The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (12 page)

When he finally felt everything realign and slip back into
place, he remembered to breathe, and found himself feeling queasy. Again he
wished he would pass out, but he never seemed to find his luck where that was
concerned. Though his swollen ankle still throbbed, the pain was duller now.

Ellicia produced a small razor and began to cut long strips of
cloth to use as a soft cast. The razor was dull, making the task all the more
painstaking.

“Here, use this—” Daxin began, his hand going instinctively
to the belt loop again. There was still no skinning knife in its place.

Ellicia glanced at his hand, then looked up at him, searching
his eyes.

“Uh, I have a knife, over in my bag. Somewhere.”

“It’s alright, I’m just about done.” Within a few moments she
had wrapped his foot and ankle, producing an ancient-looking clothespin from
her dress and fastening the end.

“Now, you must be exhausted. I’ll leave you to get some
sleep.”

Daxin looked across the cave to where Eivan and Duffy had
been sitting. They were gone. “No, don’t go yet.”

CHAPTER 12

The Lane Natives

At the far end of the massive clay bridge they called
the Trade Crossing, the world dilated into a winding crossroads. Paths split
off in many directions, terra cotta giving way to brick, cobblestone, ironwood,
and bare earth. Roads latched onto twisting spires, stairs rose to the heights,
and ramps plummeted into the dense fog that shrouded the nethertowns below.

Far beyond the border-wall of the metropolis, where the mists
cleared, Lizneth could see the vast waters of the Zherath Omnekh. Legends said
that the bottom of the sea was alive, shifting and changing and making massive,
vicious waves. It was said that on a quiet night, if you listened hard enough,
you could hear the sea floor groaning as it moved. From where she stood, the
sea’s shimmering black waters looked tranquil, its delicate whitecaps
seductive. Shoreline and fish smells rotted on the breeze while boats tucked
themselves between pleats of wave and staggered forward, their mirrored
lanterns beaming like headlights over the surf. Fisherfolk meandered, the tips
of their tails adorned with vibrant lures and glinting brass hooks.

The expanse above the sea was like an endless hole, dark and
empty, where the roof of the metropolis shrank out of sight. None but the
burrow-kin who ran in tunnels just below the blind-world would ever come close
to it.

The roads were full of travelers. Pushcarts lumbered up
through the mists from the port seaboard, exhaling the stink of glowfish that
blushed with dull neon phosphorescence. There was nobody taking an easy stroll
at the crossroads; everyone seemed to be late for wherever it was they were going.
Lizneth reckoned it must be getting late. Her parents would be worried for her,
but now that she’d had a glimpse of the sea, she couldn’t resist a quick
excursion to the water’s edge.

There was no telling which roads led down to the docks, so
she stopped one of the carters to trade him a fish for her last handful of
mulligraws.

“Food for food, aye. Not a lively swap, is it,” the carter grumbled,
handing her a small bony fish from the back of the cart.

Lizneth almost protested, hungry as she was, but her paltry
payment gave her little right to do so. “Do you know which way will take me to
the sea?” she asked instead.

The pusher furrowed his brow. Tapped his fingers on the cart
handle. Sucked his longteeth. “That way to the docks… that to the cliffside… and
there to the border-wall,” he said finally, pointing out each path with his
tail. The marked confusion on his face gave way to a semblance of certainty.

Lizneth thanked him and started down the path toward the
docks, nibbling on the fish as she descended, spitting the bones over the edge
of the earthen walkway. The soft glowing meat was meager but fresh; bits still
attached to the bones gleamed as they tumbled out of sight. The mists gathered
around her and stole her vision, beads of moisture condensing in her fur.
Though she could smell and hear other pedestrians long before they appeared,
she had to keep her eyes on the path to make sure she didn’t stray too close to
the edge. Faces emerged like spirits from the gloom, and several times she
avoided them only at the last second. The
haick
was thinner down here,
but she found few imprints she liked; the scent patterns were all camouflaged
beneath the aromas of chum and rancid brine.

Soon she could hear water lapping. When she reached the
cobblestone street at the end of the path, the mists plumed over her head like
a great feather cap, leaving a slice of clear air below. Tide puddles dotted
the uneven road and trickles ran in the cracks between the cobblestones. Given
the choice to go either left or right, she went left, griping about her wet
feet until the ramp was out of sight behind her. Her legwraps and the hem of
her cloak were soaked before long.

