The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Then the starbursts began.

  They dawned and receded across the cityscape in bright yellow flares, as swift as vanishing flowers. The feeling was faint and benign at first, as if the denizens of Belmond were putting on a light-show for their visitors’ enjoyment. A vast garden had already bloomed and died by the time the storm fell on them.

  Metal split flesh, zippered it open. Bees buzzed and stung, spat from the throats of shouting mechanisms like hearts beating rapid-fire. The sounds came as a torrent of distant cracks like leather striking concrete. Lightburned skin helicoptered away attached to chunks of flesh. Wet. Everything was wet. Dark stains in the sand. Splashes, glistening in the starlight. Horrific screams, shrieks of distress from the horses and corsils, who were bolting off and launching into fits of wild agony. Shapes were writhing in the sand. The forms of diminished men, squirming and crying and shitting themselves and spurting on thirsty ground.

  Hastle had been quick. Or maybe just lucky. He’d fallen on his face when he saw the first muzzle flashes, too shocked to cry out and warn the others. Men were snapping and spinning loose like thread, unwinding and toppling down around him. Some were dying. They were the fortunate ones. Others were tattered, conscious and breathing, torn apart and waiting for a death that wouldn’t come, their hearts still beating with the pain of life and life and life and life. Terror wrapped its claws around Hastle’s throat, and he did the only thing he could think to do. He ran.

  But not away. He lifted a knee and came to his feet, spreading his fingers and flexing every muscle he could spare. Light blazed from his hands, dim yellow that passed through orange and red on its way to white, until his fingertips were throbbing. A red sphere like half a gigantic soap bubble parachuted out in front of him, electric oils dancing across the surface. His legs churned the sand like pistons, and he hurtled toward the city, picking up speed.

  Though his boots sank against the shifting dust, he was fast enough now to reach the outskirts in half the time it would’ve taken him otherwise. Bullets began to drum against the orb’s surface. With each strike, a trembling shockwave glinted across the shield, and a jolt of energy tingled in his fingers. Hissing globs of molten lead scattered asunder. His shield brightened. The feeling made him smile a grim smile.

  As he neared the outskirts, Hastle’s desperation turned to rage. Decylum’s sons were dying. He’d been careless and overconfident. The feeling began to haunt him, pulsing stronger with every step. He began to feel the warm current of the other blackhands as they brought up their shields behind him, and he was comforted to know he wasn’t alone.

  When he was close enough to make out the shape of one of the gunmen, he leapt. Bullets smacked his shield and spattered. In the instant before they touched, Hastle blinked off the shield. His broiling hands met clothing and flesh on the far side of a low brick wall. The two men tumbled end over end until they came crashing to a halt against the far wall of the ruin, smoking like doused firelogs.

  Hastle shook off the impact and clamped his glowing hands around the gunman’s skull. Skin and hair melted away, and there was a sharp, black smell. Hastle ignored the man’s tortured cries as he twisted the neck around. The spine dishragged, bone splintered and peeked through skin, and the throat opened in a fleshy wet spray.

  Hastle’s senses rose on the wind, as sharp and vibrant as daylight. Even as he dropped the lifeless body at his feet, he triggered his orb to stop another bullet. The subsequent barrage sailed in, but his shield turned them to slag and sent him a coinciding set of helpful jolts. He whirled to face his new assailant and made a pushing motion. A wave of heat issued forth from his hands, and the next muzzle flash ignited like a cloud of gas in a backdraft. The gunman shrieked, dropped his weapon, and began to beat his burning face and jacket with furious hands. Hastle lit on him with a fury of his own, and the man was dead before he’d found time to extinguish himself.

  More gunshots echoed from above. Hastle left the burning body where it lay and swung himself onto the sloping edge of a ruined wall. Tottering up to the second floor, he bounded across the gap to the next building and crouched against a stair access wall. There was a prone gunman firing on the unprotected men out in the dust. Gravel crunched under Hastle’s feet as he sprinted over and drove a fist into the man’s back. A smoldering crater of splintered ribcage and collapsed lung replaced the mottled gray camouflage of the man’s shirt fabric. Hastle lifted the gunman and tossed him over the side. The body landed head-first with a sickening crunch.

