Wasteland King (3 page)

B
lackness. And cold. At least the great high-crested waves of agony, each with their glassy teeth tearing at his flesh, had stopped. They receded like chill water along a rock-strewn beach, and he was left in womblike dark, upon cold stone.

Jeremiah Gallow curled around his own heartbeat, the dumb persistent rhythm that had accompanied him from the beginning. His mortal mother, laboring in agony and dying as he first drew breath, could never tell him who his father was. Nor could the black-suited Fathers at the orphanage, preferring instead to ascribe all the boys under their care to the persistence of many-headed Sin itself.

Sin, like Charity and Obedience, was often upon the Fathers' lips, and meant something different each time they said it. In that, they were like the sidhe.

Jeremiah saw the orphanage again, the dingy halls ruthlessly scrubbed, the scratchy uniforms, the cold, narrow benches where boys sat in rows to learn by rote. The wooden paddles, polished with many beatings. Finding out how to whisper the locks and escape had filled him with a heady sense of invincibility, one that hadn't fully deserted him through all the subsequent years.

Until Daisy died. The mortal girl he'd left Summer for, swearing to himself that he was different, not a faithless fickle sidhe who would abandon a woman after a season.

No, instead there had been the car accident. Her mortal fragility, shattered. The machines keeping her alive, and the silence when they halted.

Which brought him, finally, to Robin.

I won't ever be my sister
.

What did it make him, now that Daisy's face blurred and a sharper, finer one took its place, with the gloss of sidhe beauty? Coppergold hair, dark-blue eyes, a sweet mouth… but it wasn't there the real loveliness lay.

No, it was in other places.
A Half girl truer than cold iron itself, who makes you look the faithless hag you are.
He almost wished she'd been there, in Summerhome, to hear him say it.

Was she still alive? They'd taken her locket, it would be a simple matter to track her from true metal she'd worn at her throat for so long. She
needed
him.

Which brought him to full consciousness, alert in the dark, abed on cold stone, a gush of sweat breaking from his skin as he uncurled. His body responded with its usual alacrity, no dragging slowness, none of the agonizing spiked heat of poison along his side where Unwinter's knifeblade had stroked.

He was on a stone shelf, and he still wore his old armor—the first set of sidhe work he'd ever bargained for and won. It was of a cut not favored by Summer's knights, and for a pikeman who needed room to maneuver besides. Not for him an elfhorse and a broadsword or a sickle newmoon blade, though he could fight mounted, if he had to. And had, more than once.

His arms tingled. If there was any light, he'd be able to see the marks moving on his skin. Mortals would mistake them for tribal tattoos, maybe. Daisy had asked him if he was a sailor or a biker, one of her few questions.

Now he wondered why she never asked more.

He staggered the dimensions of the cell. Five strides by five, barking his shins on the bed. A wet bandage against his eyes, claustrophobia briefly closing his throat. Sidhe were creatures of air, if not light, and any mortal would be uncomfortable locked in a stone cube, too.

His arms ran with prickles, just treading the edge of actual pain. The medallion against his chest, a circle of burning frost, was a good reminder of why he was here.

Unwinter hadn't killed him. Instead, the lord of the Unseelie had taken the poison from the wound, and left him here to rot. A Half wouldn't starve to death, but he could grow attenuated indeed, and waste away of solitude itself.

No.
Clarity returned.
Robin.

If he was still alive, he needed to be fighting. But really, why hadn't Unwinter just fucking killed him? It didn't make
sense
.

Gallow exhaled, concentrating. It was hard, at first—that was new. The prickles turned to needles piercing skin and flesh underneath, and he couldn't ever remember the lance being so sluggish. Not since the first time he'd called it out of the dwarven-inked marks, and almost died.

A faint gleam around his fingers stung his dark-adapted eyes. He exhaled, harshly, and familiar solidity thocked into his palms. Shorter than usual, because of the confined space, the lance hummed, the tassels of its blunt end dripping a low punky moonfire. Gallow blinked rapidly. The faint light
hurt
, not along the marks but scouring his eyes. The dark was better, but he squinted, ignoring hot welling tears.

Cold gray stone, almost like slate, but with thin colorless veins. There was only one place, in the real or more-than-real, where the cells were built of thanstone, meant to keep chantment and glamour from effecting a release of the poor assholes caught in them. There was a door, too, of sheer dark metal. It looked goddamn imposing, and the thin colorless veins in the thanstone had branched into its fabric, little clutching fingers deadening both chantment and light.

The lance's leaf-shaped blade lengthened slightly. It quivered, nowhere near its full substantial strength. Gallow concentrated, and the blade-edge flushed with rose-ruddy heat.

Iron, that most inimical of mortal metals. Only a Half could survive the marriage of the lance—too much mortal, and the weapon would kill you before it would yield, too much sidhe, and it would ironblight you from the marks inward. The dwarves had said it was
possible
—a weapon you could never lose, a weapon that would never break.

Jeremiah Gallow had brought the dwarves what was required, and said
Do it
. It was probably the last real decision he'd made. Everything after that had just been… well, a man did what he had to.