The walkway along the far edge was lined with low-burning
forged iron lampposts. Their lack of fuel was thanks to the delinquency of
whatever oilers should’ve refilled them days ago. A high wall ran up at a steep
slant from the ground, and it was then that she realized the sound of water was
coming from above. She was below sea level altogether; this was a canal made to
hold floodwaters, built behind the levee that kept the sea from rushing in over
the nethertowns.

The reason the ground was so uneven was that the wide trough
was built on a slope, tilted from one end to the other as a means of funneling
the overflow away from the city. She was outside some nethertown now—one of the
slums where peasants farmed hydroponic paddies, and on which garbage of every
kind was dropped regularly from the metropolis above. She’d tossed away the fish
bones just a few minutes ago and hadn’t thought twice about it.
That fool carter
sent me the wrong way. How could a fish carter not know how to get to the
docks?

Frustrated and still griping, Lizneth wondered if she should
stay and search for another way up to sea level. A cold putrid wind brought
with it the stench of bilge, ruffling her fur as it sighed down the channel.
She thought how strange it was that this street was paved for foot travel,
being that it was part of the drainage system. Returning to the claybridge to
ask someone else for directions seemed like the best thing to do. Just as she
turned to go back, the breeze subsided, and she heard a splash from down the
street. This was followed by a shallow gurgling sound and a gaggle of wheezing
laughter. Curiosity pulled her in its direction.

A rectangular opening, caught by the light of a nearby street
lamp, ducked into the landside wall and shot inward to form an alley of sorts.
By the time she could make it out, someone from within had spotted her. He
stepped into the light and twitched his whiskers. The wind blew again and
carried his
haick
to Lizneth, a pungent odor of infection and unwash.
His fur was patchy gray-black and matted in places with smears of something wet
and tacky. He wore grease-stained canvas and held a knurled cane in his hand.
Lizneth stopped in her tracks and whirled, her curiosity quashed.

“
Oy, se gha
,” he called after her, then said something
else in a low growl she couldn’t quite discern. His voice was scabrous against
the levee walls, and it made her want to walk faster.

Lizneth’s whiskers caught a rush of air as bodies sprang into
motion behind her. Through the stones, she felt the vibrations of four-pawed
footsteps. She glanced over her shoulder and saw three bucks galloping toward
her. The one she had seen was now accompanied by two enormous, savage-looking
brutes. Her cloak billowed out behind her as she dropped to all fours and
darted forward.

“
Veh hijr kiqag kiqae
,” one of them yelled, but she
couldn’t tell which.

I doubt that
, she thought.
And I don’t think I’d
like that very much either.

By the time she looked back again, one of the big ferocious
bucks was already at her heels, slack-jawed and slavering. His broad arms
propelled him forward as the
thump-clack
sound of paw and claw on the cobblestones
drew closer. His snout was etched with deep claw marks, the black of his fur
flat and dull, and he was gaining on her despite a slight limp. Lizneth could
see it in the irregularity of his strides and hear it in the offbeat rhythm of
his footfalls. An old wound on the rear right leg, and one she would keep in
mind if he caught up with her. Easier to aggravate old wounds than make new
ones.

On the tip of a whisker, Lizneth sensed movement at the top
of the sloping wall beside her. Someone was waiting in the shadows. Had the
bucks left a lookout? The path back up to the claybridge came into view ahead, but
her pursuer was so close now that she could feel his breath along every whisker.
Cobblestones flew by beneath her, and with every forward bound the muscles in
her legs tightened. She felt as if the ground were made of paste; that it would
swallow her up and hold her there if she let herself slow.

The tremor she had felt from above became a shape on the wall
top. The shape leapt from behind a moss-covered plinth, pitching a dead line
down the embankment and hurtling straight at her.

She turned her path to angle away from the edge of the slope,
thinking she could avoid them both if she was quick enough. The movement turned
out to be a mistake; it brought her within reach of the thug behind her, and
when one of her hind legs went up, he raked it aside with a heavy paw to throw
her off balance.

The shape shot down the wall, hesitating long enough to let
her go past before making a final vault onto the street. She heard the two
bodies slam together just as her feet tangled and her face struck pavement.

Her shoulder skidded into the rut between two cobblestones,
but the weight of her hindquarters kept coming, throwing her end over end in a
morass of fur and smothering cloak. The world was upside down and turning like
a wheel. Soon the rest of her caught up, and she rolled to a stop. Momentary
stillness swelled into pain, and she let out a long, guttural groan.

