Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (41 page)

“Long as you’re in the city south, we’ll keep eyes on you,”
said Eldridge.

Merrick didn’t know whether to feel protected or threatened.
He gave them a wave and started back toward the travel agency, mulling over the
implications of the savages’ plans. A woman caught his eye.

She was facing away from him, standing in a circle with three
other men and women who were settling down to cook their evening meal. He could
see the shape of her through her tattered clothes, and he liked what he saw. It
wasn’t the first time one of his followers had struck his fancy. Without a
barracks to return to, or a curfew to live by, he was free to do as he liked.
He had his appetites, after all.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned, recognized him, and smiled. Her teeth were
crooked, sour with the beginnings of rot, and her nose was too big. But that
shape… and the way she was looking at him through those pale green-gray eyes
hinted with gold. The savages and the Decylumites and the Scarred could wait,
he decided. Hundreds of squalid disciples were wrapped around his little
finger, and he was enjoying himself too much to let a few fateful strokes put a
damper on his day. She was there, and that was all he needed to forget
everything that had been bothering him.

“My name’s Merrick,” he said.

“I know who you are. I’m Hylda.” Her voice was sweet, pitched
high and soft as velvet.

Merrick smiled back at her, his most cunning smile. “Well,
Hylda… how would you like to be healed tonight?”

CHAPTER 33

Shelter From the Storm

The rain came down in buckets, but the storm was far
from Toler Glaive’s biggest concern. He gave the reins one last flick to guide
Seurag through the empty glass doors of Bollard’s department store and into the
hollows of a vast room cluttered with bent clothing racks and rusty hangers. No
sooner had they entered than the horse lifted his head and began to huff.

Toler gave him a comforting pat on the neck. “Calm down now,
kid. Nothing to be afraid of in here.” The store was dark, and it stank of
decay and disuse. Toler didn’t blame the animal for being wary of the enclosed,
unfamiliar space. “It’s alright, old boy. Let’s find a spot to get you rubbed
down.”

Seurag’s hooves clicked on the laminate as they followed the
walking lanes past rectangles of bare carpet run through with brown water
stains. Fallen mannequins stared up from shabby display platforms; Toler saw
his fragmented reflection in columns wrapped in shattered mirror panes. At one
intersection, broken glass bathed the ruins of several sales counters beside a
torn poster of a makeup model sagging in its frame. He guided Seurag around a
pool of standing water, where a depression in the floor had begun to collect
rain through a leak in the ceiling.

The starwinds were making Toler’s whole body ache, but even
worse than that was the beating the savages had given him after his attempt on
Lethari Prokin’s life.
The warleader should be dead. I should’ve waited
until after his captain had come and gone
.

When he found a dry, clean spot to rest for the night, Toler
dismounted, groaning at the movement. His head was pounding for want of a
smoke, and a good stiff drink might’ve helped his hands to stop shaking. A bite
to eat wouldn’t have been bad, either. His mind clicked from craving to craving
in a never-ending rhythm.
Smoke. Drink. Food. Smoke. Drink. Food
.

Stripping down to his underclothes—which were still dry,
thank the fates—he hung his hood-scarf and leathers across a maimed old
clothing rack and rubbed Seurag dry to keep the rain rash away. Then he slumped
to a seat on the bench outside the fitting rooms. The sentyle cushion stuck to
his skin like warm leather. He peeled himself up and kicked in each of the
fitting room doors to make sure there were no tramps inside waiting to jump out
at him.

When he emerged, Seurag was wandering the dark expanse,
lowering his head and raising it again as if confused about the lack of grass.
After a moment, the horse returned to the pool of water near the sales counters
and began to drink. Toler considered pulling him away, but thought better of
it. “Get your fill while you can, old boy. You’d better hope that stuff isn’t
carrying parasites.”

He spent some time searching the area and came back with a
few scraps of lumber, a metal lampshade, and some shreds of cotton and dry
paper. He used his striker to build a small fire, then managed to scoop some of
the water into the lampshade and get it boiling. The rubbed nickel finish gave
off a noxious smell when he heated it, but he was so thirsty he didn’t care.

After boiling off what he hoped were any impurities, he
stirred and blew on the water until it was cool enough to drink. He gulped it
down, refreshed to feel something wet in his mouth that wasn’t his own blood.
He tried to remember the taste of whiskey, but the sour bite of the acidic
rainwater washed the memory away. What he would have given in that moment for a
pinch of tobacco. Just a pinch…

He was trying to remain optimistic under the circumstances,
but the plain truth was that he had never been so miserable. Lokes and Weaver
had dragged him here for nothing. If he’d been successful in taking Lethari to
meet the fates with him, the trip wouldn’t have been a total loss. But he had
succeeded only in being sent home to deliver a threat; to serve as a conduit
for the savages’ intimidation tactics.

