The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Jiren was already beginning to feel drowsy as the sleep came on. There was only one way out of this now: the rear entrance. If he and the other blackhands could get back inside before the reinforcements set up, maybe there would be fewer guards around back.

  Instead of igniting again, Jiren took the crumbling stairwell through the building’s interior until he was back at ground level. The reinforcements were leaving tiny deposits of men behind at every barricade as they swept along the surrounds in a wide arc. Soon they would cut him off, leaving him without a path back to the door.

  His feet felt like lead weights as he sprinted toward the prison. Everything around him was happening so much faster now. Each time his boots slapped the pavement, the sound seemed to ring like a radar hit, and he imagined every soldier in the lot detecting him. There wasn’t much gunfire coming from within the prison, despite vast stretches of time where the marching reinforcements were in the open. He didn’t see any of the other blackhands, so he hoped they had already fallen back inside or found safe places to hide and rest until they could make a break for it.

  An eternity seemed to pass before Jiren could get across the street and dive behind a battered vehicle. He heard several gunshots as he ran, but he couldn’t tell whether they were directed at him. He was amazed to have been so fortunate thus far, but with the mass of troops orbiting the lot, he doubted his luck would last. One final ignition is all I need to make it from here to the front door. But is it locked? Getting through a locked door would consume precious seconds. Seconds the soldiers could use to set him in their sights. Live or die, I have a promise to keep, Jiren reminded himself. The Captain goes down with me.

  He ignited and shot toward the door, the world slowing around him as he cut a slanting path across the pavement. On the way there, he took the Captain by the neck and plucked him from between his bodyguards like a tablecloth under a dinner setting. A burst of machinegun fire rang out from somewhere to his left, and a hail of bullets buzzed around him, striking the ground and thumping the Captain’s body like rocks in a bucket. With one forceful jerk of his wrist, Jiren snapped the Captain’s neck. The body twitched and went limp. Jiren didn’t have time to make a show of the officer’s death, so he discarded the dead weight as he reached the door.

  Rostand Beige was the most welcome sight Jiren had ever seen, cracking it open and beckoning him inside. Jiren took the outside stairs in one leap and crashed through the doorway, slamming into the wall and falling in a heap inside the stairwell. He extinguished himself as Rostand pulled him to his feet and embraced him. It took him a moment to gauge whether he’d been shot. The Captain’s body may have saved me that trouble.

  “Good work out there,” Rostand said. When the younger man pulled away from his embrace, there were tears in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Everyone make it back?”

  “You and Frasier are the only ones.”

  The news shook him. “What? Where’s everybody else?”

  “Cragg and Hewell went down as soon as they started shooting. Didn’t look like they ignited in time. We took down our fair share from in here, and you made pretty quick work of the rest. Frasier came back in and helped us with the guns. The others didn’t make it across the street like you did, though. They went out much quicker. Derrow’s the only one who didn’t go down after that. See him? He’s there, behind the dumpster.” Rostand pointed across the lot to a withered old garbage receptacle, splotched green and half gone to rust, where Derrow Leonard was crouched and trembling, his face stricken with fear.

  What’s that fool doing? Jiren almost said. Every second he waits, the soldiers gain the advantage. He’ll never make it once they fill the gaps in their line. “Someone lay down some cover fire,” he shouted. “I’m going out there to get him.”

  Rostand shook his head, tapping one of the empty magazines on the floor with his toe. “We’re out, Jiren.”

  Jiren lurched toward the door, but Rostand put himself in the way and held him back. A sudden wave of drowsiness and confusion washed over him, and he slumped against the wall. Rostand put out a hand to steady him. Jiren wanted to call out to Derrow, give him the encouragement he needed to bolt for the door, but his breaths were coming so shallow and quick that he could do nothing but concentrate on staying upright. The sleep was coming over him like a heavy load, and he had to open his eyes wide to keep them from drooping. It felt as though his body was trying to make him forget where he was. “Tell me again what you said about Frasier.”

