The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (48 page)

Raith was hesitant to second-guess him, but he decided to
do so anyway. Sig’s tunnel met the drain basin at a lower point, which would make
it difficult, if not impossible, for them to get back up here once they’d
jumped down. “What makes you think it’s that way?” he asked.

Sig shoved the map at Raith’s chest in a crinkled mass. “Sigrede
Balbaressi does not think. He knows.”

Raith wasn’t sure whether to let that be a sufficient answer.
He
did
know how cruel the desert would be to them if they tried to cross
it unprepared, however. If this stranger could lead them to water and supplies,
Raith would have to be content in yielding to his guidance for now. “Lead on.”

Sig shouldered past him. “Along the way, I will teach you a
few things. Like how to be capable of harm.”

“I could use some tips,” Raith said.

“Like a snake with a knot in its tail.”

“Come again?”

“You are full of
shate
.”

Sig stepped out onto the ledge and shuffled along, his
significant upper trunk bulging out over the precipice. Tally followed him, and
they both made the jump down to the lower ledge. Once they were inside the pipe
on the adjacent side, they motioned for the others. There were a few close
calls on the way over, but though the group was tired and withered, each man
made the crossing without incident.

This pipe was smooth concrete and bigger around than the
last, a welcome relief for a man as tall as Raith. Water flowed at no more than
a trickle, and the sediment at the bottom was a more gritty mixture of sand and
mineral deposits. Warm air bathed them from up ahead, a breeze strong enough to
ruffle their hair. Raith had crossed the drain basin last, which put him at the
back of the troupe, with Sig still in front.

“Where are they leading us?” asked Ernost Bilschkin. He was a
slight, dark-skinned scribe whose written notes and histories of the journey
had been lost during the attack. He had taken some paper and a writing
implement from the prison lobby and would scrawl reminders to himself across
the pages whenever anything noteworthy happened.

“They’re taking us to find provisions for the trip home,”
Raith said.

“These men are known slavers,” said Ernost. “Sig even
admitted to selling slaves in this very city.”

“They’ve been nothing but helpful so far,” said Rostand.

“It’s the nice ones you gotta watch out for,” Derrow said,
winking.

Ernost gave Derrow a worried look, but said nothing more.

The tunnel ran straight on for a long time, rising at a
gentle slope. The end brought them into the mouth of a wide concrete channel,
where graceful arches ribbed the ceiling high above their heads. The sides of
the channel widened as they ascended, giving Raith the sensation that they were
walking out of a massive ovular funnel. The channel leveled out at the top,
revealing a cityscape pierced by warm rays of late afternoon light. They found
themselves in a dry concrete aqueduct with slanted banks. In the distance, an
imposing steel bridge spanned the channel.

With the open sky above them once again, they rested.

The men were all suffering from hunger and dehydration to one
extent or another. The light-star was setting, so they had at least that much to
mitigate their risk of heat stroke. Theodar Urial had done all he could for the wounded with the
limited materials at his disposal. Edrie Thronson, the engineer, and Peperil
Cribbs, a botanist who’d been brought along to identify plant life in the
desert, were the worst off. A bullet had entered and exited Edrie’s thigh
during the initial approach to Belmond, and blood loss was taking its toll on
him. Peperil was suffering the ravages of a more recent wound; a Scarred
soldier had stabbed him with a bayonet knife during the fight in the cell
block. His condition was the more serious of the two.

“Where are we?” Raith asked.

Sig motioned toward the skyline. “The city south, and you are
welcome. This is the most dangerous part of Belmond for you. Do you see that
bridge? One of the scouts has already spotted us. We will be surrounded in less
than a minute.”

“Surrounded?” Rostand asked.

“Of course,” said Sig, not sounding the least bit worried.

“I don’t care anymore. I’m too tired to run. Let them take
us,” said Rikkert Weiber, a flatbed mechanic. He looked older than he was,
wrinkled and gray though he was just past forty.

Sig nodded. “We will be surrounded thanks to the Scratches’
uniforms you wear. When they realize those guns you carry are not loaded, they
will take you captive.”

“We have other weapons,” said Jiren, waggling his fingers.

“No need,” Sig said. “Do not waste your energy.”

A look of horror passed over Ernost Bilschkin’s face. “The
nomads sold us out. I told you they would. We’ll be made into slaves.”

“Is this true? You brought us here to sell us to your
slavemasters?” Raith resisted the urge to tear Sig’s head from his body then
and there. He was tired; they all were, and twenty famished men couldn’t hope
to hold their own against dozens or hundreds of savages. Jiren and Derrow were
the only blackhands left besides Raith, and the escape from the jailhouse had
all but exhausted their reserves.

