Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  He pushed himself off the wall and hurtled across the room, shoving chairs and men out of the way. Wax’s last few shots glanced harmlessly off the shield before Merrick reached him, rending the gun in two and lifting Wax off his feet by the throat. “You’ve made your choice,” Merrick said, voice strained with anguish. “The pain begins now.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Savannah

  Had Raith Entradi known Bradsleigh was roughly as far from Belmond as Decylum was, he might’ve thought twice before undertaking the journey. The further they traveled from Sai Calgoar, the more he began to worry for Ros. If the Sons returned late to the master-king’s palace, Tycho Montari might be driven to violence against the lad. Worse yet was the thought of Ros hoping in vain to see his grandfather Hastle again.

  Their growing distance from the City of Sand seemed to have the opposite effect on Borain Guaidir, who became more easygoing and talkative with each passing horizon. “I was the king’s warleader once,” he told them one late afternoon by the campfire. “I served Aodhan Mairagh for many faithful years.”

  “What happened?” Derrow Leonard asked him.

  “He died without a son. Aodhan Mairagh had only one daughter. It is our custom that if the master-king has no heir when he dies, the throne passes instead to one of his warleaders.”

  “So his daughter didn’t become queen?” Derrow asked.

  “What is queen?”

  “You don’t have queens? It’s like the female version of a king.”

  “A woman master-king?” Borain laughed aloud, as if the very idea was preposterous.

  “Yeah. What do you call the king’s wife, if not the queen?”

  “She is the king’s wife. What other name does she need?”

  “Never mind. So the master-king died. You were supposed to take his place?”

  “I thought so. Tycho Montari disagreed.”

  “Wait… so Tycho Montari stole the throne from you?”

  When Borain laughed again, the sound was tinged with bitterness. “King Aodhan had three warleaders: Tycho Montari, Eirnan Prokin, and me. Though I was first in line, either of them had the right to challenge me for the throne. Tycho Montari did. Eirnan Prokin chose not to. His challenge came by another means.

  “The king’s daughter Cinae was fair and beautiful, you see, and I loved her. When Tycho issued his challenge, I declined. I showed my weakness and refused the throne so I could be with Cinae. In the end, she chose Eirnan Prokin over me.

  “Young fool that I was, I attacked Eirnan without first issuing a formal challenge. He defeated me anyway, but spared my life, for reasons I have yet to understand. Tycho Montari stripped me of my rank and titles. I was labeled foirechlier, bringer-of-weakness. I lost everything—my home, my purpose, the throne… and her.”

  The Sons had been listening intently to Borain’s tale.

  “Wow,” Derrow said. “That’s terrible.”

  “I have come to accept my mistakes,” said Borain. “Every man must do so.”

  Derrow nodded thoughtfully. “This Eirnan Prokin dway… any relation to Lethari?”

  “Eirnan is Lethari’s father.”

  “So that makes Cinae—”

  “—his mother. She rests with the fates.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Time has closed that wound. Though that is truer for me than it is for Eirnan.”

  “Have you ever tried to apologize to him?”

  “I sent him my regrets when she died. Otherwise, we have stayed clear of one another. It is better that way.”

  “If you say so,” Derrow mused. “So Lethari is the former master-king’s grandson, on his mother’s side. Huh. That’s interesting.”

  “Why?” Borain said.

  “Because you have to figure… if your customs were different, that’d make Lethari the king right now.”

  Borain shrugged and leaned back on his elbows. “If ever Tycho Montari were to die, Lethari Prokin would become king anyway. Tycho Montari has no sons, so Lethari’s claim is strongest. He is first warleader. The blood of Aodhan Mairagh runs in his veins. And if Diarmid Kailendi or Neacal Griogan were to challenge him for the throne, he would prove fiercer in battle than either of them.”

  Their afternoon rest at an end, Raith and his companions doused their fire and saddled up for another long night of riding. They headed southwest as daylight waned across the wastes. After a time they began to see dark flecks on the horizon, gnarled and twisted shapes with long shadows.

  “Coille cenaim,” said Borain. “The forest of bones.”

  “The Skeletonwood?” asked Ernost Bilschkin.

  “That is the pale-skin name for it.”

  “What’s the Skeletonwood?” Edrie Thronson wanted to know.

  “A cursed place. A place of death, where the souls of those yet to meet the fates often wander.”

  “Ghosts,” Derrow said with a chuckle. “The sav—the nomads are scared of ghosts?”

  “Souls are nothing to fear, dueieh. They are to be respected. Not all calgoarethi hold reverence for them, just as not all lathcui believe in the fates themselves.”

  “What’s to believe?” said Brence Maisel. “The fates are just an idea. Something we swear by, and blame for the bad things that happen to us.”

  “The fates are as real as you and I,” Borain said.

  Brence gave an exaggerated nod, as if to indicate that pretending agreement with a crazy person was less work than arguing with one.

  Jiren Oliver rode in unaffected silence, eyes straight ahead. It saddened Raith to think of how lively a discussion this might’ve been with Jiren’s input. The young hunter had never shied away from delivering his opinions, no matter who he was disagreeing with. There was no trace of that man anymore, though.

