Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (29 page)

Toler took his first rock in hand, tossing it to get a sense
of the weight, rubbing it with his thumb to feel its shape. Before making his
throw, he glanced at Lokes. “Ready?”

Lokes stood poised for action, feet spread and shoulders
square to his target. How like an artist he was with those guns, his fingers
just shy of tickling their ivory grips. “Mm,” he said with a subtle nod.

Toler brought his arm back and let fly, nice and easy.

Lokes drew and fired.

The rock clunked against the cactus.

Weaver strained to look, but from so far away it was hard to
tell whether Lokes’s shot had hit. Jogging over, she held up a hand to pause
the proceedings. There was a nick in the right side of the cactus flesh where
the bullet had grazed it. “Hit,” she declared. “Bullet before the stone.”

Lokes raised his chin and slipped two fingers along the brim
of his hat, impressed with himself.

“You’re not bad,” said Toler.

“Not bad? Not—” Lokes interrupted himself and resumed his
stance. “Do the next one.”

Weaver got out of the way.

Again Toler let the stone fly in a lofting arc, and again
Lokes drew and fired. A direct hit this time, Lokes’s bullet put a hole in the
cactus’s trunk and sent a spray of pale green flesh out the back.

“That’s two for Will,” said Weaver.

On the third attempt, Lokes’s bullet struck the arm of the
cactus, while Toler’s throw landed yet another solid thump, right in the
center.

“Hit.”

“His doesn’t count,” said the shepherd. “The arms are a
miss.”

“I hit the coffin’ thing,” said Lokes. “That’s all you said
we had to do.”

“Just give it to him, honey,” Weaver advised. “You’re up two
to one. Two more and he loses.”

“We’ve got the left side to go after this,” Toler reminded
her.

“Alright, five more, then. That’s nothin’ my man can’t do.”

But on the fourth attempt, Toler sent the stone hurtling
toward his target with a quick sidearm throw. Lokes was fast, but even Weaver
had to admit she saw the rock bounce off the cactus’s stem before his bullet
exploded through the tip. A brief argument ensued, but the point ultimately
went to Toler.

Angered, Lokes missed his fifth shot completely. The cactus
had proven to be just far enough downrange to pose a challenge for him.
This
shepherd is a clever fella
, Weaver decided. But Willis Lokes was the best
deadeye she knew, and he wouldn’t go down that easy.

“Alright, you can throw, Shep. I’ll give you that,” Lokes
finally admitted.

Toler smirked. “You ever meet a shepherd who couldn’t throw?”

“Nah, don’t reckon I have.”

“That’s because they’re all dead.”

“You want that liquor somethin’ awful, don’t you? Well I
ain’t givin’ you shit, Shep. Throw.”

Toler sent his sixth rock speeding toward the cactus, but
Lokes got his shot off faster this time. If only he had anticipated the
shepherd’s true motive, he would’ve reacted sooner. The moment the stone left
Toler’s hand, he reached down and slipped the second revolver from its holster
on Lokes’s left hip, then stepped behind him, smooth as snakeskin.

“Nice shot,” Toler said, as Lokes’s bullet sent a chunk of
cactus spinning away. He pressed the barrel to Lokes’s neck and gave him a
nudge. “Now, I’ll take that, if you please.”

Lokes raised his now-empty revolver and let the shepherd
snatch it from his hand.

“Why don’t you go stand over there with your lady friend?”
Toler asked, too nicely. He prodded Lokes with the gun barrel, then followed
him to where Weaver was standing. “Shoulder to shoulder, if you don’t mind.”

They obeyed.

Toler came around behind her. “Forgive me for this,” he said,
and began to pat her down. She could smell the sweat on both men—Toler’s
especially, now that he was close. She tried not to cringe as his hands slid
down her armpits and over her hips, down the inside of her thighs and across
her stomach and backside.

He gave Lokes the same treatment, then told them both to lay
down on their stomachs and lace their fingers behind their heads. This was a
mistake, though the shepherd didn’t know it yet. Lokes gave her a furtive smile
as they knelt and slid belly-first onto the ground. Weaver turned onto her
cheek so she could watch the shepherd gather the horses and load their water
and supplies onto his old gelding.

