The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (62 page)

Swy was thoughtful for a moment. “Any ideas?”

“Well,” Merrick said. “I have something sort of personal I’ve
been meaning to do. It might shed some new light on this whole situation. While
everyone’s getting back on their feet, maybe you’d be interested in joining me
on a little outing.”

“I could probably do that,” Swydiger said. “What’s it about?”

“Some foreigners came to Belmond a few weeks ago, strange
folks from far away. There’s a chance some of them are still around. I haven’t
had a spare second to look for them, what with the intensives Caliber had me
doing the past couple weeks. I guess that’s all over now. So since we seem to
have some spare time, I want to see if I can track them down.”

“I know the dways you’re talking about. Shiny clothes, pale
skin, pretty well-fed, looking like they hadn’t been above-world very long? The
Scarred gave them a cruel welcome, if I recall.”

“That’s them. How did you know?”

“The Revs are always watching, my friend. We see everything.
The good news is, there’s a nomad camp behind an old factory down by the
channel. Some of our boys saw the foreigners headed that way a while back.
Might be we can ask around, see if the nomads can tell us where these
foreigners are.”

Merrick didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh, maybe not then.
That’s probably not a good idea.”

Swydiger frowned. “How come? Oh, that’s right… you’re scared
of nomads. Aren’t you, you norther?”

“It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

Merrick rubbed the patch of skin between his thumb and forefinger,
where his mark had been. The scar tissue there was still raised, three long
claws and a ridge of knuckles, like an invisible sketch of what it had once
looked like. “They just make me a little nervous. I’ve shot more nomads than
the number I’ve met in person.”

“How many have you met?”

Merrick shook his head.

“Wow, are you serious? Okay, we’re doing this.”

Merrick tried to protest, but Swy wouldn’t let him get a word
in.

“Nope. Not listening. This is happening, Merrick. Just go
with it.”

“Fine.”
But I’m wearing gloves
, Merrick decided.

“Why is it you want to find these foreigners again?”

Merrick considered his answer before he gave it. “They have
some information I want. Information that might help us bring down the north.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Swy. “You mind if I bring my
cousin?”

“Who, Eldridge? Yeah, absolutely he can come.”

“I should take Clus, too. I don’t want to leave him here by
himself two times in one day. He’s gone through enough. Don’t worry though,
he’ll behave.”

“Sounds good,” Merrick said. It didn’t sound good, but what
choice did he have? It was go alone, or go with whoever Swy wanted to bring. If
they managed to find the Decylumites, any talk of the gift would have to wait
until Merrick could catch a moment alone with Raith or one of the others.

The four Gray Revenants left the Fantique Theater and headed
down Sheridan Avenue, Swydiger taking point and Eldridge bringing up the rear.
It was a ritzy area, lined with blocks of hotels and restaurants and theaters
and jewelry stores. They’d gone about three blocks when Swydiger saw something
and ducked into the doorway of a little eatery called the Taste of Nebulai.

“Down,” he said in a loud whisper.

Merrick and Cluspith scooted into the adjacent storefront, a
place called the Style Loft Boutique.

Behind them, Eldridge hugged the corner of the building and
leaned out to watch for Swydiger’s signal. Eldridge was a solid man who bore
the family’s narrow facial features, but unlike his cousins, he had a full head
of flowing hair the color of burnt sienna and a back shaped like a broad
arrowhead. He held his coilgun at the ready, custom-painted with black and
yellow stripes and the word STINGER decorating the receiver.

Some dways are a little too serious about their guns
,
Merrick thought, looking down at his own empty hands. Caliber hadn’t deemed him
worthy of being issued his own coilgun. Now that Caliber was dead, Merrick
wasn’t sure if he’d ever get one. He missed Birch. He found himself hoping his
silvered handgun was still in his footlocker at the barracks, though he might
not be back to claim it for some time.
Some other comrade has already
claimed my poor Birch for himself by now, I’m sure
, he thought gloomily.

Swydiger signaled. Someone was approaching from between the
Kelling Events Center and the half caved-in Amber Trust Bank building on the
opposite corner. Gangers, with spiked bats and heavy wrenches and fireman’s
axes, wearing street-sign armor and gridiron helmets and leather earflap hats.
They were winding down a curved section of road, all strut and swagger, making
their presence known.

