Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (50 page)

Lethari guessed the city’s cheer had been wasted on Cean and
his riders, who had probably arrived with great noise and fanfare. Then someone
recognized him, and the sparsely filled streets turned icy. ‘
Sand-killer
,’
they shouted. ‘
Pale-brother
,’ and ‘
coward-betrayer
,’ they called
him.

Lethari rode on, shamed on behalf of those who rode with him.
He tried to ignore the hecklers, but he could think only of their insults.
Word
spreads quickly
, he thought, wishing for home. Wishing for Frayla, and
solitude.

It was a long ride to the base of the mountainside, where the
city’s tiered dwellings rose before them like steps on a giant staircase.
Though Lethari longed for his household, it was customary for a warleader to
report to the master-king upon his return. He wheeled Teibast to face the
fifty-or-so who remained with him, having it in mind to express some form of
gratitude. Ceallach Golandi, the shaman; Amhaziel Bilmadi, the soothsayer;
Luchlais Haredin, the tracker and scout; Eoghan Teleri, the herdsman; Aerlan
Relisteri, the warrior who had found Lethari’s sword in the ocean; Joarim
Beisar, his treasurer; Koiras and Frathair, his tent guards. Familiar faces,
all. They had remained faithful to the end, though Lethari did not doubt some
had been tempted otherwise. Covered in dust, they watched him and waited.

Lethari dismounted, handed his reins to Eoghan Teleri, and
adjusted the sword on his back. He was prepared to lay Tosgaith at Tycho
Montari’s feet if it came to that. He stood there for a time, searching for
words. The words would not come. When he spoke, all he could say was, “You are
free to return home to your families.”

No sooner had he spoken than he wished he could’ve
articulated how grateful he was for all they’d done. They had been through much
together, and they deserved better from the master they had followed across so
many horizons. Perhaps it was time for them to serve someone new, after all.

The mouth of the master-king’s
luchair
yawned before
him. Lethari steeled himself for what was to come. As his
feiach
disbanded, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be the last time he
would ever lead such a force. This was the end of an era, and of his honored
position among the high households of the
calgoarethi
.

He willed himself to take that first step into darkness, but
he could not. Guilt gnawed at him, fiercer than ever. Over the past few days he
had begun to believe what everyone was saying. He knew Cean had spread lies
about the circumstances of Sig’s death, yet his belief in his own innocence was
wearing thin.
Sigrede asked me to take his pain
, Lethari reminded
himself. Did that make it right? It wasn’t fair that he be judged as a
murderer, but if so many thought he had done the wrong thing, didn’t that mean
he had?

A hand fell onto his shoulder. “Lethari. Will you be
alright?” It was Luchlais Haredin.

Lethari shook himself from his trance. For the first time in
a long time, he didn’t know the answer to that question. He said so.

“Forgive my disrespect, master, but… is it true, what they
are saying?”

“I am a fool for what I have done. I made myself believe my
intentions were pure, but that is not so.”

The tracker inched away from him, looking less comfortable
than before. “Then may the master-king find reason to grant you his mercy.”

How could he find mercy for me when I cannot find it for
myself?
Lethari wanted to say. The great deeds he’d done in the
master-king’s name seemed small and faraway in comparison to the future looming
before him. “Whatever his judgment, I will submit to it.”

Luchlais gave a grunt, as if making up his mind. “You have
been a good warleader. Brave, and honorable. The king will not forget that.”

Lethari hoped he was right. “Farewell, Luchlais.”

It was time to go. Lethari would not delay it any longer. The
feiach
was still dispersing behind him as he pushed himself forward and
entered the palace of his king. All grew dark, until the ancient halls shone
only with torchlight. The echoes of his men outside came to him even after he
was deep within, yet all he could hear above that clamor was the swelling pulse
of his own heart.

CHAPTER 42

Showdown

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t feel a daggum blasted
thing…”

“Not a thing,” Toler said. “This is the second time in about
three months I’ve been miraculously healed from a debilitating injury. It’s
coffing incredible.”

Lokes rubbed his stubbled chin. “Ain’t you a lucky bastard.”

“I didn’t used to think so.”

