The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Afternoon, traveler,” shouted the man with the cutlass. “What brings you out this way?”

  Daxin had dealt with much worse in his time than a few scraggly highwaymen, but never while he was in such bad shape. Fending them off would’ve been more feasible otherwise. Until he found out if there were more of them, he wasn’t going to do anything rash. Best not to risk fighting myself into an even more serious set of wounds, he reasoned. “I’m sure you can see I’m injured,” he said aloud. “If you’re looking for trade, I’ve got a few things in my bag that may be of interest to you.”

  “Such as?” Cutlass asked in a mocking tone.

  All three of the men were still coming toward him, but cautiously, as if they expected him to strike the reins and bolt at any second. It would have been easy to overestimate them, although they were nowhere near as intimidating as they were trying to look. The bow had been Daxin’s only real concern at first, but what had appeared to be a professional-grade hunting bow from the old days was actually a cheaper model, made for learners. The arrow had plastic fletching and a tin head.

  Daxin tried to remember what he’d brought with him. “Let me think. Off the top of my head, I have a great pair of shoes, men’s size eleven. No, eleven and a half. A bottle of perfume, if any of you happens to have a special lady back home. A couple of real nice diamond rings, which I’m sure she would also like. Actually, scratch that, I have about two dozen of those things, so, plenty to choose from. You can pick out the perfect one, just for her.” Daxin waited for a response, but the men gave him none. “No women, huh? Maybe it’s food you’re after. I’ve got some good jerky, smoked and seasoned. An apple or two. A gas lighter, some pots and pans, you know, tons of great stuff. I might even have some rolling paper and a bit of tobacco in here somewhere. Let me see if I can find it.” He plunged a hand into one of his saddlebags. “Oh yeah, I think I do.”

  “How about that horse?” asked Cutlass, lifting his chin.

  “Oh, the horse?”

  The man had taken a step to the side when he spoke. He was circling around to the left now, while the other two came on from the right. This would be a classic highwayman’s trap, something Daxin had seen before. They were trying to make him run, funneling him over the hill, where less friendly men would welcome him into some gully or catch on the other side.

  “The horse isn’t for sale,” Daxin said, trying to keep his voice steady. He’d always wished he could be as tough as Toler was, drinking and spitting and acting like nothing bothered him even when the odds were stacked up higher than the crates in the old shipping yard. But now that he considered how outnumbered he might be, his heart was pounding in his ears and he was realizing that no amount of pretending was ever going to make him as cool under pressure as his little brother. So, he decided, I’ll just have to fake it.

  Daxin pulled his hand from the saddlebag to point his short-barreled double shotgun at the man with the cutlass. His pulse was rushing now, his mouth dry. He wasn’t sure how Toler’s men had overlooked the weapon. He’d forgotten about it himself until his fingers had brushed against it at the bottom of the bag just now. It was the break-open breech-loading type, its barrels partially rusted, the wooden buttstock and foregrip worn and nicked from years of rough handling. The gun was sturdy and reliable, but Daxin could only hope his handmade shells were as reliable as the weapon itself. The red-bearded man raised his bow and braced to fire. Daxin willed his hands to stop shaking as he gauged the distance between them. Seven paces, at least. More than enough.

  Infernal was beating down on their backs, hard shadows lining the ground, the trees glowering over them like watchers in a dramatic play. The crooked-toothed man took a shallow breath, wheezing like an old hinge.

  The short man drew his cutlass, letting it fall to his side and playing its tip in the dirt. “That was not in your best interest to do.”

  “Afraid I have to disagree. I’m feeling pretty good about my interests at the moment.” Daxin liked how tough he sounded, and how little his voice had trembled.

  “Fair enough,” said Cutlass. “Why don’t we find out who’s the better shot, then.”

  Daxin raised an eyebrow. “Fine by me. But keep in mind—your man might hit me with that kiddie bow. I will definitely not miss you with two barrelfuls of double-ought buckshot.”

  “Do you think we’re alone, traveler?” Cutlass asked, cutting his eyes to either side. “We have you. Give yourself up so we can do this the easy way.”

