Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  Toler sent his sixth rock speeding toward the cactus, but Lokes got his shot off faster this time. If only he had anticipated the shepherd’s true motive, he would’ve reacted sooner. The moment the stone left Toler’s hand, he reached down and slipped the second revolver from its holster on Lokes’s left hip, then stepped behind him, smooth as snakeskin.

  “Nice shot,” Toler said, as Lokes’s bullet sent a chunk of cactus spinning away. He pressed the barrel to Lokes’s neck and gave him a nudge. “Now, I’ll take that, if you please.”

  Lokes raised his now-empty revolver and let the shepherd snatch it from his hand.

  “Why don’t you go stand over there with your lady friend?” Toler asked, too nicely. He prodded Lokes with the gun barrel, then followed him to where Weaver was standing. “Shoulder to shoulder, if you don’t mind.”

  They obeyed.

  Toler came around behind her. “Forgive me for this,” he said, and began to pat her down. She could smell the sweat on both men—Toler’s especially, now that he was close. She tried not to cringe as his hands slid down her armpits and over her hips, down the inside of her thighs and across her stomach and backside.

  He gave Lokes the same treatment, then told them both to lay down on their stomachs and lace their fingers behind their heads. This was a mistake, though the shepherd didn’t know it yet. Lokes gave her a furtive smile as they knelt and slid belly-first onto the ground. Weaver turned onto her cheek so she could watch the shepherd gather the horses and load their water and supplies onto his old gelding.

  When he was done, Toler gave Meldi and Gish each a smack on the rump to send them trotting away into the scrub. “Thanks for trying to protect me,” he said, “but my brother doesn’t run my life, and neither do you. Jallika Weaver and Willis Lokes, was it? I’ll make sure the town guard get your names and descriptions so they can post notices around town. If you ever come back to Unterberg, I’ll see you both thrown out on your asses. That, or I’ll turn you over to Mr. Vantanible so he can arrange something more creative.”

  Weaver lay there patiently, waiting for the right moment. As soon as Toler turned to step into the saddle, she put her palms to the ground. The shepherd got one foot into the stirrup before the ground caved in beneath his other boot. He fell backwards, kicking his horse in the flank.

  The animal bolted, leaving him to flounder in the sucking knee-deep sandhole that had enveloped his leg. Lokes was on his feet, sprinting over to rescue his precious sweeties from the shepherd’s possession. When he’d reclaimed them, he flipped one into the air and caught it by the barrel, bringing the butt down on Toler’s head with a crack.

  “Turns out you ain’t so clever after all, Shep,” he shouted, enraged. He gave the shepherd another crack on the skull, harder this time. “You ever touch my lady like that again, I’ll skin you alive. Don’t care how much hardware I gotta lose to do it.”

  Weaver supposed Lokes could be sweet sometimes, in his own way. If threatening another man’s life was how he thought it best to defend her honor, let him. He certainly had no qualms about doing so.

  The shepherd fell back, his leg still buried, trickles of blood starting down the side of his forehead. He could only give Lokes a dazed stare before the breath went out of him and his eyes slipped shut.

  Weaver got up and dusted herself off. She checked the shepherd’s pulse, then gasped as Lokes pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. His stubble grated on her mouth and chin, but she didn’t resist him.

  “Now that was a beautiful piece of work,” he told her with a grin.

  She felt foolish for letting things get out of hand, but if Lokes was happy, their little debacle hadn’t been a total loss. A part of her pitied the shepherd. He’d tried so hard to get away, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of seeing his brother. I know how much you must hate me, Daxin’s letter had read. No matter what happens, you’re still my brother, and I love you.

  If this was Daxin’s attempt at reconciliation, what could he have done to incite such a fierce hatred in Toler? It wasn’t Weaver’s place to cast judgment, or even to get involved. Daxin had hired her to protect Toler; she could accomplish that while remaining neutral in all other matters.

  By the time the shepherd came to, they had pulled his leg from the sandhole and bound his wrists with fresh rope cuffs that allowed him freer movement. He would be able to attend to his own needs now without their intervention. Lokes had pulled his spent brass and cleaned it for later reuse. He knew a good reloader in Belmond who owned a tiny powder milling operation. It was expensive, but they’d be able to afford it once they delivered the shepherd to Daxin.

