by J. C. Staudt
Marauders flowed into the streets, glinting like armored beetles. Wherever a calai could be found, there were two Marauders to end him. Some hu-mans tumbled down the riverbank and fell splashing through, until Rotabak’s black-cloaked scouts emerged from the gloom to make the river run red. Others ascended the rise and had their legs slashed out from behind. But most of the calaihn didn’t get that far. Most died in the streets with Marauders crowding around them like hooligans, awaiting their turn to kick or scratch or bite. They bit with blades, and painted the streets with their crimson haick.
When a big sweating hu-man stumbled into Lizneth with wild grasping arms, she drew her dagger and shoved the point through the hard muscle of his stomach. She felt a sudden tightness as his abdomen tensed around the blade, a sensation that made her queasy. She slid the weapon free and stepped clear to let him slouch over beside her, writhing and groaning.
When the fighting was over, the Marauders had lost only a handful of their number. Among the villagers, Gowgin the tanner was the only casualty. There were a few minor injuries and some damage to homes and property, but that was the extent of Tanley’s losses. Silence and darkness had won them the day.
When Lizneth went to retrieve her siblings from beneath the river bridge, they stared up at her as though she were a stranger—as though they were afraid of her. Malak licked his forepaws and fidgeted, eyeing the dagger at her hip with cold apprehension.
“What is it, cuzhe?” she asked.
“I saw you…” he said.
“You saw me where?”
“Over there.” He lifted a hand. “You… fighted.”
“Fought,” she corrected him.
Malak tried the word, wrinkling his snout at its strangeness. “Fought. You made a calai get dead.”
She sighed, lost on how to explain it to him. “Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—it’s okay to hurt others. But only if it’s clear they want to hurt you very badly, and only if you have no other choice.”
“Like a wrestle with Raial and Hasquol?”
“That’s not really the same thing, cuzhe.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to get Thrin and Raial.”
Malak and the others followed her out, shying away from the lifeless bodies swaying in the river current. At the top of the rise, Rotabak stood stalwart, sporting a deep gash along his neck. Adriga the seamstress was trying to sew up the wound for him, but he complained and flinched away whenever she tried to make a new stitch.
“Rotabak… I’m taking my brothers and sisters home now,” Lizneth said.
“Go then, and good riddance.”
“You still have Raial and Thrin.”
Rotabak squinted at her through his lazy eye, then swatted Adriga’s hand away as she tried to raise her needle and thread. “And?”
“And I’d like to bring them home. With the rest of my siblings.”
He snorted, then twitched his whiskers. When he feigned indecision, his voice made a sound like an old hinge. “Eh-h-h-h. No. Now’s not the time.”
“The battle’s over,” Lizneth said.
Anger flashed in Rotabak’s eyes. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”
“It won’t take up any of your time to tell your keguzpikhehn to release my brother and sister.”
“Are you getting insubordinate with me? Questioning my leadership? Doubting my ability to carry out Sniverlik’s will?”
“No, not any of that,” she said. “I just thought… since I did what you asked when the calaihn came…”
“I didn’t ask. I commanded. For a lowly parikua to carry out my command is as it should be. It’s no reason for a reward.”
“I’m not asking for a reward. I’m just asking you to return my—”
“Yes, yes, your little brother and sister. Yes, I heard you. Be silent now, and leave me to be tormented by this terrible old needle-mistress.”
Adriga frowned. “You ordered me to—”
“I know what I said. We’ve won the day, and yet my neck is still bleeding like a goat at the slaughter. What’s the remedy, you decrepit old bat? You ancient relic? What have you done to stop my imminent demise?”
“I’m trying—”
“Not hard enough. Now for the last time… will someone get this dirty scearib out of here? I’m finished listening to this dismal yammering.”
“I want Thrin and Raial back,” Lizneth demanded.
Rotabak’s guards stepped in front of her and began to corral her away from him.
