The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (12 page)

She put an arm around him.

“He was very sick, Jeremy. His body and his mind. He never got over losing her. I haven’t, either, which is why I’m staying.”

“Please …”

“Go home, Jeremy.”

He stepped back from her. “She’s carrying outlawed weapons and tech.”

Quinn froze; the soldiers looked at her.

“I’m sorry.”

The first soldier trotted forward, eyebrows raised.

“Is he telling the truth, Quinn?”

She extended her arms.

“Search me.”

The man peered down at her. He eyed the knife belt strapped across her chest. She had a fine looking chest, the wind blowing hard against her sleeveless shirt. He looked for a moment longer.

“Knives are not outlawed, son.”

“She must have hidden them somewhere,” said Jeremy. “They’re nearby.”

“Enough of your nonsense. We’re going back to Brix. Get on your horse, boy.”

His right hand moved and Quinn’s eyes widened as she saw one of her pistols in his grip. He whirled round and the gunshot was deafening. The first soldier toppled backward, a crimson hole spreading in his throat.
The second one reached for his sword and kicked his horse to attack but Jeremy swung the pistol, cupping his left hand beneath the weight of the firearm, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet slanted upward through the man’s cheekbone. He slid from his saddle and slammed into the grass with an ugly crunch of bone.

He spun round, aimed at Quinn.

“No.”

She hesitated, two blades half-unsheathed. She had been too stunned to draw them any quicker. She would have reacted faster to a dozen Shaylighters bearing down on horseback but a single boy killing Churchmen with one of her own pistols had rooted her to the spot. She glanced toward Mosscar where her pack and gun were hopelessly out of reach.

“You couldn’t stay away,” he said. “You had to push it. Why couldn’t you wait, Annie?”

Quinn stared at the muzzle of the pistol.

“Take off the belt. Drop it on the ground.” His finger caressed the trigger. “Do it. Slowly, that’s it.”

Her knife belt snaked into the grass.

“Is Daniel really dead?”

“Yes.”

Quinn nodded.

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“You lying little bastard.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“He would have been easy for a puny boy to kill.”

“I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”

“Some man. You need a gun against a girl.”

He jabbed the pistol toward her.

“Shut up.”

She snorted. “What about Clarissa? Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“You did. I know you did. You lured her out here and sent her to her death. Why?”

“I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”

“You’re lying.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Why not?” She paused. “Who are you protecting?”

Jeremy lowered the pistol. A smile touched his face. Quinn heard footsteps behind her.

“Nach gortaitear di,” he said.

She blinked. He spoke Shaylighter. That wasn’t possible. How could he know their language?

The hair rose on the nape of her neck. She slowly turned.

At least thirty of them had gathered behind her, creeping out of the ruins; snarling faces, long knotted hair, bare-chests painted with the inverted cross. She saw they brandished spears and axes, their preferred weapons, but she also saw a dozen slingshot carbines. She had never seen Shaylighters wielding these before. And she had never seen so many of them.

And none of them looked sick.

“Ta si duais.”

Quinn shuddered at the voice. She had heard it once before and once only. She saw him emerge from the crowd of warriors, his distinctive hat of feathers, goggles over his eyes, a black box clutched in one hand. She glanced at his bare shoulder where Nuria claimed to have struck him with an axe but there was no sign of any wound.

“Chur lei,” cried Essamon, pumping his fist into the air, and the Shaylighters swarmed around her.

Shauna squeezed, strangled, twirled and shook and hung out the last of her sodden washing. The wind blew stiffly against the clothes. She spotted Father Devon and Deacon Rush outside Father William’s house. The priest rapped against the stout front door but there was no answer. He sighed and glanced at his young companion who offered a passive shrug.

She called over. “He’s out.”

“Do you know where he went, my dear?”

“Fishing, I reckon. I heard him leave before dawn.”

“Yes, he’s not the quietest of men, is he? Thank you, Shauna.”

She brushed hair from her face, felt drained and wished Brian was here. He would have all the answers, all the reassurances. She waited for the men of the Holy House to leave. She noticed the priest carried a wrapped package under one arm and puzzled over it for a moment.

Taking a deep breath she called, “Deacon Rush, can I have a minute of your time?”

“How can I help, Shauna?” His expression dropped. “You look deeply troubled.”

“I am.”

Rush turned to Father Devon.

“Talk with her,” said the older man. “I will see Father William by myself. Good morning to you, Shauna.”

She stood in her untidy garden as Father Devon trudged away. The long grass curled around her ankles. She lowered her eyes toward the fence; it had become damaged during the last winter and was now a ramshackle and embarrassing spectacle of split and warped wood lashed together with fraying lengths of rope.
Brian had no materials to repair it and not enough coins to purchase any. Touron law stated that a man could no longer walk into the forest with an axe and fell all the trees he required. The woodcutters chopped down the trees and the trees were stored in lumber camps and the camps required payment. Shauna raised her eyes and saw one or two neighbours glance at her shoddy fence and overgrown garden and dilapidated house of stone and turf that leaned to one side due to the tremors. She could only imagine what they thought of her and her husband and as much as she claimed not to care she knew, deep down, she did. And, despite this, even because of this, she wanted to stay, but knew it would be impossible to do so.