When he was done, Toler gave Meldi and Gish each a smack on
the rump to send them trotting away into the scrub. “Thanks for trying to
protect me,” he said, “but my brother doesn’t run my life, and neither do you.
Jallika Weaver and Willis Lokes, was it? I’ll make sure the town guard get your
names and descriptions so they can post notices around town. If you ever come
back to Unterberg, I’ll see you both thrown out on your asses. That, or I’ll
turn you over to Mr. Vantanible so he can arrange something more creative.”

Weaver lay there patiently, waiting for the right moment. As
soon as Toler turned to step into the saddle, she put her palms to the ground.
The shepherd got one foot into the stirrup before the ground caved in beneath
his other boot. He fell backwards, kicking his horse in the flank.

The animal bolted, leaving him to flounder in the sucking
knee-deep sandhole that had enveloped his leg. Lokes was on his feet, sprinting
over to rescue his precious sweeties from the shepherd’s possession. When he’d
reclaimed them, he flipped one into the air and caught it by the barrel,
bringing the butt down on Toler’s head with a crack.

“Turns out you ain’t so clever after all, Shep,” he shouted,
enraged. He gave the shepherd another crack on the skull, harder this time.
“You ever touch my lady like that again, I’ll skin you alive. Don’t care how
much hardware I gotta lose to do it.”

Weaver supposed Lokes could be sweet sometimes, in his own
way. If threatening another man’s life was how he thought it best to defend her
honor, let him. He certainly had no qualms about doing so.

The shepherd fell back, his leg still buried, trickles of
blood starting down the side of his forehead. He could only give Lokes a dazed
stare before the breath went out of him and his eyes slipped shut.

Weaver got up and dusted herself off. She checked the
shepherd’s pulse, then gasped as Lokes pulled her into his arms and kissed her
hard. His stubble grated on her mouth and chin, but she didn’t resist him.

“Now
that
was a beautiful piece of work,” he told her
with a grin.

She felt foolish for letting things get out of hand, but if
Lokes was happy, their little debacle hadn’t been a total loss. A part of her
pitied the shepherd. He’d tried so hard to get away, clearly uncomfortable with
the prospect of seeing his brother.
I know how much you must hate me
,
Daxin’s letter had read.
No matter what happens, you’re still my brother,
and I love you
.

If this was Daxin’s attempt at reconciliation, what could he
have done to incite such a fierce hatred in Toler? It wasn’t Weaver’s place to
cast judgment, or even to get involved. Daxin had hired her to protect Toler;
she could accomplish that while remaining neutral in all other matters.

By the time the shepherd came to, they had pulled his leg
from the sandhole and bound his wrists with fresh rope cuffs that allowed him
freer movement. He would be able to attend to his own needs now without their
intervention. Lokes had pulled his spent brass and cleaned it for later reuse.
He knew a good reloader in Belmond who owned a tiny powder milling operation.
It was expensive, but they’d be able to afford it once they delivered the
shepherd to Daxin.

For the first few minutes after he opened his eyes, Toler was
woozy and distant, as if he didn’t remember who or where he was. When the
memory came back to him, he began to curse and shout. He tried to stand, but
his eyes rolled back and he fell over into the sand again.

Weaver had expected him to recover quickly, but as the night
drew on the shepherd’s condition grew worse. By midnight, the skies were awash
in bright colors that lit up the heavens like daytime. The starwinds had never
given Weaver reason for alarm, aside from the fierce storms they often
produced. Lokes sometimes felt his old injuries flaring up, but he rarely
complained about it.

They slept as best they could under the bright lights. When
dawn broke over the horizon, they found Toler lying in a patch of sand wet with
his own vomit. They asked him how he felt, but his responses were delayed and
nonsensical. Lokes tried to provoke him to anger, but even that didn’t work.
Either the starwinds were messing with him, or his symptoms were a reaction to
the blows Lokes had delivered to his head.

“He can’t ride like this,” Weaver insisted.

“We ain’t got time to sit here and wait ‘til he comes around,” Lokes said.

“What do we do?”

“We strap him in, like I said.”

“That won’t work.”

Lokes lifted Toler by the collar and gave him a hard slap.
“You listen here, Shep. I ain’t gon’ show up late on account of you pissing out
on me. Now you get up in that saddle, and you ride. Understand?”

