The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Bresh patted him on the cheek and gave him the exasperated look of one whose fondness outweighs their irritation, if only just.

  “You slew Curznack?” Lizneth asked.

  Zhigdain smiled. “You need not worry about that dyagthezhe anymore.”

  “What about Qeddiker and the rest of the crew?”

  “Qeddiker jumped ship,” Fane said. “While we were fighting… he went overboard.”

  Zhigdain gave their surroundings a wary glance. “There’s little doubt some of the crew will survive the fire. It’s only a matter of time before they break out or someone goes on board and frees them. Many of the other rowing slaves have fled, and I think we would be wise to follow in their steps.”

  “Into the blind-world?” Lizneth asked.

  “The blind-world is the only direction available to us, since we have no boat,” said Zhigdain.

  “That boat isn’t going anywhere,” Fane added. “And we can’t stay here while we’re still in chains, either. Someone will round us up, hoping for a bounty.”

  “There’s a village in the Calgoar Vale. They say it’s a haven for outcasts and refugees. We should be safe there, but we’ll have to walk through the blind-world to get to it.”

  “Where’s Curznack’s body?” Lizneth asked, realizing she was still chained. “Did you search him for the keys?”

  “Qeddiker had the keys on him when he jumped,” Zhigdain said. “But Fane is right; we can’t stay.”

  “I can scent him,” said Lizneth. “He can’t be far.”

  “We can all scent him,” Zhigdain said. “It’s a question of whether pursuing him would be prudent.”

  Lizneth slouched, letting out a sigh. “I guess it wouldn’t. So we have to walk all the way there bound in chains?”

  “Unless you happen to know a good locksmith or an honest thief who works for free. If we wait here we’re more likely to be picked up by another group of slavers than we are to find Qeddiker again.”

  “Help me up,” Lizneth said, chains rattling as she reached for Zhigdain’s hand.

  “It sounds like the scearib has come to her senses,” Dozhie said, grinning.

  When Lizneth was on her feet, Zhigdain handed her Curznack’s belt and dagger. “I think you should have this. It’s thanks to you we’re all saved, cuzhe. Without any of the antidote left, I fear the blade may be too dangerous to use, but it’s a token of our victory nonetheless.”

  Lizneth fastened the belt around her waist and tried to stand on her own. She was sore all over. Her tail sent painful shivers up her spine every time she tried to balance. At least some of her strength was returning, thanks to the antidote. Bresh and Dozhie helped her along while Zhigdain gave Fane a supportive shoulder, and together they shrank into the shadows and fled through the port, taking with them what small collection of weapons and provisions they’d managed to salvage from the ship.

  The way to the blind-world was a long, gently sloping rise that took them past warehouses, taverns, and fishing shacks filled with mariners and longshore workers, over plank decks where they could hear the water lapping below them, and through narrow lanes and alleys that felt as deserted as the sea. They could hear the faint current of music in the air from time to time, and there were always the sounds of calaihn and ikzhehn hollering from the docks, where Lizneth caught glimpses of the Halcyon burning from time to time.

  As they drew closer to the blind-world, their shadows cowered behind them, until suddenly it was flooding them in its soft glow, rendering them exposed and vulnerable to every passing eye. Their armament seemed the biggest deterrent to any who took an interest in them; though they were chained, slaves with weapons were nothing to be trifled with unless they were in the act of causing a disturbance, which Lizneth and her companions made certain not to be.

  A retinue of fierce-looking calaihn stood at the entrance to the city proper, patterns of self-inflicted scars shining stark against their copper skin. They looked unconcerned with Lizneth and her group, throwing them only casual glances as they went by. She thought them all the more peculiar from up close; they had a wet look about them, their skin glistening as if they’d just been underwater. That, together with the damage they’d done to their bodies, made them look more ridiculous than frightening.

  Their haick, too, was cumbersome. Lizneth couldn’t separate the scent of one calai from another; it came to her as a single thick presence, the fetor of yellow saltrock mixed with a humid stench like rotting leaves.

