The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (39 page)

She leapt up onto her bench and shouted at the top of her
lungs, flailing her manacles to show the others she was free. “Pull out your
chains. Pull out your chains. Pull them out.”

The hold sounded with dozens of metal pops, one after another,
as the rowing slaves stood and forced their rings from the floor. Lizneth had
noticed the bolts coming through the ceiling in the cargo hold before the
Halcyon
had arrived in Sai Calgoar, but there hadn’t been time to work at them until
tonight. It had only struck her then that the cargo hold was beneath the rowing
hold. She’d had to use scraps of wood and bits of bone at times, anything she
could find to get the nuts turning. She hadn’t had time to loosen all of them,
but the ones she’d loosened would be enough. They had to be.

“Take the ship,” Fane was shouting. “The ship is ours.”

Fane and Dozhie were free, but Bresh’s chains weren’t
budging. A group of slaves swarmed the two taskmasters, wrapping them up with
their chains before the startled slavers could draw weapons against them.

“I’ll come back for you,” Lizneth told Bresh.

She shouted for the rest of them to follow. The chorus of
feet on the stairs sounded like war drums pounding in the ship’s bowels, deep
and urgent. The slaves exploded onto the deck and surged forward, fueled by
some reckless mixture of rage and desperation.

“Lock the crew in their quarters and bar the door,” someone
screamed.

“Burn them where they lie,” shouted someone else.

Before Lizneth knew what was happening, someone had taken a
lantern off its hook and tossed it down the stairs. She saw it burst against the
wall in a maelstrom of oil and shattered glass. The flames began to climb the
wood paneling like reaching fingers. A few of the slaves slammed the door shut
and held it closed while others pushed crates in front to block it off. Most of
the crew was still below.

The crewmembers on deck were bewildered. Rowing slaves rushed
over them, fighting as best they could with their hands and feet bound. One of
the crew drew his rapier and cut down three slaves before the others
overwhelmed him. Another was fighting for his life, slashing at the chained mob
to hold them at bay while he backed up the fo’c’sle stairs.

Lizneth raced down to the cargo hold and found Bilik’s body
still there. Rolling him over, she cursed under her breath. His key ring was
gone. She’d been hoping the others had overlooked it, but that had been too
much to hope for. She took a short knife from Bilik’s belt, something he’d
probably used more for eating than for fighting, before she went topside.

By the time the battle was done, four of the crew and three
times that many slaves were dead, with several others hurt. Lizneth had searched
the bodies of the other fallen crewmembers, but she hadn’t found the keys on
any of them, either. Smoke was pouring out around the door to the crew’s
quarters, while the crewmembers within pounded their fists and threatened to
punish the slaves with unrestrained wrath if they weren’t let out immediately.

“We have to let them out,” Lizneth said. “The ship will sink
unless we put out the fire.”

“Let it burn,” said Zhigdain, a gray-and-white buck whose
emaciated frame made his big ears look even bigger. “Opening that door is
liable to get us all the worst beatings of our lives. No more. It’s time they
learned what it’s like to suffer.”

Several others agreed.

Lizneth would rather not let them destroy the vessel that
could bring her home, but the other rowing slaves were too crazed and
bloodthirsty at the moment to be reasoned with, it seemed. And she needed them
on her side, now more than ever.

A noise came from the door to the captain’s quarters at the
far end of the ship. Someone was trying to get out, but the slaves had blocked
that door with crates as well.

“One of the bluefurs is bound to have the key to our chains,”
Lizneth said. “Are Curznack and his brood-brothers all still in the captain’s
quarters?”

“They must be,” said Fane. “Let’s go find out.”

The slaves went aft and surrounded the door, taking up the
weapons of the fallen crewmembers. Lizneth climbed to the quarterdeck and
perched on the railing above, drawing the knife she’d taken from Bilik’s body. Fane
delegated three bucks to push the blockade away when everyone was in place.

