The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (6 page)

Both acolytes’ eyes lit up in silent recognition. Brother
Mortial’s health-related issues were evident in his posture; Sister Adeleine’s were
not so apparent.

“Kind Sister, you look like you have another question,”
Bastille said.

“How does one… store… human tissues?”

“Surely you know this, child. Did I not review it in my
previous lesson? A portion of each sacrifice is fed to the Cypriests. The blood
and certain other tissues are highly sought-after for their preservative
qualities. The Cypriests can eat the same food you and I do, of course, but
NewTech organs operate at a far higher efficiency when a Cypriest consumes…
readily usable materials.”

Finishing her cuts, Bastille groped around inside the corpse
until her fingers slid over the heart. She grasped it and held on, half-expecting
to feel a sudden throb, and to see the dead man sit upright and gasp for
breath. Many such anomalies took place among the recently departed, and
Bastille had witnessed more than her fair share of them.

 She pulled her hand free of the slit, the red muscle
glistening and still, her arms red past the elbows. “Here we have it—the
heart.” It was a rare talent, she knew, her austere manner of sounding
glad while looking grim; of softening the eyes while leaving the mouth rigid
and morose. It seemed to Sister Bastille that smiling at a time like this—ruining
so great a moment with an expression of uncontrolled joy—would’ve been a
tragedy.
I must look rather like my stepmother, as abhorrent as that is to
consider
.

Her lesson over, Bastille studied her subject once more. This
man was not coming back, and neither were any of the others in her lockers.

Not without a machine for a heart.

CHAPTER 6

Found

Daxin’s mare hung its head as it trudged
through the Skeletonwood. The landscape began to shift from the impossible
flatness of the scrublands into a string of rolling, tree-lined hills. The
locals often called this forest The Standing Bones, and the name was fitting.
The trees hardly looked like trees anymore, their rich dark browns and gingers
and mahoganies faded to sickly grays and ashes and off-whites. Ages had passed
in front of these trees, and the life in them was failing. Somehow, they still
had the resolve to stand and grasp the earth, arthritic fingers reaching deep
for some hope of moisture, though none had borne leaf, nut or flower for longer
than any of them cared to remember.

Daxin swayed in the saddle, his head bobbing with each step. He’d
been riding for the better part of the day, and the strips of cloth he’d used
to staunch his wounds were crusted with dried blood. He’d quenched himself with
the only full waterskin Toler’s men hadn’t managed to steal, and a ravening
thirst was already building inside him again. His lungs gave a dull rattle when
he breathed. The hazy air out here was as thick as old campfire smoke, and the
only time it ever let up was when it rained. But the rains brought with them
their own set of problems, none of which an Aionach-worlder ever wanted to be above
surface for.

As hesitant as Daxin was to aggravate his wounds further, he was
afraid that if he stopped to rest he wouldn’t be able to get up again.
I’m
as dried-up and frail as these old trees
, he reflected.
What I
wouldn’t give to have a sandcipher around right about now. One of the Calsaires
from up north. We’d have more water than we knew what to do with. How did I get
myself into this mess?

When Toler and the rest of Vantanible’s men had returned to
Bradsleigh just days after leaving, Daxin had known right away that they’d
discovered his deception.
My own brother has grown to hate me enough that he
thinks I’m his enemy. And that’s no thanks to Nichel Vantanible, the most
despicable man in all the Aionach
.

Daxin remembered the stories Grandpa Weilan had told him as a
boy, while he was perched on the arm of the big corduroy chair in the den of
the Glaive estate. It had seemed like such a big room to him back then, with
its deep cushions and high ceilings, and the column of gray riverstone climbing
over the hearth in the south wall. Their parents were away often in those days,
riding with some great force of nomads or venturing to the Slickwash and north
into the old country. Toler, no more than a toddler then, would sit on Grandma
Neoma’s lap as the smell of breakfast faded from the air and the last wisps of
steam fled their teacups.

Grandpa Weilan would begin his story in that slow, gruff
voice of his, always with the same absent-minded forgetfulness. “Your
great-great-great… no, that’s not right. My great-great… six greats. Our great—our
ancestor, Luther Glaive. He had the spark of genius, that one. He was an
inventor. HydroPyre was his life’s work—clean energy, and a nigh-infinite
source of it. Luther Glaive’s invention spurred an age of progress in the Aionach.
All the great sand cities were built back then: Tristol, Belmond, Southcape,
New Kettering. We Glaives were at the pinnacle of our success, and we had
HydroPyre to thank for it.