Even a Half. Pushed along by one bloodline, pulled by the other.

He examined the door, still blinking furiously. Felt like he had bleach in his eyes, dammit.

It turned into a moot point, because under the sound of his breath and the persistent thudding of his heart, another music intruded.

Footsteps.

He hopped onto the shelf-bed, the lance's light growing steadier. The lives he took vanished into its hungry core, and battle only made them both stronger. Something had drained the lance, but he might get a chance to add strength in the next few moments.

Creaking. Dusty clockwork cogs shrieking as they turned, grudging each inch of motion. Whoever it was hadn't taken any chances; they wanted him to stay. Even cold iron might not cut through such a door.

Unwinter has me. I'm not dead.

Of the two sentences, he couldn't say which was more disturbing.

The groaning and shuddering increased. Finally, with a rusting scream, the door hauled itself open an inch, another. Ruddy torchlight sliced through and Jeremiah folded into a crouch, the lance keening softly as it clove air in small precise circles and found no resistance. It would show him a map of the battle inside his head.

If only there was a battle to be fought.

A low, chill laugh echoed in the hall. Jeremiah's breath turned to puffs of white cloud, the cold rasping against his armor as if it wished to work through and cat-lick living skin.

“
Gallow
.” The single word was a frigid caress.

He set his jaw, wishing he could open his eyes. He was facing the lord of the Unseelie, the Lion of Danu, Summer's once-Consort. And Gallow's face was screwed up like a child waiting for a whipping, hot saltwater trickling down his cheeks.

He had to cough to clear his throat. His mouth tasted like he'd been working asphalt all day and drinking all night—a feat he'd performed once or twice before losing interest.

It was just too damn expensive to get enough mortal booze to make a Half even faintly tipsy. “As you see me, Unwinter.”

Silence. Then another low grating sound struck the shivering air.

Laughter. Unwinter found him
amusing
.

“
This,
” the Unseelie said, “
is why I have not killed you yet.
”

“Because of my wit?” The lance hummed, eagerly, but there was nothing for it to latch onto. The medallion at Jeremiah's chest was cold enough to burn, but it didn't. Unwinter had worn the thing for many a long year as both mortals and sidhe reckoned.

Had
he
ever felt it chill-scald like this?

“
What little you have? No
.” Another low grinding, but thinner than the last. “
You may be beaten, and you may be killed. But you do not submit
.”

Sheer idiot persistence, nothing more. Maybe he should tell Unwinter as much. “Never got the habit.” The burning was going down, but he didn't dare open his eyes just yet.

“
Good
.” Unwinter sounded thoughtful. “
There is a task for thee.
”

I suspected as much, since you didn't let the poison take me.
“Wonderful.” His throat was so dry. What he wouldn't give for some Coors. Or better, milk. Even skim sounded good. Cream would be better.

“
You may always refuse.
” As if Unwinter didn't know he had Gallow by the balls.

So Jeremiah said the only thing he could. “Robin.”

Unwinter did not laugh. “
You may even live to see her again.
”

It wasn't quite a promise, but it was all he was going to get. “Lead the way, then.”

No, it wasn't submitting. He still couldn't see a damn thing, but he heard soft footsteps, each one crackling slightly as resisting air coated itself with ice, and followed in their wake. His shoulder hit the doorjamb, he blinked more hot water out of his eyes, and found he could squint at a long, cobweb-festooned hall. Retreating down its funhouse sway was a black-clad back and a head of thistledown hair, bound by a pale silvery fillet.

Gallow, half blind and unsteady, staggered after Unwinter.

S
moke clung to Alastair Crenn's shoulders; the scream of the last Unseelie knight he'd killed still reverberated in his hands and throat and knees. His shoulder ground with pain, he was down to his last arrow, and the only thing that had saved him was mortal dawn's painting the sagebrushed hills with red.

A bloody dawn, indeed. Sailors take warning.

Crenn coughed, spat, and eyed the twisting, writhing almost-corpse splayed on the pavement.

The drow cursed at him, fragments of the Old Language fluttering blackwing-bird free of its mouth and struggling to flap into free air. They were too weak to do more than brush, though, and Crenn spat in return, a single golden dart spearing three of them at once with a sound like breaking sugarpane.

He'd shot this one with iron, right above the hip, and doubled back to find it in the middle of the road, scratching with maggot-white, waxen, broken fingertips, probably searching for a door or even a bit of free earth it could use to go to ground and escape. Crenn crouched, his hand sinking into the drow's hair, and he wrenched the thing's head back, exposing a wedge of pale throat.

No violet dapples of lightshield chantment on this one. Sunlight would kill it handily, but it paid to be thorough.

It hissed at him, baring sharp serrated teeth, and he glanced in either direction. No traffic on this desolate stretch of highway just now. His shoulder gave another twinge, and two drops of bright red blood hit the pavement. The drow writhed even more furiously, scenting nourishment so close.