At least Daxin is dead
, he reminded himself. He’d
expected to feel remorse or grief in some small way when his brother died,
whether it was by his hand or someone else’s. Instead he felt relief, and a
profound disappointment that he hadn’t been the one to strike the blow himself.
He wondered what Daxin had done to meet his end; who he had wronged or
slighted, and how.

The downside to Daxin’s death was that Savannah was now
alone. The thought made Toler sick to his stomach. Maybe that was just the
water. Or the starwind sickness. Or the hunger. Or the withdrawal. Strange that
the death of his brother was the only good thing that had happened to him in
recent memory; the only consolation he could claim amid his otherwise-ruined
life.

There was one other consolation, though. The Glaive Estate
was his. The shipping yard and its stacks of crates; the house, library, and
storage rooms; the pastures, and the herds of livestock. Bradsleigh was as
idyllic a town as the Inner East had to offer… which was why he never wanted to
go back again.
Maybe I can convince Savannah to come live with me in
Unterberg
, he thought.
She’ll be safer there than out on the frontier by
herself. We can sell the house, commission the shipping yard as an off-site
supply depot for Vantanible, and auction off the livestock piecemeal
.

No, Savvy would never go for that
. She was more
open-minded than her father, certainly. But she still felt some sense of
nostalgia toward the place; some shred of loyalty to the Glaive family’s
heritage. She would see the value in keeping the estate together for future
generations.
It’s not her decision, though. It’s mine. And if it makes the
most sense to liquidate everything, I won’t let her dissuade me
.

Toler wasn’t sure that was the truth. He didn’t
need
to sell the property. If Savannah objected strongly, he would appoint her
caretaker of the estate and let her stay. “One thing’s for sure, old boy,” he
said aloud. “We need to get ourselves out of here. Question is, do we head west
when the rain stops, or south? Go home and try to explain all this to Nichel,
or try our luck with Savvy?”

As if in answer, Seurag whickered softly. He lifted his head
and cocked his ear, listening. Toler heard it then; a noise from deeper on
inside the store. Beyond the sales counters, Bollard’s ended and the Plaza
Overlook Shopping Mall began. A pair of crippled escalators led up to the
second floor, where an open balcony overlooked the first. Something had begun
making a racket up there.

Toler glanced around for something he might use as a weapon.
The lampshade was his best option, and that a poor one. He checked his leathers
to make sure they were dry before pulling them on.
Whose home have I
wandered into?
he wondered.

Outside, the rain was still coming down in torrents. Sheets
of inch-deep water flooded the sidewalks. Going out there now would only get
him and Seurag a bad rash and a haircut each.

He saddled Seurag and mounted, giving the gelding a nudge
with his heels. They circled the broken sales counters and approached the
escalators. The noises from upstairs had increased in volume; growls and
grunts, clicks and scrapes, all echoing down over the balcony railing.

Toler considered his options again for a moment before giving
Seurag a reassuring pat and starting up the escalator. He clung to the saddle
horn as the old gelding took the stairs without objection. Seurag had been
sacked out a thousand ways and was used to the kinds of strenuous demands
placed on animals who worked the trade routes. When they got close to the top,
Toler could see a tussle going on further along, where a ramp and a few short
staircases bordered a sunken seating area on the mall’s second level. Skylights
cast the far end of the concourse in a rain-smattered glow, but the distance
between Toler and the sunken tract was shrouded in near-darkness.

There were animals fighting over the carcass of a bird, black
feathers still floating in the air around them. Seurag ascended the last few
steps and came to a stop as he caught wind of the beasts. There was movement
ahead, and the long slender muzzle and pale yellow eyes of a full-grown desert
jackal came into view. A second set of eyes joined the first, slate gray and
glimmering in the darkness. A third jackal appeared, closer still.

Just some scavengers squabbling over a kill
, Toler
thought with relief. “You go on now,” he shouted. “Git. Get you gone. Git.” He
waved his arms, but the animals didn’t flee. He glanced with dismay at the
empty place beside his saddle where his quiver of javelins should’ve been.

Seurag gave a shiver and backed a few steps.

“It’s alright, kid,” Toler whispered, rubbing the horse’s
neck. “They’re not going to mess with us. They’re more afraid than we are.”

The largest of the jackals loped forward a few paces. A growl
rose in its throat, long and flat and guttural. The golden-gray fur on its neck
stood on end as it lowered its head, lips curling back in a snarl.