Merrick couldn’t read his companions’ faces beneath their
masks, but by the way Swy flicked his fingers at Eldridge, he knew they were
getting ready to engage them. Eldridge nodded and disappeared around the
corner.

“Where’s he going?” Merrick asked.

“Stay here. Keep Clus with you. Don’t move.” Swydiger crept
through the storefront’s shattered window display without waiting for Merrick’s
reply.

Merrick drew his knife—the one he’d suspected Kugh of dropping
the night they’d left him in the desert to die.
My own venture, and I’m not
even taking part in it. What’s worse, we’re in for a fight and I’ve only got this
to defend myself with
.

One of the gangers held his arms out to halt the others, then
pointed. Merrick ducked to avoid being spotted. He was about to tell Cluspith to
run, but the gangers fled first.

They scattered like flies from a carcass, scrambling off the
road and diving behind broken-down walls into the ruins of the Amber Trust Bank.
They were out of sight in seconds. Swydiger and Eldridge reappeared moments
later. There was no celebration, no slapping of hands or cuffing of shoulders.
Even Cluspith stayed quiet.

The Revs are used to being feared
, Merrick realized.
As a Scarred man, he’d grown used to being hated and antagonized. He didn’t
doubt that some gangs offered bounties for the heads of Scarred men. Not so
with the Gray Revenants, it seemed. The Revs incited a different emotion within
the city south’s residents: fear.
Is it their weapons, or their mere
presence that inspires such terror?
he wondered.
Shadows masquerading as
men. If the gangers are afraid of the Revs, that means they’re afraid of me
.
That was a strange awakening. It was an odd feeling to be feared. It was new
and exhilarating, and it made the blood course hot through his chest. Without
warning, his fingertips ignited beneath his gloves. He flinched, then shook his
hands off like someone who’s just held onto a live matchstick for too long.

“You okay?” Swydiger asked.

“Sure, yeah,” Merrick said, as the heat dissipated.

Swy’s filtermask was a ghastly sight, painted a fleshy green
color to resemble the face of an emaciated ghoul with empty black eyes.
Cluspith’s was brighter, grayish-blue skin with a spongy orange beard to look
like the lightburned face of a wind gargant. Eldridge’s mask had a
cotterphage’s wild cactus-spike teeth and slitted yellow eyes. Merrick had yet
to come up with an idea for his mask. For now, it would keep the clay hound’s
glowing red eyes and dark snarling jaws it had been painted with when they gave
it to him.

“The factory is a pretty long hike,” Swy said. “Let’s keep
moving.”

“Those gangers sure took off in a hurry,” said Merrick. “Did
either of you fire a shot?”

Swydiger shook his head. “Nah, but we might’ve had us a big
herd of gangers to sell to the nomads tonight, if they’d stuck around longer.”

Eldridge tapped his filtermask. “What’s the difference between
a ganger and a slave?”

Merrick shrugged.

“Me.”

Swydiger snorted. “I speak.”

“So that’s what happened to all the dways from my unit who’ve
gone missing,” Merrick said. “It was you Revs, snatching them up and selling
them to the nomads.”

“Scarred men becoming slaves? Oh, no. Not a chance. No nomad
is keeping a Scarred man as his slave. He doesn’t want to bring that kind of
ridicule onto himself and his family. To the nomads, sparing a comrade’s life
is weakness of the worst kind. That’d be like snaring a bushcat while you’re
starving and letting it go free again. There’s just no excuse for it. Any cases
of missing comrades are pure coincidence.”

“And you’re trying to tell me—a former comrade—that
everything’s going to be fine when I walk into a camp full of savages? Forget
it, I’m turning back now. I don’t need to find those foreigners
that
much.”

“Cool off,” Swydiger said. “You didn’t think we were gonna
tell them you used to be Scarred, did you?”

“No, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It should. You
do
want to find those foreigners—don’t
fool yourself.”

Merrick slumped his shoulders. “Alright, lead the way.”