  Rostand’s hand was still at Jiren’s side, holding him up. “He helped us with the guns?”

  “You said he came inside.”

  “Yeah. He did. Right away, almost.”

  Jiren gritted his teeth, filling his lungs with air. “Where is he?”

  Even as he said it, he noticed Frasier Dent standing at the top of the stairwell, droplets of sweat dangling from his thick earrings.

  Rostand pressed Jiren’s shoulders to the wall. “Jiren. Listen to me. There isn’t time for this now. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “Frasier.” Jiren pushed Rostand away, clinging to the handrail and laboring up the steps despite every part of his body screaming at him for sleep. “Coward. You were supposed to be out there with us. That was the plan.”

  Frasier sneered. “I didn’t like your plan, so I changed it. I grabbed a gun and helped out in here. What are you complaining about? You’re alive, aren’t you?”

  “How many others would still be alive if you hadn’t run?”

  “We would all be alive if you’d agreed to their terms. We went out there knowing they would offer us the opportunity to surrender. I’ve always known you were an idiot, Jiren. I never thought you were stupid enough to pick a fight we couldn’t hope to win. Uncle Laagon was right about you. I never should’ve come on this fool’s errand, chaperoned by incompetents like you and Councilor Entradi. Not a whit of sense between you. Had we gone peacefully as they asked, we would be in a position to negotiate our release right now, instead of being starved, half-dead, and staring down the horde of riflemen waiting outside that door.”

  Jiren was swaying where he stood. He couldn’t take another step, and talking was an effort. Somehow he managed to form the words, and said, “Negotiate? You just saw how they negotiated.”

  “I saw how you negotiated: without tact; without equanimity. You try to put on airs, fancying yourself some high councilor now that you’ve been elected. But being elected doesn’t turn you into something you’re not. It just makes you a pretender. You’re a hunter, like me. You should know when you’re intellectually outmatched. You bungled through that exchange with all the grace of a three-legged dog.”

  Jiren tried to stare at Frasier, but his eyelids were working against him. “They offered us only death. You saw it in the Captain’s eyes, just like I did. They would’ve slaughtered us, no matter what we did. There was nothing to haggle over.”

  “Because you put us in the position to lose the bargaining power we did have. I didn’t ask to be released from my cell, Jiren. You did that on my behalf, and you did it in spite of my repeated requests that you leave me alone. I asked you to leave me there. Don’t you remember? I was content to wait for my chance to meet with this Commissar of theirs, given the very likely possibility that Councilor Entradi might exhibit your self-same cavalier attitude and ruin his chance. We have plenty to offer these people as restitution for our crimes, as unjust as their accusations might be. All it would’ve taken was someone with the acumen to make them see it. Now I’ll never get that chance, thanks to you and your brazen escape attempt. An attempt that, as I’m more than a little late in pointing out, has failed.”

  “You’re not late, Frasier. You’re wrong.” The voice came from the far end of the room. When Jiren leaned to look past Frasier, Raith Entradi was standing at the edge of the long hallway to the cell block. His synthtex tunic was damp and tight over his massive frame.

  Jiren wasn’t sure whether h
e was hallucinating at first. “Raith. How did you—”

  “What are you all doing wearing their uniforms?”

  Frasier scoffed. “Disguises, apparently.”

  “Well, bring your disguises and follow me. There’ll be no more negotiating with these murderers.”

  “Derrow’s still outside,” Jiren said.

  Raith crossed the room without a moment’s hesitation and took the stairs in three deep strides. “Keep it cracked, Ros,” he said, and slung the door open.

  A flurry of gunfire converged on him as he lumbered to the curb. Jiren saw Raith’s shield ignite, a series of quick blinks lasting fractions of a second. Each oncoming round splintered away with stunning precision. It was a thrill to watch the man work—to witness such incredible skill and focus, the result of a lifetime of practice.