  Welcome to Belmond, read the highway sign on the distant overpass. Proudly Powered by HydroPyre, A Glaive Industries Technology. Hastle frowned at the mention of Glaive Industries and the HydroPyre station that had once professed to power this place. What a fine welcome this has turned out to be.

  All along the outskirts, where the desert met the city’s ruins, the other blackhands were arriving. Their red orbs winked out one by one as they vanished among the ruins. The popping of firearms became a crash and sizzle, tortured screams piercing the evening stillness. Hastle was pleased as these new sounds began to reach his ears. If these are the same Scarred Comrades the men have been talking about, they’ve made their last poor decision.

  Hastle flinched. Something had stung him, or bitten him; a chigger, or one of those blasted horseflies. He slapped the back of his neck and drew away his hand. Red, dripping in the starlight. Too much blood for even the largest insect. He gulped, but found he had no throat to gulp with. When he breathed in, the air didn’t come through his mouth. It came from lower down; his neck, maybe. Then his chest was wet, and he was drowning, and his sight was falling to black.

  CHAPTER 26

  Comings and Goings

  The Halcyon docked at the port of Sai Calgoar, an immense network of docks bordering the southeastern shores of the vast Zherath Omnekh, within a cave that opened onto the city proper. The cave’s walls were streaked in bright color, oranges and reds and tans and browns, as if the slabs had been laid down like blankets. It was a sight to behold, unlike the featureless gray rock further below-world in places like Tanley and Bolck-Azock.

  “Sandstone,” said Dozhie, noticing Lizneth’s gawking. “Calai legend tells that their kehaihn and their kehaihneh before them came from the sand; that they were carved from the very rock of this place, when the Aionach was young.”

  “It’s wonderful to look at,” Lizneth said.

  “The stone may be, but the calaihn are not. See there.” Dozhie pointed toward the docks, where they could just make out a short section of pier through the tiny oar hole.

  It was then that Lizneth got her first glimpse of a real calai. Several, in fact. Most of them were moving goods on and off ships; lithe creatures with narrow waists and broad shoulders, tiny triangular snouts and skin the color of the darkest brown sandstone. They were furless except on their heads, where each of them seemed to be set with a different shape and length of coarse black strands. The lack of fur on their chests and arms left their skin exposed. Seeing it slide across muscle and bone made Lizneth feel like gagging. She didn’t like the look of them at all—they were too big, and the way they moved on their skinny legs made them look clumsy and dim-witted.

  “Yes, they’re very ugly,” Lizneth said. “Why does their fur grow the same color, but in different patterns?”

  “Remember when Bresh said they cut themselves? Now you see why. Their skin and hair are all the same color. They must have trouble telling each other apart, since they cannot scent, so I think they mark themselves that way to show others who they are. It is like their haick. Without those markings, they might not know their own brood-brother from a stranger.”

  “They don’t have brood-brothers, remember,” said Bresh. “Or brood-sisters, for that matter. They are born one at a time.”

  “How vile,” Lizneth said, continuing to puzzle over the odd creatures.

  She heard the door open above the rowing hold and a voice call, “Captain is coming down. He wants a word with the scear
ib parikua.”

  Curznack entered, proud in a double-breasted pea coat of dark blue wool and brass buttons—finer cloth than he’d worn aboard ship or in the slums of Bolck-Azock. He looked almost dignified; less like a slaver and more like a proper sailor. He ran his tail along the railing as he descended the stairs—as if equilibrium came harder to him now that the ship was at port—and came to where Lizneth sat on her bench, chained to the floor. Standing over her, Curznack smelled of alcohol and the lingering musk of damp wool. Lizneth kept her eyes straight ahead.

  “How would you like to stay aboard my ship? You’ll be safe, the way you wanted it. Though I’ll have you summoned to my quarters at night, whenever I fancy a visit. I’ll give you that special treatment you want so badly. When you’re too fat with my litter to row anymore, I’ll strap you to the mast so the others can see you resting every time they change shifts. When our whelps are born, I’ll sell them to the calaihn. Some of them will be scearib like their mother, if we’re fortunate, and they’ll fetch me a high sum on the markets. You’d like that, wouldn’t you—birthing my litter?”

