The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (58 page)

“
Duon fortan ain fabhor, gisheino
,” Lethari answered,
bowing. The other nomads repeated after him.

The master-king twirled a finger at Raith and the others. “
Abin
ain tilier
?”

“Friends,” said Lethari, a smile appearing at one side of his
mouth.

“The people of the steel city are not friends. They are
slaves. Why do you disgrace me by speaking their words?”

“In the Aion-speech, they understand,” Lethari said.

The master-king’s face grew hard. “It is not the place of a
slave to understand.”

“Yes, master,” Lethari said, lowering his eyes. “But these
are not—”

“Even so, I accept your offering. They will make fine slaves.
You must have fought well to have taken so many alive.”

“We fought well,” said Lethari. “But these men are not of the
steel city, master. They are men of the hidden sands.”

“The hidden sands,” the master-king repeated. “And still, you
have captured them without chains? Then it is true that they are cowards, and
that they cannot be killed is a lie.”

“They are no cowards,” said Sig.

The master-king looked at Sig, expressionless. “We will see.”
He turned his eyes upon Raith. “You there, tall one. Approach.”

Raith stepped forward.

“Tell me your name, tall man,” said the master-king.

“Raithur Entradi.”

“Entradi,” said the master-king, bemused. “That is a fine
name. A northern name. You have the blood of the
calgoarethi
in you.”

“If I do, it’s from a long time ago,” Raith said.

“I am Tycho Montari,” the master-king said. “I have a
northern name too. This makes us the kin of ages past, though you are still
lathcu
.
Let me see your hands, Entradi.”

Raith raised them, his black skin stretched over the bones
like ink-stained leather.

Tycho Montari unhooked his leg from the chair and leaned
forward. “Come closer.”

Raith did.

The master-king studied his hands with unmitigated interest
for a long time. Afterward, he leaned back and grasped the arms of the chair,
deep in thought. “My warriors tell me you can make your hands burn with fire.
Fire so hot it turns their spears and arrows to dust. They say it makes bullets
turn to lava and it burns flesh like the hardest rains. They tell me you cannot
be bound like a slave or caged like an animal; that you can run faster than a
corsil. Is this true?”

Raith nodded.

“Show me.”

Raith breathed, slow and deep. He felt the hair standing up
on the back of his neck and the warmth rising inside him. He thought of home.
Somewhere deep within him, there was a spark. He let his fingertips glow until
they were smoldering stacks of ash. When the pain became too strong, he
stopped. Wisps of smoke and soot rose from his hands.

“You must teach me how I might do this,” said Tycho Montari,
lust and wonder in his eyes.

“It can’t be taught,” Raith said.

“Then how did you learn it?”

“It’s inside me. It’s been with me since I was born.”

“And them?” He gestured toward Jiren and Derrow.

“The same.”

“If there is power in your hidden sands, I will find it. The
war with the
muirrhadi
is beginning, and I must have this power of yours
to use against them.”

Lethari was alarmed. “War? What war is this?”

“You have been gone a long time, Lethari. Yesterday I sent
Neacal Griogan and his warriors against the one they call Sniverlik, to make
slaves of him and his
muirrhadi
.”

“Let me take my warriors and join him,” Lethari said.

“No. I have other uses for you. You will come with me to the
home of Entradi the tall man, and his people of the hidden sands. Entradi, you
must take me there.”

Raith shook his head.

“You must take me to see these hidden sands for myself, or
you will never see them again.”

“The Scarred couldn’t hold us in their iron prison,” said
Rostand. “You’ll never hold us with your stone.”

“Ros, please.” Raith held up a cautionary hand.

“I dare not try to hold you,
duireh
. I leave you to
the light-star’s punishment. Leave my city, if you are so sure not to die. Into
the desert with you, and may the sands feed on you slowly.”

“Fine,” Raith said. “Fine. We’ll take you there, but we need
horses. We need food and water. It’s a long way.”