  For the first few minutes after he opened his eyes, Toler was woozy and distant, as if he didn’t remember who or where he was. When the memory came back to him, he began to curse and shout. He tried to stand, but his eyes rolled back and he fell over into the sand again.

  Weaver had expected him to recover quickly, but as the night drew on the shepherd’s condition grew worse. By midnight, the skies were awash in bright colors that lit up the heavens like daytime. The starwinds had never given Weaver reason for alarm, aside from the fierce storms they often produced. Lokes sometimes felt his old injuries flaring up, but he rarely complained about it.

  They slept as best they could under the bright lights. When dawn broke over the horizon, they found Toler lying in a patch of sand wet with his own vomit. They asked him how he felt, but his responses were delayed and nonsensical. Lokes tried to provoke him to anger, but even that didn’t work. Either the starwinds were messing with him, or his symptoms were a reaction to the blows Lokes had delivered to his head.

  “He can’t ride like this,” Weaver insisted.

  “We ain’t got time to sit here and wait ‘til he comes around,” Lokes said.

  “What do we do?”

  “We strap him in, like I said.”

  “That won’t work.”

  Lokes lifted Toler by the collar and gave him a hard slap. “You listen here, Shep. I ain’t gon’ show up late on account of you pissing out on me. Now you get up in that saddle, and you ride. Understand?”

  Toler’s head swayed on his shoulders.

  Lokes yanked him forward. “Hey. You hear me?”

  “I… hear.”

  “Good. Get your head screwed in and get on that horse.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Dark Horse

  The starwinds raged, and the feiach with them. Every night shone like the day; every ambush served only to deepen their lust for blood. Success built upon success, a virtuous cycle borne of limitless possibility in the eyes of Lethari Prokin and his warriors. It was a time of great plenty, though the feiach’s numbers dwindled as each group splintered off for home, and Lethari knew their success could not last forever.

  Waves crashed along the western shoreline of Meandering Bay, where the feiach was laid out to begin the noontide meal. Gulls shrieked over the water, gliding on a cool breeze from the Tideguine. The feiach had ventured to the furthest reaches of the Inner East these last weeks, harrying trade caravans from Pleck’s Mill to Yellow Harbor. They had begun to encounter the sorts of goods that grew scarce farther north: oils and spices from Nebulai; sea salt from Bilge Point; fine silks and handmade jewelry from Dredgewood and Southcape; tea and preserves imported from the Sourlands across the Tideguine, and dried fish from the Farstrands on the eastern shores of the Slickwash.

  The pale-skin caravans had appeared on time at first, but the recent storms and earthquakes caused by the starwinds had thrown them off schedule. The more the lathcui deviated from their anticipated routes, the less reliable the goatskin record became. Other concerns, too, had begun to plague Lethari Prokin.

  Across the camp, Sigrede Balbaressi sat with his men as the meal was served. Sig’s war stories never lacked for bravado, and today’s was no exception. The man talked so often it was hard to imagine how he found words to fill so much empty air. Each time he opened his mouth, Lethari had to stop hims
elf from cringing. The next word Sigrede spoke might be the one that turned Lethari’s captains against him.

  How could I have let my family persuade me to deceive the king? I should have seen this ending in guilt and disgrace and known better. Sigrede has only to say something, and everyone will see I have made a liar of myself. It is not the fates who smile on me; I am a cheat. I have won victory only with the help of the record, and in opposition to the master-king’s will. Lethari had spent many sleepless nights reflecting on his regrets. He had convinced himself it was the starwinds that were making his mind sick. Yet every night, without fail, it was Sigrede his thoughts returned to.

  Yesterday, Lethari’s scouts had seen a caravan traveling southward along the coast from Cowl’s Pier, bound for Yellow Harbor. The pale-skins would be making camp somewhere near the Arcadian Inlet tonight. With many of them sickened by the starwinds, the early morning hours would be the perfect time to strike.

