The Infernal Lands

By J.C. Staudt

For fans of Fallout, Mad Max, and the Dark Tower comes an epic tale of wasteland adventure for a new generation.

In the bleak and dangerous wastelands of a dying world, a lone drifter sets off on a journey of vengeance, fleeing the men who want him dead. He is carrying a secret which, in the right hands, will ensure the downfall of his forefathers' most bitter rival and win his family its long-awaited retribution.

Across the sands, a young soldier stews in his lookout post above the derelict city of Belmond. Merrick Bouchard is one of thousands serving a dogmatic regime which seeks to control the city and its resources while starving masses of mutants and vagrants vie for the scraps. Carrying wounds from a brutal childhood and disenchanted with his life, Merrick will soon discover he is nothing like those with whom he serves. There is something in his blood; something which could break him if left untamed, but which might be the key to the survival of his world, if only he can learn how to wield it.

And in the fathomless depths below, a great evil lies dormant, waiting for the time to rise again. Perhaps that time only requires the right person...

Praise for J.C. Staudt and The Infernal Lands

"[An] epic journey on the scale of Tolkien ... a Martin-esque world, in regards to the characters and depth. I was hooked from the first paragraph."--N.M. Sotzek, author of Revealing the Revolution

"Detailed, interactive plot-lines weave a compelling story from beginning to end."--The Kindle Book Review

"Staudt's built a riveting post-apocalyptic world."--Amazon Reviewer, on The Shepherd

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Staudt
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310942358

J.C. Staudt

J.C. Staudt was born in Oceanside, New York, and moved to Virginia at the age of four, where he has lived ever since. He is a graduate of George Mason University, with a B.A. in Integrative Multimedia Studies, and he works for an Engineering and Consulting firm as a New Media Designer. He lives with his beautiful wife in a house lacking pets and children in Manassas, Virginia.

Book preview

The Infernal Lands

Book One of

The Aionach Saga

J.C. Staudt

The Infernal Lands is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 J.C. Staudt

All rights reserved.

Edition 1.0

For Sarah, who keeps me going.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

1. Catch

2. Council

3. The Mulligraws

4. Detail

5. Preparations

6. Found

7. Claybridge

8. Electing

9. Feeding

10. The Shepherds

11. Kept to Stay

12. The Lane Natives

13. Embarking

14. Escort Services

15. In Violation

16. Like Nomads

17. The Underground Sea

18. Wrapped

19. Father Kassic

20. Lightsick

21. To Get Lost

22. Rowers

23. The Priest and the Acolyte

24. Orbs in the Outskirts

25. Strokeplan

26. Comings and Goings

27. The Way

28. The Prisoner

29. Audience

30. The Healer’s Grandeur

31. Jailbroken

32. Research

33. Migration

34. The Darkness Through the Doorway

35. The Scarred Child

36. Visited

37. The Blind-World

38. Coming To

39. The Garden Grotto

40. Into the Wastes

41. Gris-Mirahz

42. Squall

43. Springs

44. Living Away

45. Escape From Belmond

46. Where It All Began

47. Eh-Calai Phylecta

48. Banishing

49. Toward Home

50. The Crimson Thread

51. The Slaver’s Guests

52. Aezoghil

53. To the Deeps

54. A Strike in Two Parts

55. Aftermath

56. Sniverlik’s Marauders

Epilogue

Afterword

CHAPTER 1

Catch

On the night Vantanible’s men rode into town, Daxin Glaive left home and made for the Skeletonwood without waking his daughter to say goodbye. He was still pushing his mare hard when morning blazed over the scrublands, shedding trails of dust through rough country spotted with sagebrush and brambles and tufts of dry brown grass. Daxin had braved these lands many times for love, but this was the first time he’d done it to settle a score.

They first appeared as dark specks over his shoulder, apparitions rippling in the mirari woken with the day’s heat. Their horses were in fine trim for the scrubs, but Daxin’s chestnut mare was old and out of shape, so it didn’t take long for the specks to grow into real things with the forward lean of bloodthirst in their backs and the same fire in their eyes. Their javelins glistened in the daylight as they fanned wide and sprinted to outpace him.

The first of the javelins sailed true and sank deep, throwing Daxin sideways and snatching the breath from his lungs. He reined up and wheeled to defend himself, but the pain washed over him, and vertigo took hold. When his body slammed to the hardpan, he could hear his pursuers’ triumphant shouts above the rumble of their approach. Dust the color of dead autumn leaves billowed around his shape, the hot metal spearhead burning in his ribs while the ground shook with the nearing of hoofbeats.

Boots thudded in the dirt. Daxin’s mare whinnied and tramped backward at the unfamiliar hand that took hold of her reins. The horse stumbled over Daxin’s legs, and there was the briefest sensation of pressure before he heard his ankle pop like wet firewood. Red swarms came buzzing over him. He sucked in his gut, but no breath came, leaving his urge to scream unsatisfied. Writhing in the dust, clutching the ankle, he waited for the most excruciating moments to pass.

There was a voice, clear and familiar.

Didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again so soon.

Daxin had always loved his brother’s voice, laced as it was with that sharp enunciation that made every word ring like polished metal. It was the voice that ran parallel to every significant memory Daxin had formed over the most recent half of his lifetime. The fourteen years of age between them had led Daxin to think of Toler more as a son, at times, than a brother. But there was a difference, and Toler was keen on reminding Daxin of that every chance he got.

I noticed some tracings on my route map, said Toler Glaive, anger brewing beneath the surface of his calm. You know anything about that, Dax?

Daxin made no reply, unsure whether he would’ve spoken if he could have. Pain is a problem that shrinks every other, and just now the prospect of answering seemed small in comparison.

Okay, Toler said, one word brimming with impatience. You can come right out and tell me what you did. Or we can take a look in your bags. How’s this gonna go?

Daxin knew his brother’s charms too well. He doesn’t want to accuse me, so he’s baiting me instead. Daxin’s pain was so bad it made him retch, though he would’ve had Toler believe this was the reply he intended. When he felt something obscene burn in his throat, he turned to let it slide down the inside of his cheek. It was the dry spiced jerky he’d eaten a few hours before, only it didn’t taste as good this time.