“But in those days, there was a bad man named Brauman Vantanible,
and he had plans of his own. The Vantanibles were building their own city,
smack in the middle of a different desert—Celios, on the Amber Coast. Now,
Brauman Vantanible pestered our dear great-grandpa Luther about using our power
for his city. He pestered poor Luther so much he nearly talked his ear off, but
Luther held strong. You see, the Vantanible family once owned half the Aionach—or
so goes the legend. That’s not to mention we owned the other half.”

Grandpa Luther would chuckle to himself, a satisfied laugh,
full of memory. “It came to pass that the Vantanibles conjured up a contraption
quite like Luther’s own, only they called theirs PuroFuel. Now tell me, little
Dax. How’d you suppose that happened?”

Daxin would shrug every time he heard the tale, though he
knew by then what grandpa Luther was going to say next.

“Someone had spilled the secret of how HydroPyre worked,” Grandpa
would say. “That’s why it’s important to keep secrets, you see. Well,
great-grandpa Luther went after the Vantanibles to get back what was his, but
the Ministry looked the other way. And of course, the Vantanibles had the gall
to say they devised their little PuroFuel gadget themselves. Hah!

“So by the time the century turned and the Great Heat
started, the Glaives and the Vantanibles had each built half a dozen cities.
Both families were wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, but with the Heat came
the first starwinds, and we all know too well what they’re like. Little Toler
had a bad time of it a few weeks ago, didn’t he? Yes, the starwinds made a real
mess of things, same as they do now, only worse. See, we used to have electric
everything. Air coolers and food coolers and all kinds of things to make life
easier. The starwinds came and broke everything; HydroPyre and PuroFuel, and
every other kind of power they used back then.

“Without power, the cities stopped working. People died. And
along comes Siymon Vantanible, the patriarch of the Vantanibles at that time. Patriarch
means the head of the family, you see. Siymon decides one day that the Heat is
here to stay, that the starwinds are going to change life in the Aionach
forever. Dunno how he knew it, but he was right. Vantanible got into the
goods-trading business. Joined with merchants all across the Aionach, and it
turned out to be the best move they ever made—even better than stealing
HydroPyre from us. Heh.

“The Glaives followed suit, but by the time we got our foot
in the door Vantanible had a whole leg in. Drove us right outta business. All
we got left now is our livestock and the old shipping yard outside town.
That’ll belong to you boys someday, tho’ I can’t imagine what good it’ll be to
you. Been rotting in the daylight for close on thirty years now and that isn’t
likely to change any time soon. Unless you two get an itching to go back into
business.”

Grandpa Weilan would hoot at the idea. Daxin would laugh
along, though the humor was lost on him, and little Toler would drool and
bounce on Grandma’s knee and smile his single-toothed grin.

The old Glaive shipping yard Grandpa always spoke of, fenced in
with chainlink and razorwire, was nothing now but a crumbling building and a
few hundred rusted shipping crates stacked one on top of the other. Vagrants
and vandals had snipped holes in the fencing from time to time, making shanty
homes of the big steel rectangles. The crates were more like ovens than
shelters during the day, but at night they often made the perfect haven for the
occasional cadre of bandits or the odd pair of lovers.

Once, the townsfolk had summoned Daxin to the yard after a
couple had crawled inside one of the crates and shut the door behind them on a
cool night. By the time they were ready to open it again, they found that the
locking bolt had fallen into place and was impossible to unlatch from the inside.
They’d been trapped for hours, screaming for help and slamming their fists
against the sides of their newfound prison even as Infernal rose above them. As
fate would have it, no one passed by the yard that night or the morning of the
next day. The family of the missing girl had traced her steps from that night
back to the old shipping yard. When Daxin had arrived to unlock the gates and
let the family through, he could already smell the lovers’ fate on the breeze.

Daxin couldn’t think about Bradsleigh without wondering how
Savannah was doing. His daughter was used to him leaving at odd hours,
sometimes at a moment’s notice, but he had always come back.

“Don’t be long, daddy,” Savvy would say, whenever she had the
chance.

“I’ll miss you too much, baby girl,” Daxin always told her.

“I don’t want you to go away again,” she’d say, looking up at
him with those deep brown eyes that reminded him so much of her mother’s.

But that was exactly why he had to go. This time, he wasn’t
so sure he’d be back. If Toler had anything to say about it, Daxin would never
see Savannah or Bradsleigh again.

A man appeared over the rise, strolling toward Daxin with a
cocky swagger, as if his worries were far away. Daxin blinked the sweat from his
eyes and forced himself to shake off the sour mood his thoughts and his wounds
had driven him to. Then two more men emerged from behind a boulder just ahead. All
three were dressed in old worn cloth, tattered and patched with small animal
hides sewn together with thick gut cord. Each man was carrying a small
waterskin, not big enough to hold more than half a day’s water, but any water
at all was enough to catch Daxin’s attention.