  Jiren thought of all the work Raith had done with him, forcing him to repeat each lesson and exercise until he was so frustrated he wanted to tear down the walls. But Raith had never let him stop until he’d done it right a hundred times. On days like today, Jiren was thankful for that discipline. Seeing Raith put those lessons into action when it really counted was the truest evidence of his quality. As highly as I think of myself, I’ll never be that good. I’ll never be able to protect our people the way he can. That’s what makes him the hero we need, even though so many back home are quick to doubt him.

  Raith roared like a father calling his child home. “Derrow Leonard. Get in here.”

  Derrow scampered across the lot so fast he almost went sprawling headlong before he found his legs. After Derrow made it inside, Raith began to move backwards, his shield liquefying each fusillade that came his way. He let out a growl of exertion as he backed to the curb, then came up the steps and over the threshold. When Rostand pulled the door shut, inch-deep impressions dimpled its surface like a tiny metal mountain range, the metallic clangor ringing through the lobby.

  Raith supported Jiren the rest of the way up the staircase. Then he pressed his fingers to Jiren’s temples. A wave of heat ran through him, and Jiren felt it wake him like a shot of caffeine. Raith took an immense breath, and there was a moment when the energy seemed to settle inside him like a raindrop in a puddle. “Now… now, follow me.”

  “Hold on, Councilor Entradi. Where are you taking us?”

  Raith turned to face his sister’s nephew. “Frasier… I heard what you said earlier. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to earn your trust. I’m sorry things turned out this way. I feel like I’ve failed the people of Decylum. I led us into this massacre, and for that I put no charge or blame on anyone but myself. I will stop at nothing to get the rest of you out of this city alive. If you still have cause to believe I can, then follow me. We need to leave.”

  Frasier Dent scraped his teeth together. “So you met with the Commissar and lived, did you? Tell me what happened. How did you know about the other entrance? How did you get past the soldiers?”

  Rostand came halfway up the steps. “Frasier, we’ll have time to talk later.”

  “I want to know,” Frasier insisted. “I’m not following a man who keeps secrets from the people who support him. We deserve to know.”

  Raith listened toward the entrance for a moment. “Ros, keep watch at the door.” He turned back to Frasier. “The Commissar offered to rescind the many charges against us. I refused him.”

  Frasier put his fingers to his forehead. “This is exactly what I knew would happen. Their Commissar is a decent man who treats you with respect, and somehow it isn’t good enough for you. You wanted a royal welcome to the city, our feet kissed and our shoes shined, in that order, in addition to a full pardon?”

  “The Commissar isn’t a decent man,” Rostand said from the bottom of the stairwell. “He’s an evil man.”

  A soft smile came to Raith’s lips. “I’m not inclined to believe there’s such a thing as an evil man. There is only what a man wants, and how far he’ll go to get it. Some operate on subtlety, others with force. If it were up to the Commissar, he would’ve forced us to stay here.”

  Frasier’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He scratched his head, loosening a sweat-pasted tuft of hair into a wild tangle. “So what? Look around. Would that have been any worse than what we’ve gotten ourselves into now?”

  Raith glanced at the door again. “If you’ll let me finish answering your question so we can go… the Commissar has a scale model of the city. I used the model and one of his maps to find my way back here. I had planned to sneak in and free you from the cell block, but you’ve already done a fair job of that yourselves.”

  Frasier fired off a series of curses, rambling about the impending catastrophe. The others ignored him as though he were a fly buzzing around the room.

  He’s practically in hysterics, Jiren thought. I bet a solid knock on the jaw would bring him back to his senses. He restrained himself, waiting on Raith’s command instead.

  “Is Hastle with you?” Raith asked.

  “I wish granddad were here,” said Rostand.

  Jiren shook his head. “We haven’t seen him.”

  There was concern in Raith’s eyes. “I don’t want to leave Belmond without him, but it’s too dangerous to stay.”

  “Before we were attacked, granddad said we should regroup over the horizon before dawn. I keep thinking he and the others went out there to wait for us.”

  “We’ll have to hope that’s what he did.”