  Curznack laughed. Lizneth felt herself blush, embarrassed by his mockery, angry that he would carry on like this in front of the other rowing slaves and his crew. The slaves were mostly silent, but Bilik and the drummer stood at the front of the hold trying to stifle their laughter. Lizneth would’ve wanted to crawl into a dark hole somewhere and cry, but she’d seen enough of tears and dark holes to satisfy her for a while.

  Curznack was silent for a moment, as though he expected her to reply. When Lizneth said nothing, he huffed. “Far be it from me to deny the scearib her wish.” He turned to Bilik. “See them fed and washed. Twice if you have to. The stink of krahz in here is insufferable. Make certain the ship is ready to set off at a moment’s notice. The prizes will be sold today, and I’ll be spending the night ashore to look for my brood-brothers. We’ll depart for Bolck-Azock as soon as I find them.”

  “Aye,” said Bilik.

  Curznack knelt beside Lizneth. She tried to turn away, but he seized her by the jaw and jerked her around to face him. “I’ll introduce you to Vril and Tazkitt when we return.” He slid his tongue down the side of a longtooth and leered at her. “Or maybe I’ll let them introduce themselves.” His eyes smiled, but his face was joyless.

  A bell rang somewhere, signaling the arrival of a new ship or the departure of an old one bound for distant shores. Judging by the bustle of activity outside, Lizneth guessed there must’ve been many ships at port, but the tiny gaps around the oars offered her a limited view. She didn’t know how far through the belly of the Aionach the Omnekh’s waters flowed, or what strange and unfamiliar peoples lived along its banks. She only knew that in the innards of that slavers’ galley, with the silence lingering and the slaves and crew and Curznack staring at her like there was nothing more amusing in all the Aionach, she would sooner have been on any of those other vessels, bound for any of those other places, than here.

  Curznack turned without another word and left the hold in deliberate strides, nodding to Bilik as he passed.

  “Get them topside,” Bilik told the other taskmasters when Curznack had gone.

  They brought Lizneth and the others above, where they could finally look out over the port and take in the sights. There were ships of all make and manner docked along a stretch of shoreline spanning thousands of fathoms in either direction; she saw the upturned oars of graceful wooden galleys, the sleek-tipped fans of paddleboats, the smooth stiff masts and furled sails of windblown schooners, and the bodies of gigantic freighters, their steel hulls spotted with corrosion. More were coming and going all the time, from dinghies bearing a single pair of oars to great squared behemoths with hundreds on either side.

  The daylight hurt Lizneth’s eyes so much that it was difficult to turn toward the cave opening. Black gulls squalled and hung on the hot gusts that swept through from the outside and clashed with colder drafts from within, as if the whole blind-world was sighing through the mouth of the cave. The breeze sent loose rigging lines snaking over the decks and set the sailcloth to cracking, but Lizneth found the air too muggy for her liking.

  “The ships row in and sail out,” said Dozhie, still beside her on the line. “That’s what they say about coming to Sai Calgoar. The wind is so strong here it drives you away, but Curznack will have us row, even under sail. As bad as rowing is, be thankful we’re not on one of those big ships. The wheelboats work with propellers or paddles. The slaves stand around a big spoked wheel and push it in circles with their legs, and the propellers spin behind the boat. I’d rather work sitting down, wouldn’t you?”

  The crew didn’t trouble themselves with buckets. Instead, they tied off each slave one at a time and threw them overboard, dragged them along the bow, and let them drip dry on the deck. When it was Lizneth’s turn, the taskmasters began whispering to one another while her line was being tied off. She stepped to the edge, but before she had time to take a breath, they tripped up her feet and shoved her overboard. She could hear their laughter echoing out across the water as she fell. She hit the water face first, a frigid slap that stole her breath away.