Sig smiled. In the dying light, Raith could see dark shapes
clambering down the left bank and into the concrete riverbed, coming straight
toward them. Someone shouted a warning. The Sons of Decylum were on their feet
in an instant, some wielding their empty rifles like clubs, others hefting
whatever knives and small hand weapons they still had. The oncoming figures hit
the bottom of the bank and rushed into the channel like a flood. Raith and Sig
stood facing them together.

“If your people lift a finger against mine, I’ll make you
wish you were still back in that cell,” Raith said.

“It is a deal,” Sig said. “But there is one thing you should
know.”

“What is it?”

Sig pointed through the darkness at the tide of dark figures
rushing toward them. “Those are not my people.”

CHAPTER 43

Springs

Merrick didn’t wake up, so much as he became aware of
where he was. Every bed in the infirmary was full, and there was a new casualty
to fill every spare cot they were bringing in. He was lying on a sagging sentyle
stretcher that made the idea of moving to the floor the most appealing one he’d
had all night. It was impossible to get comfortable, though his lack of comfort
had more to do with the severity of his injuries than the quality of his bed.

There was a revolving crowd milling around the Commissar, a
cadre of soldiers and well-wishers and anyone else who could manage to get
close before the doctors shooed them away. The room was abuzz, and most of the
talk seemed to be about either the Commissar or the strange foreigners with
glowing hands.

“They can stop bullets as though they’re ping pong balls,” Merrick
heard someone say.

“I heard they shook the jailhouse so hard it caved in,” said
someone else.

“They were tearing comrades limb from limb, running around
like mad red demons,” said another. “A bunch of ‘em ran all the way up to the
Commissar’s office so fast the guards didn’t even see ‘em. Wax had to fight
them off all by himself. Nearly died in the process. Thank Infernal we’ve got a
dway like that running things.”

Merrick caught a few glimpses of Pilot Wax between the passing
bodies. His mouth was hanging open, and those sunken eyes of his were closed.
When Merrick saw the chest rise and fall, he knew the Commissar was still
alive.

Merrick’s covers were spotted with blood. He was still
wearing the pants he’d found outside the jailhouse, and bits of asphalt gravel
were lodged in his palms and elbows from where he’d fallen in the road. No one had seen to
his wounds yet. He labored to sit up, and pain shot down his spine. He felt
cold air rush in behind him and realized his entire back was wet. When he put
his feet on the floor, they felt slippery.

The room was a cacophony, and his ears were still ringing. He
felt a heat rising in his chest. He would’ve thought this was a fever, before.
Now, he knew what was happening. He didn’t understand how there was any power
left inside him, but it was happening. He was growing drowsy even as the pain
began to diminish. He was further from death than he should’ve been, he knew,
and his gift was the reason.

He rose to his feet and turned, careful not to slip and fall.
As he took one tentative step after another, the Commissar’s bed seemed to
stretch away into the distance. A medic caught hold of him and urged him to
return to his bed, his voice a hollow echo that competed with the chaos.
Merrick felt the heat spread through his body. A muscle tensed in his lower
back, and he heard something clink to the floor behind him.

The medic’s eyes widened. He let go and stood in stunned
silence as Merrick passed. The noise in the room seemed to die away as he continued
his careful trek toward the Commissar, desperate to reach him before he
collapsed. When he looked down, his hands were glowing.

“Stop that man,” someone shouted.

Reaching the crowd around the Commissar’s bed, Merrick took
two of the bystanders by the shoulders and nudged them aside. Pleasant smiles
crossed their faces when he touched them, and they let themselves stay in his
grip until he let go. More men came to seize him, but as soon as they touched
him, their hostile demeanors calmed. He went to Wax’s bedside, and leaned over
to put a hand on the Commissar’s chest. The room had gone still. No one moved
to stop him. The heat shot toward his extremities, and he felt the skin on his
fingertips start to burn.

Pilot Wax’s eyes opened.

Merrick left his hand on the Commissar’s chest until he felt the
lungs expand with a deep, invigorated breath. Then he extinguished himself and
glanced back at the gawking crowd.

Pilot Wax threw his blankets aside and got out of bed as
easily as if he were waking up on a weekend morning. He felt around his chest
and abdomen. “I’m alive,” he said. “I feel… almost completely better.” When the
Commissar caught sight of Merrick’s hands, his expression changed. “You’re one
of
them
.”