  Soon they reached the end of the last shadow, where the blind-world’s light cut a line from the top of the cave across the ground, sharper than the edge of a claw. Lizneth had never known there was a light so strong and brilliant in all the Aionach. She had certainly never seen such a crisp contrast before. As she looked out beyond the cave, she found that she couldn’t see the same way she’d always been able to. The light made everything fuzzy and vague; it was impossible to open her eyes more than a sliver. She understood then why it was called the blind-world.

  “We should go on,” Zhigdain said, as the five of them stood at the edge of the shadow, the cave mouth yawning from the earth like a round, toothless maw.

  Lizneth shielded her eyes and looked back toward the calaihn. Behind them, she could see the city of Sai Calgoar in the distance, hundreds of tiny caves opening onto the side of a cliff that shot upward and onward for thousands of fathoms. She could just make out the dark shapes of calaihn coming and going from homes and meeting places, entering and exiting the many tiny holes and doorways that lay tucked into the rock face.

  Spread out below were the trappings of a vast market, though it didn’t appear to be open for business at the moment. Perhaps the hour was too early yet. Tents and clay huts lined dusty aisles in the gorge between the mountains and the city. In the opposite direction—where Lizneth and the others were headed—the peaks fell away into a great valley of sandy soil and desiccated grasses that stretched further than she had any hope of seeing.

  The five companions set off into the light, irons clinking as their chains dragged over the dust, kicking up more of it than was desirable for breathing or escaping notice. Zhigdain took the lead, his enormous ears perked for signs of danger. Fane stayed beside him, bent and wilted from the poison, but resisting further help all the same. Old Bresh was limping along on Lizneth’s left, while Dozhie, the dam who was younger but somehow wiser and older-looking, walked on the other side, lending Lizneth a supporting hand from time to time.

  Daylight was splashing full against the mountainside, offering the former slaves no shade or shelter as they followed the curve of the vale. No sooner had Lizneth entered the blind-world than she’d begun to hate it. The warmth ran through her like a drink that was so hot and irritating it scalded her insides and boiled her blood. Her injured tail wasn’t cooling her as well as a healthy tail would’ve, and after a few minutes there seemed to be no difference in temperature between the hot ground and the pads of her feet. It felt as though the blind-world’s light would burn right through and bake her from the inside.

  She remembered how cold the Omnekh’s waters had been, and she almost considered running back into the cave and throwing herself into the sea. At least in the cold she had fur to keep her insulated; there was no escape from the heat. Worse, she found herself wishing she was still on board Curznack’s ship. It was cool and damp and comfortable there, and she began to forget the violence of the waves, remembering only the feeling of the icy spray on her face.

  The sounds of the port waned behind them as they trudged into the vale. Lizneth’s eyes had begun to hurt so much that she was sure they would melt out of her skull; she kept them shut tight as she shuffled along, squeezing them open every few seconds to make sure the ground was still there and she wasn’t about to run into anything.

  “Water,” Fane said, finally putting his obstinacy aside.

  Zhigdain pulled a skin from among his things and let Fane have a few small sips. “There is only a little left,” Zhig
dain said, and Lizneth heard the fatigue in his voice. “The light grows. It will grow for hours yet. All we can do is press on toward Gris-Mirahz.”

  “We should stop… find shade…” Fane said.

  “That would be the death of us,” Zhigdain said. “Shade will only slow the process, not stop it.”

  “How do the calaihn live here,” Lizneth asked, “without tails to cool them?”

  “They have better than tails,” Bresh said. “Did you see their skin, how wet it was?”

  Lizneth nodded.

  “They call it sweat. The skin leaks water when the daylight falls on them.”

  “Disgusting,” Lizneth said. “What kind of water? Saliva? Or urine?”

  “I don’t know,” Bresh said. “Both, maybe.”

  Lizneth made a face. “The more I learn of them, the less I like them.”

  “No one here will disagree with you, scearib,” said Fane. “Calaihn are repulsive. Ikzhehn who deal with them are not right in the mind.”

  “It takes a cruel mind to be a slaver,” said Zhigdain. “It’s no wonder Curznack dealt with the calaihn.”