The cocky man was a short, dark-haired fellow, whose hand was
planted on the hilt of an ornate cutlass on his belt. One of the others had a
big flat forehead, crooked teeth, no hair, and dark circles under his eyes. The
third man had a long face with an even longer red-gray beard and an awkward pot
belly that looked out of place on his gaunt frame. He was aiming a compound
sportsman’s bow in Daxin’s direction, while the crooked-toothed man was
wielding a stick that had a sizeable hunting dagger lashed to one end. All
three of them looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

“Afternoon, traveler,” shouted the man with the cutlass.
“What brings you out this way?”

Daxin had dealt with much worse in his time than a few
scraggly highwaymen, but never while he was in such bad shape. Fending them off
would’ve been more feasible otherwise. Until he found out if there were more of
them, he wasn’t going to do anything rash.
Best not to risk fighting myself
into an even more serious set of wounds
, he reasoned. “I’m sure you can see
I’m injured,” he said aloud. “If you’re looking for trade, I’ve got a few
things in my bag that may be of interest to you.”

“Such as?” Cutlass asked in a mocking tone.

All three of the men were still coming toward him, but cautiously,
as if they expected him to strike the reins and bolt at any second. It would
have been easy to overestimate them, although they were nowhere near as
intimidating as they were trying to look. The bow had been Daxin’s only real
concern at first, but what had appeared to be a professional-grade hunting bow
from the old days was actually a cheaper model, made for learners. The arrow had
plastic fletching and a tin head.

Daxin tried to remember what he’d brought with him. “Let me
think. Off the top of my head, I have a great pair of shoes, men’s size eleven.
No, eleven and a half. A bottle of perfume, if any of you happens to have a
special lady back home. A couple of real nice diamond rings, which I’m sure she
would also like. Actually, scratch that, I have about two dozen of those
things, so, plenty to choose from. You can pick out the perfect one, just for
her.” Daxin waited for a response, but the men gave him none. “No women, huh?
Maybe it’s food you’re after. I’ve got some good jerky, smoked and seasoned. An
apple or two. A gas lighter, some pots and pans, you know, tons of great stuff.
I might even have some rolling paper and a bit of tobacco in here somewhere.
Let me see if I can find it.” He plunged a hand into one of his saddlebags. “Oh
yeah, I think I do.”

“How about that horse?” asked Cutlass, lifting his chin.

“Oh, the horse?”

The man had taken a step to the side when he spoke. He was
circling around to the left now, while the other two came on from the right.
This would be a classic highwayman’s trap, something Daxin had seen before.
They were trying to
make
him run, funneling him over the hill, where less
friendly men would welcome him into some gully or catch on the other side.

“The horse isn’t for sale,” Daxin said, trying to keep his
voice steady. He’d always wished he could be as tough as Toler was, drinking
and spitting and acting like nothing bothered him even when the odds were
stacked up higher than the crates in the old shipping yard. But now that he considered
how outnumbered he might be, his heart was pounding in his ears and he was
realizing that no amount of pretending was ever going to make him as cool under
pressure as his little brother.
So
, he decided,
I’ll just have to
fake it
.

Daxin pulled his hand from the saddlebag to point his
short-barreled double shotgun at the man with the cutlass. His pulse was
rushing now, his mouth dry. He wasn’t sure how Toler’s men had overlooked the
weapon. He’d forgotten about it himself until his fingers had brushed
against it at the bottom of the bag just now. It was the break-open breech-loading
type, its barrels partially rusted, the wooden buttstock and foregrip worn and
nicked from years of rough handling. The gun was sturdy and reliable, but Daxin
could only hope his handmade shells were as reliable as the weapon itself. The red-bearded
man raised his bow and braced to fire. Daxin willed his hands to stop shaking
as he gauged the distance between them. Seven paces, at least. More than
enough.

Infernal was beating down on their backs, hard shadows lining
the ground, the trees glowering over them like watchers in a dramatic play. The
crooked-toothed man took a shallow breath, wheezing like an old hinge.

The short man drew his cutlass, letting it fall to his side
and playing its tip in the dirt. “That was not in your best interest to do.”

“Afraid I have to disagree. I’m feeling pretty good about my
interests at the moment.” Daxin liked how tough he sounded, and how little his
voice had trembled.

“Fair enough,” said Cutlass. “Why don’t we find out who’s the
better shot, then.”

Daxin raised an eyebrow. “Fine by me. But keep in mind—your
man
might
hit me with that kiddie bow. I will
definitely
not
miss you with two barrelfuls of double-ought buckshot.”