Toler’s head swayed on his shoulders.

Lokes yanked him forward. “Hey. You hear me?”

“I… hear.”

“Good. Get your head screwed in and get on that horse.”

CHAPTER 23

Dark Horse

The starwinds raged, and the
feiach
with them.
Every night shone like the day; every ambush served only to deepen their lust
for blood. Success built upon success, a virtuous cycle borne of limitless
possibility in the eyes of Lethari Prokin and his warriors. It was a time of
great plenty, though the
feiach
’s
numbers dwindled as each group
splintered off for home, and Lethari knew their success could not last forever.

Waves crashed along the western shoreline of Meandering Bay,
where the
feiach
was laid out to begin the noontide meal. Gulls shrieked
over the water, gliding on a cool breeze from the Tideguine. The
feiach
had ventured to the furthest reaches of the Inner East these last weeks,
harrying trade caravans from Pleck’s Mill to Yellow Harbor. They had begun to
encounter the sorts of goods that grew scarce farther north: oils and spices
from Nebulai; sea salt from Bilge Point; fine silks and handmade jewelry from
Dredgewood and Southcape; tea and preserves imported from the Sourlands across
the Tideguine, and dried fish from the Farstrands on the eastern shores of the
Slickwash.

The pale-skin caravans had appeared on time at first, but the
recent storms and earthquakes caused by the starwinds had thrown them off
schedule. The more the
lathcui
deviated from their anticipated routes,
the less reliable the goatskin record became. Other concerns, too, had begun to
plague Lethari Prokin.

Across the camp, Sigrede Balbaressi sat with his men as the
meal was served. Sig’s war stories never lacked for bravado, and today’s was no
exception. The man talked so often it was hard to imagine how he found words to
fill so much empty air. Each time he opened his mouth, Lethari had to stop
himself from cringing. The next word Sigrede spoke might be the one that turned
Lethari’s captains against him.

How could I have let my family persuade me to deceive the
king? I should have seen this ending in guilt and disgrace and known better.
Sigrede has only to say something, and everyone will see I have made a liar of
myself. It is not the fates who smile on me; I am a cheat. I have won victory
only with the help of the record, and in opposition to the master-king’s will
.
Lethari had spent many sleepless nights reflecting on his regrets. He had
convinced himself it was the starwinds that were making his mind sick. Yet
every night, without fail, it was Sigrede his thoughts returned to.

Yesterday, Lethari’s scouts had seen a caravan traveling
southward along the coast from Cowl’s Pier, bound for Yellow Harbor. The
pale-skins would be making camp somewhere near the Arcadian Inlet tonight. With
many of them sickened by the starwinds, the early morning hours would be the
perfect time to strike.

Still, Lethari knew this raid would be different from the
rest. Here on the flat terrain near the ocean, there were no high dunes or
mesas to hide them. The shoreline did offer one advantage, however. Much like a
canyon with one way in and one way out, the beach left the enemy few routes of
escape. Lethari had only to trap them with their backs to the bay; the bay
would do the rest.

The
lathcui
had come to expect open displays of
aggression from the
calgoarethi
. If the
feiach
took them at camp,
they’d have no choice but to stand and fight there on the shore. Lethari split
his warriors into three groups, sending the main force inland to attack the
pale-skin camp from the west while he and his war riders flanked them along the
shoreline from the north. As for the third group, well… the pale-skins would
discover them soon enough.

Only when the rest of the
feiach
had received its
orders and moved out did Lethari and his men set off beneath a colorful
midnight sky. They kept to the beach, galloping against the tides with the
ocean to their left, hooves kicking up wet sand. The black waves reflected the
night’s silvery green like fountains of venom, accompanying them on their dark
errand. They did not slow, even when the caravan’s low-burning fires appeared
in the distance.

The pale-skins had made their camp on the peninsula at the
northern edge of the inlet, taking what they thought was a more defensible
position. This was mostly true, except that they had parked their flatbeds to
form a bulwark around their small patch of land. Now, with many of them in the
midst of a sickened sleep, and with even the early-morning watchmen beginning
to doze, the pale-skins had, without knowing it, sealed their own fate.

