The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Sister… Bastille,” he said, recognizing her with a faint smile. “I’m… so glad you’re here. I know you’ll… make me proud, won’t you.”

  “We’re going to put you under now, Brother Soleil. You’re not going to feel a thing until you wake up, okay?”

  He nodded. “Thank you, kind Sister. Thank you for doing this.”

  “It’s nothing at all,” Bastille said. “You rest, now.” She motioned to Sister Mareau, who pierced the wax seal on the intravenous line and began to push in the anesthesia.

  Bastille yawned beneath her sterile facemask. She selected a scalpel and lifted Brother Soleil’s nose with her thumb to find the incision point. Soleil’s eyes began to close as the anesthesia took him. All Bastille could think about was how wonderful it must have felt for Soleil, knowing he would wake up undevoured. This was what he wanted. It was what he had been wanting for years: the chance to remain.

  Long life, and the tools with which to obtain it, were in ever-shortening supply. Perhaps Bastille shouldn’t have faulted the Order itself for the sins of its servants. Perhaps the Order wasn’t the important thing at all, and it was the melding of Brother Soleil’s undevoured soul with these machines that was the ideal. There was temptation in it—the thought of being made more whole than the human body could ever manage. Yes, she decided. Brother Soleil will trade his body of flesh for one of artifice. Even if the Infernal Mouth doesn’t exist, Soleil will achieve glory in the completion of his intended purpose, and he will remain undevoured.

  Bastille set her blade below the left nostril, where she would begin the first step in the lengthy process that lay before her. She wasn’t thinking about the incision, or even about the procedure itself. The culmination of all Brother Soleil’s years of service is at hand, and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s worse than a heathen, for all he’s done. Once Soleil takes a Nexus, I become the last person alive with the ability to perform the Enhancements. Soleil’s life is in my care, and mine alone. I choose whether he lives or dies. This isn’t up to fate; it’s up to me.

  Bastille’s hand trembled, along with her will. The scalpel was razor-sharp. Soleil’s skin was stretched and pale, tender and vulnerable. If Brother Soleil wants forever, she promised, then forever is what I’ll give him.

  Bastille cut.

  CHAPTER 55

  Aftermath

  Through the lens of Merrick’s filtermask, the world was yellow-tinged and three shades too dark, but the carnage would’ve been just as devastating in any color. Every one of the Gray Revenants who’d gone into the church was dead. Now, he could only watch from his hiding place, tucked into the roofline of a three-story school building, as the strange warrior-priests dragged Caliber’s lifeless body away.

  As well-armed and experienced as they were, Merrick had never dreamed that the Revenants could suffer such a crushing defeat. It had sounded so easy, to hear Caliber tell of the secretive, tranquil community behind those high stone walls. Yet the religious zealots had somehow managed to defeat them without superior firepower or numbers. The idea of bringing down Wax’s regime seemed a lost hope now, a feat that was truly as impossible as Merrick had once believed.

  The warrior-priests prowled the walls with leaden resolve. Merrick had seen several of them take shots to the chest, yet they moved as though they felt no pain. Whatever force it was that fueled them, it made him nervous. If they could ignore their wounds and fight with such unyielding brutality, there was no telling what else they might be able to do. After what he’d seen them do to his fellow Revenants, he wasn’t interested in finding out. He slipped from his hiding place, leaving the church, the battle, and the bodies of his fallen brothers behind.

  The Revs had moved the bulk of their forces to the run-down Fantique Theater in southwest Belmond. Merrick regrouped with the others there, entering beneath the grand sign bordered in a rectangle of scorched and broken lightbulbs that read STE HEN SALISBU Y PRES NTS THE SOUTHCAPE CH MBER ORCHE TRA in tilted black marquee lettering.

  The passage of decades had not stolen the smell of upper class sensibilities from the lobby walls; the musk of furs, the stale astringency of the elderly, or the sweet flowery scent of expensive perfume. In Concert Hall B, the smells were stronger. Sweat and blood, skinned concrete knees and aching leather. The men were strewn across the folding seats from front row to back, dressing their wounds and cleaning their gear. Somewhere up in the balcony, a woman was moaning while one of the men had his way with her.