Rotabak raised his voice to call after her. “You’ll receive nothing until Sniverlik arrives, and then only if he decides not to make an example of your family for the calai-thalighehn you are.”
After that, Lizneth had little choice but to be on her way home. The nestlings were unusually quiet and orderly as they followed her down the cavern road. I should never have brought them to the fields today, she thought, cursing herself for a calamity she couldn’t possibly have prevented. What will Mama and Papa say when I tell them I’ve surrendered two of their cuzhehn and watched the Marauders destroy our entire crop?
Lizneth bore little faith that she could salvage a harvest from what the Marauders had destroyed. If Rotabak and his troops didn’t pick the mulligraw fields clean, the villagers would scavenge what was left. Things were far from back to normal in Tanley. War was truly upon them now, and the conflict was larger than Lizneth was ready to admit.
CHAPTER 10
Warleader
“I should crush that liar where he sits,” shouted Jiren Oliver, fists clenched to ward off the pain his ignition had caused him.
“There was fear in the master-king’s eyes,” said Derrow, trying to calm him down. “Didn’t you see it? He’s afraid of us. Keeping Ros hostage is the only way he can control us, and he knows it.”
Raith agreed. “He can’t hold Ros forever, and I believe he’ll see that in time. If he doesn’t, we’ll make him see it. We should’ve expected his schemes from the beginning. We’ll be wiser in the future. Right now, it seems he’s too concerned with his wars to step away from his throne. And that’s to our advantage.”
“The world is dying,” said Jiren. “Who has time for war?”
“War does not wait. Not even at the end of time. The king is allowing us to return to our brothers in Belmond. We should be glad of that.”
“Personally, I’ll be glad when we’re done with this place. Coming to the above-world was—” Jiren stopped himself, too late. They all knew what he’d meant to say.
“A mistake,” Raith finished, reminded once again of the tragedies they’d faced since they left Decylum. He would never forgive himself for the disaster his decisions had wrought. The expedition’s failure was no excuse for self-pity, however. For the sake of his people, he would forge ahead until he’d rescued the lost Sons of Decylum and returned them home. He could only hope Cord Faleir and the rest of the council would forgive him when he returned, though the outlook on that score was doubtful.
Jiren softened, remorse written on his face. “I didn’t mean it. This wasn’t a mistake. The Scarred Comrades are a mistake. They’re the cause of our troubles. It’s not anything you’ve done that’s gotten us where we are. If anything, we owe you our lives.”
Raith knew that was a gracious version of the truth, but he didn’t object. “I’d wager the Scarred Comrades are in shambles by now. Their Commissar is dead, and we dealt their forces a heavy blow before we left.”
“You’re sure you killed Pilot Wax?” Derrow asked. “You haven’t told us what happened in the Hull Tower that day.”
“He was hit in the chest with a barrage of molten lead. I don’t know how any man could’ve survived that. I had only enough time to study his map—his model of the city—before I fled for the prison to get you. I feared there were more soldiers coming. As weak and tired and hungry as I was, I felt in no condition to face them. So I didn’t stay to watch him die. If I’d had the
option, I would have.”
“I hope that bastard rots,” said Jiren.
“You’re not alone,” said Raith. “I’m sure we’ll hear news one way or the other when we get to Belmond.”
Derrow nodded. “We should talk to Lethari. Ask to ride with him. The wasteland is much easier to navigate with the nomads to guide us.”
Raith nodded. “First we’d best return to Sig’s and give news to the others.”
The shadows lengthened and the market swelled with late-afternoon crowds as the three Decylumites ascended the tiers of Sai Calgoar toward Sigrede Balbaressi’s home. They arrived to find the others waiting with anticipation; Ernost Bilschkin was pacing the floor while Mercer Terblanche and Peperil Cribbs played a game of godechente on Sig’s ivory set. Theodar Urial was putting fresh bandages on Edrie Thronson’s wounds. The men looked up as the three blackhands entered the abode’s dark coolness, their faces drawn with grave looks.