  Smarmy jerkoff. Daxin’s jitters began to melt away. Cutlass’ flippancy was getting on his nerves. It was time to call their bluff. Daxin raised his broken left arm and rested the shotgun in the crook of his elbow. “Three on one seems decent odds for a few starving bandits to give a lone traveler a run for his money. So yes, I do think you’re alone.”

  Cutlass looked amused. Then, he glanced down at Daxin’s saddlebag, and the easy grin on his face turned dismal. Daxin knew that look all too well; it was the same look all men took on when death was staring them in the face. It was the look of fear.

  “Okay, s-stand down,” Cutlass said, dropping his sword. He was shaking now, worse than Daxin had been.

  The other two didn’t move.

  “Stand down, I said.”

  The archer eased his bowstring forward, but he stayed vigilant. Meanwhile, the shaved man with the makeshift spear slumped his shoulders, then slammed his weapon to the ground and wrung his hands in frustration. “Ya idiot,” he yelled through a mouthful of yellowed crags. “We had him. He was gonna give over, and I wanted the horsy.”

  “No he wasn’t, and he still isn’t,” said Cutlass. “So shut your face, or he’s gonna shoot me.”

  It was then that Daxin noticed the bandolier full of homemade shotgun shells that had fallen part way out of his saddlebag when he’d retrieved the gun. That was what had scared Cutlass so badly. Plenty of wastelanders had guns, but few had ammunition to load them with. There was no better proof that Daxin’s gun was loaded than a full bandolier.

  He couldn’t help but laugh; it was a fortunate mistake that may have spared him or his mare an arrow in the chest. He hadn’t meant to laugh so loudly, but it erupted from him in a wave of relief that he was rather inclined to let himself enjoy. The sound of it cut their argument off, and for a moment the three bandits just stared at him, confused.

  “I should line you up and put one through the back of your necks, is what I should do.”

  Cutlass shook his head. “Don’t hurt anybody. Please just be on your way. We didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Too late. I’m offended. But more importantly, I need water, and it’s too coffing hot out here to waste my time or my shells on the likes of you. So I’ll give you my word—if you can fill my skins, I’ll be on my way. No harm done.”

  “We have water. We have it,” Cutlass assured him, his hands outstretched as if to stop Daxin from riding over him. “There’s lots of it.”

  Daxin was puzzled. Three men in the middle of the Bones with plenty of water, but starved as a pack of broom handles. Something isn’t right about this.

  “Okay then. Take me to it.” Daxin almost lowered his gun before he remembered that the bearded archer was still armed. “You, toss that thing over here. The quiver too.”

  The man did as he was told.

  “Good. Now show me where the water is.”

  “Give us your skins and we’ll go fill ‘em for you,” said the man with the crooked teeth.

  Daxin bristled. “Take me to the coffing water. If I have to go on a scavenger hunt, I can promise it will not end well for you.”

  They led him over the crest of the hill and across another expanse of treed ground, Daxin on his mare and they out in front of him, their weapons tucked safely in with his things for the time being. There were no accomplices lying in wait on the far side after all. The afternoon haze blurred the colors of the clay red dirt and the sickly off-white trees until they became the deep blues and violets of the distan
t mountains. Infernal’s heat was finally beginning to subside after a day that had been far too long for Daxin’s liking.

  As they rounded the bend of another small hill, Daxin began to realize that it wasn’t a hill at all, but an enormous stone, which time and weather had blended into the landscape. The stone was covered with dirt and scrub on the near side. It wasn’t until they had circled to the rear that Daxin saw the underside of the stone—a rocky shelf that jutted out above the ground, forming a shallow cave beneath. The entrance was so well-hidden that Daxin might have passed it by without noticing it.

  The path that descended into the cave was smooth and well-worn, hidden behind a wall of rock. Daxin had to dismount to follow the bandits under the low ceiling. He stayed ten paces back and hop-stepped along, leading his mare by the reins. He tried not to use the shotgun as a walking stick whenever he felt himself losing his balance. There was a pleasant coolness in the air that he hadn’t felt in a precious long time. Two other sensations came to him as they made their way into the cave: he felt the damp, and he heard the voices.

