The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Please, sir…” Cutlass said, imploring him.

  “How many of you live down here?” Daxin asked.

  “Thirty or so, last count.”

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Been awhile.”

  Daxin wasn’t a sympathetic man, but something about these people gave him pause. He had to find out more about them. Who they were, where they had come from. Besides, he needed somewhere out of the daylight where he could recover from his wounds. This place might be just what he needed. “Listen to me,” he said. “I can help you. I know I’m a stranger to you, but there are things I can teach you. I learned how to live in the scrubs when I was just a boy. I can show you.”

  No one spoke.

  “I didn’t come here looking for a fight,” Daxin said. “I was crossing the Bones on my way up north, and I got caught up by some dways who were looking to make trouble. I’ve only got this thing so I can defend myself, not because I want to do violence. I need a place to rest, and if you’ll have me, I can pay you back by teaching you to survive out here. Once you know what I know, it’ll keep you fed until… well, for as long as you need.”

  “If that’s the truth, give us back our weapons and lay yours on the ground,” shouted the potbellied archer with the long red-silver beard.

  “Now hold on,” Daxin said. “You can have your weapons back, but if you want my help, this gun stays mine, and so do the rest of my things. That’s the terms.”

  “There’s no need to go to such extremes, Duffy,” Cutlass told the potbellied man.

  “I want a look at his fancy gun. Maybe I’ll have myself a piece of him, too,” said the shaved man with the crooked teeth.

  “Quiet down, Eivan,” Cutlass said.

  “Sure, you can have a go at me if you like,” Daxin said. “Maybe you’ll live, and you might get a few new toys and a good meal or two out of my supplies. Or, you can trust me, and I can help you live well for a long time to come.”

  The shaved man and the potbellied bowman whispered to one another.

  Cutlass ignored them, looking embarrassed. “Fair enough, traveler. We’ll listen. If you can get along with us, you can stay. But if you have a mind to make one bit of trouble, you might as well be on your way now.”

  “Fine by me,” Daxin said, extending his hand. “The name’s… Luther. Luther Sicarus.”

  “Well met, Luther. I’m Biyo,” said Cutlass. “We call this place Dryhollow Split. These two fellows who were with me are Eivan and Duffy. I’ll introduce you around to the rest of us soon enough. Our water is bad and we have little else to offer, but if you can really help us as you claim, we’ll be in your debt.”

  As his first two acts of good will, Daxin holstered his gun and returned the men’s weapons. The dirty looks Eivan and Duffy were giving him dampened any sense of relief he might have felt. But if nothing else, being murdered in his sleep was a more comfortable way to go than heat stroke and infection. His wounds would fester and spoil on the surface if he tried to push himself any harder. The way he saw it, he and these people had no choice but to trust each other now.

  The throng disbanded as the tension in the cave dissipated, and Biyo gave Daxin the grand tour. The cave was one huge ovular room whose rock formations split it into various smaller compartments. Its overall size was greater even than the lecture halls Daxin’s grandfather had shown him as a young man during their visit to the derelict university in Pleck’s Mill. The school had been defunct for many years at the time, but the roofless stone buildings stood triumphant, nestled in the rolling countryside that sloped toward the eastern shores of the Horned Gulf. Grandpa Weilan had told tales of generations of Glaives before him who had attended the university, proud ancestors who had come during the time of the Aionach’s most prosperous age to study economics and business and engineering.

  There were bits of junk strewn about the camp—backpacks, duffel bags, blankets, pots, utensils; even a few tarps and an old sentyle tent or two. Calling it a village, Daxin now realized, was an exaggeration. The rear wall looked like a honeycomb, with rounded crevices woven into the rock from floor to ceiling. Ladders of pale wood leaned against them as if they were bunk beds.

  “You have bad water,” Daxin said, when Biyo had brought him to the dark, shallow pool at the back of the cave. He shook off the finger he’d dipped for a taste. “Don’t suppose anyone here is a sandcipher.”

