by J. C. Staudt
“I won’t, though. Did you tell them I won’t?”
“I heard this all from Peymer. The nomads don’t listen to us. They tolerate us to a point, but that doesn’t mean they’ll take our advice.”
“I’ll talk to them, then. The Scarred are already after me. I can’t have the savages against me too.”
“You’ll be dead before you get within a horizon of their camp.”
“Dead?” Merrick scoffed. “You know what death is, Swy? Death is what happens to everyone else. One of those dways in there unloaded half a rifle magazine into my gut. Tossed me five fathoms into the air and let me land on a concrete floor. I’ve been hit, stabbed, shot, cut open… what kind of death do you think those coffing savages are going to give me that I haven’t already died?”
“The kind where they make sure it’s final,” Swy said. “There are plenty of ways to kill a man. The nomads could probably think of a few new ones if they had to.”
“They’re welcome to try,” said Merrick. A part of him did want to walk into the factory camp and assure them he wouldn’t become another Wax. Raith had warned him he wasn’t invulnerable, but Raith didn’t know everything. Blackhands could die, but no one had ever seen a healer die. And healers weren’t like most blackhands.
Merrick believed he could take the north without help from the savages. If he could turn them to his side, though… How much more deadly a force could I muster with the savages fighting alongside me? Warriors, trained and seasoned. They ought to be worth any ten of the scrawny southers I’ve got following me now.
“It’s a warning, Merrick,” Swy said. “Take it or leave it. Either way, I wanted you to be ready for it.”
“And I thank you for that. You’ve given me something invaluable. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“You’ve got a reason to doubt everyone nowadays.”
“Can I send you off with a bite to eat?”
Swydiger refused politely. They joined Eldridge and Cluspith around the other side of the building and said their farewells.
“Goodbye to Merrick Bouchard,” said Clus.
“Goodbye, Clus. Be good. You dways take care of yourselves, alright? Anytime the Revs want to give me some help around here—or wherever I end up next—tell them it’d be welcome.”
“Long as you’re in the city south, we’ll keep eyes on you,” said Eldridge.
Merrick didn’t know whether to feel protected or threatened. He gave them a wave and started back toward the travel agency, mulling over the implications of the savages’ plans. A woman caught his eye.
She was facing away from him, standing in a circle with three other men and women who were settling down to cook their evening meal. He could see the shape of her through her tattered clothes, and he liked what he saw. It wasn’t the first time one of his followers had struck his fancy. Without a barracks to return to, or a curfew to live by, he was free to do as he liked. He had his appetites, after all.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, tapping her on the shoulder.
She turned, recognized him, and smiled. Her teeth were crooked, sour with the beginnings of rot, and her nose was too big. But that shape… and the way she was looking at him through those pale green-gray eyes hinted with gold. The savages and the Decylumites and the Scarred could wait, he decided. Hundreds of squalid disciples were wrapped around his little finger, and he was enjoying himself too much to let a few fateful strokes put a damper on his day. She was there, and that was all he needed to forget everything that had been bothering him.
“My name’s Merrick,” he said.
“I know who you are. I’m Hylda.” Her voice was sweet, pitched high and soft as velvet.
Merrick smiled back at her, his most cunning smile. “Well, Hylda… how would you like to be healed tonight?”
CHAPTER 33
Shelter From the Storm
The rain came down in buckets, but the storm was far from Toler Glaive’s biggest concern. He gave the reins one last flick to guide Seurag through the empty glass doors of Bollard’s department store and into the hollows of a vast room cluttered with bent clothing racks and rusty hangers. No sooner had they entered than the horse lifted his head and began to huff.
Toler gave him a comforting pat on the neck. “Calm down now, kid. Nothing to be afraid of in here.” The store was dark, and it stank of decay and disuse. Toler didn’t blame the animal for being wary of the enclosed, unfamiliar space. “It’s alright, old boy. Let’s find a spot to get you rubbed down.”