Lethari and his riders began to whoop and holler as they
neared the camp. As expected, the alarm went up almost immediately. Men rose from
their sleeping sacks, groggy and fumbling for their weapons. Silhouettes
mounted the flatbeds, crouching in wait with javelins in hand.

Frayla had long been the last thing Lethari thought of before
he met with the enemy in battle. Now it was his unborn child who occupied him
in these brief, thrilling moments. He thought, too, of the powerful man his
father had once been, and he wondered if his son would one day rise to follow
him in that tradition. And yet, if the goatskin allowed him a victory so final that
the pale-skins never recovered, where would his son’s future glory lie?

Jadoda’s long, slender legs churned through the thin sheets
of wave sliding up the beach. With a bloodthirsty scream, Lethari urged her
forward and lifted Tosgaith off his back scabbard. His riders echoed his cry,
one final clamor to strike terror into their enemies’ hearts before they joined
battle at the curved line of flatbeds.

Further inland, the tall sea grasses came alive as a line of
calgoarethi
warriors crested the rise, torches in hand. Sig’s men added their voices to the
call and waved their flames high. The pale-skins caught sight of them and
diverted several of their number away from Lethari’s side, spreading themselves
thinner along the flatbeds. Sig’s riders burst through the grass and came
hurtling across the beach to meet them.

The truest test of the pale-skins’ resolve was still on its
way. Dark shapes in the water, rising from the depths in dressings of seaweed
and starlight, dripping green in the glow of the aurorae. And with every eye
focused on the two groups of approaching riders, the
lathcui
never saw
them coming.

Cean Eldreni and his swimmers had left camp long before
everyone else. They had ridden to the southern end of the inlet and left their
mounts in the care of Eoghan Teleri the herdsman. Stripped down to their
underclothes and short blades, their swim through the cold, deep waves of the
Slickwash had spanned several hours and hundreds of fathoms. These were the
finest and hardiest of Lethari’s warriors; they would swim and fight and die
long before they let their exhaustion take its toll on them.

Lethari saw them emerge from the bay and disappear from view
behind the flatbeds. Seconds later, terrified screams began to fill the night
air, faint beyond the sound of the crashing waves. Lethari watched Sig’s riders
slam into the line of flatbeds, galloping through the gaps to wreak havoc
inside the camp.

He and his riders were nearly there. They veered out to sea,
circling around the last of the flatbeds to avoid them altogether. Though the
animals’ strides slowed in the deeper waters, they turned inland again with the
pale-skins attention fully diverted, as planned. The shepherds atop the nearest
flatbed loosed a volley. Javelins rained down around them, finding rest in
seabed and flesh alike.

As Jadoda trudged through the waves toward shore, a javelin
thudded into her chest. She fell forward mid-stride, dumping Lethari into the
sea and rolling in after him. A wave crashed over him from behind, frigid
waters sweeping in to push him under. The tide sent his body swirling, blinding
him with stinging salt. For a moment, he lost all sense of direction. He
reached out with both hands, searching for air or ground, but neither came. He
tried to draw in a breath, but his mouth filled with seawater.

The wave receded, and his knees touched down on hard sand,
sharp with seashell fragments. He rose, coughing and gasping, and began to
search the churning depths for his sword. Tosgaith was gone.

Around him, men were screaming—some in bloodlust, others in
pain. His riders had broken on the
lathcu
defenders and were swarming
over them. Some were still staggering through the waves, wounded or unseated
from their mounts, heavy in their wet clothing. Sig’s riders were circling the
camp, cutting down the pale-skins who fought them on foot. Shepherds leapt from
flatbed roofs, tackling
calgoarethi
riders and crashing to the sand.

Lethari turned around and knelt in the waves, still searching
for his sword. His fingers passed over sand and seashell, body and blade. But
Tosgaith was nowhere to be found. A spear pierced the water and quivered to
rest half a fathom away.
I will not die with my back to the enemy
, he
vowed.

Pulling the javelin free, he turned and waded toward the
camp. The shepherds were putting up a valiant defense, but their resolve was
weakening. Some had already thrown down their weapons and fled into the night.