Toler shrugged. Alright then. Blatcher, search his stuff, will you?

Saddlebags whispered against the mare’s flanks, their contents clunking and rustling as the men rifled through Daxin’s possessions. Strokes of pain were bolting up his leg and his vision was going flat and gray, and every sound was tunneling into the distance, from the faint wind across his face to the stamping and whinnying of horses and the men pillaging his belongings. It was all happening horizons away, faded and crackling like the noise from an old record. For a moment Daxin thought he might pass out, but he wasn’t that lucky.

One of the pillagers handed Toler something over the saddle. Daxin heard the paper whisk open when Toler unrolled it, saw the inked lines and the texture of the page when he held it up toward the light-star for inspection. After a moment, Toler let the page curl back and gave a deep sigh. "I can’t believe I let you pull this shit on me three times before I figured out it was you. This is an exact copy, Dax. Your handwriting. Coffing unbelievable. Anything you want to tell me now?"

Daxin was starting to wish he’d passed out. He didn’t know which was worse—being put to shame this way, or not knowing what his brother was going to do next. "I don’t know, how about ‘sorry’? Any chance that’ll do any good?"

Nah. I don’t reckon it will. Toler pressed the heel of his boot into Daxin’s cheek, branding his skull with hot rubber. Taking the javelin in both hands, he leveraged himself and yanked.

The pain was so sharp it made Daxin cry out. Torment was in his side, and a warm wet seeped through his tunic.

The light-star’s gaze cast Toler in silhouette as he crouched and let the javelin clang to the dust. He was young and sturdy and dressed in brown leathers. His dark hair was pasted to his face with sweat, lines of grit gathered along the creases in his skin. He pulled his ragged hood-scarf down from where it covered his nose and mouth, looking Daxin over with a mixture of hatred and pity. Even at his dirtiest, Toler was square-jawed and good-looking, with scathing dark eyes and just the right amount of nose for his face. He leaned in, so close Daxin could smell the stink of his breath, a precarious medley of moonshine and grilled glowfish. As their eyes met, half a lifetime’s memory awoke again in a deluge.

Poor Dax. You’re looking so thin and gray these days. You really thought you could keep this up, didn’t you? Toler tapped the paper. Well, this wasn’t the only thing that brought me back to town. I know what else you’ve been up to. There was a rider, night before last. Said some savages got loose in Unterberg and hurt my lady. I know how friendly you like to get with them savages. Now imagine how I’m feeling, way out here in the scrubs, working a train with weeks left to go before I can get back to her. You sorry to hear that, Dax? Or are you glad about it? Tell me you had nothing to do with this.

Daxin cleared his throat, pain biting at him still. I had nothing to do with it, he said. The words came out thick and forced. He looked away, unable to meet his brother’s stare.

That’s what I thought, Toler said, and with knowing in his eyes—knowing like only a brother could know—he sighed, as though it was the last breath he ever meant to take. Shit, Daxin. The whole time I was home you acted like you didn’t have a care in the world. What, did you think screwing up my life was gonna win you some kind of moral victory? This is low, even for you. I know you don’t agree with my choices, but I’m getting real sick of you trying to force me over to your side. We’re not on the same side, Dax. Not after this. Toler’s voice quavered, and he stood with a grunt. "You’re such an asshole. Look at you and that sad-sack, sorry-for-yourself, mopey look you always get. You really did want them to kill her, didn’t you?"

For a moment Daxin thought he saw tears in his brother’s eyes, but Toler blinked them away, and the heat dried what was left.

In the clarity after the tears, something dark and terrible flashed in Toler’s eyes and took hold there. Dax. I’ve had enough.

Daxin’s heart fluttered. He struggled to lift himself, but the pain was too much. I told you I had nothing to do with it. I’m your brother, for Infernal’s sake. Don’t do something you’re going to regret. He’d meant to sound reasonable, to call Toler’s bluff, but even he could hear the note of dread in his voice.

Aw. Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Toler said, with more than a hint of dour sarcasm. Blood only gets you so far.

Steel shwipped across rawhide, and Daxin squinted against the daylight long enough to see the machete in Toler’s hand. He’s actually doing it. He’s going to kill me. In that moment, terror wasn’t the first thing to strike Daxin Glaive. What struck him was that, of all the dangers that might’ve befallen him, he was about to meet his end at the hands of the person who knew him best in the world. In the scrublands, the only ones who would care about his death were strangers; the lurking scavengers who would thrill at the scent of his blood and fill their bellies with his remains.

There was a gap in the trees, a path where the road had once been. Asphalt beneath the dust, worn and rubbled. I was so close to the road, Daxin thought. So close to the road. A weather-beaten billboard squatted beside the gap, an ailing old thing from before the Heat that proclaimed in chipped red and white paint: For the Finest Cheer, Drink Schteinman’s Beer. A buzzard was perched there. It cocked its wrinkled pink head and looked at him. Lunchtime for you, my friend, Daxin thought bitterly.

Toler nudged Daxin onto his back, grabbed him by his mop of dusty gray hair, and lifted him until he thought it might come out in a handful. Let’s be clear on this, Toler said, clenching his jaw as his composure flashed to rage. After what you just tried to pull, I have no second thoughts about sending your soul to Infernal.

I didn’t do anything, Daxin said, struggling to free himself from Toler’s grip. You’re serious about this? What are you going to tell Savannah when I’m dead?

The mention of Toler’s niece seemed to take him by surprise. I’ll tell her the truth, he said. You got what you had coming. After all these years, and all the time you spent away from her, the scrubs finally took you. It won’t take her long to realize she’s better off without you. You belong out here, Dax. We both do. Me on two feet, you in the ground.

Toler, don’t do this. Not here. This is too cruel.

Wherever you are is too cruel a place, Dax.

Toler… please. Taking me away from Savvy isn’t the way to get what you want.

A puzzled smirk came over Toler’s face. Since when do you care if I get what I want? You never gave half a squeeze about what I wanted when I was trying to find my way in this world. All you care about are your ancient grudges and a bunch of sour history that no one besides you even remembers anymore.

