by J. C. Staudt
With a grunt, the nomad turned Toler around and wrenched his leathers open to expose his chest. He reached inside and withdrew the knife, tossing it onto the pile of weapons with a suspicious stare.
Toler looked up to find both Lokes and Weaver looking at him, bewildered. Weaver’s gaze, especially, was difficult to meet, somewhere between disappointment and disbelief. She should’ve expected nothing less from me, Toler told himself.
The ground rumbled. This time it wasn’t thunder. Toler looked down the road to see a vast host galloping toward the factory gates, hurrying to escape the rain. More nomads. Scouts, or a war party. As more and more of their number came into view, he realized this host was too large to be merely an excursion force. It was a caravan, complete with slave cages and herd animals.
The guards opened the gates wide to let the new arrivals stream into the yard. Toler couldn’t believe his eyes. There, atop a tall corsil at the head of the column, his skin wet and reddening in the rain, sat one of his brother’s oldest friends: the warleader, Lethari Prokin.
CHAPTER 30
The Pale-Skin Ransom
Rainwater had begun to burn on Lethari’s skin, but his attention was fixed on the three visitors standing beneath the factory overhang. A slender woman with long black hair, a gruff-looking man in a wide-brimmed hat, and a younger man with wavy brown locks whom Lethari knew to be the shepherd Toler Glaive. Lethari did not know why Toler was here, but the look on the young man’s face made him wary.
Drawing Tosgaith from its sheath, he goaded his corsil forward and circled around behind them, shouting to Diarmid’s warriors. “Bind the lathcui. Do not allow their hands to touch steel.”
The gruff man resisted at first, but Diarmid’s men were too many for him, and too strong. They had already stripped the pale-skins of their weapons, Lethari saw; a longknife, two revolvers, and a few smaller blades lay on a pile of belts beside them.
After passing beneath the silo’s catwalk to escape the rain, Lethari kneeled his corsil and dismounted. Teibast was of inferior breeding to Jadoda, but Lethari’s fondness for the male had grown these past weeks. So too had his unease regarding the warriors in his feiach. Everywhere he went, he could feel their eyes on him. Judging him. Waiting for him to make a mistake; to give himself away as a traitor to the master-king.
Lethari handed the reins to Eoghan Teleri and approached the visitors. Behind him, the feiach was still flowing in through the gates, taking shelter wherever there was shelter to be had. They were a fraction of their former size, but still larger than any other force in the city, save the Scarred Comrades. None had dared challenge the calgoarethi between the outskirts and the factory, even with their cages full, their packs overflowing, and their herds thick with livestock. Now, the enemy stood before him. Although Toler Glaive had spoken no challenge, Lethari saw the murder-lust in his eyes.
“Maigh Glaive,” he said, moving toward him. “You were half a child when last I laid eyes on you. How you have grown.”
Toler took a step back. His wrists were red and chafed beneath the ropes, his eyes veined and distant. Lethari stretched out his hand. Toler didn’t take it. He only stared, a ruinous look which hinted that he was barely finding the will to restrain himself. The two lathcui flanking him were calm, but wary.
“Will Lokes,” said the gruff man, intercepting Lethari’s handshake. “Call me Lokes. This is Jallika Weaver.”
Lethari touched hands with the woman. “What brings you to my camp?”
“You Diarmid?” Lokes asked.
“I am Lethari Prokin. Diarmid Kailendi was warleader while I was away, but no longer.”
Lokes winced as he tried to find a comfortable position for his bound wrists. “Awful rude of you to treat your guests like this. We don’t mean you no harm.”
“Then you have no need for weapons,” Lethari said.
Lokes grunted and spat. “We’re lookin’ for this dway’s brother. Fella by the name of Daxin. We was s’posed to meet him downtown earlier, but he never showed. Toler here says you might know where we can find him.”
Lethari paused. Toler Glaive does not yet know his brother is dead. How could he, unless he has been home to see his niece? If Toler had truly attempted to kill his brother, as Daxin had claimed, would he rejoice to hear the news? And how much stronger must his hatred be toward me, for all the damage I have caused him? All the more reason to keep them bound until I determine his aim. “Maigh Glaive is your prisoner,” he said, pointing to Toler’s bonds.
