Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) by J.C. Staudt Page A

about to go out and look for you,” said Mercer
Terblanche, a sturdy bull of a hunter whose normally close-cropped hair had
grown out to a shag since they’d left home.
    “No need for that,” Raith said.
    “We wanted to get some air before the streets started filling
up with people. Figured we’d stay out of trouble that way,” said Jiren.
    “And did you?” asked Ernost.
    Jiren cut his eyes at Raith. “Any trouble would’ve been
better than the way it smelled in here last night.”
    The men laughed, and Raith breathed a sigh.
    Sig joined them at the table a few minutes later, dressed for
the day and looking all the more displeased for it. He sat at the head of the
table and scanned the others before his eyes settled on Raith. “You all look
like a pack of starving dogs. Come, eat. Do not leave this here for me. Can you
not see what I will do with it?” He patted his belly, then began to pluck
various items from the serving bowls and drop them onto his plate, working his
jaw as if putting a great deal of thought into the effort. His wife Shonnie set
a wooden mug beside his plate and kissed him on the forehead.
    The Sons of Decylum helped themselves, taking deep breaths to
make room before refilling their plates with a modicum of reluctance. Raith
could not identify every dish on the table, but he was too hungry to care much
for what it was, and it all tasted good. The others asked him which route he
and the younger men had taken on their walk, where they had gone, and what
they’d seen. Raith let Jiren and Derrow do most of the talking.
    At times, Raith found himself running his fingers over the
rough-hewn tabletop, staring off into space and letting the sounds of clinking
tableware and muttered conversation swell to an indiscernible hum around him.
He was not a daydreamer, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his dream; about
Myriad and the two gargantuan statues. The dream had troubled him, perhaps more
than it should have. Dreams mean nothing , he told himself. This one
was no exception. Mere anomaly, drawn from the deceits of my own imagination .
    He hadn’t dreamed about Myriad in years. His only memories of
her resided in brief glimpses he seemed to recall at odd moments, or in the
whispers of the council chamber, or in the passage of Decylum’s collective
mythology from one generation to the next. Myriad was a fable; that was all. A
lost tale whose aroma was stronger than its substance.
    Presently the room fell silent. Raith did not realize why
until he tore himself from his thoughts and looked around. Everyone at the
table was staring past him, down the hallway toward the home’s entrance.
Someone had come into the open doorway of Sig’s house and was addressing one of
his servants in the antechamber. The servant came into the room to fetch Sig,
who stood up from the table and followed him out.
    Sig returned a moment later with a look of suppressed
happiness on his face. “A rider has come from the steel city. They have found
your brothers.”
    Jiren shot up from his chair amid murmurs of delight. “Which
ones? Who? How many of them?”
    “He did not say. Only that there are yarun merouil with Diarmid Kailendi at the factory camp in… Belmond .” Sig formed the
word with an effort.
    “Are they on their way here?”
    Sig shook his head. “They remain in the steel city until the
master-king sends his orders.”
    Raith dropped his fold of thinbread onto his plate, where it
flopped open and sent bits of cheese and meat scattering. The news of any one
of Decylum’s sons being found alive would’ve been enough to excite him, but his
heart leapt to think Hastle might be among the survivors. “I would speak to the
messenger who brought you this news. Is he still here?”
    Sig shook his head again. “He returns to the master-king’s luchair .”
    Raith stood. “We can’t let the master-king send word back to
Belmond before we talk to him.” He looked at Derrow, then at Jiren. “We need