“Now hold on,” Merrick said. “I am
not
one of them.
I’m one of
your
soldiers. One of
your
Scarred Comrades.”

Pilot Wax was shaking his head. He began to back away, but
the bed halted his retreat.

“I healed you, Commissar. I want to do the same for everyone
here, but you have to help me. I’m in bad shape.”

“So I gather,” Wax said. “But you’re one of them, and there’s
no way you’re convincing me you’re not.”

“I can do the same things they can. But I’m not one of them.
I’m a comrade. Trust me, I didn’t heal you just so I could hurt you again.”

“Funny,” said Pilot Wax. “Then what is it you want, exactly?”

“You made an announcement the other day about a new power
station,” Merrick said. “Take me there.”

“It’s only a prototype.”

“Does it make power?”

“Yes, but—”

“Take me there. I want to help. I want to undo the damage
those bastards have caused, and that means healing my comrades the same way I
healed you. I need to get to that power station to do it.”

Merrick wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing, but the power
station was his best hope if he wanted to start saving lives before it was too
late.
The lightning will restore you
. Raithur, the old man from Decylum,
had said so. Merrick could only hope man-made power would have the same effect
as lightning wrought by nature.

 The Commissar took a long time to respond. Finally, he
nodded. “Someone get this man a wheelchair.”

“We should clean and dress your wounds, too,” said one of the
doctors.

“No. I can walk,” Merrick said, but his legs went wobbly, and
he realized it wasn’t true.

They sat him down in a blue chair with a bent right wheel
that squeaked every time it rotated. Pilot Wax removed his hospital gown and
dressed himself without taking the time to peel off his bandages. He was moving
well enough, and he seemed to be without pain—or else he was putting on a brave
face for all the onlookers.

“What’s your name and rank, soldier?” Wax asked him,
buttoning his jacket. “You look familiar.”

“Corporal Merrick Bouchard, sir. You ordered my transfer from
the Second Mobile Ops to the Sentries about a month ago.”

“Refresh my memory. Why did I do that?”

“I went on a solo, cleared out some zoomheads from a cistern
in the city south. I…”

“Oh yes, that’s right. You’re the dway who shot those
children.”

The crowd murmured. Merrick averted his eyes. He felt
drained, and every part of him hurt. The heat in his chest was almost gone now,
and his wounds began to throb as they had when they were fresh. Wax looked
around at the people gathered in the room—doctors and their assistants,
infirmary workers, soldiers well and wounded alike. They were all watching,
waiting for the drama to unfold. Being the center of attention made Merrick
nervous. As much as he had wanted it before, he wasn’t comfortable having his
every word and movement scrutinized.

“You’re also the one who brought Dashel up to my office,” Wax
said. “Thanks to you, I’ll have a new baby in a few months.”

“Yeah, that was me. A new baby?”

“It’s a long story. Suffice it to say that by saving my life,
you’ve… somewhat redeemed yourself. Now let’s get going. If you’re a spy bent
on sabotaging my power station, you’d best get on with it.”

Merrick shook his head. “Believe what you want, Commissar.
You’ll see the truth of things soon enough.”

A soldier took the wheelchair by the handlebars, but Wax
waved him away. The crowd parted as he pushed Merrick down the long room and
out the infirmary door.

“We should have an escort,” Merrick said. He was growing more
tired by the minute, and it was an effort to keep his head from drooping over.

“Coffing right we will. I don’t go anywhere without an
escort, especially not with you and these other dways running around.”

“You haven’t caught them,” Merrick said, answering his own
question.

“They escaped the jailhouse through the drainage grate. We’ve
got men going after them, but we don’t know where they went—they could be
anywhere by now.” Wax turned to an officer. “Get the Fourth online. We need to
move.”

“The Fourth is…” the officer shook his head.

“The Fifth, then.”

“Still cleaning up at the jailhouse, sir.”

“How about the Second?” Merrick said.

“The Second could be online soon enough,” said the officer,
scratching his combed brown hair with a thin finger. “It might take some
doing.”

“Get it done,” Wax said.

The officer saluted him and strode off down the corridor.

“Thank you,” said Merrick. “It’ll be good to see my old
buddies again.”

Ten minutes later, the Second Mobile Operations Platoon had
been assembled. Merrick was so tired he could barely move. Everyone was there,
like he’d hoped: Admison Kugh, Coker Reed, Jettle Trimbold and the rest,
dressed out and armed to the teeth, ready to escort him to the place where he
could finally show them all how powerful he really was. They gave him warm
greetings, and more than a few imprudent whacks about the head and shoulders.