Daxin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was the same old argument he and his brother had been having for years. There was no new ground to cover here. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t do anything to Reylenn. It’s just… hard for me to believe you resent me this much.

Toler scowled. Don’t try to twist this around on me. We both know exactly what you did. I’ll make sure Savvy knows it too, when you’re gone. There are lots of things she ought to know about you.

You think any of that’s going to make her happy I’m dead?

Toler paused to consider this. The best gifts are the ones you never knew you wanted. Isn’t that what you told me? Wise words from a true manipulator. Well, this is my gift to Savvy. She doesn’t know she wants it now, but someday she will.

Daxin sighed his disdain. Turns out you’re too wise for your own good, old dway.

"You remember what else you told me, Dax? You said ‘some things are too terrible to forgive.’ I could’ve forgiven you for just about anything but this. There are certain things you just don’t do to somebody, and this is one of them. Reylenn is my girl, Dax. Doesn’t matter if you hate her family’s guts—she’s still my girl. Thank goodness she’s alive, or you can’t imagine the kind of hurting you’d be in for right now. You’ve earned yourself the merciful way out. I can just imagine Savvy being with some young man you don’t like, and you sending a couple of savages to cut him up. I’m making sure that day never comes."

You still don’t understand, Daxin wanted to say. You don’t even care enough to take pride in your own family, after all the times I’ve explained to you what they did to us. But that, again, was the same old argument; those words would only fall on deaf ears. You’re out of your mind, was the only pathetic half-insult he could manage.

Ever methodical, Toler set about the business of slaughter the way a man laces up his boots. He lifted the machete, a motion that seemed too smooth and slow and surreal. Daxin felt like he was falling off his horse again, fighting gravity, though it was merely the last seconds of his life he was battling this time. The blade glinted as it rose, until a blaring wash of daylight swallowed it.

Wait, Daxin said.

Toler ignored him.

Daxin’s pulse was running off the rails. He focused on trying to take in every facet of his surroundings, seeing what he could, and hearing what he couldn’t see. His horse, still standing two fathoms away; the men on the other side, still searching his bags for loot; the endless, cracked expanse of scrubland that lay behind; the line of leafless trees that guarded the dead forest like scarecrows, and the patch of splintered asphalt that had once been the road through. He arranged the position of every man, animal, and object on a neat mental plane, for whatever good it might do him.

The blade began its descent with little warning, except that Toler’s grip twisted to crane Daxin’s head back just before he committed to swing. Daxin waited until the last second before he raised his arm to shield himself. He felt the steel slice through the padding in his forearm bracers like paper, crack the hard plastic, and bury itself in flesh. Bone halted blade, and a shock went through him from shoulder to fingertip. When Toler tried to shake the blade loose, another twinge of pain radiated through Daxin’s arm. By some devilry, the steel held fast, snagged in plastic or bone or both.

It was all the opportunity Daxin needed.

Slipping his skinning knife from its loop on his belt, Daxin leaned forward and took Toler in the eye. Toler cried out and stumbled backward. When he screamed, Daxin felt the pain as if it were his own. Sour regret silted on his tongue; the idea that he’d given to such an impulse grieved him, whether it was a means to saving his own life or not. He was still in danger, contrite as he was, so he forced his broken body into motion. Coff it, this is going to hurt.

On his knees, Daxin found the machete still quivering in flesh. Standing with a grimace, he dislodged the blade just as the first of Toler’s companions—the one he’d called Blatcher—came careening around the mare’s rear end. Daxin anticipated the superior reach of the javelin and was rewarded for it. His shattered ankle rasped like a bag of seashells as he evaded the thrust and yanked the spear forward by its pole. The broken thing at the end of his leg made a better stumbling block than it did a foot just now, and he plunged it into the path of his assailant to send him tumbling. He whirled when the next attacker rounded the corner. The machete’s blade was sharp, and his stroke sent the man sprawling in a spray of blood and flesh and teeth.

Daxin faltered as lightheadedness took him, the strain on his battered parts washing over him like a fever. His knees wanted to buckle, but desperation kept him on his feet. Behind him, Toler screamed again, a tortured keening that etched itself onto Daxin’s heart with all the veracity of an oath. To feel his brother’s pain was an ache worse than any wound he could’ve sustained. I couldn’t look him in the eye, so I stabbed him there instead, he reflected.

Leaping belly-first onto his mare, Daxin smacked her hindquarters to send her bolting toward the trees. A javelin wobbled past and found rest somewhere in the ground ahead as he climbed up and took the saddle. Two more missed them before he’d gotten out of range. He felt every fall of the animal’s hooves as he galloped through the skeletal cropping of forest. Blood ran from the gashes in his arms and side, over his trousers and down the mare’s flank. Toler’s screams fell distant as he rode on, looking back every now and then, grimacing at the trauma it caused him to turn his body. Soon he could feel nothing anymore. Was it the adrenaline, or the remorse in his veins that numbed him?

The last time he glanced over his shoulder, Toler was laboring to his feet, trembling and screaming and clutching at his face like a madman. The other three Vantanible men stood like poachers around a trapped creature, timid and uncertain, caught somewhere between sympathy and fear. The fifth was still splayed out on the ground with half his face decimated and glistening red. Daxin thought maybe he’d killed that one, and he wondered how long it would be before their thirst for vengeance soured inside them. Maybe now that they had what they’d come for, they would leave him alone. He doubted it. Toler would come after him someday.

A lump rose in Daxin’s throat, and he felt the color drain from his face. He was small again, a misbehaving child awaiting punishment. That feeling would stay with him, he knew, no matter how far he rode or to which corner of the Aionach he fled. Toler had never been one to abandon a grudge. If there was any chance Daxin’s little brother could have forgiven him before, that chance was gone.

CHAPTER 2

Council

You have truly no idea what the above-world is like, shouted Raith Entradi, hammering the desk with clenched fists. The clatter echoed down the long concrete hall, sending old facility maps and schematic diagrams drifting to the floor. Some of the other councilors flinched; the rest stood still as stones, their shapes sterile against the bluish lights pulsing along the walls. The pockmarks in the floor cast miniature shadows, and the room fell silent. Raith slid his chair back and stood, towering above them. On the desk, smooth fist-shaped craters remained where his hands had been.