As soon as they moved the crates, the door flung open and
Azhi and Qeddiker emerged side by side, blades drawn. Lizneth looked for
Bilik’s key ring on their belts, but neither bluefur seemed to have it. They
fought with prowess, slashing their way through the slaves like the practiced
swordsmen they were. The slaves were hard pressed to keep up, bound with short
lengths of chain that made anything involving long strides or wide fathoms
impossible.

Lizneth found her moment. Her toes left the decking, and she
landed on Azhi’s back with the knife bearing the full force of her fall. She
felt the blade delve through hard muscle as it pierced his shoulder. Azhi cried
out and almost dropped his rapier, but the big buck whirled and struck Lizneth
with the pommel, throwing her to the deck. When he turned on her and drew back
to swing, the opening was enough for Fane to run him through with his blade.
Azhi fell beside Lizneth on the deck. There was no fear or anger in the buck’s
eyes; only the quiet passing of bewilderment into death.

She searched Azhi’s pockets, but the keys weren’t there. Fane
made sure she was okay, then fell into the melee surrounding Azhi’s brother. So
far, Qeddiker was proving more difficult to best. He was smaller, quicker on
his feet, and either he was better with a blade, or he was good at bluffing.
With Azhi fallen, he was having a tougher time fending off the slaves, who were
now coming at him from every side. Spinning to keep them on the defensive, he
lashed out in sudden strokes that started to seem more reckless than
programmed.

Noticing Azhi’s defeat seemed to have thrown Qeddiker
off-balance; his battle cries, at first gruff and intimidating, were turning
into wails of grief and frustration. He put his back to the wall and managed to
keep himself from being surrounded. Lizneth raised herself up on her elbows,
peering into the captain’s quarters through the open door. There were fallen
slaves all around her, some lying still, others groaning. She would’ve helped
them all if she could, but now was not the time. It had been hours since Curznack’s
brothers had given him the antidote. Was he dead? Was he still sick? Or was he
skulking somewhere in the shadows of that room, hoping not to be found?

Lizneth stood and took the bloody knife from where it lay on
the deck, then wielded Azhi’s rapier in the other hand. The sword was heavy,
and she felt even more clumsy and outlandish trying to hold it than she’d felt
holding Curznack’s dagger. She could smell the wood smoke and see the flames
sprouting from the fo’c’sle behind her. Even at this distance, she could hear
the crew shouting threats through the door as their cabin burned.

Bystanders from Sai Calgoar had begun to gather on the
shoreline to watch the scene unfold. Qeddiker was still holding off the slaves,
growing more savage and careless as his despair set in. Fane had driven him
almost to the railing at the edge of the ship, and it looked as though it
wouldn’t be long before the fight was over. The sights and sounds faded from
Lizneth’s attention as she approached the darkened doorway. She thought of
Bresh, felt the heat of the fire growing behind her, and knew that finding those
keys was the only way to save the old dam’s life.

The captain’s quarters were silent, cast in pale orange around
Lizneth’s flickering shadow. The lanterns hung dead and cold on their hooks.
She could see the table covered in maps and miscellany, smell the stench of
buck
haick
and spilled rum, feel the hot wind flooding in from outside. She
halted for a moment to breathe the room’s air and listen for any sound she
could pick out above the din. Curznack’s
haick
was muddled and thick
among the other scents, but all the beds were empty; if he was in this room
now, he was hiding.

Lizneth took a step inside, holding both her blades out in
front of her as if she were trying not to spill a drop from a cider mug filled
to the brim. Her shadow played over the shapes of objects in the dark, turning
the fire’s every flicker into the form of some nervous specter. She could see
the muted stain of her vomit still on the planks, and the ring in the wall
where she’d hung while Curznack beat her.

Another step into the room and a look over each shoulder
confirmed that Curznack wasn’t hiding in the doorway. She gave it more time,
listening, scenting, knowing it was time she didn’t have the luxury of wasting.
This is pointless
, she thought.
The fire will eat Bresh and the
others alive if I don’t find those keys
. With her weapons still in hand, Lizneth
began combing through the items on the table—tipping goblets and bottles,
sliding maps and navigation equipment aside, sending candlesticks and
godechente pieces bouncing across the floor.