Seurag’s hooves clicked on the laminate as they followed the walking lanes past rectangles of bare carpet run through with brown water stains. Fallen mannequins stared up from shabby display platforms; Toler saw his fragmented reflection in columns wrapped in shattered mirror panes. At one intersection, broken glass bathed the ruins of several sales counters beside a torn poster of a makeup model sagging in its frame. He guided Seurag around a pool of standing water, where a depression in the floor had begun to collect rain through a leak in the ceiling.
The starwinds were making Toler’s whole body ache, but even worse than that was the beating the savages had given him after his attempt on Lethari Prokin’s life. The warleader should be dead. I should’ve waited until after his captain had come and gone.
When he found a dry, clean spot to rest for the night, Toler dismounted, groaning at the movement. His head was pounding for want of a smoke, and a good stiff drink might’ve helped his hands to stop shaking. A bite to eat wouldn’t have been bad, either. His mind clicked from craving to craving in a never-ending rhythm. Smoke. Drink. Food. Smoke. Drink. Food.
Stripping down to his underclothes—which were still dry, thank the fates—he hung his hood-scarf and leathers across a maimed old clothing rack and rubbed Seurag dry to keep the rain rash away. Then he slumped to a seat on the bench outside the fitting rooms. The sentyle cushion stuck to his skin like warm leather. He peeled himself up and kicked in each of the fitting room doors to make sure there were no tramps inside waiting to jump out at him.
When he emerged, Seurag was wandering the dark expanse, lowering his head and raising it again as if confused about the lack of grass. After a moment, the horse returned to the pool of water near the sales counters and began to drink. Toler considered pulling him away, but thought better of it. “Get your fill while you can, old boy. You’d better hope that stuff isn’t carrying parasites.”
He spent some time searching the area and came back with a few scraps of lumber, a metal lampshade, and some shreds of cotton and dry paper. He used his striker to build a small fire, then managed to scoop some of the water into the lampshade and get it boiling. The rubbed nickel finish gave off a noxious smell when he heated it, but he was so thirsty he didn’t care.
After boiling off what he hoped were any impurities, he stirred and blew on the water until it was cool enough to drink. He gulped it down, refreshed to feel something wet in his mouth that wasn’t his own blood. He tried to remember the taste of whiskey, but the sour bite of the acidic rainwater washed the memory away. What he would have given in that moment for a pinch of tobacco. Just a pinch…
He was trying to remain optimistic under the circumstances, but the plain truth was that he had never been so miserable. Lokes and Weaver had dragged him here for nothing. If he’d been successful in taking Lethari to meet the fates with him, the trip wouldn’t have been a total loss. But he had succeeded only in being sent home to deliver a threat; to serve as a conduit for the savages’ intimidation tactics.
At least Daxin is dead, he reminded himself. He’d expected to feel remorse or grief in some small way when his brother died, whether it was by his hand or someone else’s. Instead he felt relief, and a profound disappointment that he hadn’t been the one to strike the blow himself. He wondered what Daxin had done to meet his end; who he had wronged or slighted, and how.
The downside to Daxin’s death was that Savannah was now alone. The thought made Toler sick to his stomach. Maybe that was ju
st the water. Or the starwind sickness. Or the hunger. Or the withdrawal. Strange that the death of his brother was the only good thing that had happened to him in recent memory; the only consolation he could claim amid his otherwise-ruined life.
There was one other consolation, though. The Glaive Estate was his. The shipping yard and its stacks of crates; the house, library, and storage rooms; the pastures, and the herds of livestock. Bradsleigh was as idyllic a town as the Inner East had to offer… which was why he never wanted to go back again. Maybe I can convince Savannah to come live with me in Unterberg, he thought. She’ll be safer there than out on the frontier by herself. We can sell the house, commission the shipping yard as an off-site supply depot for Vantanible, and auction off the livestock piecemeal.