  CHAPTER 7

  Claybridge

  Spires gleamed in the darkness, pale reflections of the life agitating below. Lizneth sped toward the heart of the great metropolis of Bolck-Azock, losing herself in the press like a lone snowflake in a cloud of gray ash. Everyone was a stranger here, and the way they looked at her made her feel stranger still. She hadn’t expected to go unnoticed, but she hadn’t expected to receive this much attention, either. Or this kind of attention. Her simple chinos and soil-stained legwraps did little to hide her nubile age or her pearlescent fur, and she could feel every buck’s eyes following her, hungering after her. When they salivated, she could feel their desire in her whiskers. A few even called out to her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead and quickened her pace. The bucks in Tanley had never been so impolite.

  Lizneth wound her way up a wobbly ironwood ramp that was coiled around a massive stalactite. The throng thickened as she neared the top, and the dry-rotted supports shook under the weight. The stench of cooked meat mingled with the haick of hundreds of ikzhehn she had never scented before. It was overwhelming to come in contact with so many unfamiliar imprints. Each crosswind that blew through the chasm brought dozens of foreign scent-shapes to her, and she hardly recognized a single one.

  The top of the ramp dumped her out at one end of a gargantuan red clay bridge. Shops, stands and kiosks littered either side, the biggest collection of artisans she had ever seen in one place. Even on market day in Tanley, the mass of vendors was never so astounding. Anything she needed, she could probably find it here. When she saw the thickness of the crowds, she almost turned back, but anything was more appealing than the thought of descending that rickety ramp again.

  A shrouded brown damsel was coming toward her, looking at the ground as she hurried along. Lizneth stepped into the dam’s path and said, “Excuse me… what is this place?”

  The dam looked up with a start. “Akikrish-ziirah,” she said, her voice a high-pitched chitter. Lizneth’s Ikzhethii wasn’t the best, but she knew the words meant ‘trade crossing’ in the Aion-speech.

  The dam yanked her shroud tight around her snout and slipped past, continuing on her way.

  Artisans haggled with their customers as Lizneth meandered along the bridge, trying not to let the crowd sweep her off too fast. She wanted to revel in the moment; take it all in. Her daydreams would be richer when she returned to Tanley if she had tangible memories with which to treat herself.

  The color and excitement of things happening—deals being made, meetings in the street, stories unfolding—was so much more than she was used to. Tanley was like a black-and-white photograph, tame and ordinary by comparison. It was a peasant’s town, full of serfs under the vassalage of Sniverlik, who were too frightened of him to do anything about it. No one ever said ill of Sniverlik, and no one failed to do what he required of them, unless they wished to risk his ire. The ikzhehn here seemed so much freer—able to do as they pleased. Lizneth envied them, and a very profound part of her longed to be one of them if it gained her the same privilege.

  “Step inside, nestling,” said a vehement shopkeep, a buck who looked young enough to be presumptuous in calling her a child. He emerged from the shadows and swept a hand across his bulbous abdomen in display of the entrance. His crown was bandaged in a wide cheesecloth wrapping. She could see the end of a bald patch coming through underneath, where an elongated scar had stopped the fur from growing back, and the round of his skull on the left side, where his ear should’ve been.

  “Blitznag’s Bazaar, welcome to you,” he said in a heavy Ikzhethii accent. “Baubles, bounties, bits, and beauties to behold!”

  In spite of herself, Lizneth lost sight of the far end of the bridge and wandered inside. The interior was musty and dark, but somehow much larger than it had appeared from the street. The shop was beyond cluttered; she’d never seen so many things packed into such a small space, except maybe her brothers and sisters. It was loaded so full of oddments that she had to be careful not to knock anything over as she began to peruse the shelves.

  Following her inside, the buck strode through the flotsam of his shop in the kind of perfunctory manner that showed he’d done so a hundred times before.

  Lizneth sniffed the air and found dozens of unfamiliar haick traces, but they were faint, left by ikzhehn long departed. She was alone with the shopkeep. As she browsed ever deeper between the congested shelves and teetering stacks of sundries, the urgent noise of the crowds outside diminished to a dull hum.