“You will have everything you need. Preparations must be
made. We will leave on the fifth day, before the light-star rises. But first,
Entradi, you must give me your word you will not leave a minute sooner.”

“We won’t.”

“This is good. Now, bring me the young one. You will give him
to me, and I will keep him as proof of your promise.”

“Ros?”

The master-king looked at Rostand’s hands. “Ros, yes. He does
not share your power. My stone walls will contain the
duireh
, I think.
You are free to wander my city as you please, but if you bring harm to my
people, harm will come to him. Lethari, we prepare to go in five days.”

Rostand was indignant. “I’m not going with him. Raith, tell
him I’m not.”

“You don’t need a hostage,” Raith told the master-king. “I’ll
keep my promise.”

“One day, I may need to trust you, Entradi,” said Tycho
Montari. “This is not that day. Today, you trust me. Let this be the beginning
of a bond between the
calgoarethi
and
yarun merouil
. The young
duireh
will be treated well. Treat my city and my people the same way, and no harm
will come to him.
Togti duireh
.”

Rostand shook his arms free when the men tried to grab him,
but he didn’t resist further. They escorted him down the side hallway. When he
looked back, Raith saw the look of fear in the young man’s eyes. They both knew
three blackhands could never hope to fight their way through a city of
thousands. Raith wanted to tell Ros how sorry he was, and that there was
nothing more he could do, but the words didn’t make it past the tightness in
his throat before Ros disappeared around the bend.

“The rest of you are free to go,” said Tycho Montari. “I will
have guest quarters prepared for your stay. You will have beer and bread, and a
cool place to sleep. Sigrede, you and Tallis may go home to your families.”

“You are throwing them to the dogs,” Sig said. “They will not
last two breaths out there without someone troubling them.”

“You may stay with them, if you choose,” said the
master-king.

“They will dine in my house tonight,” Sig said. “You are
welcome in my home, Raithur Entradi. Tally and I owe you our freedom.”

“You’re gracious to offer,” said Raith.

“Do not be a fool,” Sig said. “I have countless virtues, but
grace is not one of them.”

“We accept,” Raith said, smiling.

Raith could feel the master-king’s eyes on him as they left, lusting
for the power he held in his fingertips.

The palatial hall opened into daylight again, and as they
stood facing the market valley, Lethari grabbed Raith by the arm. “Be careful.
My people are unkind to
lathcui
. To them you are a slave, and you will
find nothing but danger in the streets if they see you walking free. The
master-king knows this. I am sure he has convinced himself that five days
cannot pass without incident.”

“To what end? What does he stand to gain from putting us in a
troublesome position?”

“He fears you. He knows his people do not. You have black
hands, but most in the streets would not know the difference between
yarun
merouil
and any common
lathcu
. I do not know for certain, but I
think this is a test of your strength. The master-king would put a few of his
people in danger to test whether
yarun merouil
are truly stronger than
death.”

“I will keep them out of trouble,” Sig said.

“I hope you do, Sig, or there will be blood in the streets.”

“Is that a warning or a threat?”

“Take it how you will. Frayla waits for me. I must go home
and attend to my wife and the business of my household. Be safe, Raith
Entradi.”

“Thank you, Lethari.”

Lethari inclined his head and disappeared into the crowd.

“Follow me, and stay close,” Sig told them. “My house is not
far.”

He led them up one of the paths cut into the cliff face, and
they began making their way down a wide promenade. Sig stayed in front while
Tally fell in behind them. They passed a dozen doorways where women labored on
narrow terraces, sweeping or weaving or hanging clothes out to dry. Many didn’t
even look up at them as they passed. The men gave them the same kind of
treatment they had in the market earlier, but they were less vicious up here,
where one misstep or bumped shoulder might send someone tumbling over the side
to his death.