There was a soft whistling sound beside her. She turned her
head and froze, searching for the source. A virulent scent flared in her
nostrils, soft but discernible.

“Curznack,” she said. “Curznack… your ship is taken. Come out
and surrender yourself.”

The sound came again—a whistle, or a sigh. It lasted only a
second before stopping. This time Lizneth thought she could tell where it was
coming from. The lower left bunk, its sheets tousled and stained, sounded like
it was breathing. She approached with caution, holding the rapier out to ward
away anything that might jump out at her.

As her first footstep landed past the edge of the table, a
dark fang with a glimmering green edge swished out from beneath the bunk, biting
her leg as it flew past. The gash it opened on her shin went warm, then numb,
almost before she could feel any pain. Then she stopped feeling the leg
altogether, and an unsettling sense of tranquility and malaise washed over her.
When she stumbled backward and caught herself on the table, she couldn’t feel
her fingers. Every part of her that had tingled with pain before felt like a
great colorless nothing.

Curznack crawled from beneath his bunk and labored to his
feet, his breath whistling through his crushed windpipe. He looked tired and
sallow. His eyes were crusted with red mucus and he stood stooped over like a
twozhe
,
as if he could’ve used a good walking cane. Lizneth told her body to back away,
but it wouldn’t follow orders; instead, she slipped off the edge of the table
and landed on her back.

“Amarpid venom,” Curznack said, his voice sounding like he’d
swallowed a handful of gravel. “The great serpents of the Omnekh wield the most
powerful neurotoxin on the Aionach. Sometimes we catch them in our trawling
nets. I learned how to make the poultice and its antidote from the
Halcyon
’s
former captain, before his death. Soon you’ll feel nothing. Your lungs will
forget to breathe, your heart will forget to beat, and your mind will drop you
into an endless black pit while your insides scream out. That’s when you’ll know
it’s the end. A marvelous thing, really.”

Curznack stepped over her, his movements slow and arduous. He
slipped into the shadows beside the doorway and peered outside to gauge the
situation. The two remaining vials of purple liquid were strapped into his
belt. Lizneth could hear the flames crackling over the ship now, but the sounds
of fighting had died away.

Rapid footsteps approached, and Fane appeared in the doorway.
“Lizneth?” he said into the darkness. Then he looked down and saw her lying there.

Lizneth wanted to warn him, but the simple act of drawing breath
was taking all the strength and concentration she had.

Fane rushed forward. Curznack’s blade flashed from the
shadows, orange firelight reflecting in oily green runnels down the slicked
steel. Fane cried out, and a confused grimace fell over his face as he dropped
to his knees beside Lizneth, clutching his side. Behind him, Curznack slipped
through the doorway and was gone.

CHAPTER 35

The Scarred Child

“Hold on there, Sister,” said one of the men in gray
fatigues, turning his gun on Sister Bastille. “I don’t want to shoot you, so I
think you’d better stop where you are and get in here.”

“Only if you point that thing somewhere else,” said Bastille.

“I’ll point it where I want,” the soldier said, indignant.

“Put it down, Kugh,” said Brother Mortial. “She’s not going
to run. Are you, kind Sister?”

Bastille saw the unmistakable look of guilt in Brother Mortial’s
gray-green eyes. He was a traitor to the Infernal Mouth, and he knew it.

“Don’t you test me, heathen. I’ll lay down my life for the
Order if that’s what it takes. So go ahead and shoot me with that thing, if
that’s what you came here to do.”

“Relax,” said Mortial. “Nobody needs to get hurt. We just
need Sister Jeanette.”

Bastille was confused. “Sister Jeanette? Whatever for?”

“For scientific research,” said the soldier, a
broad-shouldered man with a thin waist and a thick neck. He was the fittest of
the three soldiers; the second was huskier, the third, tall and skinny. All
three were clean-shaven, their bald heads glistening, sweat stains spreading
over the chests and underarms of their uniforms.