  They all knew how thoroughly the soldiers had searched the desert for survivors. They could only hope Hastle had managed to avoid the Scarred and find shelter and food somewhere.

  “Raith, let’s get out of here,” Jiren said.

  Raith nodded. He led them into the hallway, hopping over the twisted ruins of the first gate before realizing Frasier hadn’t followed. “It’s time to go, Frasier. Have I answered your questions satisfactorily?”

  Frasier stopped mumbling long enough to sneer back at him, then pushed past the others on his way down the staircase. Then he was opening the battered front door and raising his hands in surrender, waving at the soldiers outside. Jiren could only stare, a bystander watching an accident about to happen. He turned to go after Frasier, but Rostand grabbed him by the arm.

  “Let him alone. Alone is what he wanted.”

  A string of bullets hammered the entrance and echoed down the hallway. Frasier spasmed. Then his head and arms were dropping out of sight, deep crimson-black spatters silhouetted in the afternoon light, and the door was swinging shut behind him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Research

  Sister Bastille made sure she was on Gallica’s left as they strolled through the conservatory gardens. The high priest’s errant spittle was less prolific from this angle, and her face had a less gruesome cast to it in the yellow-tinged light coming through the thick heat-resistant windows. It had taken a few days for Bastille to procure more than a few moments of Sister Gallica’s time. Gallica wasn’t in charge of one particular area of the basilica, like most of the other priests; she played the role of general overseer, and she did it well. The woman had a way with efficiency like nothing Bastille had ever witnessed. What she was always so busy doing, however, was beyond Bastille’s understanding.

  “You wanted to speak with me. So speak,” said Gallica, hands clasped behind her back.

  Finally the she-mutant deigns to converse with such a poor lowly creature as I, Bastille reflected. “I thought it best we speak in private, due to the nature of the matter at hand.”

  “Sister Usara’s staff are done with their plucking for the day. The conservatory fields are as private a place as can be had, unless you’d prefer to stand outside in the afternoon.”

  “Not at all, kind Sister,” Bastille said, staving off the affront. “There is the business of Father Kassic and—”

  “We sorted that out the other day. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  “Your Enhancements, kind Sister, are what I came to discuss.”

  The mere ment
ion of it put Sister Gallica off balance.

  “Arrangements are always made for those standing to become inheritors,” Bastille continued. “With the Father Kassic scare and your unofficial nomination last week, I think it’s time you were prepared. In the event of a Cypriest’s retirement, it would be best for your affairs to be in order.”

  Gallica thought for a moment. “I do appreciate Brother Liero’s gesture, but the true inheritor is far from decided. My health has been less than satisfactory, yes, but that isn’t the only determining factor in who is chosen.”

  Bastille saw her opportunity and planted the seed. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest… Brother Soleil as a potential candidate?”

  Sister Gallica almost laughed. Instead she snorted, and when she turned her head there was a glob of something dangling from her chin. “Brother Soleil? I know you read a lot, kind Sister, but could the scriptures really have addled your mind so much? Oh, dear me, no. Brother Soleil is too important. As the only experienced practitioner of the Enhancements, he is essential to the future of the Cypriesthood. He couldn’t possibly operate on himself, now could he?”

  Bastille tried not to grimace. She knows as well as anyone that Soleil has trained me to perform the Enhancements. He’s not the only ‘experienced practitioner’ here. Brother Soleil had been with Bastille every time they’d operated on a live patient—first as surgeon, then as Bastille’s assistant after she’d gained sufficient experience to take the lead. She knew the procedures backwards and forwards now. She’d practiced on dozens of cadavers. She could operate without him. And after what she’d learned about him recently, all the better if she was operating on him. “No, I don’t suppose Brother Soleil could perform surgery on himself… though it’s an amusing thought.”

  “I don’t very well see the humor in it,” said Sister Gallica, slowing her pace.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t very funny, come to think of it, kind Sister.” If I’ve shown Sister Adeleine half as much hostility as Sister Gallica is showing me, may the Mouth forgive me for it.