No, Savvy would never go for that. She was more open-minded than her father, certainly. But she still felt some sense of nostalgia toward the place; some shred of loyalty to the Glaive family’s heritage. She would see the value in keeping the estate together for future generations. It’s not her decision, though. It’s mine. And if it makes the most sense to liquidate everything, I won’t let her dissuade me.
Toler wasn’t sure that was the truth. He didn’t need to sell the property. If Savannah objected strongly, he would appoint her caretaker of the estate and let her stay. “One thing’s for sure, old boy,” he said aloud. “We need to get ourselves out of here. Question is, do we head west when the rain stops, or south? Go home and try to explain all this to Nichel, or try our luck with Savvy?”
As if in answer, Seurag whickered softly. He lifted his head and cocked his ear, listening. Toler heard it then; a noise from deeper on inside the store. Beyond the sales counters, Bollard’s ended and the Plaza Overlook Shopping Mall began. A pair of crippled escalators led up to the second floor, where an open balcony overlooked the first. Something had begun making a racket up there.
Toler glanced around for something he might use as a weapon. The lampshade was his best option, and that a poor one. He checked his leathers to make sure they were dry before pulling them on. Whose home have I wandered into? he wondered.
Outside, the rain was still coming down in torrents. Sheets of inch-deep water flooded the sidewalks. Going out there now would only get him and Seurag a bad rash and a haircut each.
He saddled Seurag and mounted, giving the gelding a nudge with his heels. They circled the broken sales counters and approached the escalators. The noises from upstairs had increased in volume; growls and grunts, clicks and scrapes, all echoing down over the balcony railing.
Toler considered his options again for a moment before giving Seurag a reassuring pat and starting up the escalator. He clung to the saddle horn as the old gelding took the stairs without objection. Seurag had been sacked out a thousand ways and was used to the kinds of strenuous demands placed on animals who worked the trade routes. When they got close to the top, Toler could see a tussle going on further along, where a ramp and a few short staircases bordered a sunken seating area on the mall’s second level. Skylights cast the far end of the concourse in a rain-smattered glow, but the distance between Toler and the sunken tract was shrouded in near-darkness.
There were animals fighting over the carcass of a bird, black feathers still floating in the air around them. Seurag ascended the last few steps and came to a stop as he caught wind of the beasts. There was movement ahead, and the long slender muzzle and pale yellow eyes of a full-grown desert jackal came into view. A second set of eyes joined the first, slate gray and glimmering in the darkness. A third jackal appeared, closer still.
Just some scavengers squabbling over a kill, Toler thought with relief. “You go on now,” he shouted. “Git. Get you gone. Git.” He waved his arms, but the animals didn’t flee. He glanced with dismay at the empty place beside his saddle where his quiver of javelins should’ve been.
Seurag gave a shiver and backed a few steps.
“It’s alright, kid,” Toler whispered, rubbing the horse’s neck. “They’re not going to mess with us. They’re more afraid than we are.”
The largest of the jackals loped forward a few paces. A growl rose in its throat, long and flat and guttural. The golden-gray fur on its neck stood on end as it lowered its head, lips curling back in a snarl.
“Aw, quit your fussing,” Toler said. He fiddled around in his pockets until he came across a coin-sized rock, the last one remaining from his competition with Lokes. He tossed it in hand to gauge its weight. “Don’t make me use this,” he warned, as if the animal might understand. “I’ll bean you a good one. Don’t think I won’t.”
The other two jackals joined the first, baring their fangs and arching their backs. Toler glanced over his shoulder at the long drop down the escalator, then checked his other possible routes of escape. He could try to wheel Seurag and take him down, a daunting proposition even for an experienced horse like him. Or he could try his luck with the wide balcony skirting the storefronts to his left and right, though this section of the upper floor appeared unstable at best.
From somewhere behind the jackals there came a whimpering sound. A furry pup waddled up the ramp on ponderous legs to stand between its mother’s paws. Three more pups scrambled after the first, yipping and wrestling for position. The jackals didn’t back down, which meant they were unlikely to do so unless Toler could manufacture a loud noise or half a dozen copies of himself.