“What news?” asked Ernost, stopping in his paces.
Raith recounted the details of their meeting with the master-king, starting with the king’s reluctance to leave the city in the midst of war and ending with his refusal to release Rostand Beige into their custody. The men were outraged to hear of Ros’s continued imprisonment, but Raith placated them with the promise that they now had the freedom to go and find their brothers in Belmond.
“Does this mean we have to cross that deathly wasteland by ourselves again?” asked Ernost, worried.
“We hope not,” said Raith. “Lethari Prokin came to the king’s palace while we were there. He requested leave to bring his friend’s body home for burial. If we can catch him this afternoon, perhaps he’ll let us join his caravan. I don’t know where this friend of his was from; only that he wasn’t a nomad.”
“And you know this man wasn’t one of ours?” asked Ernost.
“Yes. I heard Lethari say the name Glaive.”
Theodar Urial was intrigued. “A member of the Glaive family… still alive?”
“Not anymore, apparently.”
“May I come with you to Lethari’s home?” Theodar asked.
Raith wasn’t sure why the old man was so interested, but they didn’t have time to get into it at the moment. “I think we should all go. Strength in numbers, you know.”
They were standing up to leave when Sig’s shadow fell over the doorway. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. “Hello, my friends. I have just come from Lethari Prokin’s household. He gathers his feiach, and has honored me by making me one of his captains. I regret that I must leave you tomorrow, but you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
“I’m glad for you,” said Raith. “We all are.”
The others agreed.
“And so you should be,” Sig said, beaming.
Raith smiled. “Lethari’s house is where we were just heading.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“We want to go with the… feiach.”
Sig’s look was dour. “I do not think you will like the answer he gives you.”
“Is he traveling north?”
“Not north. But not in the way you might wish to go.”
“Where?”
“I do not speak for my masters. You must speak with him yourself.”
“Very well. Thank you, Sig. You’ve been most generous. We’ll go to him now.”
Sig gave a shallow bow, then turned and ascended the steps to the upper loft, where his wife Shonnie was sweeping the floors. Raith heard them greeting one another as he crossed the threshold toward the noise of the bustling city.
Raith Entradi had never been a man of absolutes. He knew who he liked and who he tolerated, just as well as he knew those he despised. Lethari Prokin was not only a skilled warleader, but a fair man, bold and dauntless. He was a figure for normal men to fear, but Raith didn’t fear him. Raith respected his ability to lead. If there was a way he could convince the warleader to bring them to Belmond, he would find it.
When they arrived at Lethari’s sandstone palace, a stooped, aging man in fine brown linen greeted them at the doorway. “How may I help you?” he asked them in a coarse Aion-speech.
“We’re looking for Lethari Prokin,” Raith said.
“The master is with his wife at the moment. May I tell him who calls?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m Raith Entradi.”
“You may wait here.” The servant turned on his heel and vanished into the cavernous depths of the house.
He returned several moments later and told them Lethari would be with them shortly. In the meantime, he led them into a lavish sitting room and told them to make themselves comfortable. The Sons threw themselves onto the pillows and cushions, sinking into plush red satins and purple velvets, green silks, brown camel’s hair and white cashmere.
When Lethari finally appeared, he had shed his weapons and gear and was wearing only his loose-fitting alabaster pants and tabard. “Raithur Entradi. It troubles me to find you in my household after such a dishonorable display.”
“I must apologize for that,” Raith said. “We’re deeply sorry for any distress we’ve caused you or your king.”
“I vouched for you. I believed you to be friends, and so I gave the master-king my word that you were. Now you have threatened the king’s life. You gave him your own word that you would take him to see your homeland, did you not?”
“I did, but—”
“The master-king has made clear his terms, and you have agreed to them. Tycho Montari does not answer to your demands, lathcu. Not in his own home. Nor do I, in mine. Now tell me why you have come, for I have much to do.”