The walk to the nomad camp took most of the day. They ate
dried fruit and nuts, with spiced jerky that came from some animal Merrick
didn’t recognize. His daily food ration since joining the Gray Revenants had
consisted of two small meals from the rooftop gardens and just enough water to
leave him wanting a little more. He hadn’t gotten used to the meager diet yet,
and his stomach was always grumbling. On the plus side, he’d lost some weight.
He didn’t see that trend changing until he was all skin and bones, like most of
the others.

Aside from a few of his more harrowing missions with Mobile
Ops, Merrick couldn’t ever remember having been more terrified than when the
first glimpse of the factory’s ancient smoke stacks appeared on the skyline. He
checked his gloves. He was afraid of igniting again while he wasn’t paying
attention, of burning through them without realizing it. If the savages hated
the Scarred as much as Swydiger claimed, there could be no slip-ups, no second
guessing himself when they were around.

A narrow street of old body shops and consignment stores
brought them down the final stretch of pavement to the factory. They slipped
through a tear in the fence and began to cross the parking lot, where a circle
of concrete blocks and some overturned fifty-gallon drums surrounded the
smoldering remains of a campfire. As they neared the factory building, nomads began
to materialize from behind doorways and abandoned vehicles and stacks of
industrial containers.

There was an uneasy tension as the two groups came together. Swydiger
and Eldridge extended their hands to greet the nomads around them. Merrick did
the same, greeting a man with a serpentine scar on his chest and tied black
hair that was braided along his scalp. When the savage cuffed him on the
forearm, the grip was severe. The man was staring at him through eyes so
violent and piercing that even behind his mask Merrick felt the compulsion to
look away.

“Good to see you, Diarmid,” Swydiger said.

Diarmid was preoccupied with Merrick. “Who is this one, with
the face of a hound?”

“This is a newcomer. His name’s Merrick.”

“Let me see his face.” Diarmid pulled off an imaginary mask.

The inside of Merrick’s filtermask had begun to fog up while
the nomad was staring at him. He looked to Swydiger, who nodded his consent,
before removing his hood with one hand. With the other, he gripped the round
drum filter and lifted the mask. His hands felt damp and sweaty inside the
black leather gloves. Diarmid was eyeing him up and down, taking particular
notice of his midsection. For a moment, Merrick thought he might soil himself.

“You are fat for a gray ghost,” Diarmid said. Then, “
Meith
dom tathagliath
.”

The other nomads laughed.

I’m skinnier than I was, but still fatter than the rest of
these dways by a long shot
. “I eat a lot.”

“Merrick Bouchard eats a lot,” said Cluspith, fidgeting.

Diarmid grinned. “You and me should trade food, I think. If I
am like you, I will crush my wife to lay with her. Then I will have no wife.”
He shrugged. “Bad things happen, eh?”

The nomads who understood the Aion-speech laughed.

“So,
Maigh
Porter, what makes you come this way
today?”

“We’re looking for some people,” Swydiger said. “The
strangers who came to Belmond from the east.”

Diarmid was intrigued. “The pale-skins, yes.
Yarun merouil
.
The people of the hidden sands.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Of course I know where they are. They’re here.”

Swydiger shot Merrick a look. “Can we see them?”

“Yes.” Diarmid said the word as casually as if Swydiger had
just asked him for directions to the nearest abandoned building. The nomad
turned and beckoned them to follow.

Around the side of the factory, a ramp led down into a
sheltered courtyard where more than a hundred nomads were swarming around half
a dozen holding pens. Some were filled with livestock, others with slaves.
Merrick’s heartbeat quickened at the sight of so many savages in one place.

As they crossed the courtyard, something hit Merrick hard on
the back and tangled up his feet. He tripped, but caught his balance and turned
around. A nomad carrying a heavy cloth bag over his shoulders had collided with
him. The savage sneered and spat out a stream of rough words. Merrick tensed up,
but the nomad continued on his way.

Diarmid brought them into one of the loading bays, where the
shade offered them a welcome respite from the day’s heat. “Hayden,” he called,
once inside.

There were three of them, gaunt and thin, with blistered pink
skin and clothing fashioned from synthetic fabrics. The one called Hayden stood
and approached them, still chewing the bite of roasted meat he’d just taken.
Like the other two, he had fingernails, and the skin on his hands was as pink
as the rest of him.