He was still considering his options when another shape emerged from the gloom. This one was different from the others. It rose up from the recesses, first a head, then a pair of shoulders and the broad barrel of a chest. The silhouette of a man, standing in shadow, contoured in thick fur rather than skin or fabric, with the same gray-yellow eyes as its canine companions.
Those eyes… Could it be…? No. Fear struck Toler like a hard slap. He’d seen all manner of beasts and beings in his time on the wastes, but nothing like this. It might’ve been a brengen but for the slender shape of its body. A man who runs with jackals? A man raised by them? Or a jackal who’s become a man?
Whoever or whatever it was, the man stood still while the jackals continued to growl. Seurag had run alongside packs of wild dogs in the desert, seen battles with the great western hounds of the Clayhollows, and faced off against fierce mountain cats in the scrubs and foothills. But Toler had never seen the old bay this afraid. The horse shuffled on his feet, ears twitching and head bucking.
“Hush, Seurag. Be still, kid.” Toler’s soothing was no use. He decided he’d better dismount before he was thrown to his death. He came down slowly, trying not to spook the horse, trigger the jackals, or provoke a reaction from that thing standing behind them. Seurag’s breath was coming in huffs and snorts, his movements rough and restless.
The man-creature raised its arm. The jackals ceased their growling. Toler turned the rock in his hand, sliding it into a throwing grip. Rain beat down on the roof outside, throwing swirled wet patterns onto the concourse’s distant wall.
“Hey,” Toler shouted. “Who are you?”
The man didn’t move. Neither did the jackals. Even the pups stopped their playing to stare at him.
“Who are you? I said. What do you want?”
No response.
Toler eyed the balcony to his left, far from sold on its structural integrity. Still, it looked better than the stretch of balcony to his right. Deciding it his best chance, he took a step in that direction. Neither the jackals nor the man moved a hair, and for a moment it was as if they’d turned to stone. When one of the animals licked its lips and let its tongue loll out, Toler knew they were only waiting. For what, he couldn’t say.
He tried another step and found it a success. He began to lead Seurag after him, turning left along the balcony in detour from the pack waiting down the wide hallway. One of the jackals gave a start as if to bolt after them, but the man flexed his fingers and the animal halted, whining. Toler continued across the mall’s wide upper floor, where faded signs hung over The Shoe Shack, Mandy’s Candies, Fa
shion Hub, and Windmere Jewelers. He guided Seurag along until he heard a grinding noise and felt the ground move beneath him.
Another earthquake? he wondered. No, it was worse than that; the floor was shifting. When he turned back, the yellow-eyed man was gone. The adult jackals were fighting over the dead raven again, the pups playing and wrestling. Had the man been an illusion? Some trick of the half-light, or a shadow cast by one of the mall’s decorative artificial plants? The building was drafty from all its holes and leaks. Maybe Toler was just getting tired, or hallucinating, thanks to any number of the ailments racking his body.
“We’ve got to get moving, kid,” he told Seurag.
At the far end of the second-floor balcony was an exit to the outside, where a concrete walkway extended to the mall’s parking deck. Beside the exit stood another department store, Victor & Yancey. If Toler could make it to the parking deck, he could shelter there for the night. Maybe there were other buildings across the street he could move to. It would be a hassle to get wet again, but it beat sleeping in here. I’ll take my chances with the rain, he decided.
Seurag was as eager as Toler to get away from those jackals and their playmate; Toler had to use his shoulder several times along the way to keep the horse from moving past him. They were ten fathoms from the exit when the floor gave a loud crack. The surface leaned beneath them. Toler’s boots slid a few inches and stopped. He could’ve dropped a marble and watched it gather speed toward the open edge where the railing had once been.
Shit. We’re going to fall, he realized, a second before it happened.
Another crack. The wide balcony seesawed off the wall, girders groaning as they tore through the floor and shredded the storefronts like clay. Toler couldn’t stop himself now. And Seurag, with his shoed hooves, stood an even smaller chance.