  They slackened the line, and the sound of their voices bubbled away under the pressure of liquid in her ears. She began to sink, with no air in her lungs and no idea which way was up. The manacles around her feet and hands were fastened with lengths of chain too short to allow for much useful paddling. By the time she managed to flip right side up and acclimate herself, her lungs were screaming and her head felt like it might burst. She clawed at the side of the ship for a handhold, but the curve of the hull had fallen too far out of reach.

  Lizneth spent a long, terrible moment scrabbling against the current, looking up through bleary eyes into the faint traces of glittering light that danced across the water’s surface. She watched the ship above her grow smaller, hoping that by some miracle her manacles would break so she could paddle toward the air. Then the meandering curl of rope went taut. She felt it tighten around her waist as they trailed her lengthwise along the side of the ship like shark bait. The journey to the surface took ages, and when they finally brought her up for a breath, she was heaving and coughing.

  She was still gasping for breath when they began to pull her aft again, and she slid beneath the surface for another long, scary interlude. It was a torturous haul to the deck, each tug on the rope crushing her insides as she hung there like a wet rag, hacking and sputtering. Her throat made a gruff croaking sound as she tried to cough past the water, until finally she vomited wet green onto the deck. The process of drying wasn’t much better; the other slaves splashed her with icy water as they came back on board, and again when they rung out their fur. The air from the blind-world gave her the occasional rush of warmth, but instead of helping her dry it only turned the water tepid beneath her clothes and made her fur feel like it was soaked in oil.

  One last look at the shoreline before the taskmasters sent them below again made Lizneth reconsider the wish she’d made earlier. The calaihn were ugly and strange and frightening, and she didn’t want to belong to one. Staying with her own kind—Dozhie and Bresh and Fane and the others—would be better than being left alone so far from home, even if she had to suffer Curznack. Perhaps if she spent the journey back studying the taskmasters and crew, learning everything there was to know about their habits and routines, she’d find some way to escape when they returned to Bolck-Azock.

  “I’m so sorry, cuzhe,” Bresh said, after the taskmasters had fed them from a pot of unidentifiable gruel and left them in the rowing hold.

  “For what?” Lizneth asked.

  “Curznack isn’t selling you. Spending any more time with him must be the last thing you want.”

  “What about you? Don’t you want to be sold so you can get off this boat?”

  “We’re here because we’re all too old and used to be worth anything,” Dozhie said. “Curznack would have to sell half a dozen of us before it got him a d
ecent return. You, you’re still young and bright-eyed and healthy.”

  “And you’re a scearib,” Fane said. “A few more trips across the Omnekh and your fur will be yellowed, your longteeth overgrown, and your back bent like a warped plank. You’ll be as broken as we are.”

  Bresh slapped Fane’s arm with her tail. “Fane. How can you say such things? Don’t you think she’s traumatized enough as it is?”

  “I was… I—” Fane began, but he gave up when he saw the way Bresh and Dozhie were looking at him.

  “It’s alright,” said Lizneth. “I know what’s in store for me if I stay aboard. But I’d rather go back to Bolck-Azock than stay here.”

  Bresh clucked, her face drawing softer. “Oh, you poor sweet cuzhe. We aren’t going there again. Not for a long time. When Curznack finds his brood-brothers, we sail for Rustwick. It’ll be months before we’re in Bolck-Azock again. I thought you knew…”

  Something churned in the pit of Lizneth’s stomach. She wanted to cry, but she had no tears left. The floorboards were knurled, and the wood was graying with bilge-slime, but she stared down at the floor as though it held the answers she needed. She lifted her hands and heard the chains clink as they drew tight through the ring. She lowered them, lifted them again. Clink. Again, forcefully this time, but the ring clinked and held steady. Again, and the memory of being tossed over the waves came like a nagging ache on her mind, while the thought of the hot wind and the garish light outside proved no better. The feeling of being trapped between two harrowing circumstances spoke a soliloquy of inescapable torment. She pulled at her chains again, and there were tears burning in her eyes. Again, not feeling the pain. Again, not hearing the whine rise in her throat and turn into a scream.

  “Cuzhe, calm down. It’s okay,” said Bresh, but Lizneth was tugging at her chains, chittering and wailing and bucking, unfazed by the way the manacles were biting into her wrists.