Sig quickened his pace as they approached the end of the
promenade, and Raith saw a woman look up from her work. A wide smile spread
across her face, and she leaned down to touch the head of a small boy, no more
than three. The boy looked up at her, and she pointed. When he saw them coming,
he tottered to unstable feet and bounded toward them.

“
Doieh! Doieh!
” the boy cried.

Sig’s eyes were already moist by the time he scooped his tiny
son into his arms. He wrapped the boy up and squeezed him until they were both
red-faced and giggling. “
Och
, Kai,
duireh. Ain tieluos
.
Ain
tieluos
,” he said, his face streaked with tears.

The woman came to him, and they held their son between them
as they embraced. The little boy hugged his parents’ necks, squirming and
laughing.

“
Ligueir, muon gradh
,” she whispered, brimming with
affection.

“
Dueiah, li airec
,” Sig told the woman. He kissed her
deeply. Then he turned and gestured, saying, “Come, Raith Entradi. Shonnie,
these are not
lathcui
. These are friends. They are welcome in our
house.”

Sig and his small family invited them inside. Their dwelling
was larger than it appeared from the outside—a foyer and two large rooms on the
main level, plus a deep fireplace for cooking, and a sleeping loft above. The
home was well-appointed and clean to the last detail.

Sig went upstairs and reappeared a moment later, wearing
nothing but a loincloth. Shonnie glared at him, but he only grinned back. She
frowned and gave him a diatribe worthy of translation, had Derrow given Raith
anything but a shrug when he asked.

“I told her you do not care how I dress,” Sig told them. “You
do not have insult. Tell her.”

“We don’t,” Jiren said, favoring Shonnie with feigned
sincerity. “I’d do everything naked if it wasn’t such a distraction.”

“See? What have I told you, woman? A man should wear what he
wants in his own house, and nobody should tell him another thing.”

They supped on blackened lamb and mashed turnips seasoned
with spices, strips of cabbage fried in oil, and fermented goat’s milk. They
were crowded in tight around the table, but there was plenty of food for
everyone to eat their fill. Raith’s thoughts soon turned to Decylum, and to the
turmoil that had been taking place in the council when he’d last spoken with
Kraw Joseph. He thought of Ros, who was counting on them to free him from the
master-king’s imprisonment.

“You don’t own any slaves?” Raith asked Sig, noticing that
Shonnie had prepared the meal herself.

“Of course I do. Do you take me for a poor man? I have both
muirrhadi
and
lathcui
slaves. Shonnie cares for our home without them, so I lend
them to others. It is good money.”

“I see. I didn’t mean to insult you,” Raith said.

“You did not insult. You would know it if you did.”

“The man I’m most concerned about insulting is your king.
Will he keep his word?”

Sig scratched his chin. “Tycho Montari is an impulsive man.
He gets bored. His desires change with the wind. I have never known a man to
stand in his way and live. Do not worry about him now. For now, my friends,
life is good.”

Sig was right. They had escaped Belmond with their lives.
They were in the house of a friend, who had risked much by putting them under
his protection. But being safe didn’t make Raith feel any better. As long as
there were Sons of Decylum who might still be wandering the streets of Belmond,
safety was the last thing he felt he deserved. That was why he couldn’t bring the
master-king to Decylum. They weren’t going home to Decylum at all, he decided.
Not yet. As soon as they could, they were going back to Belmond.

CHAPTER 52

Aezoghil

Daxin woke as someone was scooping out his entrails. He
screamed, but no sound came out. A rough clawed hand grabbed him by the
shoulder and stabbed him in the arm with a syringe. Before he went under again,
he saw that he was surrounded by murrhods.

He dreamed, and the dreams seemed to be the only difference
between sleep and death; the only way he knew he was still alive. Toler’s
screams played over and over as Ellicia’s hands reached inside to disembowel
him. Vicky, her dark hair framing a face as smudged as an oil painting, her
voice scrambled like a bad transmission. Biyo handed him a cutlass, smiling as
the sanddragons ate him alive. Daxin and his mare, torn apart and decaying on the
sands outside Belmond, rose up from the dust to trudge through endless desert
as ravens and buzzards lit upon them to feast.