  Biyo smiled. “That would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, no. No sandciphers around here. The water bubbles up through that little opening at the back there, and gathers in the pool up here. It refills whenever we take from it, but it keeps coming up foul. Doesn’t smell quite right, doesn’t taste quite right, and it makes us sick.”

  “It refills itself?” Daxin asked.

  Biyo nodded.

  “That would mean you’re about level with the water table. Have you searched the terrain around here?”

  “Fairly thoroughly, but it’s slow going,” Biyo admitted. “The pool is shallow—just a finger’s depth in the middle, where it’s deepest. So we have to scoop the water out a little at a time. At first we were drinking it straight, but it made us so sick that now we have to boil it first. Still tastes pretty bad, even after. We have people working full time just to make sure there’s enough to drink down here, so it isn’t often we have enough extra to send up top with our explorers. Nobody ever gets too far.”

  “How long has… what do you call this place again?”

  “Dryhollow Split.”

  “Dryhollow Split. How long have you all been here?”

  “Two months, maybe a little longer. There were more of us at first.” Biyo gulped. “I’ll spare you the details of… what we’ve had to do to stay alive.”

  “I can tell it hasn’t been easy for you. Where are you from, anyway?”

  “We’re exiles from Unterberg.”

  A few seconds passed before Daxin replied. “And you haven’t tried digging, I’m guessing?”

  “Huh?”

  “The opening there. Have you tried digging any deeper?”

  “Oh. No, we don’t have the tools.”

  “Then we’ll start there. I have a pickaxe and a couple of shovels in my pack. Let’s get those out and put your dways to work. The deeper we can make the pool, the easier it’ll be to pull water out. We might be able to get it flowing in a little faster, too.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Daxin showed the men where to concentrate their digging, and soon the cave walls were alive with the clatter of steel and iron. As the light died around the edges of the cave, torches were lit and wedged into notches along the walls. A cookfire was set near the entrance, and when the last of Daxin’s three bushcats was skinned and added to the pot along with a few of his herbs and flavoring salts, the faint smell of savory meat filled the cave. The night cooled, and dinner was served amidst the sounds of laughter and music. The people of Dryhollow Split seemed to be in better spirits already. They had hope now, and Daxin was eager to prove their hopes well-founded, if for no other reason than to ease his guilt.

  After supper, Biyo led Daxin to a small alcove, where a ragged blanket and a lumpy pillow awaited him. A woman stood at the opening in a faded blue dress. She was as thin as the others, with dark, flowing hair that fell past her shoulders.

  “We made up this spot for you, when you get tired. Ellicia here can help if you’ve got pains or your wounds need tending. She’s sort of our nurse and doctor around here. I’ll be close by too, if you need anything else.” Biyo left them and returned to the group, where someone was picking out the beginnings of a song on an old guitar.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Ellicia said. Her face was hard-lined with the stresses of hunger, but she had a warm voice. “We heard you talking with Biyo, but he didn’t ask where you’re from, or how you came across all these lovely dents and bruises.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to catch those bushcats,” Daxin said, allowi
ng himself a smile.

  Ellicia waited a beat for him to continue. When he didn’t, she lowered her eyes, and something in her face saddened. “Will you let me dress your wounds?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t thank you enough. I was hoping there was someone here who could.” Daxin could see in the gentle green pools of her eyes that he’d hurt her somehow. But he couldn’t let himself be so forthcoming; not yet. Not until he knew for sure.

  They hardly spoke after that, except when Ellicia told him to remove his leather coat and tunic so she could clean the spear wound in his side. She moved on to the wound in his arm, cleansing it with boiled water, then scrubbing it with an antiseptic derived from some scrubland plant. She dressed each wound with a strip of cloth. When she had finished, she turned her attention to his ankle. “This looks bad. The bone needs to be reset. It’s going to hurt.”

  Torchlight reflected in Ellicia’s eyes as she spoke, and Daxin had to look away to keep from losing himself in them. He decided he had to be on his way as soon as he’d taught these refugees how to survive. If I stay here any longer than that, I’m liable to forget my errand altogether, he told himself.