“Well, start thinkin’ so. The fates is on your side, kid.
Don’t know why or how, but you’re one big steaming sack of good luck.”

“Seems to me we ought to keep him with us,” Weaver said.

Lokes nodded. “That’s the plan, for now.”

The three travelers had retreated from the old church to
spend the night at a local inn and watering hole called The Attic. It was
almost midnight, and they were hunched over a round bar table on bolted-in
stools, nursing pints of homemade brew in dirty glasses. Starlight filtered
through narrow floor-length windows, casting the smoky room in a silver glow beneath
the arched, exposed-beam ceiling.

“Mind filling me in on the rest of your plan?” Weaver asked,
knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Rest of the plan ain’t changed,” Lokes said. “We make for
the western outskirts first thing in the morning. Take us a day or two to get
there, ‘specially if we come across any unexpected roadblocks on account of all
them earthquakes we been having. We get Shep home to Unterberg, then turn north
over the Clayhollows and never look back.”

“You’re really not scared of this Fink dway at all?” Toler
asked. “I think you might benefit from a healthy fear of someone like that.”

“Naw, I ain’t scared of him,” Lokes said with a scowl. “Shit,
Shep. You still don’t know me very good, do you?”

“You’ve been shitting bricks about him ever since we got
here, hoping you’d earn the hardware to pay him back before he found you. Now
you’ve got the chance and you’re doing just the opposite. No offense, but
that’s just plain stupid. Actually, I hope you do take offense to that. You’re
an idiot.”

Lokes took a sip of his brew, wiping foam off his mustache.
“You really think so, huh?” he said, eyeing him. “You too, Jal?”

Toler nodded.

“Coff it, Will. Yes. Yes I do. I been trying to tell you that
this entire time.”

Lokes leaned back on his barstool, stretching his spine and
inhaling deeply. “Alright,” he grunted. “That’s the way y’all want it, I’ll
tell you what. I’m gonna go against my gut and let you have this one. We stop
by the Scorpion’s Uncle on our way outta town and drop a load of hardware on
ol’ Fink. But I’m telling you right now… he and his posse pull some kinda funny
business on account of us showing up late, I ain’t taking no responsibility for
it.”

Weaver clapped her hands, relieved and grateful to him for
finally doing the right thing. Maybe her influence—nagging or otherwise—was
making an impact on him. “That’s it, then. Just one simple transaction and we
can put this all behind us.”

“Let’s hope it’s simple. They come up on us guns blazing,
you’ll wish you’d done things my way.”

Weaver was feeling good when they paid their tab and left the
bar—the first time she’d felt good in days. They crossed the hall to their
respective rooms and said goodnight. Weaver and Lokes had actually agreed on
something today: renting Toler his own room. For her, it was an attempt to make
him feel less like a captive and more like a travelling companion. For Lokes,
it was an excuse to engage in some long-overdue lovemaking.

In spite of Weaver’s every forecast to the contrary, the sex
was good. Great, even. The thought of setting things right with Fink and the
old gang put her mind at ease, melting off the stress she’d bottled inside
through months of looking over her shoulder everywhere they went. Though the
city was far from her favorite place, she let her hair down and focused her
newfound serenity on giving Lokes the sort of night he’d been wanting.

The bed was comfortable, and she slept soundly even though
the sheets were musty with stale smoke. In the morning she was pleasantly sore
in all the right places. Lokes grabbed her as she tried to get out of bed and
pulled her down for one last round before they left their room.

Lokes wasn’t about to shell out for a third horse, so Toler
walked. Weaver offered to let him ride Meldi a few times, but Toler always
refused. “I’ve got my legs back,” he’d say. “Might as well use them.”

Around mid-morning, Weaver noticed Lokes rubbing his earlobe,
a nervous habit he exhibited before broaching an uncomfortable topic. Since few
topics ever made Lokes uncomfortable, she knew this must be a big one.

“So, uh… what happened to you back there, Jal? What did you
see when you fell over?”

Weaver didn’t want to think about what she’d seen, much less
talk about it. “In the mall, or outside the church?” she asked.

“Either or. Was it the same thing both times?”