When the dreams were over, Daxin was staring at a low
wood-beamed ceiling bound in clay stucco. His head was groggy and he was sore
all over, especially in his throat and abdomen.

“You’re free to go.” The voice was rough with age, but
feminine.

Daxin tried to speak, but there was pain and a dry whistle
where his voice should’ve been.
What did you do to me?
he wanted to ask,
but the only sound he heard was the smacking of his lips and tongue. When he
swallowed, there was a sharp stinging in his throat. He clapped a hand over his
neck. As soon as he touched it, the pain reignited and he yanked the hand away,
flinching. The man’s bump on his neck felt smaller than it used to.

“You’re free to go,” the same voice repeated.

He tried to sit up. His abdomen flared, sending him into a
fit of agony, and he curled up into a ball.
For Infernal’s sake, what have
you done to me?
They came out as blank words again, with only the sounds of
his mouth moving. The thing he was lying on was hard and rigid. A threadbare
sheet had been thrown over it, stained dark and drying.

There were soft footsteps beside him, and when he opened his
eyes a short murrhod was standing there. Her head was cocked as if to study
him, but he could yield no emotion from her expression.

“You must go. Now.” The little murrhod spoke the words with
care, her face stern and resolute. Her faded goat-hide smock was ragged, and
she wore a necklace of flotsam, with beads of driftwood, glass, shell and bone.
A browned rag was pulled tight around her head, its edges damp with sweat.

Daxin tried to speak again, but the results were the same.

“You won’t speak again,
eh-calai
,” she said. “You
probably won’t live very long, for that matter. Now get out.” She spoke as if
she had taken pleasure in telling him he was going to die; as if she had enjoyed
making that his reality.

Coff on this little sadist. I’ve been laid up for the past
month, trying to get healthy again. Whatever she did to me, I’ll kill her for
it.
But it took all his effort just to sit up. He swung his legs over the
side of the table, or whatever it was, and pushed himself up. Pain shot through
his chest and abdomen again, worse than anything he’d ever felt before. When he
hung his head, his throat burned. His clothes were still on, but his leather
vest and tunic were hanging open where they’d been sliced down the front. He
looked down at himself to find sutures all across his skin. When he moved,
blood welled in the stitches.

He reached for the weapons that weren’t there, the gun first.
A bare hip instead of a stock, a bare chest instead of a bandolier. He’d been
lying on his back, so he knew the machete was gone. When his fingers went to
the loop on his belt, there wasn’t a belt.

The murrhod took a step back, giving him room. “Just this
way,” she said, arm outstretched.

Standing was another matter altogether. When Daxin’s feet
touched the floor, his insides shook like minced gelatin. Parts of him felt out
of place. Other parts felt as if they’d been removed. He shuffled, feet
scraping the floor, holding onto his bed, then supporting himself on the wall.

It must have taken him half an hour to get down the hallway
to the outer room while the murrhod trailed behind him impatiently. Everything
was still foggy, his mind as jumbled as his belly. In a chair by the door was
another murrhod, this one withered and feeble, with patchy black fur and half
its face covered in boils that sprang from a wound in its neck. It wheezed when
it saw him, something like a laugh but nowhere near as pleasant to listen to.

“There is no doctor in the world who can help you now,
eh-calai
,”
it said in a male’s baritone. “How does it feel to be dying?” His accent was
crude, each syllable shaped by an unpracticed mouth.

I’d like to show you how it feels, but you seem to know
already
, Daxin wanted to say, but couldn’t. As he shuffled past the old murrhod,
there was a spoiled, decaying smell.