Leading them away from both mortals and their other prey had required all the ingenuity and cunning the swamps of Marrowdowne had taught him, and more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bled, or the last time he'd actually
sweated
. Not much could wring the salt out of a Half, but by God, misdirecting an entire Unseelie raid came close.

She'd escaped, though. The dog had carried her, and Robin Ragged had escaped.

Crenn dragged the knife across the drow's throat, his lip curling as an arterial gush of bluish ichor splattered on concrete.

I will cut your heart out,
she'd told him, in that broken whisper it hurt to hear.

“Too late,” he said to the rapidly decaying mess of drow corpse in the road. He yanked the arrow free, examined its head and fletching. No major warping, he could account for the slight curve if he had call to shoot later. Good enough, and his quiver would replenish itself by nightfall.

Was this how Gallow had felt, so long ago, after the mortal policemen had descended on shantytown and set fire to whatever they could? Had he felt the sick thump in his stomach as he contemplated what damage might have been done to a woman, especially one he might have felt… something… for?

For a moment Crenn's face twinged, as if his scars had returned. It was a new thing, to wonder if perhaps that might be best. If Robin looked at him now, she'd assume that the scars vanishing were Summer's payment for a betrayal. How could he explain that was only
part
of the truth? He shook his hair down over his face, a supple movement, as he turned. The moss among the strands had dried to verdigris crumbles, the tinge of Marrowdowne's curtains of green stillness finding the dry mortal sun uncongenial at best. It was habit, to view the world through a screen, shielding the scars from prying gazes.

Besides, every assassin sometimes needed a mask.

His arms ached, and his legs too. His boots were caked with dust and drying ichors, his leathers shedding more of the same. The eastern horizon ripened, tongues of orange and lateral stripes of crimson intensifying, a flameflower about to bloom. No hint of moisture on the wind, and he had traveled far enough inland that he couldn't smell the sea.

She escaped.
Otherwise he would have heard the silvery huntwhistles thrilling up into ultrasonic, the cry of prey brought down.

He turned his back on the bubbling mess of Unseelie, and set off along the side of the highway. Funny, after so many years, he'd finally made it to the mortal California. Land of milk and honey, where a man could get a job—that had been the dream, long ago, riding the rails with Jeremiah. They might even have made it if the Hooverville shantytown they'd ended up in hadn't been raided by the good citizens of a town uneasy at the thought of a collection of migrants on their doorstep.

The same old song.
Move along. Nothing for your kind here.
Even in Summer there were places a Half shouldn't tread.

And a few the fullborn wouldn't dare either. Like the fens' green curtains and hungry depths. He'd looked for a hiding place, and found it, retreating from the goddamn mortal world and all its problems.

Now he was thinking daring that green hell hadn't been as much of an act of bravery as he'd wanted it to be.

Crenn trudged back along the highway, mortal dawn rising over the low blue smears of distant mountains. Dust, sage, rock, and the ribbon of the road. As soon as he was far enough away from the drow's death, he could slip through the Veil into the lands of the free sidhe and begin to track her. She wouldn't be happy to see him, but sooner or later he'd prove himself useful. He'd spend the time he had to convincing her.

Because a girl who would face down Unwinter without a qualm, and spit in Summer's eye to boot, deserved all the protection a man could scrape together, and more. Certainly she deserved a hell of a lot more than an arrogant former Armormaster and a Half who spent his time hiding in treetops.

A woman like that could make a man immortal, or so close it didn't matter.

His breath came a little shorter and his palms dampened at the thought. The mortals at the carnival had dragged her from the sea, and she'd slept in one of their trailers. Standing over her in the dark, her black heels in his almost-trembling hands, Alastair had thought perhaps he could simply leave this entire fucked-up situation where he'd found it, go back to the swamps, and let Summer, Unwinter, and their playthings fight it out without him.

Then he thought of Robin Ragged spitting at the Seelie queen, and her determination as she flung herself into whatever lay in that white tower by the sea, the tower Crenn had brought her to.

What was a woman like that doing with Gallow, of all people? What could he have that she wanted? How did he
do
it? Even when Crenn had been unscarred, the other man drew them, those women. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes not, but always with that… spark. With something you couldn't quite put your finger on, a female magic entirely different than chantment.

A burring sound in the distance—an engine. Crenn put his head down, old habits dying hard if at all, and wondered if you could still travel for miles with a stranger in those horseless carriages. The last time he'd been in the mortal realm for this long, twenty-five miles an hour was high speed. Now they were almost as fast as elfhorses, but far less elegant. Exhaust-stink chariots poisoning the mortal air. How long before the sidhe would choke to death when they bothered to come through the Veil at all?

For a long time, the sound stayed the same, a blurred buzz neither further nor closer. Then, as the sun mounted higher and pavement shimmered in the distance under waves of heat, it drew close all at once, a roar like a wyrm's breath and hot wind buffeting the roadside.

A groan, a stuttering, and the great silver beast coasted to a stop not too far ahead, amber and red lights on its right side blinking.

Crenn lengthened his stride. The gigantic semi waited, rumbling idly, and a few minutes later, dust spumed, tires ground dry gravel, and Alastair Crenn had vanished into the cab.