There were any number of points Raith could’ve raised in response to Lethari’s simplified assessment of the situation, but getting straight to the point seemed a better tactic. “We’re here because we’d like to come back to Belmond with you and your army.”
“You bother the wrong man. I will not bring my feiach to Belmond. Not yet.”
“We’ll stay with you until you do.”
“It will not be for many turns.”
“We’ll split off from the caravan when you get close, then. We don’t have the experience or the means to get there by ourselves, but if we went part of the way with you, perhaps we could tackle the remainder of the journey on our own.”
“My answer is no. I do not wish to bear the burden of your company.”
“Nice guy, huh?” Raith heard Derrow whisper behind him.
Jiren Oliver seemed to agree. “The burden of our company? Aside from a few meals and some shade over our heads, what possible burden could we be to you? We slaughtered hundreds of the Scarred Comrades—your enemies—to make our escape. Or don’t you remember?”
“When Sigrede brought you to me, my cages and chests were full with the spoils of war, my goats fat and pregnant, my corsils dusty and tired. I was preparing to come home. Now, I make my return to war, riding fresh mounts, pulling empty cages, and commanding warriors thirsty for blood. My feiach will not learn one lathcu’s face from another’s. In the midst of battle, no warrior of mine will spare your life over that of any other pale-skin dog. You may have caused the master-king to believe you cannot be killed, but I know that is a lie. I have seen you bleed. I know you die the same as other men. So heed my counsel: go your own way.”
“We don’t need special treatment,” Jiren said. “We can keep up, and we’ll stay out of your way.”
“So says the blind muirrhad to his daylight master. Beyond these reasons, I have others, which are my own. My answer is final.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Derrow. “You’re refusing to give us any help at all?”
“Here is my help. When you arrive in the steel city, take this to the factory camp and give it to Diarmid Kailendi, who is warleader there in my absence. Then he and his feiach will know you are neither enemy nor slave.” Lethari handed Raith a small round seal made of smelted metal, a scorpion set between two olive branches.
“Surely
we could follow you,” said Raith, taking the seal. “Make our own camp, but keep our distance. Stay in your shadow.”
If Lethari had been angry before, now he was something else entirely. “Beggars! Ungratefuls! Poacaire! Thangaeli! Yarun aitraei fabhor, diaon, baid… ias fathas yarupoac.”
Raith stood his ground. “We need to get to Belmond, Lethari.”
“Then go! I do not stop you.”
“You heard the king. Your men have located a few of our brothers. We’ve got to find some way to get home.”
Do you see me standing in your path? Go!”
“Without food and water, we’ll—”
“Oisen!” Lethari screamed.
The hunched serving man materialized in the doorway. “Tha, gisheino.”
“Oria. Anis.”
Oisen was perplexed. “… Gisheino?”
“Ai ticluinn. Oria.”
“Tha, gisheino.” The servant bowed and left. He came back with a small leather pouch, which he handed to Lethari.
“For you,” Lethari said, producing a dozen gold coins and dropping them into Raith’s hand. “Trade this for food and horses. Hire a guide to take you to the steel city. I cannot bring you with me.”
Raith was humbled. He felt ashamed for having been so demanding of a man who had already given them so much. In Decylum, he and his people were wealthy. Out here they had nothing left of value aside from the clothing on their backs, and even that was a poor alternative to the nomads’ thin, loose-fitting cloth. “We can’t thank you enough, Lethari.”
“Then do not. You owe me nothing.”
Footsteps approached. A tall, slender woman in a green beaded dress appeared next to Oisen in the doorway. “My love… what is all this loud noise you are making?”
Lethari said something to her in Calgoàric. Then, addressing Raith and the Sons, he said, “My wife, Frayla.”
Raith couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the woman from the empty market; the woman they’d found in the tent with Oale Haelicari. He could see the scar running snakelike down her leg, ending at the ankle, just below the hem of her dress. It had been too dark in the tent to see her face, but Raith would’ve recognized that scar anywhere.