  Still, Lethari knew this raid would be different from the rest. Here on the flat terrain near the ocean, there were no high dunes or mesas to hide them. The shoreline did offer one advantage, however. Much like a canyon with one way in and one way out, the beach left the enemy few routes of escape. Lethari had only to trap them with their backs to the bay; the bay would do the rest.

  The lathcui had come to expect open displays of aggression from the calgoarethi. If the feiach took them at camp, they’d have no choice but to stand and fight there on the shore. Lethari split his warriors into three groups, sending the main force inland to attack the pale-skin camp from the west while he and his war riders flanked them along the shoreline from the north. As for the third group, well… the pale-skins would discover them soon enough.

  Only when the rest of the feiach had received its orders and moved out did Lethari and his men set off beneath a colorful midnight sky. They kept to the beach, galloping against the tides with the ocean to their left, hooves kicking up wet sand. The black waves reflected the night’s silvery green like fountains of venom, accompanying them on their dark errand. They did not slow, even when the caravan’s low-burning fires appeared in the distance.

  The pale-skins had made their camp on the peninsula at the northern edge of the inlet, taking what they thought was a more defensible position. This was mostly true, except that they had parked their flatbeds to form a bulwark around their small patch of land. Now, with many of them in the midst of a sickened sleep, and with even the early-morning watchmen beginning to doze, the pale-skins had, without knowing it, sealed their own fate.

  Lethari and his riders began to whoop and holler as they neared the camp. As expected, the alarm went up almost immediately. Men rose from their sleeping sacks, groggy and fumbling for their weapons. Silhouettes mounted the flatbeds, crouching in wait with javelins in hand.

  Frayla had long been the last thing Lethari thought of before he met with the enemy in battle. Now it was his unborn child who occupied him in these brief, thrilling moments. He thought, too, of the powerful man his father had once been, and he wondered if his son would one day rise to follow him in that tradition. And yet, if the goatskin allowed him a victory so final that the pale-skins never recovered, where would his son’s future glory lie?

  Jadoda’s long, slender legs churned through the thin sheets of wave sliding up the beach. With a bloodthirsty scream, Lethari urged her forward and lifted Tosgaith off his back scabbard. His riders echoed his cry, one final clamor to strike terror into their enemies’ hearts before they joined battle at the curved line of flatbeds.

  Further inland, the tall sea grasses came alive as a line of calgoarethi warriors crested the rise, torches in hand. Sig’s men added their voices to the call and waved their flames high. The pale-skins caught sight of them and diverted several of their number away from Lethari’s side, spreading themselves thinner along the flatbeds. Sig’s riders burst through the grass and came hurtling across the beach to meet them.

  The truest test of the pale-skins’ resolve was still on its way. Dark shapes in the water, rising from the depths in dressings of seaweed and starlight, dripping green in the glow of the aurorae. And with every eye focused on the two groups of approaching riders, the lathcui never saw them coming.

  Cean Eldreni and his swimmers had left camp long before everyone else. They had ridden to the southern end of the inlet and left their mounts in the care of Eoghan Teleri the herdsman. Stripped down to their underclothes and short blades, their swim through the cold, deep waves of the Slickwash had spanned several hours and hundreds of fathoms. These were the finest and hardiest of Lethari’s warriors; they would swim and fight and die long before they let their exhaustion take its toll on them.

  Lethari saw them emerge from the bay and disappear from view behind the flatbeds. Seconds later, terrified screams began to fill the night air, faint beyond the sound of the crashing waves. Lethari watched Sig’s riders slam into the line of flatbeds, galloping through the gaps to wreak havoc inside the camp.

  He and his riders were nearly there. They veered out to sea, circling around the last of the flatbeds to avoid them altogether. Though the animals’ strides slowed in the deeper waters, they turned inland again with the pale-skins attention fully diverted, as planned. The shepherds atop the nearest flatbed loosed a volley. Javelins rained down around them, finding rest in seabed and flesh alike.

  As Jadoda trudged through the waves toward shore, a javelin thudded into her chest. She fell forward mid-stride, dumping Lethari into the sea and rolling in after him. A wave crashed over him from behind, frigid waters sweeping in to push him under. The tide sent his body swirling, blinding him with stinging salt. For a moment, he lost all sense of direction. He reached out with both hands, searching for air or ground, but neither came. He tried to draw in a breath, but his mouth filled with seawater.