“Since when did you get to be such a big swingin’ dick?” said
Kugh, greeting him with a firm handshake.

“You look like a sack of moldy shit,” said Coker Reed.

“Charming as always,” Merrick mumbled, flashing him a dopey
grin.

“Yeah, you’re torn up bad,” Kugh said. “You should be
in
the infirmary, not leaving it. Always have been a tough son of a bitch, haven’t
you?”

“For every tough dway, there are two dead ones who used to
be,” said Pilot Wax. “You should get yourself cleaned up before we leave.”

“Take me… to the springs. You’ll see,” Merrick said.

Admison Kugh twisted his mouth, regarding Merrick with a
conflicted look. He knelt beside him. “You sure, big dway? You haven’t been the
same since that night at the Boiler Yard.”

“Bring a medic along if it makes you feel better,” Merrick
said, nodding in and out of sleep. “We have to go.”

Kugh took the wheelchair and pulled Merrick aside. “You can’t
do this, Bouchard. You can’t let Wax know about the weird magic you can do. The
guys and I have been talking about this. It’s not gonna end well for you if he
finds out.”

“Too late,” Merrick said. “I healed him. I brought him back
from the dead.”

“Shit, Bouchard. You didn’t.”

Merrick nodded.

“Then for Infernal’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing,
‘cause it sure don’t look like it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Merrick said. “Once you all see the kind of
power I have, you’ll know there’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop me.
Even Wax can’t deny what’s already happened.”

“Wax has no room for somebody who’s better than him,
Merrick.”

“He’ll make room for me. Just watch. It can only get better
from here.”

Kugh sighed, his face saddening. “Right.”

Merrick refused to believe what Kugh was saying. If he took
Kugh’s advice, he’d stay as anonymous as he’d always been. Just another one of
Wax’s lackeys.
If big opportunities only come along once in a lifetime, like
they say, then this is it for me. My big opportunity
.
I’d be crazy to
let Kugh talk me out of it. I’m going to do this, and when I do, people will pay
attention
.

“Alright, we’re on our way,” said Pilot Wax, pushing the
wheelchair forward. “Let’s get this outfit moving, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant was a different man than Merrick remembered. A
month ago, the Second Platoon had been led by Anatton “Natter” Buckwald, a big
bruiser with as much muscle in his head as anywhere else.

“What happened to Natter?” Merrick asked.

“Promoted, as of today,” Kugh said.

Coker Reed looked at Kugh and shook his head.

“Tell you more about it later,” Kugh said. “The new
Lieutenant’s not too bad. Sammil Larabee’s his name. Anyway, you’d better keep
up your strength. It’s a bit of a hike to the springs. We don’t want you
falling out of that chair on the way. I ain’t going back for you if you do.”

The column exited the gate and made its way northeast amid the
squeaking of the noisy wheel and the padding of boots on pavement; forty strong
soldiers on high alert, plus the Commissar, Merrick, and his two medical
attendants. The two medics were walking beside him, while Pilot Wax had
insisted on pushing Merrick’s wheelchair the whole way. Wax steered the
wheelchair carelessly at times, driving Merrick through potholes and deep
cracks as if he hadn’t seen them in advance. Though the jostling was painful,
Merrick was too exhausted to complain.

Turning at almost every intersection, they zigzagged toward
the underground facility where the natural springs were housed. Few visited
except those who worked there, so Merrick had never seen the inside. This was
the domain of the Engineering Division, on which Wax had laid the city north’s every
hope.

Merrick had his hopes here too, but for different reasons. He
wanted this power station to save his life. He wanted to show them he mattered;
that he was more than a screw-up, some kid without a purpose. But first, he had
to survive what he was about to face. The thought made him sit up, wide awake.

“You really have to travel with an armed escort everywhere
you go?” Merrick asked over his shoulder.

“When things go bad, who’s the first person people blame?” said
the Commissar. “The dway whose name everyone knows. The city north might be
safe for you, Corporal Bouchard, but everyone knows my name.”

Toler Glaive had said the same thing about safety. When
people knew who Merrick was, would he have to watch his own back everywhere he
went? He wanted to believe it wasn’t true. There had been dozens of people in
the infirmary, and they had all seen his wounds closing up as he walked across
that room. They’d seen his hands glow, and they’d seen him touch the Commissar
and bring him back from the verge of death. Some had felt Merrick’s touch for
themselves. It was too late to second-guess himself.
When everyone knows who
I am
, he predicted,
they won’t blame me when things go bad. They’ll love
me when I make things right
.