The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (42 page)

It may not have been easy, but they could at least scent well
enough to know when others were nearby. When first they came upon a group of
travelers coming toward them from the opposite direction, Zhigdain signaled for
them to huddle behind a cluster of rocks to await the strangers’ passing. It
was a painstaking few minutes as the figures drew near, forming themselves from
distant blobs into a mixed company of
calaihn
and
ikzhehn
, and
even a few
eh-calaihn
, the ones with yellowed hair and skin paler than
milk.

The
eh-calaihn
were all in chains; Lizneth heard the
lines clinking as they trudged by. From time to time she heard the snapping of
leather and the harsh cries of the
calaihn
goading their captives
forward.
So they do take each other as slaves
, she thought.
The
light-skinned ones are thinner and weaker than the dark; the shade of their
hides must determine their place in the blind-world’s society. If I had been born
calai, I would have been a slave
.

When the meager procession had passed them, Lizneth became
aware that Zhigdain and Fane had drawn their rapiers and were whispering to one
another. She realized with surprise that her hand was on the hilt of Curznack’s
dagger—her dagger. “What is it?” she asked.

“They have water,” Fane said. “And food, maybe.”

“Aren’t we close to the town—”

Fane chittered at her, an almost silent squeak aimed at
shutting her up and expressing his annoyance all at once. The two bucks sprang
forward on all fours; their bonds didn’t hinder their pace as much that way.
The
calaihn
in charge of the procession didn’t seem to hear Fane and
Zhigdain coming at first; they must’ve been so numb to the sound of chains
rattling that they didn’t notice a few more. Fane thrust his blade through one
of the
calai
taskmasters, its needle-thin point piercing him through
from spine to chest. The
calai
had just drawn back to swing his whip
when Fane stabbed him, and the slave who’d been expecting the lashing turned
and cried out in surprise. Zhigdain took a wide swing at another one of the
dark-skins, gripping his rapier’s hilt with both hands and opening a thin gash
along his back from shoulder to hip. At first it looked like the rapier had
done nothing, but after a moment, the gash reddened and began to weep. Zhigdain
crossed the
calai
with a second slash, then a third.

“What are they doing?” Lizneth hissed to Bresh and Dozhie,
half-drawing her dagger and wondering if she should help. Her other arm was up
to shield her eyes from the daylight, but the shapes of the combatants were
blurred, as if outlined in white clouds. The longer she kept looking, the more
difficult it was becoming to see them.

“Don’t worry yourself,
cuzhe
. Zhigdain will defeat
them,” Dozhie said, watching intently.

Lizneth thought she detected a note of admiration in Dozhie’s
voice. She let the dagger slide back into place.

One of the
calaihn
came at Fane, knocking his rapier
aside with a short cudgel and batting him across the skull on the backswing.
Fane tried to step back and regain his balance, but the chains went taut at his
ankles, and he fell over. His assailant dropped onto him, bringing the cudgel
down as Fane tried to get his rapier out in front of him. Each time he tried, the
calai
swatted it away again and continued to pummel him unobstructed.

The slaves stood dumbfounded, unsure how to react.
Are we
being saved, or are we about to be killed?
Lizneth imagined they must’ve
been thinking. Zhigdain had gone after the last of the taskmasters, a younger
calai
,
all spindly knees and elbows, who’d dropped his whip and was now defenseless.
The proceedings were more a chase than a fight, the young taskmaster hiding behind
and dodging around his slaves as if playing some fierce game of tag.

Lizneth lowered her head and darted out from the rocks,
listening for the flat thudding sounds of the
calai
’s cudgel. The dagger
was in her hand, and she was straining against the light to detect the
whitewashed form of Fane’s attacker, opening her eyes to a sliver every so
often so she could watch the ground beneath her. She began to swing the dagger with
abandon, until she felt the blade scrape across something.

The
calai
groaned and rolled off, dropping his cudgel
and gripping his skull with both hands. Lizneth’s dagger glistened, curled
black hairs stuck to the oily green surface. The top of the taskmaster’s head
was split open and draining. He would be dead before long, she knew. She had
killed her first
calai
before she knew his name. This was a fight she
hadn’t asked for, but as she watched the
calai
’s body go limp through
squinting eyes, she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She had considered showing mercy
to Curznack while the advantage had been hers, but she felt no such compassion
for this strange, ugly creature.