Mortial gave the soldier an abrasive look. “They know the
girl’s pregnant, moron.” He turned to Bastille. “I apologize for the lack of
manners, kind Sister. What he means is, we’re taking Sister Jeanette to a place
where she’ll be well-cared for. She will be in no danger there, and she’ll be
able to give birth and raise her child without fear of the consequences. I need
you to tell us where she is.”

“Sin always has consequences,” said Bastille. “Perhaps one
day you’ll come to find that out for yourself, Brother Mortial.”

Mortial wrinkled his mouth. “Perhaps, kind Sister. But I don’t
have time to stand around deliberating over the finer points of your beliefs. I’d
like you to be cooperative and tell me where Sister Jeanette can be found.”

So the traitor wants to test my mettle
. “There’s a
basilica-wide alert out for you. If you try looking for her, you’ll be spotted
and brought before the Most Highly Esteemed. I don’t think the Cypriests will
take kindly to your goons, here.”

“The Cypriests will never know we’re here, kind Sister. If
you won’t tell me where Sister Jeanette might be, perhaps you’d be willing to
reveal Brother Soleil’s whereabouts. I’d like to speak with him before I
leave.”

“So Soleil put you up to this, did he?”

“Brother Soleil is humble enough to admit defeat, and wise
enough to know when it’s warranted. You think he wants to give up everything
he’s accomplished in the Order? The basilica is his entire world. There’s no
reason he should have to sacrifice his life’s work because of a situation that
can be avoided. Sister Jeanette doesn’t have to be an unfortunate casualty of
Soleil’s wrongdoings, kind Sister.”

Maybe Jeanette
would
be better off with the
heathens, but that doesn’t make Brother Soleil any less guilty
. “Sister
Jeanette is already a casualty, even if you steal her away. Brother Soleil is
no better than a filthy heathen for what he’s done. He doesn’t deserve the
world he’s built for himself.”

Mortial was agitated. “Be that as it may, it’s above your
station to say so. Don’t try to take Soleil’s life away from him, Sister
Bastille. You won’t like the results. I recommend staying on his good side as
long as you wish to stay in the Order. It won’t go well for you if he finds out
how you really feel about him. Or that you know of his deceits. You should let
us rescue Sister Jeanette from this terrible situation she’s found herself in.
Not just for her sake, but for yours.”

Bastille folded her arms. “Go look for her then. You’ll get
no help from me.”

“You know this is what’s best for her, Sister Bastille. You
can’t do anything more for the girl. You’re in a position to protect her now,
before Soleil resorts to other means of dealing with her.”

“Where is this ‘
better place
’ you speak of?”

“The city north. The Commissar there, Pilot Wax, is a strong believer
in our future. He’s created a place that’s safe and prosperous for everyone.
What he wants most in the Aionach is the one thing he hasn’t been able to have:
a child. He’s going to make sure Sister Jeanette and her infant live long,
healthy lives.”

Bastille knew little of Pilot Wax, except the few bits and
pieces she’d heard. The Order did not look upon the ruler of the heathen army
in Belmond with favor. But Bastille was seeing now why the Order was allowed to
exist in such relative peace, and without interference from the Scarred
Comrades.
Soleil must’ve given Mortial the key to the labyrinth. He allowed
Wax’s spy to breach our walls and invited savages to our gates. He’s appeasing
Pilot Wax while doing the same for his enemies; playing both sides as though
it’s a game to be won. Watchful as the Cypriests may be, there’s a way for
outsiders to get in without them ever knowing. We aren’t as safe in the
basilica as we’ve been led to believe
.

“I’ll take you to her,” Sister Adeleine spoke up.

“Hush,” said Bastille. “Stay out of this.”

The broad-shouldered soldier, whom Mortial had called Kugh,
stepped forward and struck Bastille with the butt of his rifle. Her vision
flashed white, and she stumbled backward until the wall broke her momentum. She
slumped to the floor, her temple throbbing. The pain exploded, turning her
lingering headache into a firestorm.

