “Street scum.”

Merrick had little to give the girl, but he felt he should
give her something. He took a strip of dry salted jerky from his pouch and
approached the girl. She took a step back. Merrick stopped, lifting a hand.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything to you. I just want to give you some
food.” He shook the strip of jerky as if luring a mangy dog from its den.

The girl’s eyes brightened. She seemed for a moment to lose
her hesitation. Then she shrank back and tucked herself beneath the lean-to
shelter, ready to scurry away at any second.

“Here, I’ll put this down for you. You can come and take it.”
Merrick looked around for something passingly clean, but in the blushing
darkness he could barely tell what he was looking at. He took a careful step
forward, knelt, and placed the jerky on an open patch of asphalt. “There.
That’s for you. That’s yours. Eat.”

He backed away until he was standing with the others again.
The girl raced out to snatch up her prize, then darted off down the alley and
vanished around the corner.