Most of us born and bred here in Decylum cannot hope to understand the dangers of the outside, Raith said. The flare that Infernal began so many years ago has grown more deadly with each passing year. The surface is suffering a slow death, blistered by the light-star’s malevolent presence, and there’s no sign of a solution or an end. The topsoil turned to dust long ago. The Aionach has been baked to ash and swept up in the arms of the wind, layer by layer. Crop yields are smaller each harvest, and the width and breadth of the wasteland grows. It won’t be long before even the hardiest plants wither, the beasts starve, and the blight spreads to every shore. And so it stands to reason that our only remedy is to delve further into the depths and expand our facility. We must do this if we’re to provide room for our growing community.

Loren Horner shrugged the waistband of his synthtex suit up around his substantial breadbasket. He had jowls to match his belly, dark hair flecked with gray, and spectacles that many supposed were less to improve his sight than to enhance his intellectual affect. He adjusted the spectacles and cleared his throat. Councilor Entradi, I did not mean to offend. I am aware of the, hmm, situation. I assure you, I am just as concerned as you are.

Raith eyed him, settling on the man’s midsection. You’ve become far too concerned with your suppers lately, and not enough with the matters concerning this council.

There was an uneasy murmur, a fidgeting that fell short of laughter.

Loren adjusted his waistband again, as if to shrug off Raith’s insult. What I mean to say, hmm, is that, perhaps, it would be best for us to move. Let us dig deeper if that is what you think best, but in the meantime let us also send, hmm, hunters. Equip them for longer journeys, so they can search for… a new home. If there is one to be found, I say we find it.

I speak with you, said Wardel Slake, holding up the two-fingered sign of accord.

We ought to pack up and move to the Arcadian Catacombs, said Rodge Leonard, raising his voice to be heard from the back. The comment garnered a few laughs. He had bright green eyes and a puff of coppery curls that sagged under their own weight. Rodge often kept to himself until he found the opportunity to inject a well-timed remark.

In this instance, Raith deigned to offer him a reply. If even one of us could get close enough to that place, we’d have considered it a long time ago.

Yes, Decylum has served us well, Loren continued, ignoring the interruption, but we are outgrowing it, hmm, and as you have already explained, we do not know how many years longer the above-world will be habitable. Perhaps this is not the place for us, and there is another.

Several councilors murmured their agreement. Wardel Slake clapped Loren on the back.

Raith himself was not so swayed. He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Loren. Have you ever tried to grow crops inside a mountain? Planted seeds in the floor of a quarry? He rubbed the toe of his boot on the concrete as if crushing a bug, and paused to let them hear the soft whish-whish-whish. You know that what we sculpt is finite. There are many forms and purposes among us, but none of us can feed life. Not in many long years. And you want to send our hunters into the wastes. Send them to meet the bandits, marauders, nomads, mutants, and whatever other beasts roam the above-world?

Raith put a hand on one of the lightbeams on the wall. His fingertips glowed like dull orange embers, and the beam brightened until the shadows were dancing and flickering again. Raith hadn’t had fingernails for longer than he could remember. His skin was as black as charcoal from his wrists down, and so dry it cracked and split whenever he made a fist. From the wrists up, his skin faded to a dark, calloused gray, finally reaching its normal color at the elbows. Many of the other councilors’ hands looked the same.

Our hunters are more than capable, said Laagon Dent. The group we have is very skilled. Laagon was Raith’s brother-in-law, a thin man of average height with reddish brown hair and a humorless face. Raith had brought him onto the council at his sister’s behest. Laagon had taken to the position with vigor, and a sense of pride that sometimes verged on pretension.

And when we turn our hunters into scouts… who will hunt for those they leave behind? Raith asked.

The council will train and appoint new hunters in their stead. There are enough of us.

There are enough of us only because we’ve foregone life on the surface in such large part. This place has kept us sheltered from predators, criminals, and the ravages of Infernal—the same ravages that are stripping the above-worlders of their ability to survive. Even their fertility wanes in the daylight.

You don’t know that, said Sebastian Rice, golden brown hair brushing the shoulders of his aqua-gray thermal suit. He was one of the younger councilors, but as wise and stubborn as his elders. Many say it’s our gift that lets us make children.

Raith spread his hands. Who truly knows? Perhaps we should bottle our seed and trade it to the surfacers.

Raucous laughter filled the hall. Sebastian Rice gave him a wry smirk. The only person who didn’t so much as smile was a middle-aged councilor named Cord Faleir, whose countenance remained as sour as usual.

However it may have come to pass that our pricks have maintained their awe-inspiring vigor, Raith went on, none of us can deny that Decylum keeps us safe. That safety, above all else, is the reason we thrive while the surfacers perish. If we remain here, we can keep our way of life intact. Our borders are secure, the facility is still functioning, and we as a people are flourishing. That’s why our best hope is to expand here.

"How much further can we expand? asked Hastle Beige, Raith’s closest friend. We need blasting supplies. Wood, steel, and iron to build new chambers. Where will we get the materials?" Hastle’s ruddy skin and sheets of hard muscle were a testament to the time he’d spent building cities on the surface in his younger days. Trimmed white-blond hair crowned his scalp and descended into a platinum beard.

Raith could still remember standing in the hangar the day Hastle left Decylum. He could still see the heat shimmer that had swallowed Hastle’s figure as he trudged into the wastes. Raith’s hope of ever seeing his friend again had been as bleak as the surface itself that day. But Hastle had returned several years later, claiming to have seen enough of the above-world to know he didn’t want to be a part of it. Hastle’s return had proven him to be one of the strongest and bravest men Raith had ever known. Hastle had spent days recounting his adventures, and the people of Decylum had learned a great deal about the above-world and its condition as a result. That knowledge had paved the way for a trickle of other adventurous souls to leave the facility in the years that followed.