  Merrick was still a fledgling in the group; Caliber had not yet made him a Gray Revenant, and he was in no position to take charge. But after the defeat they’d sustained today, there was a hole; Caliber’s death had left a vacancy that needed to be filled. I’ll find a way to inspire them, even in a time like this, Merrick told himself. That’s what Wax would do if he were here. Soon the Revs will love me just like the comrades love him.

  Merrick came down the aisle and trotted up the steps that led onto the stage. His boots echoed on the black painted hardwood, a surface that seemed to swallow the light from the makeshift torches along the walls. Looking out over the tired remains of the group, he couldn’t believe how few of them were left. It was as dim on the stage as it was out in the stands. There was no warm spotlight to make him stand out in his viewers’ eyes, yet he could see each pair of eyes shining back at him from the dark.

  Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to say. His mouth began to go dry. His throat felt scratchy, and his hands were already cold and clammy. He cleared his throat, gulped. “Friends,” he said. His voice broke like a pre-pubescent boy’s, and the word came out in half a squeak. “Friends,” he tried again. It was better this time. “Today, we’ve been humbled.”

  “And we don’t need you telling us about it,” someone shouted.

  That rattled Merrick’s nerves even more. He wondered if Pilot Wax ever got this nervous during one of his speeches, or if he’d ever been heckled.

  At least they’re listening. “We lost lots of good dways, who we’ll never be able to honor with proper burials. Caliber, Leuk, Varner, Ferriss, Draich, Rapter… good men. If you know the name of someone who’s died today, call it out.”

  There came a chorus of names from every corner of the room, spoken with fondness.

  Okay, good. We’re getting them involved. On our side. “To me, what happened today is just proof that things in this city are worse than they’ve ever been. The balance of power is no balance at all. The Scarred Comrades control everything. They have everything, and we have nothing. The savages come in here and take what they want, and the Scarred give us no protection from them.”

  Someone else spoke up, a dark-eyed man called Peymer, with thick eyebrows and wavy black hair. “The nomads bring good trade here. They’ve been stealing from the caravans more than ever lately, and that’s to our benefit. We don’t need the city north’s protection from them. We need the city north gone.”

  Several of the others voiced their agreement.

  Peymer was right. Merrick had always been taught that the nomads were the enemy, the biggest threat to peace and order in the city north. But to the southers, the nomads were a welcome part of society. A necessary part, in some ways.

  “Okay,” Merrick said. “I agree with you. The only thing the city north cares about is the city north. They’re in it for themselves. We’re fighting over scraps down here while they live like kings. Well, I say, enough. We’re not gonna live like this anymore. It’s time we saw the start of a new era. We might be beaten for today, but we’re far from done bringing balance to this city. Until the day when that dream becomes real, I won’t stop chasing it. Will you?”

  There was scattered applause. A few men even cheered.

  Merrick smiled, confidence swelling inside him. It was fitting, he decided, that he be standing on a stage at a moment like this. Today is the day my story begins. Things will never be the same for me again after today. With the Revenants behind me, it won’t be long before the
city south is behind me, too. I’ll be a better Commissar than Pilot Wax could ever hope to be. Merrick even went so far as to tell himself that he’d always had the capacity for greatness, even before he knew about his gift. “I know you’re ready to go this distance with me,” he said. “The Scarred won’t have their hold over us for long.”

  “Why should we listen to you? You used to be one of them,” shouted Rhetton, a man in his late fifties whose graying brown beard surrounded several missing teeth.

  “Sure, I used to be,” Merrick admitted. He felt his hands get clammy and his throat go dry again. “I got banished to the city south because I defied Commissar Wax. I’m here because I’m just like the rest of you. I dared to stand up and oppose him. I’ve done as much for the cause as you have, old man. More, if you count standing face-to-face with Pilot Wax and telling him it was time he gave up his seat.”