  The wave receded, and his knees touched down on hard sand, sharp with seashell fragments. He rose, coughing and gasping, and began to search the churning depths for his sword. Tosgaith was gone.

  Around him, men were screaming—some in bloodlust, others in pain. His riders had broken on the lathcu defenders and were swarming over them. Some were still staggering through the waves, wounded or unseated from their mounts, heavy in their wet clothing. Sig’s riders were circling the camp, cutting down the pale-skins who fought them on foot. Shepherds leapt from flatbed roofs, tackling calgoarethi riders and crashing to the sand.

  Lethari turned around and knelt in the waves, still searching for his sword. His fingers passed over sand and seashell, body and blade. But Tosgaith was nowhere to be found. A spear pierced the water and quivered to rest half a fathom away. I will not die with my back to the enemy, he vowed.

  Pulling the javelin free, he turned and waded toward the camp. The shepherds were putting up a valiant defense, but their resolve was weakening. Some had already thrown down their weapons and fled into the night.

  Lethari came ashore, soaking wet and breathing heavily, lungs burning and eyes stinging. Blood shone all around him, glinting purple in the eerie light. Sig sat high atop his corsil, commanding his men like a true warrior. Lethari watched him chase down a shepherd and send a low cut across the man’s back to drive him off his feet. The glory of tonight’s conquest belongs to Sigrede alone, he thought. He will drink more than usual during the celebration… and talk more freely as well.

  Lethari ran after him, smacking a shepherd with the butt of his javelin before flipping it around to drive the point through his throat. Sigrede was dismounting to finish a shepherd of his own when Lethari reached him. They were all but alone, the bulk of the battle still raging at the far edge of the camp. Lethari gripped his spear tighter, studying the hard muscle beside Sig’s spine.

  Sig rolled his victim’s body over with a foot. He knelt and drew his dirk, placing the blade at the man’s throat. The shepherd caught sight of Lethari, and his eyes darted over. Sig sprang to his feet and whirled, swinging the sword he still held in his other hand.

  Let
hari lifted his javelin to block. Steel rang against ironwood. “Stop, Sigrede. It is only me.”

  Sig lowered his sword. “My master…” he breathed. “You startled me. You should not have come upon me this way.”

  On the ground, metal sang. Lethari cried out, but not before the pale-skin drove his knife into Sig’s thigh, sending him to one knee. The shepherd’s next stab was higher, taking Sig in the back this time. Lethari stepped forward and thrust his spear through the lathcu’s gut.

  A faint gasp escaped Sig’s lips. The shepherd’s knife, still embedded in his back, made a rough gnawing sound as he toppled over backward and landed on it. The tip made a red tent of his shirt.

  Lethari twisted his javelin in the shepherd’s belly. The pale-skin gasped, then fell limp. There was a wet vulgar smell. Lethari ignored it, kneeling beside his wounded captain. Sig was breathing, his mouth opening and closing like a fish without water. Lethari cradled his head and looked down into his eyes.

  Sig’s breath was labored, yet somehow his words were the clearest they’d ever been. “I would never have betrayed you, my Lord Lethari.”

  Lethari was astonished. “Do not speak of what may have been. Only of what is, and what will be. Oba, now. I will fetch Ceallach Golandi to bind your wounds.”

  Sig shook his head weakly. “I have served my master to the end.”

  “That was ill-done, my friend,” Lethari admitted, “for your master serves only himself.”

  “When did he stop serving his king?”

  “When he began to place the will of others above his own.”

  “Then he has served only fear.”

  “You are right, Sigrede. Even to the last, you are right.”

  “Of course I am right.” Sig smiled, his teeth glistening red. “Take my pain from me. You must carry your burden alone. I can no longer bear it with you, my master. My sand-brother.”

  Against Lethari’s every wish, tears filled his eyes. He had not cried since his mother’s death; not when his other captains had met the fates, or even when Daxin Glaive had died beside him. Maybe the saltwater was irritating his eyes. He did not think so. “Are we sand-brothers, truly?” he asked.