“Aw, quit your fussing,” Toler said. He fiddled around in his
pockets until he came across a coin-sized rock, the last one remaining from his
competition with Lokes. He tossed it in hand to gauge its weight. “Don’t make
me use this,” he warned, as if the animal might understand. “I’ll bean you a
good one. Don’t think I won’t.”

The other two jackals joined the first, baring their fangs
and arching their backs. Toler glanced over his shoulder at the long drop down
the escalator, then checked his other possible routes of escape. He could try
to wheel Seurag and take him down, a daunting proposition even for an
experienced horse like him. Or he could try his luck with the wide balcony
skirting the storefronts to his left and right, though this section of the
upper floor appeared unstable at best.

From somewhere behind the jackals there came a whimpering
sound. A furry pup waddled up the ramp on ponderous legs to stand between its
mother’s paws. Three more pups scrambled after the first, yipping and wrestling
for position. The jackals didn’t back down, which meant they were unlikely to
do so unless Toler could manufacture a loud noise or half a dozen copies of
himself.

He was still considering his options when another shape
emerged from the gloom. This one was different from the others. It rose up from
the recesses, first a head, then a pair of shoulders and the broad barrel of a
chest. The silhouette of a man, standing in shadow, contoured in thick fur
rather than skin or fabric, with the same gray-yellow eyes as its canine
companions.

Those eyes… Could it be…? No
. Fear struck Toler like a
hard slap. He’d seen all manner of beasts and beings in his time on the wastes,
but nothing like this. It might’ve been a brengen but for the slender shape of
its body.
A man who runs with jackals? A man raised by them? Or a jackal
who’s become a man?

Whoever or whatever it was, the man stood still while the
jackals continued to growl. Seurag had run alongside packs of wild dogs in the
desert, seen battles with the great western hounds of the Clayhollows, and
faced off against fierce mountain cats in the scrubs and foothills. But Toler
had never seen the old bay this afraid. The horse shuffled on his feet, ears
twitching and head bucking.

“Hush, Seurag. Be still, kid.” Toler’s soothing was no use.
He decided he’d better dismount before he was thrown to his death. He came down
slowly, trying not to spook the horse, trigger the jackals, or provoke a
reaction from that
thing
standing behind them. Seurag’s breath was
coming in huffs and snorts, his movements rough and restless.

The man-creature raised its arm. The jackals ceased their
growling. Toler turned the rock in his hand, sliding it into a throwing grip.
Rain beat down on the roof outside, throwing swirled wet patterns onto the
concourse’s distant wall.

“Hey,” Toler shouted. “Who are you?”

The man didn’t move. Neither did the jackals. Even the pups
stopped their playing to stare at him.

“
Who are you?
I said. What do you want?”

No response.

Toler eyed the balcony to his left, far from sold on its
structural integrity. Still, it looked better than the stretch of balcony to
his right. Deciding it his best chance, he took a step in that direction.
Neither the jackals nor the man moved a hair, and for a moment it was as if
they’d turned to stone. When one of the animals licked its lips and let its
tongue loll out, Toler knew they were only waiting. For what, he couldn’t say.

He tried another step and found it a success. He began to
lead Seurag after him, turning left along the balcony in detour from the pack
waiting down the wide hallway. One of the jackals gave a start as if to bolt
after them, but the man flexed his fingers and the animal halted, whining.
Toler continued across the mall’s wide upper floor, where faded signs hung over
The Shoe Shack, Mandy’s Candies, Fashion Hub, and Windmere Jewelers. He guided
Seurag along until he heard a grinding noise and felt the ground move beneath
him.

Another earthquake?
he wondered. No, it was worse than
that; the floor was shifting. When he turned back, the yellow-eyed man was
gone. The adult jackals were fighting over the dead raven again, the pups
playing and wrestling. Had the man been an illusion? Some trick of the
half-light, or a shadow cast by one of the mall’s decorative artificial plants?
The building
was
drafty from all its holes and leaks. Maybe Toler was
just getting tired, or hallucinating, thanks to any number of the ailments
racking his body.

“We’ve got to get moving, kid,” he told Seurag.

At the far end of the second-floor balcony was an exit to the
outside, where a concrete walkway extended to the mall’s parking deck. Beside
the exit stood another department store, Victor & Yancey. If Toler could
make it to the parking deck, he could shelter there for the night. Maybe there
were other buildings across the street he could move to. It would be a hassle
to get wet again, but it beat sleeping in here.
I’ll take my chances with
the rain
, he decided.