“Naw, he just don’t like us,” Lokes said with a grin.
When he offered no further explanation, Lethari said, “Let us escape this rain and speak within.”
“‘Fraid we ain’t got time to sit around and jaw with you,” said Lokes.
Lethari blinked. “If you wish to go, then go. My men will cut your bonds and return your belongings when you have withdrawn.”
Lokes and Jallika exchanged glances. He sighed. “Alright. Inside it is.”
Slipping between patches of shelter beneath a maze of piping and ductwork, they crossed the factory grounds to the hidden inner yard. It was empty when they arrived, the animals and slaves having been herded into the loading bays to wait out the storm.
They entered the factory through a side door and ascended a metal staircase to a high catwalk overlooking the massive production floor, where gigantic steel vats stood beside cylindrical drums, connected by pipes and gauges of every kind. Goats wandered the industrial landscape while the calgoarethi tethered their mounts to the building’s exposed steel girders and shoved the new slaves into paddocks with the rest.
They all crammed into a small office along the catwalk, where Lethari shut the door behind himself to cut out the noise, then dropped his pack onto the desk. The only sound they could hear now was heavy rain on the roof above.
Lethari cleared his throat. “Maigh Glaive… your brother no longer lives.”
“What?” said Lokes, going pale. “Aw, well shit.”
Toler’s brow darkened. “When did he die? And how?”
Lethari explained.
“You brought him all the way to Bradsleigh to be buried?” Toler asked.
“He deserved to rest with his family.” Lethari saw the muscles in Toler’s jaw tighten like thick-wound ropes. The young man’s face flushed red; not with sorrow, but with anger. His chest began to heave with mounting rage.
“You dirty coffing savage,” he said, too placidly. “You son of a bitch. I’d dig out his corpse and string it up to some tree before I let it share the same dust with my parents. He’s not fit to rest on our family plot.”
Although Lethari understood Toler’s feelings, he did not agree with them. Daxin Glaive was a hero; a man who had gone to great lengths to deliver the pale-skin traders into his hands. There was no sense arguing this with Toler, whose mind he would never change. “You will be silent, or I will silence you.”
At the back of the room, Lokes cleared his throat. “Y’all interested in making a trade?”
“You have nothing I want, pale-skin.”
“How ‘bout the kid? Ol’ Shep here’d make a mighty fine slave, you ask me.”
Lethari considered this. He would not make Toler a slave; their families had too much history for that. But he was the heir to what remained of Glaive Industries, and that made him important. If Lethari could hold the shepherd for a while—long enough to ensure that the old Glaive shipping crates didn’t fall into Vantanible’s hands…
“Hold up, Will,” said Jallika Weaver. “Toler ain’t ours to sell. His brother hired us to protect him.”
“Yeah, and we ain’t gettin’ paid for it no more. You heard the man. Time to cut bait and run. We got to hightail it out of here, ‘fore Fink and his inbred posse realize we done left.”
“You ain’t fixing to run from him again, are you?”
“Sure, why not? We ain’t got the hardware anyhow.”
“Oh, I dunno. ‘Cause he’s going to kill us?”
<
br /> Lethari was losing patience for this bickering. He did not wish to delay speaking with Diarmid Kailendi any further. The longer he waited, the more the feiach’s murmurings would spread through the camp, poisoning Diarmid’s warriors against him. “Do you wish to sell Toler Glaive, or not?”
Toler’s eyes were pleading. “Shouldn’t I have a say in this?”
“A few ounces of gold is all I ask,” said Lokes. “I’ll even throw in his horse and saddle to sweeten the deal.”
“Don’t you touch my saddle,” Toler said. “That was a gift.”
“That’s up to the man, here,” Lokes said with a grin. “What do you say, chief? We got us a trade?”
Lethari turned to Joarim Beisar, one of his treasurers. “Tilier oria.”
Joarim bowed and left the room. He returned moments later with a box of fine metals—an assortment of wire, coins, and jewelry they’d taken from the pockets, necks, and fingers of pale-skins across the Inner East. Lethari chose several pieces and held them out to Willis Lokes. “All of this for Toler Glaive and his possessions.”