As soon as Daxin was outside, the murrhods slammed the door
behind him, and he heard the wooden crossbar scraping into place. He was
standing on a beach, surrounded by a cluster of thatched mud huts that looked
out across the Underground Sea. He knew he was in one of the slave colonies, but
not which one. The place was entirely unfamiliar, for all he could discern past
the cloud hanging over his mind.

Walking through the sand proved difficult; every effort to
lift his legs even an inch sent flashes of pain through his midsection. The
passing townsfolk were a mixture of humans and murrhods, both of whom took
equal care to ignore him.
By Infernal, if I can just get to Lethari, this
will all have been worth it. At least then, I can die happy
.

Bent over like an old man, Daxin made his way to the water’s
edge. He turned in a slow circle to get his bearings, unable to move his head from
side to side without starting a fire in his throat. The beach stretched on for
half a horizon in either direction, the lanterns in Sai Calgoar’s port faint to
his left. There was light from the entrance far above, the sea’s waters an
interminable blackness before him. He could make it to the light, he decided.

But when he turned to begin his trek, the sand shifted
underfoot. His body was too broken to balance itself, and the mere effort
proved his undoing. He fell face down in the sand, feeling every grain that
rubbed at his sutures. Getting up again seemed too impossible to try, and
shouting for help in a place like this was futile, even if he’d had a voice to
do it with.
Is this really how I’m going to die?
he thought.
Alone in
this dark place, away from everyone I know?
I never even saw my fortieth
birthday, for Infernal’s sake
.

Daxin had always imagined himself dying in his bed at home,
aged and wizened, surrounded by his family.
I think that’s how everyone must
imagine themselves dying. I suppose we can’t all be so lucky
. He had never
considered meeting his end before he’d achieved everything he set out to
accomplish in his life. Thinking about all the things he’d failed to do hurt
more now than he could’ve imagined.
I tried to chase the woman I loved, to
show her what it means to make a promise. I tried to make it noble and right
and good, but instead I’ve let it turn me bitter and heartless
.

And then there were Toler and Savvy.
How wrong I’ve done
by the people I claim to love. I thought I knew what you both wanted, even after
the thousand times you showed me otherwise. I should’ve been there. I should’ve
given you my support. I should’ve told you how proud I am, and how important
you are to me
.

Even now, Daxin knew that had Lethari been standing here in
front of him, he would’ve delivered Vantanible’s caravan routes without a
moment’s hesitation.
Every place, every date; every sliver of information I
can remember. Because after everything I’ve learned about the hazards of love,
I’m still too stubborn to know when to quit
.

The sea lapped at Daxin’s boots. Its freezing waters ran up
his leathers and around his waist. Gulls gathered, webbed feet padding toward
him through the sand, cautious. Salt burned at his sutures while the village
around him went about its business and the day outside warmed. Daxin could
still see the glow of Sai Calgoar’s port, his cheek sinking in damp sand as
white froth slid in around his face. Somewhere over there was the long flat
rock, the place where memories of better times had made him the happiest he’d
been in many long years. It was better to die this way, he decided. He wasn’t
with his family. He hadn’t done everything right, or accomplished all that he
thought he would. But it was better to die like this than to die without
warning. Without having a chance to remember.

Small hands took Daxin by the upper arm and hoisted him to
his feet with surprising strength. It was one of the murrhods, a wiry youth
with rough black fur that smelled damp and musty and tickled Daxin’s underarms
where the creature was supporting him. The murrhod wore a beaded necklace, a
loincloth, and a slave’s shackles around its ankles, though there was no chain
linking the two cuffs together. Daxin began to recollect the circumstances of
his capture; the slender canoe that had appeared from the shadows as he
reclined on the long flat rock, the blowgun, and his attempted escape. There
had been two murrhods in the canoe—one as black as tar, the other as white as
pure daylight. Was this one of them? Perhaps the murrhod knew how little
strength Daxin had left, because it didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

“Sorry Mama Jak was so rough with you,” the murrhod said.
“Can’t have you dying on the beach here, though. I can take you as far as the
vale, but from there you’re on your own.”