Sister Adeleine rushed to her side. “Are you okay, kind
Sister?”

Bastille shrugged the acolyte away. “Leave me be. I’m fine.”
Her vision was swimming with blue spots that dilated and popped like soap
bubbles. Everything around her was veiled and blurry. When she took her hand
away from her forehead, there was blood.

“Get away from her, or you’ll get the same,” said Kugh.

Adeleine shrank back along the wall.

“Coff it, you moron. You didn’t have to do that,” Mortial
said.

“She was being a bitch,” said Kugh. “We’re getting nowhere
talking to her, and this place is creepy. Take the girl and go find the
pregnant lady so we can get out of here.”

Mortial’s gaze was cold. He turned to Sister Adeleine and
said, “Will you help me talk to Jeanette? Convince her this is the right thing
for her?”

Adeleine gave him a frightened smile. “I don’t think she’ll
listen to me, though.”

“She’ll listen. Take me to her.”

Adeleine led him out the door, leaving Bastille alone with
the three gray-clad heathen soldiers.

Bastille made a quick visual scan of the chamber. Her eyes
stopped on the soldiers’ guns, the half-opened female corpse on the stone slab,
the surgical tools laid out on their metal tray, the supply shelves along the
walls, and the heavy mirrored lights that hung from the ceiling.

“Boobs,” said Kugh, ogling the corpse.

The other two soldiers snickered. Kugh strolled over and grabbed
one of the corpse’s pendulous breasts.

“Don’t touch that,” Bastille said.

Kugh turned his head and glowered at her while he kept his
hand on the breast, squeezing it, pinching the nipple, looking at Bastille
defiantly all the while. “It’s cold,” he said, chuckling.

The portly soldier laughed.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind handing me a towel from the
basket while you’re over there,” Bastille said, as blood began to squish past
the hand she was pressing to her forehead.

“Get it yourself,” said Kugh. “I’m busy.”

The slender soldier frowned at Kugh, then walked over and
handed Bastille one of the clean white cloths himself. Bastille thanked him.

Kugh shook his head in disappointment. “Trim… always the
softy.”

“You’re a dick,” Trim said, laughing. “Only you would beat
the tar out of an old woman and molest a dead one.”

“Hey, I’m not about let some nutty old lady coff up this
mission for us,” Kugh said, still massaging the breast. “We screw this up and
Wax’ll tan our hides and hang us out to dry. Or worse, he’ll transfer us to the
Sentries and we’ll end up like Bouchard.”

“You still didn’t have to hit her. She’s harmless.”

“Take it easy, fellas,” said the third soldier, the portly
one. “Wax is gonna splooge when we bring him the girl. Instant promotions for
all of us, I’m telling you. This is gonna go perfectly. Now that they got those
freaks who attacked the city last night locked up in the jailhouse where they
belong, getting back to the Hull Tower is gonna be cake.”

Kugh gave him a confused look. “They ain’t all locked up. You
didn’t think they tracked down every survivor in the whole caravan, did you?”

“Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

Kugh shook his head. “The only ones they nabbed were the
survivors who were still in the outskirts this morning. Wounded, mostly.
There’s still about a dozen of ‘em running around in the city south, free as a
nomad’s nutsack.”

“Captain Curran thought they
were
nomads,” said Trim.

“Not a coffing chance. Those red glowy things, not a nomad in
the Aionach I ever seen can do that.”

“I think they’re sandciphers. A whole nature-loving commune
of ‘em from somewhere in the desert.”

“Trim… you dumbass. Sandciphers are like one in fifty
thousand people. And they’re called that because they can talk to sand, not
make red bubbles pop out of their fingers.”

“Merrick can do weird shit with his fingers,” Trim said.

Kugh and the portly soldier shared a look. “Has Bouchard seen
those guys yet?”

“By now he has. He’s on guard duty at the prison today.”

“He definitely has, then,” said Kugh. “That’s coffing strange
you should say that. I been thinking the same thing. About his hands and shit.”