“Deal,” said Lokes, swiping them without hesitation. He picked through the proceeds, an awkward affair while his wrists were bound. He separated out a small portion and dropped it into his left pants pocket before dumping the rest into his right. “Thank you kindly. Welp, we ought to be getting on our way.”
“Wait a minute,” said Toler. “Jallika’s right—I’m not your property to sell. You can’t just trade me away because my hands are tied.”
“All our hands are tied,” said Lokes. “And ours more ways than one. That brother of yours hadn’t decided to up and die, you might still be a free man. We was counting on that hardware. Gotta get while the gettin’s good, and go while we got the time.”
Toler glared. “You’re an idiot if you’re planning to run from your old posse again.”
Lokes raised his eyebrows. “I don’t see how we gonna make it back before nightfall with all this rain in the way.”
“We’re not running again,” Jallika insisted. “Soon as the rain lets up, we head back to the Scorpion’s Uncle to make right with Fink and the gang.”
“By the time this rain lets up, Fink’ll be fixin’ to tan our hides and wear us for a jacket.”
“He’ll understand if we don’t make it on account of the rain,” she said.
Lokes was skeptical. “Hannigan Fink? Understand?”
“When you give him a handful of hardware, he will. I hope you’re kidding about running away again.”
“This slave trade business seems awfully profitable. Say we go catch ol’ Fink and sell him. Two birds, eh?”
Lethari’s skin itched from the rain. He called for a dry cloth and told his men to fetch Diarmid Kailendi. Then he told the two pale-skins, “Our trading is done. My men will bring you to the gates and cut your bonds. There they will return your mounts and belongings. Farewell.”
“You reckon we could hang around ‘til the rain lets up?” Lokes asked.
“No.”
“You gonna send us out in the middle of that storm? We’ll fry like sausages.”
“You have gold. Buy a coat.”
“Some hospitality, huh?”
The men seized Lokes and Jallika and shoved them through the door, leaving Lethari and Toler alone in the room. They could hear Lokes complaining all the way down the catwalk. Lethari went to the window and looked out over the production floor, turning his back to Toler. Members of his feiach, having unloaded the wagons and stowed their belongings, were running inside to escape the rain, greeting their friends and brothers after months on the wastes. The talk around the cooking fires would be plentiful tonight.
Where is Diarmid? Lethari wondered. His men had not returned with his cloth, and the itch was starting to burn. Watching them all down there was putting him on edge; it would be easier to sway Diarmid to his defense if he heard Lethari’s side of the story first.
There was a noise behind him.
Toler’s hands came down over his head. The shepherd yanked backward to choke him on the length of rope between his wrists. Lethari lost his balance; they stumbled backwards and slammed into the office’s rear wall. The shepherd laced his fingers behind Lethari’s neck, pulling the rope taut. Struggling for breath, he began to drive his elbows into Toler’s ribs. The younger man grunted, but did not let up.
“You’re going to die for all the shit you’ve brought down on me,” Toler said, his voice a whisper. “The Vantanibles owe you one.”
Toler slid to a seat against the wall, pulling Lethari down with him. Lethari’s body arched like a bridge, heels slipping on the worn tiled floor. His vision grew spots, then began to darken. He scrabbled at the rope against his throat, still trying to regain his footing. When that proved useless, he tried to hit Toler in the face; tried to get a finger in his eyes. No amount of struggling made Toler loosen his hold.
Is this how I am to die, then? Lethari wondered. Before I have cleared my name? Before I have seen the birth of my son? Horrified, he noticed the goatskin record poking up from his pack, leaning out as if to taunt him. I will die, and my family will be shamed, he thought with despair.
He had spent the trip to Belmond looking for a way to dispose of the record. Cured leather burned slowly, and none of the roaring fires of his camp were ever left unattended long enough to try. He had considered burying the record within the privacy of his own tent. But if some animal came along and dug it up, there was always the chance, however remote, that it might turn up again in the future. No, that would not serve. A travesty that he should die before getting a chance to destroy the record once and for all.