She spent a moment collecting her thoughts. “It was a little
different each time. But they both felt the same. The first time, in the mall,
I saw this… opening. Everything around me was this big gaping wound.
Whitewashed. Then pieces started falling away, turning black. But behind the
black, there was life. Color.”

Lokes grunted, wrinkled his lips. “How ‘bout the second
time?”

“The second time was similar as far as what I saw. The way I
felt
,
though… that was different. The world was dying around me. Funny thing was, I
wanted it. I mean I really
wanted
it. Didn’t feel like it was my idea,
neither. Felt like something was making me want it. Making me believe it was
good.”

“Making you believe the end of the world was good…” Lokes
said skeptically.

“It sounds crazy. I know.”

“Crazy like a desert fox. Ain’t nobody ever said you was a
scholar, Jal. Never understood them guilders and all that mumbo jumbo they was
always spouting off. Peace and balance and tranquilitude, and all that.”

Weaver tried not to be hurt. She tried not to be angry. She
and Lokes had been getting along so well since the old church. She’d assumed
facing down death and escaping with his life against the odds had knocked
something loose in that thick skull of his, but apparently she’d overestimated
him. “Yep. Just a bunch of weirdo freaks,” she mumbled.

The narrow lanes leading to the Scorpion’s Uncle, with their
towering brick walls and tiny window ledges overlooking the asphalt, made
Weaver feel boxed in. Any one of those windows could be hiding Lally McNally,
or Keeton Dunn, or Pretty Portia LeMeire. Much as she tried to keep her mind
off it, Weaver could only think about two things: what a terrible place this
was to get ambushed; and that she hoped they’d see Fink before Fink saw them.

Lokes dismounted in front of the pub and handed Gish’s reins
to Toler. He checked his sweeties and went inside. Waiting for him to reemerge
spanned three of the most grueling minutes of Weaver’s life; more grueling than
waiting outside the collapsed highway tunnel had been. There at least she’d
been safe; here, she was a sitting duck. Every moment, she was sure a gunshot
would be the next thing she would hear.

There was no gunshot. Lokes removed his hat and wiped his
brow as he came out into the daylight, shaking his head. “Gone,” he said.
“Coffers are gone. Got a tip on ‘em, though. Fella inside says they’re hiding
out in the old steel mill, ‘leven or twelve blocks thataway.”

Weaver sighed. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

Lokes hesitated. “Fella also said Fink was a mite vexed when
he left here last night.”

“I’d reckon he would be. Let’s go cheer him up with some
hardware.”

Lokes ran a hand through his hair. “Look, Jal. I know you
want to make amends and all. I know it gets you tickled pink, me bein’ the good
dway for once.”

“Will, we’re doing this—”

“Hear me out, woman. Hear me out. You know how you get them
feelings sometimes? Feelings like something ain’t right?”

“Yeah, and most of the time they’re legit.”

“Well I never get them feelings, but I got one now. Don’t you
think that’s a little odd?”

“Will,” she said. “Everything’s gonna be fine. We pay up. We
leave. Simple. Kid stuff.”

Weaver saw something in Lokes’s eyes that she’d never seen
there before: fear, genuine and profound. She’d been afraid plenty, and had
never hesitated to let him know. Scared or not, they’d always overcome every
obstacle—together. She assured herself this time would be no different.

The dilapidated remains of a railway track ran alongside the
Jethartia Steel Mill, vanishing into gravel where scavengers had pilfered its
wooden ties and steel rails. A gigantic warehouse with blown windows housed the
mill’s machine shop, while a scaffolding of rusted pipes and girders snaked
around its four towering blast furnaces.

“This place used to produce all the shipping crates for my
family’s business,” Toler said proudly. “Never been here before. Kind of
interesting to think about all the shit they made here, though.”

“Ain’t this place sorta big for a posse the size of Fink’s?”
Weaver asked.

“More room to hide,” Lokes said, fingering one of his
sweeties.

“Will,” Toler said. “Would you believe me if I promised to be
on your side in case shit goes bad?”

Lokes studied Toler with a slow, one-eyed wince. “Shep, I
done picked you up and carried you when you couldn’t walk. I put your horse to
rest. I fed you all through the desert, taught you a thing or two about
shootin’, and introduced you to the best reloader in this here city. I figure
by now you owe me a few. So if you
ain’t
on my side, you better let me
know now, ‘cause that means you a rotten dway through and through.”