You know what life on the surface is like better than most of us, Hastle, Raith said. If the council votes to send our hunters into the wastes alone, of course I’ll have to allow it. But I would sooner organize a scavenging expedition. The city of Belmond is our best hope of finding the materials we need to expand. If we were to go there, I would lead the party myself.

Belmond is infested with, hmm, zoomheads, and… and rotters, said Loren Horner. A supply caravan will not make it half a day outside the city before it is, hmm, overrun.

And yet, rather than travel as a host who can defend itself, you would have us scatter our hunters across the desert like sand, to journey in every other direction, looking for a home better suited to us than this one? Your logic disproves itself, Loren. If we take a host to Belmond and we find ourselves overrun, we’ll fight. Each one of you can handle any five surfacers with ease—ten, if they’re unarmed. Better to take our chances as a multitude, I say.

I speak, said Kraw Joseph, the eldest among them, and Raith’s predecessor as Head Councilor. Kraw was a stout, bald man with a wiry gray beard streaked with silver. He had served as the Head for many years before giving up his seat, opting to take a position of lesser responsibility instead.

I speak with you. To Infernal with whatever’s in that city. We’ll face it just as we’ve faced everything before it, said Jiren Oliver, one of Raith’s fiercest supporters. Jiren had a young man’s lust for warfare, and he tended to lean toward whatever plan was most likely to find him more of it. Like Laagon Dent, Jiren had once been hunter. For some reason that Raith didn’t quite understand, many of the hunters styled their hair and clothing with inspiration from the nomads. Jiren shaved the sides of his head, but he kept the top long, sweeping it forward to mask one of his pale green eyes.

Even if this expedition is successful, Hastle Beige said, and we return with the materials we need, we then must begin the process of delving into the below-world. Myriad spoke of dangers— That was a far as Hastle got before Laagon Dent interrupted him.

Myriad has been gone many long years now, without a trace. I, for one, would prefer to remember the visionary—not the doom prophet, as some seem to. Myriad’s warnings were intended to prepare us, not force us to live in fear.

I’m not entirely convinced of that, Laagon, Raith said. But Myriad’s words echoed once again in his mind. There are mysteries trapped in the innermost places, and in the farthest places. There are wonders to behold, and secrets fathomless, and horrors beyond horror beneath the Aionach. Yet of all these dangers, mankind’s will is the greatest. Myriad held great power and wisdom, and we would all be at our best to heed those words as Hastle urges, though they’re long-since spoken. I don’t intend to lead thousands of innocents blindly into the below-world with little thought toward the potentials.

And even so, you claim it must be done, said Laagon.

Raith remembered a time when his sister’s husband was a bolder man, focused only on the success of his hunters. His faith in them is biased, and it’s made him more hard-nosed in his dealings than is good for him. Authority has not had a positive effect on Laagon Dent, Raith decided. The council needed conflict at times, but Laagon stirred it up with such disregard that it often served only to alienate him from the other councilors.

This is not a decision I take lightly, Laagon, Raith said, nor would I expect any of you to do so. A solution can’t be reached without considering every option first. Whatever is decided, the clans must act in solidarity. Our choices stand before us: we send hunters to explore the surface for a new home, or we send a host to Belmond to gather raw materials for the expansion of our current facility. We can only spare enough people for one option or the other, as we’ve already agreed. We must never leave our gates unguarded, and that means some must always stay behind. Now… go home to your families. Rest, and think on these things. Tomorrow, we vote.

With that, Raith left them. The council carried on, their voices diminishing behind him as he strode down the long hall and turned the corner. The Head Councilor found himself alone with his thoughts as he made his way home, stopping every now and then to replenish the lightbeams that were running low. At last he came to the thick metal door that led into his hab unit. Clinical and bare as that door was, it was as welcoming a sight as any he’d ever seen.

The hab unit held a collection of clean, simple furniture spread through three rectangular spaces. The plush white brengen skin rug in the center of the entry space was a comfort to his weary feet. In the old days, factories would’ve spat out thousands of rugs exactly like this one. In Decylum, it was a luxury. The chair and table were black upholstery and machine-cut wood, stained the color of dark coffee and polished to a shine. Both pieces of furniture still looked brand-new, as though they’d been preserved against time itself.

In the next room, Raith touched the lightbeam, and it filled the chamber with its bluish glow. He unclasped his heavy nyleen vest, then stripped off his brown synthtex suit and flopped into bed. He was tired. He’d spent most of the day training the children whose hands were turning black. A blackhand’s gift can kill him if he doesn’t know how to use it, he’d told them. And it was the truth.

Raith’s breathing slowed as he stared up at the blank white ceiling. The lightbeam danced and dimmed, but no matter how hard he wished for sleep, it wouldn’t come. As was usually the case, the day’s activities were weighing on his mind. What was more, lying still had made him realize how much his hands hurt.

He roused himself with a grunt and lumbered into the third room, where he filled the sink and tempered the water with a few drops of Theodar Urial’s soothing formula. The old apothecary had taken great pains to get the mixture right. Fight through the discomfort, and a measured dose will take away the day’s strains, Theodar had told him. As Raith slouched over the sink and plunged both hands beneath the water, his skin began to tingle. There was a stinging, but he held fast until the moisture began to work its way into the cracks, softening the hard, dry skin and dulling the pain.

The mirror above the sink was so clean, Raith could see every age line in his face, the wrinkles above his bristled brow, and each graying hair that conspired against him in display of his years. His broad shoulders were yoked to a stout neck and strapping flanks, tapering down to an abdomen that wasn’t as muscled as it used to be. Not many things are like they used to be, he reminded himself. Tomorrow is set to be the most pivotal day of my tenure as Head Councilor. Maybe even the most pivotal day in Decylum’s history. If the council accepts Loren Horner’s plan, we will have consigned to send our best hunters to their deaths. So I must hold to whatever hope I have that my fellow councilors are wiser, in the end, than I believe them to be.

CHAPTER 3

The Mulligraws

Lizneth peered out from her hiding place among the beanstalks as the Marauders were shouldering the last few sacks of grain. Rotabak was with them, the brown-and-white buck who was always gawking at her with that lazy eye of his. When he turned toward the village, she drew back into the shadows. Is it his good eye, or the one askew he sees better with? She couldn’t remember.