  Across the cave, Duffy and Eivan were speaking to one another in hushed tones. Daxin knew that by aiding Dryhollow Split, he was helping Duffy and Eivan too. Even if the two men didn’t like him, they’d be fools to stop him from improving their quality of life. Daxin fingered the empty loop that had held his skinning knife, and thought of his brother. These people don’t have much longer to live if they don’t learn to fend for themselves. But if Toler tracks me here, he and Vantanible’s men will have a field day with them.

  “You spend too much time brooding over your ancient rivalries,” Toler had said.

  They had been standing in the foyer of the Glaive estate while the blinding light of the long morning streamed in through the skylights above. The house’s steep slate roof and its two top-floor entrances were the only portion of the structure that peeked above ground. Every generation of Glaives since the early years of the Heat had called the sprawling underground manor their home.

  “The Vantanibles have done nothing but oppress us and take advantage of us,” Daxin had said. “How can you work for them?” It was the hundredth time he’d said it, but he spoke as if this were the time he would finally convince Toler it was true.

  “They take advantage because it’s the only option you leave them,” Toler had said, defiance in his voice.

  Sometimes Daxin wanted to laugh that he and his brother were so alike. But he had been too angry to be amused at Toler’s stubbornness. Complaining about your brother’s disposition is like resenting him for his hair color, Daxin had told himself. You both got it from the same place, and a mother’s womb doesn’t offer refunds. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Daxin had said.

  “I know all the same stories as you, Dax. I could recite them from memory. You and Grandpa Weilan have been poisoning me against the Vantanibles ever since I was old enough to cry. You’re wrong about them. Whatever happened back in those days, the Vantanibles today aren’t the same people who hurt your ancestors’ feelings.”

  “My ancestors? Did you really just say that? How can you turn against your own flesh and blood?”

  “I’m not turning against you. I’m trying to make you see that your idea of them is unfair. The bad blood you’re holding onto is a stain. It’s like this disease you’re carrying around that’s eating away at you. And it’s all because you’re too nearsighted to forgive anyone.”

  “I can forgive, Toler. But some things are too terrible to forgive.”

  Toler shook his head and sighed. “If you say so, Dax. But the things you’re talking about happened before I was born. Before you were born. The world is different now, and for Infernal’s sake I hope you learn to live in it. You’re wrong about the Vantanibles. I’ll show you you’re wrong.” Toler had swung the door wide and grabbed his saddle before he stormed out into the daylight.

  “Where are you going?” If Daxin could have asked the question and accused his brother of betrayal at the same time, it would have sounded exactly as it had then.

  “Unterberg,” Toler had replied. “I have to see her.”

  Daxin hollered as the pain shot up his leg like a shock. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the tattered gray blanket beneath him as Ellicia tried to roll his ankle back into place, her palm against the ball of his foot. The movements were small, but each one pierced him like a thousand needles. Cold as the nighttime cave was, he was soaked in sweat.

  When he finally felt everything realign and slip back into place, he remembered to breathe, and found himself feeling queasy. Again he wished he would pass out, but he never seemed to find his luck where that was concerned. Though his swollen ankle still throbbed, the pain was duller now.

  Ellicia produced a small razor and began to cut long strips of cloth to use as a soft cast. The razor was dull, making the task all the more painstaking.

  “Here, use this—” Daxin began, his hand going instinctively to the belt loop again. There was still no skinning knife in its place.

  Ellicia glanced at his hand, then looked up at him, searching his eyes.

  “Uh, I have a knife, over in my bag. Somewhere.”

  “It’s alright, I’m just about done.” Within a few moments she had wrapped his foot and ankle, producing an ancient-looking clothespin from her dress and fastening the end.

  “Now, you must be exhausted. I’ll leave you to get some sleep.”