  “You did what you did. I didn’t see it. These dways didn’t see it either. And I won’t be led into another deathtrap by a kid who’s younger than the hairs on my mustache.”

  “I speak,” said Oban, a baggy-eyed man with a long face, a thin nose, and thinning hair to match. Oban lifted two fingers into the air. A few others did the same.

  “I’m not leading anyone to their deaths who hasn’t signed up for it. Caliber is dead. Leuk is dead. Who’s going to take their place? Do it yourself if you like, but remember—I’m the one who knows about the city north. I know Pilot Wax, and I know all about the Scarred Comrades.”

  When Rhetton stood, his seat flapped closed, squeaking. “You can know all you want about the Scarred. The Gray Revenants are bigger than you realize, comrade. You’ve been among us for a week, maybe two. In that time, you haven’t proved a thing to me except that you’re another mouth to feed and another back to clothe. We don’t know you, and I don’t trust you. You don’t know who we are. You haven’t learned the half of what it means to be a Revenant. Now… me and the dways here will ask you to be a good comrade, take a seat, and keep your mouth shut until you do.”

  “I speak,” shouted Oban and several others, saluting.

  Merrick began to despair. This is not going the way I pictured it. How will I win the love of an entire city if I can’t even win over the room? If I don’t have the support of these men, I have nothing. He was starting to worry that the only way he’d ever gain anyone’s allegiance was to reveal his gift. There were wounded men all around him, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to heal them. It’s too easy to become a commodity when you have something everyone wants. I’ll do it the hard way; I’ll prove myself without showing them my gift. I’ll earn their trust. I’m not a tyrant. I’m not a bad dway, and I’m not just some hotshot kid who thinks he’s better than everybody else. Better than Wax, maybe, but not too good to be a worthy part of this group.

  Even as Merrick tried to encourage himself, the voice of doubt slithered in like a serpent. You are just a kid, by their standards. You said you would prove yourself to the Scarred time and time again, but each time you failed worse than the last. You’ll never prove anything except that you’re a lost cause. You’re twenty-four years old and your stint in Mobile Ops was the high point of your life. “What’s next, then?” Merrick said. “What are we doing with ourselves now that we’ve suffered a defeat? If there’s more to the Revenants than I know, tell me. Tell me everything there is to know.”

  “What we do next,” said Rhetton, “is nurse our wounds. Nothing need be decided ‘til we’re done lickin’ ‘em. Impatience like yours’ll get you thrown out of here faster’n you can blink. Caliber ain’t around to coddle you like a whelp anymore. Now sit down, and let the dways who did the real fighting worry about how they’re gonna stop bleeding.”

  Merrick trudged down the stage steps and flung himself into a seat, defeated. There’s a difference between impatience and ambition, old man, he wanted to say. There were lots of things he wanted to say, but none of them would get him anywhere with these Revs, the shadows masquerading as men.

  A hand came to rest on Merrick’s shoulder. “I believe in Merrick Bouchard.”

  Merrick turned to find Cluspith seated in the row behind him, an austere man with a high forehead, a narrow chin and wide-set eyes. Cluspith was always moving his lips, even when he wasn’t speaking with anyone, and there was a permanent look of concern or skepticism in his eyes. He was wearing the long leather duster of the Gray Revenants, but Merrick had never seen him carrying a weapon.

  “You believe in me,” Merrick repeated, to be sure.

  Cluspith muttered to himself and looked at the floor. “Merrick Bouchard knows the city north. We have the intuition and Merrick Bouchard has the proximity. Merrick Bouchard is green, but he knows how to take the upper hand. Yes. I speak.” He held up two fingers, though no one else was listening to him.

  Merrick tried to make eye contact. “Cluspith?”

  “Mmhmm. Yes, Merrick Bouchard.”

  “I appreciate what you’re saying.”

  “I was offering Merrick Bouchard a liberal portion of approval. I relish and savor Merrick Bouchard’s instruments and components.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Cluspith.”

  “There you are, Clus,” said his brother Swydiger, coming over to sit with them. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to. I’m sorry if he’s bothering you, Merrick.”