  The memory of Jiren’s former personality gave Raith an idea. If the Skeletonwood was a place where spirits roamed, perhaps it was an apt location for the end of this pseudo-lifelike state to which the young man had been reduced. Raith regretted the idea as soon as it came to him. He doubted the others would be persuaded to go through with it, especially Derrow. Nor should they, he decided.

  Jiren deserved better than his current paltry existence. He lived, and breathed, and ate, and slept. Beyond that, he was not himself. After weeks without a single sign of improvement, Raith was beginning to believe he was destined to be stuck that way forever. “Something ought to be done with Jiren.”

  Derrow eyed him suspiciously. “Like what?”

  Raith felt a pang of guilt. “He hasn’t spoken a word since Merrick brought him back.”

  “I know that. What are you suggesting?”

  Raith took a deep breath. “Maybe it would’ve been better if—”

  “If he hadn’t brought Jiren back at all? How can you say that?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve longed for his recovery every bit as much as you have. It doesn’t look likely, and I think it’s time we consider what Jiren would want.”

  “You don’t know how likely or unlikely it is,” Derrow said. “None of us do.”

  “The point is, we can only go by what we do know. This constant travel has been hard on us. Jiren most of all.”

  “I’m sorry he’s been such a burden on you.”

  “Derrow, that isn’t fair.”

  “How is it fair for us to make a decision like that for him? He can’t tell us what he wants.”

  “He hasn’t been able to tell us what he wants for weeks. Would you prefer this life to a meeting with the fates?”

  “There’s that fates garbage again. Killing is killing. It’s not sending someone to a better place. It’s just death. It’s just… nothing.”

  “Even if it is nothing,” Raith said, “wouldn’t it be better than a life devoid of joy, sorrow, pleasure, or pain? What is life without any of those things? Is it life at all?”

  “You’re starting to sound like Cord.”

  Raith reined up. “What did you say?”


  “I said… this is no different from the cycle of chosen births, which you were always so determined to stop Cord and his cronies from instigating.”

  “This has nothing to do with the cycle of chosen births,” Raith said.

  “You’re suggesting we deny someone the right to live. Someone who has just as much right as the rest of us. You’d take away his only chance because he possesses attributes you find unsavory. That’s no different from what Cord wants to do back home.”

  “It’s not about whether he’s savory or unsavory. Either Jiren is alive, or he’s in the midst of something that happens to resemble it.”

  “He’s alive, Raith.”

  Raith wasn’t convinced. He felt he should clarify his intentions; make it plain that he had only brought up the subject for discussion, not because he was set on ending Jiren’s existence altogether. A beat passed, and with it went the opportunity. Raith let the conversation lapse into a tense silence which lasted until they made camp in the morning.

  “You can go get yourself set up,” Raith told Derrow after they’d helped Jiren down from his saddle. “I’ll look after him for a while.”

  “I’ve got him,” Derrow said curtly.

  “Take a break for a few minutes. You look exhausted.”

  “I said I’ve got him,” Derrow snapped.

  Raith swallowed his anger and went to tie off the horses.

  While securing one of the animals to a tree, a rancid smell came to him on the wind. He returned to camp and told Theodar Urial he was going to take a look around, then summoned Mercer Terblanche and Brence Maisel to accompany him. The light-star pierced the horizon and shed golden morning light across the landscape, forming spindly shadows that melded and separated from the trees as they walked.

  Half a horizon from the camp, they came upon the source of the smell: the rotting remains of an enormous scaled green lizard with four clawed limbs and the stub of a thick tail. Little remained of its torso aside from a few scraps of skin and meat hanging from a rib cage, but Raith sensed the build of a predator in its long jaws and razor-sharp teeth. A desert fox, its snout smeared with dark blood, darted off from the corpse as they approached. The two hunters knelt to inspect it.

  “This is a sanddragon,” said Brence. “I’ve seen a few in my day. Never this big, though.”

  “What’s big enough to kill a creature this size?” Raith asked.

  “Isn’t size that makes a kill like this,” said Mercer. “It’s numbers. Brengens. Wolves. People. The three of us could’ve done for this thing if it had attacked us.”

  “Are there people living in this forest?”

  Brence shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve never been here before.”

  “We’d better set watches, then. I don’t want anything sneaking up on us while we sleep—people, giant lizards, or otherwise.”

  They returned to the camp and told the others what they’d found.

  Borain was particularly intrigued. “Sanddragons crave the heat. They are southern creatures who keep to the open wastes. It is a surprise to have seen one this far north of the gulf. Will you take me to it?”

  “It’s dead,” said Brence.

  Borain stared at him. “How fortunate that only a small task remains to me.”

  The others wanted a look too, so Mercer stayed behind with Theodar and Sombit, who were more tired than curious, while the rest headed toward the site. After answering the initial barrage of questions about sanddragons and their behaviors, Borain drew the small knife at his belt, crouched beside the beast, and wrenched its jaws open. From the back of the throat he incised two small sacs—venomous, he warned them—and wrapped both inside a pouch he made from a scrap of scaly skin and a length of leather cord.