Lethari’s vision had gone black by the time he heard footsteps coming down the catwalk. When the men arrived at the office window, their casual pace turned frantic. They flung open the door and swarmed in, drawing their blades.
Toler finally released his hold around Lethari’s neck. The ropes slipped away. Lethari sucked in the deepest breath he’d ever taken, curling up on the floor to shield himself from the stampeding feet of his men. Toler was yelling at the top of his lungs, screaming as he tried to fight them with his bare hands. He managed to wrench a knife away from one of them and began slashing at the air, throwing himself into their midst with abandon.
He is ready to die, Lethari realized. Ready to surrender himself to the fates for the smallest taste of vengeance. Rolling away from the melee, Lethari crawled to the far wall and slouched against it, gasping for breath. He will not yield, and they will kill him.
Lethari tried to give a command, but his throat was on fire, and the words came out like crumbling parchment. “Spare him,” he said. “Restrain the lathcu, but spare his life.”
No one heard. The tumult continued, a crowd of fearsome warriors pressed into the tiny room, feet scuffing the floors as the young shepherd whirled and feinted and lashed out. Toler was the first to draw blood. He cut a slash across Armaen Yeilada’s chest, then whirled to open a red gash in Bael Verendi’s throat. Lethari coughed, trying to find his voice.
As if to find it for him, Diarmid Kailendi’s deep bellow rang out. “Enough!” The word managed to find an echo, even in so small a room.
The warriors eased, but Toler Glaive remained as fierce as ever.
Diarmid drew his matched blades, the long, curved Fairnang and its shorter sibling, Danaich. “Leave the pale-skinned mongrel to me.”
The others backed away, leaving Toler to fend for himself. He lifted his hands to fight, knife in one, the other a fist. A cool smirk spread over his face. “Come to pay for all the innocent blood you’ve shed, you coffing savage? I’ll bleed you all.”
“Stop,” Lethari rasped.
Diarmid glanced over his shoulder. “My master, I—”
Toler saw his opportunity and lunged. Diarmid was not so foolish as to have let his guard down, however. Toler’s blade whispered through the air. Diarmid shifted, and the swing whispered past his throat. He replied with a low cut, which open
ed Toler’s pant leg and sent him to one knee.
Toler brought the knife up, meaning to plunge it between Diarmid’s ribs. Lethari winced, expecting the next sound he heard to be the slip of blade through flesh. Diarmid turned the blow aside with the shorter of his two swords. The longer flicked out. The flat of the blade met Toler’s head with a smack, knocking him to the floor.
“Restrain him,” Diarmid commanded.
The men piled on while Toler continued to struggle against them, shouting and clawing and screaming for blood. He was out of breath and beaten bloody by the time they rolled him over and lifted him to his feet. His eyes still spoke of murder, and he spat blood when Lethari came toward him.
Lethari wiped the blood away and spoke, his voice a rough fragment. “When I look at you, I am reminded of the fear of your people. I have seen it in their eyes when death comes close. I have shown it to them myself, as I will show it to you. You fight as they do, burning and dying for a thing that has never been yours. Yet you cling to it like mollusks on the seaside cliffs. You seek revenge for the lives I have taken, and for the life my Clay-brothers destroyed. But I tell you this: these lives are mine. The life of every lathcu whose feet have soiled my homeland belongs to me. It belongs to my captains, and to my warriors, and to my king. You draw breath only by my mercy. You take nourishment only with my leave. And when at last I have driven out the last of your kind—the last of those whose blood is not of the sands alone—only then will I rest.”
Toler’s lips curled into a bloody sneer. “That day will never come.”
Lethari backhanded him across the face. “I loved your brother, and your father before him. But you are your own man, Toler Glaive. The same man as my enemy, and I bear no love for you. Tilier dueieh.”
The men grabbed Toler and followed Lethari out of the office, along the catwalk, and down the stairs. The loading bay doors were open, the asphalt courtyard outside a mud puddle beneath the pounding rains. A cool draft floated in, but it was too little to soothe Lethari’s skin from the rains’ irritation.