A pair of five-toed
calai
feet ran by. Lizneth wrapped
her tail around one of the ankles and sent the youth stumbling. Zhigdain caught
up and ran him through with his rapier, and Lizneth heard the body drop to the
sand. She sheathed her dagger, hairs and all, and knelt beside Fane.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Not bad. The
calai
was weak. He hit like a nestling.”

Lizneth helped him to his feet, knowing he was making light
of the damage he’d sustained. Zhigdain was plodding around the scene to gather
the spoils and make sure the taskmasters were dead, using his rapier as his
testing implement. The slaves were still standing there, probably still wondering
whether Lizneth and her companions would be their salvation or their end. One
of the
ikzhe
slaves was restless and fidgeting, and the
eh-calai
slave beside him gave him a thump on the shoulder.

“
Gitch-getch
,” said the
ikzhe
, flinching at the
blow. “
Gitch-getch
.” He was a younger buck, an agouti with brown fur
mottled in white. An old scar ran up the side of his snout from his lip to his
nose, and several of his whiskers were missing beneath the scar tissue. He and
the other
ikzhehn
in the group wore dark goggles over their eyes. “
Gitch-getch
,”
he said again.

“What is he saying?” Lizneth asked.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like Ikzhethii to me,” Fane
said, rubbing his face to take away the sting of the taskmaster’s assault.

“Could be it’s a dialect,” said Zhigdain. He spoke softly to
the younger buck. “
Veh sebegag ghoja vilckeh
?” Then in the Aion-speech,
he said, “Where is your village?”

“
Gitch-getch, schuk-nyick
,” the agouti said.

“I don’t know what that means,” Zhigdain said.

“You’ll get nothing out of this one,” said the
eh-calai
slave who’d struck the agouti on the shoulder. “He’s cracked as hard clay. I’ve
heard him say things that sound like words, but they don’t make any sense. He
speaks only gibberish.” The sound of the
eh-calai
’s voice startled
Lizneth, deep and broad as it was. His accent was funny too; there was a strangeness
to it, the way he swallowed his syllables and silenced certain letters so the
words all ran together. She found she had to listen closely to understand him.
One of his eyes looked at first to be swollen nearly shut, but Lizneth saw that
it was an old wound that had healed wrong.

“Where is it? Gris-Mirahz,” Zhigdain said, shielding his eyes
so he could get a better look at the
calai
.

“If you’d find me the keys to these handcuffs, I’ll tell you
whatever you like,” the
eh-calai
said.

“It’ll be hard to get anywhere chained to each other like
that,” said Zhigdain. He held up a small ring full of iron keys.

Lizneth could tell that Zhigdain wanted to stare the
calai
down with that intense way he had, but Zhigdain could only look at the
ground as he spoke.

“The location first,” he said.

“You’re looking for Gris-Mirahz? That’s where we’re coming
from. I can see you’re not slavers.” The
eh-calai
indicated Zhigdain’s
fetters. “We’ll take you to it. It isn’t far.”

“We’re not looking for extra company. Now tell me—”

“We’re going back,” the
eh-calai
said, looking around
at the other slaves, then lifting his chin in the direction from which they’d
come. Their chained feet had left a set of long, shallow troughs in the sand.
“We’re headed in the same direction as you now. We can follow behind, tethered
like oxen, or you can unlock us and we’ll add our strength to yours.”

“Or I could cut you each a second mouth and be done with it,”
Zhigdain said, flexing the rapier blade between his fingers.

The
eh-calai
turned his gaze to Lizneth, with a look that
indicated he was about to try gaining more sympathy from her. “You there… do
you feel the same as your friend here? Would you liberate a fellow slave only
to kill him?”

Fane responded before Lizneth had a chance. “
Fellow
slaves?”
he said, balking. “If you mean we’re both weak and stupid enough to let
ourselves be subjected to a life of enslavement, that much is true. But we’re
no more
fellows
than I and that clump of rock over there.”