Soon the Marauders’ footsteps were clunking over the river bridge and starting down the gravel path toward their stronghold in the rime caves. Lizneth twitched her whiskers and scented for their haick on the air, emerging from her hiding place only after she was satisfied they were gone. Kroy the miller was getting back to his feet by the time she got to him. She helped him dust off his leather jerkin and clean up the mess of boxes and burlap sacks the Marauders had left.

Did you see that? I wasn’t even giving them trouble this time, said Kroy, as if Lizneth needed convincing. I give them the goods nice and easy and they’re just as rough as ever.

Don’t pay them any mind, Kroy. It makes no difference whether you give in or not. They push us around because they think it’s their right.

Kroy sniffed and looked around nervously, running his fingers down his snout. The fur on his neck was standing on end, his longteeth chattering as if he’d caught a chill. He wiped away the drop of blood running from his wet pink nose. "It is their right, he said. They’ve made it their right. That’ll be the way of things as long as we’re us and they’re them."

Lizneth didn’t know what to say. Kroy was right, and he didn’t need her consolation to be certain of it. I’d better be getting home, she said. I should make sure everyone’s okay.

Kroy gave a brief nod, perking his ears to listen for trouble. "Be safe, cuzhe."

Lizneth snatched up her wicker basket and darted past the mud-and-thatch cottage that belonged to Skrikkit, the old banded roan who tended the mushroom pads. He had a damp, earthy haick about him, and she didn’t want to smell like mushrooms, so she always hurried by and hoped he wasn’t in the mood for one of his discourses on the intricacies of fungal farming.

The river bridge’s ironwood planks croaked beneath Lizneth’s feet, old things, but sturdy. Fisherfolk waved to her from the burbling waters below, their tails swishing in the shallows, hooked and baited for glowfish. Rows of silkvein were budding in the north fields, its bitter, sweet smell mingling with that of the blooming red leaves of heart’s cress, starchy broadroot, plump bittermelons, and shoots of orenseed. None of the crops were ready for picking yet, so the Marauders had only been able to lick their lips and count on their fingers how many days it would be until the harvest.

Gazhakk was sitting on the old bench in front of his hovel, grinding spices with his mortar and pestle. He had a meager dwelling, a small cave set into the cavern wall next to the rusted metal monstrosity the villagers called the Dead-end Door. The door had been there for longer than anyone knew; so long in fact, that the strange lettering on its surface was as dingy and faded as the cavern itself. The savory tang of Gazhakk’s spices wafted to Lizneth’s nostrils, and she couldn’t help but stop and pick up a pinch or two of this or that before she went on. The Goatbrothers, Nurnik and Skee, were guiding their herds across the cliffside, bickering at each other in perfect harmony with the bleating of their animals. They suspended their argument long enough to wave down at Lizneth as she passed.

All the villagers in Tanley were cordial, but their smiles couldn’t outshine the gloom that hung over them.

The tiny cottage Lizneth shared with her parents and twenty siblings was simple but well-fashioned. A comforting warmth greeted her as she entered and closed the thick ironwood door behind her. Lizneth was taller than both her parents, and she had to lower her head to avoid the rafters as she crossed the worn cobbled floor to the hearth. Her brothers and sisters were crowded around the gnarled ironwood table, gorging themselves on a thick stew of meat and vegetables. The youngest nestlings had missed more than they’d eaten; the fur on their snouts was matted, and scraps of food clung to their faces like beards.

A good harvest today, Papa said, nodding towards the basket under Lizneth’s arm. He hobbled across the room to join Mama, his kind face stiffening as he lowered himself into his chair.

Rotabak and his brutes were here today, Lizneth said, setting the basket on the small block table near the hearth. She spooned a helping of stew into a wooden bowl and took a seat facing her parents. Little Raial lost a chunk of broadroot and squirmed up onto the table to chase after it. Lizneth snatched him up by the scruff of the neck and took him into her arms. "Sit still while you’re eating, cuzhe," she said, giving him a tickle before she set him back on the bench.

Mama gave Lizneth a concerned look. Are you alright?

Lizneth nodded. "I hid in the mulligraws until they were gone. They pulled Kroy out of the mill and made a spectacle of him in the street. They took so much of his grain."

Better his grain than him, Papa said.

Mama sighed. I was beginning to think they’d forgotten about us.

Sniverlik will never forget about Tanley, Papa said. He grew up here.

Fortunate for us, isn’t that? The orphan turned warlord. Not even a family here to make him stay his hand against us.

Papa disagreed. Rhi and Taznik raised him. They’re as good a family as he’s ever had, but you don’t see him giving them special treatment. Sniverlik’s a bad seed, is all.

He didn’t used to be. It’s the scepter that makes him that way, Mama said.

That’s a myth. Every new warlord the Marauders raise has wielded the Zithstone Scepter, from time and time before. It’s a symbol of leadership. A useless trinket.

"Your Papa thinks I’m a quinzhe for saying this, but I think it’s the scepter that turned Sniverlik sour. He was such a pleasant little nestling."

Papa curled his upper lip, exposing his longteeth. The firelight made the incisors gleam like frozen waterfalls. "Do you know how Sniverlik became warlord? He had Ankhaz stretched by the tail until lahmech. That’s how he took power and earned the privilege to bear the scepter. He was corrupt long before he ever touched the Zithstone. Besides, he’s got sons of his own now, and they’re as rotten as he is."

"I heard he sired each of his litters on a different ledozhe," Lizneth said.

Mama shot her a look. "Lizneth. Not in front of the cuzhehn."

"None of those ledozhehn were willing participants," Papa said with a smirk.

Mama glared. She checked to make sure none of the nestlings were paying attention. Several had wandered off into the recesses at either end of the room, slumping into naps, scurrying about, or staging wrestling matches in the fresh straw bedding. Raial slid beneath Lizneth’s arm and laid his head on her lap, giggling and writhing as she scrunched her fingers across his scalp.

How were they today? Lizneth asked, catching Malak by the scruff just before he scrambled under the bench.