  “Anything particular you have eye for?” the shopkeep asked in his broken dialect, twitching eager whiskers as he watched her from the counter.

  “Just browsing,” Lizneth said. Many trinkets caught her attention, but she never let her eye rest on one for too long, lest she catch an unwanted dose of salesmanship from her observer. There were things both decorative and mundane along the aisles, both handmade and manufactured, from times ancient and recent. Cloth and clothing, plastic and glass, tin and steel and rusted iron; dolls, baskets, thatched figurines and other crafts; gold and silver jewelry, encrusted with gemstones; mountains of dusty furniture; rows of vases, cups, kettles, jugs, pitchers, and bowls; and pillars of old books, most of which, having been printed in the tongues of the calaihn, were of little use to any ikzhehn aside from the occasional linguist or historian who could read them. There was also a display case filled with items of a more delicate or dangerous variety, on which the shopkeep was leaning.

  “You are from other part of town, yes?”

  Lizneth felt herself blushing, delighted to think he’d mistaken her for a city-dweller. “Why do you say that?”

  “You scent like parikua,” he said.

  Lizneth’s heart sank. He’d smelled the dirt on her, noticed the mud stains on her legwraps, and called her out for the farmer she was.

  “I am parikua,” she muttered.

  “I thinked you might be from the pits or the nethertowns. We do not often see white-furs here. I know all the scearib around, and I don’t know you.” He sensed her dejection and paced the counter, pretending to organize the contents of a shelf, though his fumbling seemed to have the opposite effect. The term they used for albinos was not always mentioned in a derogatory way, but why would he point it out unless it made a difference?

  “I’m from Tanley,” Lizneth the scearib replied. She’d found something she wanted to buy. She approached the counter with it, being careful not to stumble over anything on her way there.

  “Ah, very nice hood and cloak, this one,” Blitznag said, his remaining ear perked. “What is your trade?”

  The cloth was midnight blue, and it reminded Lizneth of the color of the rime caves in darkness. She loved the color, but she hated to think of those caves. It reminded her of Deequol and the other siblings she’d lost, and Papa had told her never to think of them. Deequol had always been her anchor; the brother she’d been able to confide in when
ever anything went wrong.

  “Dark shades look good on you,” he’d told her once, when she had used one of Mama’s darkmoss aprons to keep her fur clean as she scrubbed the bowls before supper.

  She had never forgotten that compliment. She doubted she would ever be able to forget Deequol, either.

  Lizneth searched her pocket and came up with a handful of mulligraws. “This is all I brought with me,” she said, blushing. “Is it enough?”

  “Beans,” Blitznag said. “Beans?” The word came out as a squeak the second time. His eyes had become spheres of glassy red-ringed onyx. “You bring here to insult! You want bargain of fine linen for simple worthless beans!”

  Lizneth wondered how her offer could be worthy of such great offense. “I didn’t… I’m only here for the day, I didn’t think to bring—”

  “I tell you what,” Blitznag said, and in the space between that moment and the next, Lizneth thought he might have relaxed. “Out. Out of my shop, and I don’t find someone to take you away for stealing.”

  “I’m not stealing. I haven’t stolen anything,” she said. Tears welled, and she felt them escaping the corners of her eyes despite her best efforts. She flung the cloak onto the table and dashed out, knocking over a stand of wicker baskets along the way. With a last stung effort she called back to him, “I wouldn’t steal this junk if I found it in the tunnels!”

  “Mah.” Blitznag scowled, waving her away.

  The bridge was still teeming with activity. Lizneth threw herself toward the crowd, drying her eyes on the fur of her forearm.

  “Blitznag get the best of another one?” asked the next-door neighbor, as she sulked past him. His shop was open to the street, with rows of neat shelves and a clean backdrop facing the milling crowds.

  Lizneth looked sideways at him and frowned, but there was warmth and sympathy in his face, and she felt obliged to stop. He was an older buck, soft-eyed and wiry, with thin rutted incisors and drooping whiskers that were so long they would’ve brushed his shoulders if they’d still had their youthful springiness.