I’d sooner die here than accept help from one of the
creatures responsible for my death
, Daxin wanted to say, but couldn’t.

At the murrhod’s beckoning, a large host gathered around them
and hoisted Daxin off his feet. He groaned in pain, but the sound escaped his
throat as a whisper. They carried him through the colony and up the slope of
muddy sand until they were standing at the top of a ridge, looking over the
Calgoar Vale. Daxin knew the landscape well. He had ridden the vale countless
times with Lethari and his warriors in their younger days. He would be hard
pressed to make it very far now. The host dumped him off at the foot of the
ridge and left him standing alone there, swaying on his feet like a dying blade
of grass.

He took a handful of steps toward Sai Calgoar before he had
to lean against the rocks. Every footfall became a greater ordeal as the rising
light-star dampened his resolve. He would never get halfway to Sai Calgoar on
his own, he knew.
The scrubs finally took you
, he heard Toler say.
You
belong out here, Dax. Me on two feet, you in the ground
. It was even truer
now than it had been that day.

The ground rumbled with the approach of hoofbeats, and for a
brief moment Daxin dreamed he was back there, on the edge of the Skeletonwood
with his brother. Toler had finally caught up with him, he was sure. This time,
Daxin wouldn’t pretend he was sorry for what he’d done. He would tell his
brother how badly he hoped Reylenn Vantanible was dead. He would admit to
copying the map of the caravan routes. He would tell him everything.

Only it wasn’t Toler and his shepherds who were galloping
toward Daxin now. It was a war party from Sai Calgoar, bronze-fleshed warriors
atop towering corsils.
Lethari?
Daxin wanted to shout.
Lethari
Prokin, it’s me. It’s Daxin Glaive, and I have a gift for you.
The nomads
caught sight of him, exposed as he was in the glaring light from the east. They
halted their corsils and surrounded him.

A fierce-looking nomad dismounted and strode toward him, the
strip of long black hair down the center of his skull slouching to one shaven
side. His scarring was deep and intricate, his feathered necklace marking him
as one of the master-king’s warleaders. “
Abin than, daor lathcu teichien go
tuineach?
”

He thinks I’m a slave trying to escape to the colonies
,
Daxin interpreted.
If he’s one of the warleaders, he must know Lethari
.
“Lethari Prokin,” he mouthed, forcing the words out hard enough to achieve a
hoarse whisper that made his throat burn.

“Say that again,
lathcu
.” The warleader leaned in
close to listen, leaving his neck exposed. He was making a show of strength for
his men, Daxin knew, allowing himself to be vulnerable before a perceived foe.

Daxin repeated himself. He tried to make it louder this time,
but he only managed to amplify the stinging in his throat.

The warleader studied Daxin’s sutures. “You are owned by
Lethari Prokin?” he asked.

Daxin shook his head and pointed southward into the vale,
toward Sai Calgoar. “
Oen ein cariad
,” he mouthed slowly.
I’m his
friend
.

The warleader maintained his blank expression for a moment, then
exhaled a breath that smelled of tea and olives. He began a shallow, repetitive
nod. “You go back to Sai Calgoar with the herdsmen. They will bring to you
Lethari Prokin. If he does not know you, they put you out of your misery.”

“
Maetha
,” Daxin mouthed.

The warleader motioned toward the herdsmen, who were rounding
up the corsils as the warriors dismounted. One of the herdsmen came over,
kneeling a corsil to let Daxin mount.

The warleader joined his warriors where they were gathering
at the foot of the mountains. “
Guintadael aer coas
,” he shouted.

They’re going into the hills on foot. Why, I wonder?
Daxin
was in too much pain to wonder for long. The war party began to scramble up the
mountainside, warriors crowding like marathon runners, warlocks and porters
following behind with heavy loads on their backs. Daxin watched them scurrying
over the crags until they grew small in the distance.