“
Gitch-getch
,” said the agouti. “
Gitch-getch.
Vilckeh. Vilckeh
.” He was pointing off into the vale in the same direction.

“Told you he speaks gibberish,” said the
eh-calai
.

“
Eh-calai krahz
,” Fane muttered, giving the light-skin
a derogatory gesture. “Do you speak Ikzhethii? How do you know what he says?”

The
eh-calai
shrugged, hands chained at his waist. “I
don’t. What did he say?”

“Sometimes in Ikzhethii, a small word has a big meaning,” Fane
said. “
Vilckeh
means ‘
the village one is from.
’ He wants to go home.”

“We all do,” said another
ikzhe
buck, a fawn with fur
of bright orange, the color of sand set on fire. “The raids may never stop, but
it’s better living in fear than in chains.”

Lizneth heard chains behind her, and turned to see that Bresh
and Dozhie had emerged from their hiding place to join them.

“Stop tormenting these poor
zhehn
and unlock them,
Zhigdain,” Bresh said. “Can’t you see they don’t mean to harm us?”

“Careful. That’s an easy promise to make, but one you may
live to regret,” said Zhigdain.

Bresh cocked her head and stared at him, frowning. “We were
in their place only hours ago. Have you forgotten already?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Zhigdain said. “I haven’t forgotten
the reason we escaped, either: because we didn’t take pity on those slavers
when they were burning alive belowdecks. Fane is right; we have no more in
common with this lot than we did with the
krahzehn
who brought us here.
Look at them. Scent them. These are the lowest of the low; invalids and
simpletons, too soft-minded for their own good. The agouti’s mind has gone to
mutton. And these
eh-calaihn
are uglier than most. No doubt they’re
hungry. Desperate. If we set them free, they’ll turn on us in an instant. The blind-world
is merciless, Bresh. One must be careful not to let mercy overtake one’s good
sense.”

“Mercy makes perfectly good sense,” Bresh said sharply.

Zhigdain flared his nostrils and took in a long breath. He
drew his arm back, whirled, and flung the keys across the vale with a grunt.
They jangled, soaring over the sands until they vanished in the daylight. “Bah.
That’s the extent of my
mercy
, and the same should be said of yours if
you have any sense at all,” he said.

The keys must have traveled far, because Lizneth never heard
them land.

Zhigdain opened one of the waterskins he’d found and took a
long draught from it, then offered it to Fane, who declined. “Come on, take
it,” Zhigdain said. “My tail feels hotter than a live hearth. You must be—”

The
eh-calai
lunged at Zhigdain, no longer able to
subdue his anger. His estimation of the distance was poor; his chains went taut
before he’d gotten far, and he went sprawling into the sand at Zhigdain’s feet.
Zhigdain took a surprised step back, then laughed. The other slaves shuffled
forward to help the
eh-calai
up, some giving Zhigdain threatening looks.

“Now, now,” Zhigdain said, waving his rapier. “Everyone stay
calm. I’ll trade you your keys for a pair of those nice eyeglasses.”

The
eh-calai
yanked the goggles off the babbling
ikzhe
’s
head and tossed them to Zhigdain.

The soft-minded agouti whimpered and covered his eyes at the
sudden burst of daylight.

“There,” said the
eh-calai
. “Now, the keys.”

Zhigdain smiled as he donned the goggles. “Good good,” he said,
extending an arm toward the vale as he bowed. “They’re all yours. We should be
going, since we’ll have to locate Gris-Mirahz without you. The trail you left
us should make it easier.”

Bresh’s jaw locked down tighter than the manacles that bound
her, but she took Fane by the arm and led him away while Dozhie helped Zhigdain
carry the gear they’d picked up from the slavers. Lizneth stood astonished, the
heat beating down on her with a force she could feel like a heavy arm across
her shoulders. She’d known Zhigdain wasn’t the kindliest of
twozhehn
, but
he’d saved her life, and Fane’s as well. He had owed her that much in exchange
for setting him free. They all did, but she hadn’t worked her fingers to the
bone loosening their chains so they’d owe her something. She’d done it because
they had all been in a place they didn’t deserve to be. Just like the slaves
that were standing in front of her now.