Lethari came ashore, soaking wet and breathing heavily, lungs
burning and eyes stinging. Blood shone all around him, glinting purple in the
eerie light. Sig sat high atop his corsil, commanding his men like a true
warrior. Lethari watched him chase down a shepherd and send a low cut across
the man’s back to drive him off his feet.
The glory of tonight’s conquest
belongs to Sigrede alone
, he thought.
He will drink more than usual
during the celebration… and talk more freely as well
.

Lethari ran after him, smacking a shepherd with the butt of
his javelin before flipping it around to drive the point through his throat.
Sigrede was dismounting to finish a shepherd of his own when Lethari reached
him. They were all but alone, the bulk of the battle still raging at the far
edge of the camp. Lethari gripped his spear tighter, studying the hard muscle
beside Sig’s spine.

Sig rolled his victim’s body over with a foot. He knelt and
drew his dirk, placing the blade at the man’s throat. The shepherd caught sight
of Lethari, and his eyes darted over. Sig sprang to his feet and whirled,
swinging the sword he still held in his other hand.

Lethari lifted his javelin to block. Steel rang against
ironwood. “Stop, Sigrede. It is only me.”

Sig lowered his sword. “My master…” he breathed. “You
startled me. You should not have come upon me this way.”

On the ground, metal sang. Lethari cried out, but not before
the pale-skin drove his knife into Sig’s thigh, sending him to one knee. The
shepherd’s next stab was higher, taking Sig in the back this time. Lethari
stepped forward and thrust his spear through the
lathcu
’s gut.

A faint gasp escaped Sig’s lips. The shepherd’s knife, still
embedded in his back, made a rough gnawing sound as he toppled over backward
and landed on it. The tip made a red tent of his shirt.

Lethari twisted his javelin in the shepherd’s belly. The
pale-skin gasped, then fell limp. There was a wet vulgar smell. Lethari ignored
it, kneeling beside his wounded captain. Sig was breathing, his mouth opening
and closing like a fish without water. Lethari cradled his head and looked down
into his eyes.

Sig’s breath was labored, yet somehow his words were the
clearest they’d ever been. “I would never have betrayed you, my Lord Lethari.”

Lethari was astonished. “Do not speak of what may have been.
Only of what is, and what will be.
Oba
, now. I will fetch Ceallach
Golandi to bind your wounds.”

Sig shook his head weakly. “I have served my master to the
end.”

“That was ill-done, my friend,” Lethari admitted, “for your
master serves only himself.”

“When did he stop serving his king?”

“When he began to place the will of others above his own.”

“Then he has served only fear.”

“You are right, Sigrede. Even to the last, you are right.”

“Of course I am right.” Sig smiled, his teeth glistening red.
“Take my pain from me. You must carry your burden alone. I can no longer bear
it with you, my master. My sand-brother.”

Against Lethari’s every wish, tears filled his eyes. He had
not cried since his mother’s death; not when his other captains had met the
fates, or even when Daxin Glaive had died beside him. Maybe the saltwater was
irritating his eyes. He did not think so. “Are we sand-brothers, truly?” he
asked.

Sigrede’s hand found his. “Give me to the fates, my brother.
Tell Shonnie and Harlais I will be with them again.”

Lethari’s hand did not shake as he drew the knife from his
belt. Sigrede nodded. The cut was smooth, and the blood pulsed forth until his
heart ceased its beating.

“What have you done?”

Lethari looked up to find Cean Eldreni standing above him,
dripping with seawater, gaping at Sig’s open throat.

“I have sent Sigrede to meet the fates,” Lethari said, rising
to his feet.

A shepherd emerged from between two nearby flatbeds. He gave
a start when he saw them and ran off into the darkness.

Cean looked from the pale-skin to Lethari, then again at
Sig’s body. “You have killed one of your own, and yet the enemy lives? What is
this treachery?”

“Sigrede was in pain,” Lethari said.

“And yet I stood here and watched you take his life.”

“Then perhaps you also heard him make that request of me. He
was dying, Cean.”

“I heard no such request. I only saw him die by your hand.”

“I tell you again… this shepherd had all but slain him. Turn
him over and see for yourself; see the knife in his back.”

“Stand away,” Cean insisted, jabbing the air with his sword.