It was a madhouse, Papa said. Your brothers and sisters are too wild for us to keep up with anymore.

Mama laughed, but it was a tired sound.

I’ll take them down to the river for a while tomorrow and give you two a rest, Lizneth offered.

Papa gave her a kind smile. "You’re too good to us, cuzhe. It would be nice to have a moment to ourselves. You and your Mama are just the same, you know that? You do far more than what’s expected of you, and you never raise a fuss."

Should I raise a fuss?

"You already do everything you should and nothing you shouldn’t. Don’t go changing things on your old kehaieh now."

I almost let them see me today, Lizneth admitted. I wanted to ask them about Deequol.

No, hiding was the right thing to do, Papa said. Never let them see you if you can avoid it.

Papa and I miss Deequol and everyone else very much. But Lizneth, you must promise never to put yourself in danger like that. You’re the last of your litter, and Papa and I need you here. They’re more forgiving during the harvest when our yields are high. If they ever took you—

I know. The nestlings aren’t old enough to work in the fields yet. It’s too much for you and Papa to do by yourselves anymore. I know. I’m doing the best I can. I just wanted to know how Deequol is getting along. I’m sorry.

Deequol has another life now. Papa was firm, verging on angry. "We don’t worry over him or Nawk or Vikkish or Craik or Ritin, or any of the others. As hard as it is, this is the way of things. We can’t do anything about the children we’ve already lost, but we can work hard to keep the rest of the cuzhehn with us. His voice softened. Having you here is such a big help. We’re so proud of you. But please, cuzhe. As much as you love and miss your brood-siblings, you must forget about them. We may see some of them again, but there’s no use holding out hope for it."

Lizneth had often wondered why her parents were so content to live like this. Whenever she asked them why they put up with Sniverlik and his Marauders, they said it was because many villages had it even worse than Tanley did. Sorry for myself is the last thing I should feel, she often thought. I’m doing what makes my parents happy and I’m working to keep our family together. Still, she knew her parents didn’t always say how they really felt. Don’t you ever feel trapped here? she asked.

We try not to look at it that way. We have a good plot of land in Tanley. In any other village we’d have to start over from nothing. And there are only so many patches of good soil in the below-world.

That patch of soil had become the entirety of Lizneth’s world. Every time she woke, she nursed it, nourished it, tended to it… resented its existence. She had learned long ago to suppress those feelings of resentment, pouring herself into her work as a means of finding relief from the pressure. But the discontentment still tugged at her, unraveling the delicate fabric of her circumstances. In time, she found it wasn’t the hard work she hated; it was the fact that she had no choice.

"Your brothers and sisters will be parikuahn in a year or two, Mama said, and they’ll ease the burden you feel now. Things will be better."

Yes, they will. Lizneth looked down at her stew. The table was a mess of overturned bowls, tipped mugs, and puddles of split broth. She hadn’t taken a bite yet. She took up a spoonful and let it splash back into the bowl.

But, you… Papa began, and thought better of it.

But I what?

But you wish for another life, Mama finished. A life that’s more than planting and harvesting.

Papa laughed. "Is there a parikua in all the Aionach who hasn’t wished for more? This life is no adventure."

Lizneth sighed. I suppose there’s a part of me that wishes I could see places far away. To just go somewhere, and live. Live for the sake of living, not just for the sake of meeting someone else’s demands.

Then perhaps your old Papa should take you on a travel one of these days, Papa said with a meager smile.

That’s thoughtful of you, Papa. But there are only two places you can ever be at the end of a travel… somewhere else, or back where you started. And you would mean for us to come back.

Papa’s brow wrinkled. Of course I would. Where else would we go?

Lizneth knew they would never understand her, despite any attempt she might make to explain. Never mind, she muttered.

What, then? What is it that you want?

Only a little independence.

Mama’s apprehension showed through a flimsy mask. That’s a natural thing, dear. But you must be patient. You know this. There will be consequences for all of us unless you put this family ahead of your desires, for now.

I have, and I will. I’m not going to leave you and Papa on your own. Sometimes I want a break from it all, just like you do. I’d like to know what it’s like not to be responsible for anyone but myself, even for a day. I don’t think that’s so much to want. Is it?

Her parents hesitated, glancing at one another.

"No, cuzhe. But know that whether you are parikua or the mother of your own family, or both, you will be bound by a duty to others," Mama said.

Maybe I don’t want to be either of those things, then.

Someday you may see it differently. Papa placed his hand on Mama’s, where it rested on the arm of her rocker.

I’m sorry Papa, but I won’t. Lizneth wanted to say the words, but she didn’t see the point. She didn’t see the point in letting some brash buck sire his brood on her, only to watch her children taken from her one by one. She decided she wanted to drop the subject, so she said nothing in her defense. But as always, her parents were two, and she was only one.

Lizneth, we raised you this way because this is the only future we have.

This is no future, Mama.

Not the one you prefer, maybe. But we have more of a future here than you’ll ever find out there. Papa gestured toward the door.

Something in the way he did it made Lizneth clench up like a stuck jar. Out that door is exactly where I want to be, she thought, and she found herself becoming too upset to bear her parents’ company any longer. I’d rather fail making my own way than be stuck here without a choice, she said, rising to her feet. She scampered across the room and let herself outside without looking back. Even after she’d whipped the door shut with her tail, she could hear her parents’ cries coming from within.

The road lengthened behind her as she ran, falling to all fours where it was steepest. Mulligraws twinkled on their vines in the flat hollow where her fields bordered the path. She had intended to stop there, to run through the beanstalks and hide away until she calmed down, shielded from view in her secret place. But where that section of road ended, there was another that stretched far beyond. It was so tempting. Just to run past her mulligraw fields and never stop. The ceiling of the subterranean den crested at a height almost further up than she could see, then dove down toward the far end of Tanley, where the road shot under a covered passageway she had never taken before.