  “Oh, not at all. Don’t worry about it. Clus just came over to give me some encouragement after my big foul-up. Didn’t you?”

  Cluspith rocked in his chair. “Merrick Bouchard knows his stuff.”

  Swydiger laughed. “He’s quoting me, I think. He’s been restless all morning. I wouldn’t let him come on the raid, and he’s been asking about Leuk ever since we got back. He really liked Leuk. I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Leuk is a good dway,” said Cluspith, nodding.

  “That’s right,” Swydiger agreed.

  “Leuk has a ‘fernal-may-care attitude about this shate.”

  “Clus. Language,” Swydiger said. He had the same facial shape as his twin brother, but his forehead and eye separation were less pronounced.

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Cluspith.

  “What do you say?”

  “Sorry to Merrick Bouchard. Sorry to Swydiger Porter.”

  “There you go. Thanks, buddy.” Swy put a calming hand on the back of his brother’s neck.

  Cluspith’s mouth stretched into a plastic smile, then snapped straight again. “Swydiger is welcome.”

  “I’m with you on this whole thing, by the way,” Swy said.

  “What do you mean, carrying on the crusade Caliber started to assassinate Wax?”

  Swy nodded. “And doing it while the time is right. The more effort we spend turning over rocks looking for ancient relics downtown, the less we’ll have left to tackle the big ones. Like Wax.”

  “Half these dways are a hair’s breadth away from giving up on the city north altogether,” Merrick said. “They’d rather keep patrolling the south like some renegade police force, breaking up gangs and burning down zoom labs. That’s all fine work, but how can they not realize that the city south will never be what the north is while the borders stay closed? We have twice the people and half the resources down here.”

  “I think most of them know that,” said Swydiger. “It’s just easier for them to ignore the north than to deal with it. As long as they have food in their bellies and enough lowlifes to sell to the nomads as slaves, why should they care?”

  “Because Wax’s shadow gets longer every year. He’s got plans to expand again. Right now, land area is the only thing the south has more of than the north, besides people. Soon this will all be Scarred territory, and we’ll be crawling all over each other for an empty patch of pavement to stand on.”

  Swy was thoughtful for a moment. “Any ideas?”

  “Well,” Merrick said. “I have something sort of personal I’ve been meaning to do. It might shed some new light on this whole situation. While e
veryone’s getting back on their feet, maybe you’d be interested in joining me on a little outing.”

  “I could probably do that,” Swydiger said. “What’s it about?”

  “Some foreigners came to Belmond a few weeks ago, strange folks from far away. There’s a chance some of them are still around. I haven’t had a spare second to look for them, what with the intensives Caliber had me doing the past couple weeks. I guess that’s all over now. So since we seem to have some spare time, I want to see if I can track them down.”

  “I know the dways you’re talking about. Shiny clothes, pale skin, pretty well-fed, looking like they hadn’t been above-world very long? The Scarred gave them a cruel welcome, if I recall.”

  “That’s them. How did you know?”

  “The Revs are always watching, my friend. We see everything. The good news is, there’s a nomad camp behind an old factory down by the channel. Some of our boys saw the foreigners headed that way a while back. Might be we can ask around, see if the nomads can tell us where these foreigners are.”

  Merrick didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh, maybe not then. That’s probably not a good idea.”

  Swydiger frowned. “How come? Oh, that’s right… you’re scared of nomads. Aren’t you, you norther?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  Merrick rubbed the patch of skin between his thumb and forefinger, where his mark had been. The scar tissue there was still raised, three long claws and a ridge of knuckles, like an invisible sketch of what it had once looked like. “They just make me a little nervous. I’ve shot more nomads than the number I’ve met in person.”

  “How many have you met?”

  Merrick shook his head.

  “Wow, are you serious? Okay, we’re doing this.”

  Merrick tried to protest, but Swy wouldn’t let him get a word in.

  “Nope. Not listening. This is happening, Merrick. Just go with it.”

  “Fine.” But I’m wearing gloves, Merrick decided.

  “Why is it you want to find these foreigners again?”