“I’ll ask him if he has any long-lost relatives he hasn’t
told us about,” said the portly one, grinning.

“He doesn’t make red shit come out though, does he?” said Kugh.

“I’ll ask him that, too. ‘Hey Bouchard, you ever shit red
lightning before?’ ”

“Bet you he has. Bet you Wax is gonna find out about him
healing that shepherd and kick him out of the north so hard it’ll make his time
in the Sentries feel like a vacation.”

“Why would he do that?” Trim asked. “Wax is good at figuring
out what people are good at and using that to his advantage.”

“Because. Say Merrick really is some wicked mystical dway
with special powers. Once people start seeing what he can do, they’ll be all
over him, asking for miracles. Wax hasn’t stayed on top for so many years by
letting street prophets walk around healing the sick and collecting groupies. He
doesn’t play second string to anybody. He’ll finish that whole charade before
it starts.”

Isn’t this intriguing
, Bastille thought. “What’s this
about someone who can heal the sick?” she asked.

“None of your business, lady. The men are talking now. Keep
quiet unless you want to get your bell rung again.”

I’d be glad to strap you to my operating table. I’m sure I
could find a few bells to ring
.

Trim was unconvinced. “I can see Wax banishing Merrick way
before he hangs him. He’s been a comrade for too long. But even that, I don’t
see him doing. I think Wax’ll find a way to use him, if he ever finds out what
he can do.”

“Wax is smart, yeah, but he ain’t that cunning. He likes
things simple. When he gets threatened, he deals with it. I say it’s
banishment.”

“Fine. Bet you a week’s pay on it,” said Trim. “You say
banishment, I say Wax puts Bouchard in the inner circle and treats him like
royalty.”

“Done,” said Kugh.

The two men spat into their hands and shook.

“I’m staying out of this one,” said the portly soldier.

“That’s because you’re a pacifist, Reed,” Kugh said.

Reed scoffed. “No, it’s because I can tell the difference
between a bad bet and a good one. Why would I try and predict what the
Commissar’s thinking?”

“Um, because it’s fun.”

“That bullshit is
not
fun. Put Trim in a room with
your little sister and let’s bet on how long it takes her to kick his ass—now
that’s
fun.”

“Suck my cock,” Trim said, gesturing. “You don’t even bet on
scorpion fights, Reed. You’re the least competitive dway I’ve ever met.”

“I gotta side with Trim on this one,” said Kugh. “I’m sorry.
He’s got a point.”

“Okay, you want to make a bet about something? How long ‘til
Wax’s geeks figure out how to get the power back on in the city?”

“He said like long years.”

“He didn’t say specifically.”

“I know,” said Reed. “That’s why I’m making it into a bet.
How coffing
awesome
would it be though, right?”

“It would be, in the words of Captain Curran, ‘
mission-critical
.’
Coffing legendary,” said Kugh.

“So when do you think they’ll crack it?”

“Right before the next starwinds come to knock the lights
right out again,” said Trim.

“Probably.”

“Yeah.”

The soldiers’ mood dampened, their faces drawn with sobering
looks. When the hinges on the big wooden door squeaked, the men raised their
guns. Sister Adeleine slipped into the room and closed the door behind her,
eyes widening when she saw the weapons pointed at her. The soldiers relaxed.

“Where’s Dashel?” Kugh asked.

“I’m sorry?” Adeleine turned her ear as if she hadn’t heard
him.

Kugh sighed. “Brother Mortial,” he recited. “Where is he?”

“Oh. He’s with Brother Soleil. His before-name was Dashel?
That’s a funny name.” Adeleine giggled, smiling.

Bastille saw Kugh’s eyes affix on the young acolyte, his pupils
dilating in the dim lantern light. The corner of his mouth turned upward.
Stay
away from her, you cretin, or the Mouth help me, I’ll
…

“Dashel Thomrobin, second advisor to Pilot Wax, Commissar of
the Scarred Comrades,” Kugh said. “It’s a funny last name too. Thomrobin.” He paused,
waiting to be rewarded with another laugh.