  “I’m sure slaving is profitable work, but the blind-world has goods we need besides slaves,” said Bresh. “Trading with calaihn is a dirty thing, but some believe it necessary.”

  “Let them believe that if they want,” said Fane. “They’re wrong.”

  The day grew hotter as they walked. Lizneth wondered how long it could go on, sapped and sluggish as she was already feeling. Nodes of pain flashed across every part of her, lingering signs of the antidote helping her body fight away the poison.

  A point of rock shot up in front of them like a spear, blocking the distance ahead from view. It wasn’t until they passed the high outcropping that they could see the shape of the valley; this part of it, at least, was like the space between two outstretched fingers, with Sai Calgoar pinched into the joint. They were walking out toward the knuckle of rock, the distant mountains of the far finger only just visible beyond the heat haze. Lizneth’s eyes burned even more fiercely now as she tried to get a glimpse of the way ahead.

  Beyond this point, clusters of red-orange stone interrupted the sand at every hillock and rise. Their travel was slow and labored, but soon all sight and sound of Sai Calgoar was lost behind them, and the smell of the sea gave way to the scent of wild sage and creosote. Scenting in the absence of sight didn’t seem to help Lizneth much; the blind-world’s aroma was foreign to her, and trying to orient herself on smell alone was like navigating a labyrinth with shifting walls.

  It may not have been easy, but they could at least scent well enough to know when others were nearby. When first they came upon a group of travelers coming toward them from the opposite direction, Zhigdain signaled for them to huddle behind a cluster of rocks to await the strangers’ passing. It was a painstaking few minutes as the figures drew near, forming themselves from distant blobs into a mixed company of calaihn and ikzhehn, and even a few eh-calaihn, the ones with yellowed hair and skin paler than milk.

  The eh-calaihn were all in chains; Lizneth heard the lines clinking as they trudged by. From time to time she heard the snapping of leather and the harsh cries of the calaihn goading their captives forward. So they do take each other as slaves, she thought. The light-skinned ones are thinner and weaker than the dark; the shade of their hides must determine their place in the blind-world’s society. If I had been born calai, I would have been a slave.

  When the meager procession had passed them, Lizneth became aware that Zhigdain and Fane had drawn their rapiers and were whispering to one another. She realized with surprise that her hand was on the hilt of Curznack’s dagger—her dagger. “What is it?” she asked.

  “They have water,” Fane said. “And food, maybe.”

  “Aren’t we close to the town—”

  Fane chittered at her, an almost silent squeak aimed at shutting her up and expressing his annoyance all at once. The two bucks sprang forward on all fours; their bonds didn’t hinder their pace as much that way. The calaihn in charge of the procession didn’t seem to hear Fane and Zhigdain coming at first; they must’ve been so numb to the sound of chains rattling that they didn’t notice a few more. Fane thrust his blade through one of the calai taskmasters, its needle-thin point piercing him through from spine to chest. The calai had just drawn back to swing his whip when Fane stabbed him, and the slave who’d been expecting the lashing turned and cried out in surprise. Zhigdain took a wide swing at another one of the dark-skins, gripping his rapier’s hilt with both hands and opening a thin gash along his back from shoulder to hip. At first it looked like the rapier had done nothing, but after a moment, the gash reddened and began to weep. Zhigdain crossed the calai with a second slash, then a third.

  “What are they doing?” Lizneth hissed to Bresh and Dozhie, half-drawing her dagger and wondering if she should help. Her other arm was up to shield her eyes from the daylight, but the shapes of the combatants were blurred, as if outlined in white clouds. The longer she kept looking, the more difficult it was becoming to see them.

  “Don’t worry yourself, cuzhe. Zhigdain will defeat them,” Dozhie said, watching intently.

  Lizneth thought she detected a note of admiration in Dozhie’s voice. She let the dagger slide back into place.