  Daxin looked across the cave to where Eivan and Duffy had been sitting. They were gone. “No, don’t go yet.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Lane Natives

  At the far end of the massive clay bridge they called the Trade Crossing, the world dilated into a winding crossroads. Paths split off in many directions, terra cotta giving way to brick, cobblestone, ironwood, and bare earth. Roads latched onto twisting spires, stairs rose to the heights, and ramps plummeted into the dense fog that shrouded the nethertowns below.

  Far beyond the border-wall of the metropolis, where the mists cleared, Lizneth could see the vast waters of the Zherath Omnekh. Legends said that the bottom of the sea was alive, shifting and changing and making massive, vicious waves. It was said that on a quiet night, if you listened hard enough, you could hear the sea floor groaning as it moved. From where she stood, the sea’s shimmering black waters looked tranquil, its delicate whitecaps seductive. Shoreline and fish smells rotted on the breeze while boats tucked themselves between pleats of wave and staggered forward, their mirrored lanterns beaming like headlights over the surf. Fisherfolk meandered, the tips of their tails adorned with vibrant lures and glinting brass hooks.

  The expanse above the sea was like an endless hole, dark and empty, where the roof of the metropolis shrank out of sight. None but the burrow-kin who ran in tunnels just below the blind-world would ever come close to it.

  The roads were full of travelers. Pushcarts lumbered up through the mists from the port seaboard, exhaling the stink of glowfish that blushed with dull neon phosphorescence. There was nobody taking an easy stroll at the crossroads; everyone seemed to be late for wherever it was they were going. Lizneth reckoned it must be getting late. Her parents would be worried for her, but now that she’d had a glimpse of the sea, she couldn’t resist a quick excursion to the water’s edge.

  There was no telling which roads led down to the docks, so she stopped one of the carters to trade him a fish for her last handful of mulligraws.

  “Food for food, aye. Not a lively swap, is it,” the carter grumbled, handing her a small bony fish from the back of the cart.

  Lizneth almost protested, hungry as she was, but her paltry payment gave her little right to do so. “Do you know which way will take me to the sea?” she asked instead.

  The pusher furrowed his brow. Tapped his fingers on the cart handle. Sucked his longteeth. “That way to the docks… that to the cliffside… and there to the border-wall,” he sai
d finally, pointing out each path with his tail. The marked confusion on his face gave way to a semblance of certainty.

  Lizneth thanked him and started down the path toward the docks, nibbling on the fish as she descended, spitting the bones over the edge of the earthen walkway. The soft glowing meat was meager but fresh; bits still attached to the bones gleamed as they tumbled out of sight. The mists gathered around her and stole her vision, beads of moisture condensing in her fur. Though she could smell and hear other pedestrians long before they appeared, she had to keep her eyes on the path to make sure she didn’t stray too close to the edge. Faces emerged like spirits from the gloom, and several times she avoided them only at the last second. The haick was thinner down here, but she found few imprints she liked; the scent patterns were all camouflaged beneath the aromas of chum and rancid brine.

  Soon she could hear water lapping. When she reached the cobblestone street at the end of the path, the mists plumed over her head like a great feather cap, leaving a slice of clear air below. Tide puddles dotted the uneven road and trickles ran in the cracks between the cobblestones. Given the choice to go either left or right, she went left, griping about her wet feet until the ramp was out of sight behind her. Her legwraps and the hem of her cloak were soaked before long.

  The walkway along the far edge was lined with low-burning forged iron lampposts. Their lack of fuel was thanks to the delinquency of whatever oilers should’ve refilled them days ago. A high wall ran up at a steep slant from the ground, and it was then that she realized the sound of water was coming from above. She was below sea level altogether; this was a canal made to hold floodwaters, built behind the levee that kept the sea from rushing in over the nethertowns.

  The reason the ground was so uneven was that the wide trough was built on a slope, tilted from one end to the other as a means of funneling the overflow away from the city. She was outside some nethertown now—one of the slums where peasants farmed hydroponic paddies, and on which garbage of every kind was dropped regularly from the metropolis above. She’d tossed away the fish bones just a few minutes ago and hadn’t thought twice about it. That fool carter sent me the wrong way. How could a fish carter not know how to get to the docks?