Toler smirked. “Fair enough. I’ll help you if you give me a
weapon.”

“Aw, see, now you’re just—”

A gunshot rang out, interrupting Lokes mid-sentence. His neck
opened above the clavicle, and a red shower doused Gish’s rear end and
spattered to the ground behind. Lokes grunted, touched the top of his shoulder,
pulled his hand away wide-eyed. He drew both sweeties with sticky red fingers,
swaying as he scanned the skyline for a target he couldn’t find. The fiendsight
may have made him sharp-eyed in the dark, but in broad daylight his sight was
the same as any other man’s.

Weaver heard the
click-clock
of a lever-action
carbine, followed by the hollow jingle of the ejected shell bouncing across a
steel grate.
Not too far off, then
, she thought, spurring Meldi forward.
Toler grabbed Gish’s reins and followed her behind one of the derelict
railcars, a silver tanker with a green-and-blue Shalemoth Petrol logo stamped
on its side.

“Did you see them?” she asked, dismounting. “Did you see
where the shooter was?”

Toler helped her pull Lokes off his horse and prop him
against the tanker’s wheels.

Lokes coughed up a mouthful of blood and let it dribble down
his chin. “Aw, shit, Jal. I done told you—this’d happen. I done…
told
you.” His words were mere outlines, damp whispers of his fears come to life.
When he coughed, blood leaked from the wound in his neck.

“Fink,” Weaver screamed, tears bursting forth unbidden.
“Coffing Fink.” She dug her hands into the dirt—split fingernails, hard
knuckles, soft skin and all. The Guild’s teachings went out the window;
neutrality and balance uprooted from lifelong habit and became twisted
abominations of themselves, far removed from their former context.
Death for
retribution’s sake, and a thousand could never pay for the first
.

This time
, she promised,
they will. Whether Lokes
lives or not, they’ll pay
.

Sand rose from the dust like flecks of gold through a
prospector’s sieve. Precious. Every grain was precious. From cracks in
pavement; from drifts left by the recent sandstorms; from every curb and cleft
for hundreds of fathoms around, Weaver found the grains and lifted them into
the air.

Meanwhile, Toler took up Lokes’s revolvers, unconcerned with
the blood coating the handles. He was no deadeye like Lokes, but Weaver
would’ve guessed he was a decent shot. “We should get out of here,” Toler said.
“Will needs help.”

Weaver didn’t have time to respond.

A voice as cracked and dry as the light-blanched railroad
ties behind them shouted from the steel mill. “That you, Jallika? No need for a
sandstorm, sweetheart. Why don’t y’all come on out now and show yourselves?
This’ll all go a lot easier for you that way.”

She was still holding up the cipher, millions of grains of
sand hanging in the air like stars waiting to come to life. “We’re here to pay
Fink,” she yelled back. “That’s all. There wasn’t no need to get violent.”

“My mistake. Thought you all was somebody else.”

“He’s lying,” Toler said. “You know how long you’ve got to
look down the barrel of a carbine to sight someone in at that distance? Whoever
he is, he had plenty of time to figure out who it was. He was aiming for Will’s
heart. That, or his head. Either way, he was trying for the kill shot.”

Weaver nodded. “How you holding up, Will?”

“Seen worse,” he said with a grunt. “Pretty sure my neck
bone’s coffed, though. Don’t s’pose I could get me a hot touch from that friend
of yours at the old church.”

Toler shook his head. “That key might’ve gotten us in once,
but that’s all the luck we’re going to get with them.”

“Come on out, Ms. Weaver,” said another voice. It was Fink
this time, she knew. “Let’s settle this nice and civil-like, shall we?”

“First put your weapons down, or you’re asking for a whole lot
of pain,” Weaver shouted back.

A pause.

“Certainly,” Fink said. “You heard her, gang. Lower your
weapons.”

“Don’t do it, Jal,” Lokes said. “Don’t you do it.”

“I’m with Will,” Toler said. “Don’t trust him. There’s no
reason we need to risk our necks for this dway. Just leave the hardware on the
ground here and let’s go.”