Presently she became aware of the squeaking and scuffling of
the two violent masses of fur a few fathoms off. They were tearing at each
other, biting and grating and slapping with tooth and claw and tail. The shape
that had come down from the wall was that of a young bluefur. Amidst the
fighting, all she could see was the outline of his glossy light-gray fur
against the matte black of the brute he was wrestling with.

Lizneth’s arms wanted to move, but she couldn’t make them.
She was helpless to cry out or intervene when the black brute took the upper
hand, pinning the bluefur against the cobblestones. She saw the thug draw his
dirk, and she could only watch as he raised the bluefur’s arm and slid the
blade deep into his chest.

The bluefur squealed, a sound so high and penetrating it made
Lizneth’s stomach churn. The brute released the bluefur and watched him thrash
in his own blood, his claws frisking the hilt, all four limbs fondling the
slicked blade in a desperate hunt for traction. The other two bucks came
scampering up beside the first to spectate; the elder with the cane, and the
second black-eyed brute, a blazed cinnamon with a bearded white snout.

As they all watched, the bluefur managed to get enough of a
grip on the blade to give it a tug. It slipped free and clattered on the stone,
a bloody spout bathing the ground after it. Arching his back into an impossible
contour, the bluefur made a horrifying sound, then withered and curled into a
ball. His chest pulsed with quick, shallow breaths. The black brute stepped
into the crimson lake and took up his dagger.

By now Lizneth could feel her body returning to her. She
twitched a hand to be sure it would respond, then lifted herself up on
wobbling arms and caught the brute’s attention. He gave the bluefur an
uncertain glance before stepping over him and lumbering toward her. It proved
to be his last mistake.

The dagger that appeared in the bluefur’s hand bore a
greenish sludge on its blade. The bluefur opened the brute’s thigh with it as he passed.
The brute yelped in surprise, collapsing as the muscle gave out. No sooner
had the big brute fallen than the bluefur sent the dagger spinning through the air.

The cinnamon’s gut grew a handle, and he toppled over. The elder
twisted his cane and skimmed a flamberge blade from its casing. Lizneth was
already bounding toward him on sore legs. A long, low jump was all it took to
bowl him over, the street’s downward slope putting her high into his chest by
the time she connected.

Her teeth broke the tough skin of his neck and sunk through
flesh with remarkable ease.
Haick
rife with corruption flooded over her,
a more potent rendition of what she’d scented earlier. Tears filled her eyes. She
felt the air move around her midsection as the buck stabbed backward at her in
a series of gainless strokes.

Though he was thin with whatever ailment plagued him, he was
still a buck, and that made him taller and heavier than Lizneth was. She knew
she wouldn’t move him without a little help, and she’d tussled with her
siblings often enough to have experienced the power of leverage before. Yanking
him by the throat, she flung him crosswise over her body. He rolled like a
pillbug, his spine cracking over hers as if they were two gears pairing, and
she dropped a shoulder to fling him hard against the ground on the lower side.
He squawked as the flesh tore free from the side of his neck; the flamberge
skipped away and rattled along the stones. Lizneth gagged, her mouth full of
his sickly black fur and its taint.

“
Se dyagth
,” spat the patch-furred elder, staring
through black eyes crusted with red.

I don’t see how that’s a very fair thing to say,
Lizneth
thought
. You should’ve expected it, the way you’re behaving.

The elder regained himself with startling quickness, rolled
to his feet, and canted off down the sloping road, holding his neck. It
would’ve been no use talking with him. Even if he understood a lick of the Aion-speech,
chasing him wasn’t worth the chance that he might lead her back to others of
his ilk, and she was still too bruised and sore from her fall to go for a
voluntary run just yet.

The two brutes were now prostate and groaning, while the
bluefur had slumped onto his back again after throwing his dagger. There was a
looming silence in the street now, apart from the faint lapping of water
against the far side of the levee wall. Trickles of crimson had begun to flow
in the grooves between the cobblestones, making them look like a cluster of
islands in a shallow red sea. The blood was cold on the pads of Lizneth’s feet,
as was the clammy hand she took in hers when she knelt beside the bluefur. Spots
appeared on her cloak as it drank both blood and water, but her concern was
with her wounded hero.