Once the thought hit her, Lizneth didn’t hesitate. Hesitation would’ve been the end of it. She darted down the path and entered the tunnel to begin the hours-long trek. The sudden release of some long-fought suppression swept her up and carried her along. She found herself unsure of her actual intent, but too flushed with excitement and anticipation to stop. Abandoning her family was not her aim; she knew what would happen to them if she ever left for good. She only longed for something to break her away from the monotony of her life, if only for a short while. Just then, she wasn’t clear-headed enough to have a plan; she only knew where she was headed: the basin, a labyrinth of roads that joined the nearby metropolis of Bolck-Azock to its border towns.

The metropolis’s distant bedlam swelled as Lizneth drew near. She arrived at the foot of the basin after two hours of jogging, her fur filthy and her tail heated. Above her, layer upon layer of ramps, walkways, and staircases wound through streets and platforms cloven into shelves of rock and dirt and clay. Bolck-Azock was the center of culture and trade for the ikzhehn in this part of the world, a place bustling and awake at all hours with the sweet haick of possibility. Thousands of Lizneth’s kin scurried among the spires; dealers and shopkeeps, beggars and bandits, treading the city’s latticework with the effortless equilibrium afforded them by instinct. Lizneth had even heard tell that the calaihn, the strange spindly-legged creatures who lived in the blind-world, sometimes came here to trade.

Independence. If there were a place in which to gain that most liberating of conditions, it was here, in the metropolis of Bolck-Azock. Lizneth took her first step into the city proper, past the rotting sign that signaled her arrival. The euphoria of freedom washed over her.

CHAPTER 4

Detail

The whole city stank to high Infernal, but the strongest scent on the breeze today was the sharp tang of death. Merrick’s stomach turned when he considered that his comrade’s body was causing the smell, but there was no escaping it; his shift didn’t end for another hour. So he sat in his rusted metal folding chair with the heavy rifle laid across his lap, looking out the ragged fourth-story corner window-hole and down the street they called Bucket Row.

He could see all the way to the eastern edge of Belmond from here, between the dilapidated buildings and down the pulverized road that ran the length of the city from east to west. At the outskirts, the asphalt sank into the sand, and the endless desert beyond swallowed the road like a predator. Merrick didn’t know where the name ‘Bucket Row’ came from, but this was where most people who tried to get into the city north without permission kicked the bucket, so that seemed as good a rationale as any.

The muties had left Praul on the street below, naked and holding an armful of his own innards. It would be a long time before anyone ventured into the street to retrieve the body. More than likely, it would wind up a meal for the birds, maggot-ridden and shriveled in the heat—if something else didn’t drag it off during the night. There hadn’t been a trade caravan for months, and the southers were getting hungry.

Pilot Wax had ordered the muties chained by the ankles and strung up from the Hull Tower roof to serve as a warning to any others who would dare attack the Scarred. Sometimes the Commissar’s ‘warnings’ hung there for days before they died, drawing hundreds of carrion birds to perch nearby and drench the surrounding streets with their droppings.

Merrick spotted a shadow on the pavement two blocks down, where a shape was moving behind a tall pile of rubble. When he raised his rifle’s spyglass, a second shadow joined the first. More muties, he told himself. Muties, or humans with boiled pink skin and bad posture. Whatever they were, they were from the city south, and that made them unwelcome. One of their heads swayed into view. A chunk of concrete erupted in a puff of dust, and both shadows vanished. The sound of the shot came to Merrick a second later, complements of one of his fellow Sentries further down the Row. Merrick waited a few minutes, but the shadows did not return. ‘Fernal muties. Better not come down the Row my way, or my first shot won’t be a miss.

The chair squealed in protest as Merrick stretched his legs and slouched in his seat. He set his rifle on the floor beside him and stared up into the building’s eviscerated interior. The missing floors above gave him an unobstructed view to the crystal chandelier hanging from the seventh story ceiling. He wondered how well it was bolted in. If it comes loose and falls, I’ll have to interrupt my moment of relaxation in favor of my good looks.

He checked the street again. Still no sign of the muties. The gaping hole in the wall in front of him had been a picture window once. He was sitting in what would’ve been the dining area, he guessed, noting the splinters of dark hardwood around the room’s edges. The faded billboard mounted on the apartment building across the street urged him to visit Providence Hills, a new luxury active adult community in northeast Belmond, just off Route 292 before the overpass. There was a picture of a gray-haired couple in a hammock, gazing at each other like star-crossed teenagers. The tagline at the bottom of the billboard was burnt away, so Merrick had made up a few taglines of his own. Providence Hills—where the wealthy go to die, was his favorite.

Merrick rested his hands on his belly. It was depressing to note how much of the soft doughy flesh he could pinch between his fingers. I’m getting fat. It had been easier to keep the weight off before he’d become a glorified security guard. Ever since his job description had changed from ‘roam the city and kill things’ to ‘sit on a rusty chair and do nothing,’ he’d been packing on the pounds. He was surprised it was even possible to gain weight with all the sweating he did out here.

The rattle in his lungs had gotten worse, too. The air in the city was as bad as any in the wastes, but lately the four-story climb to his post constituted the bulk of his physical activity. Sometimes he was out of breath by the time he’d made it to the second floor. Forbid it that an alarm gets raised and I have to hit the street in a hurry. I’ll pass out before I get down the stairs, he mused.

The alarm never went up, though. Most of the locals knew better than to provoke the Scarred Comrades. Neither the Mouthers nor the Gray Revenants had sufficient numbers to pose a threat, and the souther gangs and mutie communes were too small to threaten anything but the occasional mischief, so the only action the Row ever saw these days was the occasional brief skirmish.

During most of his shifts, Merrick passed the hours by creating hypothetical scenarios about these types of attacks and playing them out in his head, throwing in whatever imaginative twists he could think of. It was hard not to get bored, but bored was better than dead, and either was better than getting banished.

That was what Wax did to the comrades who disobeyed his orders, or proved themselves unfit for service; he banished them. The mark carved into the flesh between Merrick’s right thumb and forefinger depicted three claws, each shorter than the last, with a curved line through the base like a set of knuckles. Every man who accepted the mark of the Scarred Comrades knew that to do so was to bring the hatred and jealousy of thousands of southers upon himself. That made banishment a fate worse than death.

Nobody had been able