  “What are you going to use those for?” asked Ernost.

  “It is doubtful there is much venom left by now,” Borain said. “If there is, I will tip my arrows with it. This will make for good hunting.”

  “What about other sanddragons?” asked Brence. “Can’t they smell the venom from horizons away?”

  “Only so long as the blood runs in the animal it infects. When it dies, we eat its meat, tan its hide, and burn its entrails. The blood boils off and there is nothing left for other sanddragons to scent. It should be done quickly when one is alone. Not so when he has companions.” Borain spread his hands.

  Raith didn’t like the idea of being hunted by those hulking dragon creatures. By the looks he was getting from the others, neither did they. “Infernal’s coming out,” he said. “We’d better get under shade and have ourselves a rest.”

  They rested for a few hours before traveling in spurts throughout the day. The terrain was hillier here, with more frequent opportunities for shade and more plentiful food for the horses than in the open desert. It was only another day or two before the trees opened onto a landscape more lush and green than any Raith had ever seen. Even the Calgoar Vale could not boast such greenery. The dirt was coarse and sandy, interspersed with areas of rock. But sand often gave way to pastures strewn with dry yellow grass, and shrubbery dotted the barren ground in considerable patches.

  Fortunately, Raith and the Sons didn’t encounter any more dragons on their way through the Skeletonwood. There were scorpions, yes; bushcats by the handful; songbirds and vultures in flight; even a murbider or two. They often heard the distant howling of wolves and coyotes in the night, along with the squeaking of bats and the yipping of fox kits. But no sanddragons, thank the fates.

  Bradsleigh was a sleepy little town nestled on a hillside where, according to botanist Peperil Cribbs, the abundance of shady trees included olives, desert willows, and junipers. Raith found it strange that such trees could thrive here when an entire forest of dead ones stood only a few horizons away in every direction. There was something strange or special about this place for it to support such life.

  At the top of the hillside, where the scrubland terrain sloped away toward the town’s many dwellings, lay a series of enormous fenced-in pastures enclosing livestock herds of various size and species. It was there, beside one of the largest pastures with the largest herds of cattle, that Raith stopped to ask a local where they might find a member of the Glaive family.

  “That there’s the Glaive Estate,” said the ruddy-skinned hired hand, pointing out a group of buildings further down the hill.

  Raith thanked him and the Sons went on their way. They arrived to find stables, a storage barn, and a main house. Though the house covered a large footprint, the above-ground portion consisted of little more than a slanted roof and enough frontage for a door.

  Raith knocked.

  The door didn’t open. Instead, a young feminine voice came muffled from the other side, asking, “Who is it?”

  “My name is Raithur Entradi. I’m looking for the Glaive family.”

  “What for?”

  Raith wasn’t sure how to put it simply. He felt awkward talking to someone he couldn’t see. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he said. “Perhaps if we could sit down and—”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. If you want something, you’ll have to talk to the village elders, or ask Jerichai up in the pasture.”

  “Please, ma’am. We’ve come a very long way to talk—”

  “Go away.”

  “Let me explain. We come from a place called Decylum. I’ve been told the Glaive family built it. We’re lost, and we’re looking for a way home. I was hoping one of the Glaives might be able to help us.”

  A pause. “I’ve never heard of that place. My family built a lot of stuff before the Heat. I don’t know anything about most of it.”

  So she is a Glaive. Raith shot Theodar a glance.

  The old man nodded.

  “We thought you might have some information somewhere. Maybe written down?”

  There was no pause this time. “Look, I already told you I can’t help. Now, I understand you’ve come a long way. The elders are always willing to trade with visitors if you’ve got someth
ing they need. You should go talk to them.”

  “I need to speak to a member of the Glaive family. Are you the only one living here?”

  No answer.

  Raith realized how sinister his question must’ve sounded coming from an anonymous stranger outside her door. “Please, ma’am. We’re not here to hurt anyone.”

  Silence.

  Raith fought to control his temper. He pounded on the door and shouted, “Ma’am. This is urgent. We’ve run out of options, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d just talk with us for a few minutes.”

  Behind him, a man cleared his throat. “Pardon me, sir. You all mind telling me what this is about?”

  Raith turned to find a group of townies gathered around them, dusty ranchers in denim and leather. Some were carrying guns. Others clutched bush swords, long knives, or bull whips. Raith and the Sons outnumbered them by a handful, but the men struck him as more protective than combative. “We’re looking for a member of the Glaive family.”

  The man gave him a squinty-eyed stare. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Raith Entradi. We’re from an underground facility in the eastern desert called Decylum. We traveled to Belmond for supplies and lost both our navigators along the way. We’ve come to Bradsleigh hoping the Glaives might have information that could lead us back home.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Raith. I’m Arnie Bakker, and these men are part of Bradsleigh’s citizen militia. Now, I don’t think you want to make trouble. So tell me true… did Savvy tell you she doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  Raith nodded.

  “Then I suggest you do as the little lady says and leave her alone.”

  “This is our last chance to—”

  “She’s been through a lot lately. She doesn’t need a bunch of bullies giving her more grief than she’s already dealing with.”