  One of the calaihn came at Fane, knocking his rapier aside with a short cudgel and batting him across the skull on the backswing. Fane tried to step back and regain his balance, but the chains went taut at his ankles, and he fell over. His assailant dropped onto him, bringing the cudgel down as Fane tried to get his rapier out in front of him. Each time he tried, the calai swatted it away again and continued to pummel him unobstructed.

  The slaves stood dumbfounded, unsure how to react. Are we being saved, or are we about to be killed? Lizneth imagined they must’ve been thinking. Zhigdain had gone after the last of the taskmasters, a younger calai, all spindly knees and elbows, who’d dropped his whip and was now defenseless. The proceedings were more a chase than a fight, the young taskmaster hiding behind and dodging around his slaves as if playing some fierce game of tag.

  Lizneth lowered her head and darted out from the rocks, listening for the flat thudding sounds of the calai’s cudgel. The dagger was in her hand, and she was straining against the light to detect the whitewashed form of Fane’s attacker, opening her eyes to a sliver every so often so she could watch the ground beneath her. She began to swing the dagger with abandon, until she felt the blade scrape across something.

  The calai groaned and rolled off, dropping his cudgel and gripping his skull with both hands. Lizneth’s dagger glistened, curled black hairs stuck to the oily green surface. The top of the taskmaster’s head was split open and draining. He would be dead before long, she knew. She had killed her first calai before she knew his name. This was a fight she hadn’t asked for, but as she watched the calai’s body go limp through squinting eyes, she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She had considered showing mercy to Curznack while the advantage had been hers, but she felt no such compassion for this strange, ugly creature.

  A pair of five-toed calai feet ran by. Lizneth wrapped her tail around one of the ankles and sent the youth stumbling. Zhigdain caught up and ran him through with his rapier, and Lizneth heard the body drop to the sand. She sheathed her dagger, hairs and all, and knelt beside Fane.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Not bad. The calai was weak. He hit like a nestling.”

  Lizneth helped him to his feet, knowing he was making light of the damage he’d sustained. Zhigdain was plodding around the scene to gather the spoils and make sure the taskmasters were dead, using his rapier as his testing implement. The slaves were still standing there, probably still wondering whether Lizneth and her companions would be their salvation or their end. One of the ikzhe slaves was restless and fidgeting, and the eh-calai slave beside him gave him a thump on the shoulder.

  “Gitch-getch,” said the ikzhe, flinching at the blow. “Git
ch-getch.” He was a younger buck, an agouti with brown fur mottled in white. An old scar ran up the side of his snout from his lip to his nose, and several of his whiskers were missing beneath the scar tissue. He and the other ikzhehn in the group wore dark goggles over their eyes. “Gitch-getch,” he said again.

  “What is he saying?” Lizneth asked.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like Ikzhethii to me,” Fane said, rubbing his face to take away the sting of the taskmaster’s assault.

  “Could be it’s a dialect,” said Zhigdain. He spoke softly to the younger buck. “Veh sebegag ghoja vilckeh?” Then in the Aion-speech, he said, “Where is your village?”

  “Gitch-getch, schuk-nyick,” the agouti said.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Zhigdain said.

  “You’ll get nothing out of this one,” said the eh-calai slave who’d struck the agouti on the shoulder. “He’s cracked as hard clay. I’ve heard him say things that sound like words, but they don’t make any sense. He speaks only gibberish.” The sound of the eh-calai’s voice startled Lizneth, deep and broad as it was. His accent was funny too; there was a strangeness to it, the way he swallowed his syllables and silenced certain letters so the words all ran together. She found she had to listen closely to understand him. One of his eyes looked at first to be swollen nearly shut, but Lizneth saw that it was an old wound that had healed wrong.

  “Where is it? Gris-Mirahz,” Zhigdain said, shielding his eyes so he could get a better look at the calai.

  “If you’d find me the keys to these handcuffs, I’ll tell you whatever you like,” the eh-calai said.

  “It’ll be hard to get anywhere chained to each other like that,” said Zhigdain. He held up a small ring full of iron keys.

  Lizneth could tell that Zhigdain wanted to stare the calai down with that intense way he had, but Zhigdain could only look at the ground as he spoke.

  “The location first,” he said.