“Shauna?”

She invited him inside and apologised for the mess. She had begun packing a few items, half-heartedly, but she’d already given up. The thought of leaving was making her stomach heave. He stood at the hearth, the embers cold. It was already a warm morning but this side of the house was perpetually in the shade and the deacon appeared to notice the sudden drop in temperature.

“I would have talked with Father William but I’m not sure he can help me.”

“He’s terribly hard of hearing, Shauna. A conversation with him can leave you with a very sore throat.”

She smiled faintly, relaxed a little.

“You’ve gone very pale, Shauna.” He paused. “Are you ill?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “I don’t feel ill.”

“Would you like to sit down?” It wasn’t a question. He guided her toward Brian’s chair.

She sat. He positioned a second chair before her. She looked at him, struggling to form the words she desperately needed to say. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times over. Not always with the deacon. Sometimes she would be talking with Father Devon or Father William or even the brutish Captain Duggan but she imagined it would be easier to open up to Deacon Rush. He was only a few years older than her husband. She caught her breath when she realised she was staring at him, somewhat fondly. She had never really noticed his eyes before. They were charming eyes, gentle, with warmth and deep concern for her wellbeing. She realised she knew so little about him. He had always been a part of the Holy House, taught the ways of faith since childhood. That was all she knew. That was all anyone really knew. She glanced at the cross hanging around his neck, settled in the folds of his black robes. He seemed to have nothing beyond the Holy House; no family, no real friends, no woman, no interests apart from learning the wisdom of the Lord.

Once more she attempted to coax the words forward.

“Is it your husband, Shauna? Do you miss him?”

“No, it’s not that.” Her voice was croaky. She cleared it. “Excuse me. I mean, yes, I miss him. I don’t like it when he goes to Touron.”

“Do you not like Touron?”

“No. I hear too many stories of trouble and fights and I hate it when he has to go there.”

“I’m sure our Lord will keep him safe and return him to you soon.”

He waited.

“What’s troubling you, Shauna?”

“Why do you think the Lord stops me from having a child?”

Rush opened and closed his hands. He was silent for a moment.

“I cannot begin to understand the pain you go through, Shauna.”

“I look at the other women in the village and their lives are so complete. Lyndarn has six children. Why would the Lord give her six children and give me none? Does He hate me?”

“He does not hate you. But the Lord has chosen a different path for you.”

“It doesn’t feel much of a path, Deacon Rush.”

“I can understand that it might seem that way now. However, I am certain you will find your reward.”

She shook her head.

“The only reward I want is a child. I’m less of a woman. I’m incomplete.”

“You are a complete woman, Shauna.” Their eyes met. “You are simply travelling a different path to a woman such as Lyndarn.”

She folded her arms.

“There are hardly any childless women in Brix.”

“There are childless women throughout our land, Shauna.”

He pressed the cross between the palms of his hands.

“I will say extra prayers for you, Shauna.”

At that moment she wanted to cry. She would regret his death when the time came. She would mourn him. She would mourn the loss of Father William, too. His poor hearing made any conversation a laboured affair of hand gestures and bellowing but he was a gentle, kind hearted and thoughtful old soul who saw the lies within the truth and the truth within the lies. He had served as a soldier in the Marshal Regiment, during his younger days, but had taken his vows within the Holy House long before the outbreak of war with the Kiven, the bleak years when they swarmed from the Black Region across the Place of Bridges, slaughtering Ennpithians, stealing food and clothing and cattle. She had been a child then and Ennpithia had teetered on the brink. But now there was peace and there had been peace for ten long years.

“Do you remember the war, Deacon Rush?”

He nodded. “It was a dark time for Ennpithia.”

“But do you remember it? What it was like to live through? How we all turned to the Holy House and prayed and then the war went away?”

“I do.”

“I have knelt for years praying for a child but my prayers are ignored. I think I’ve been abandoned.”

“Your reward is coming, Shauna. All you need is patience.” He paused. “There is something else, isn’t there?”

She took a deep breath. She had to tell him. She had to tell someone.

“Deacon, my husband is mixed up in something very bad and he’s planning … people are going to die.”

He nodded, leaned forward and curled his hands around her thighs.

Shauna flinched. “What are you doing?”

He tightened his grip.

“Let go, let go of me.”

“Your husband was a fool to trust you. I told him you were weak.”

He loosened his hands and eased back from her, lifted the cross over his neck, and cradled it within his palm.

“Pog se,” he said.

“What?” she stammered.

“Pog se. Pog se.”

“I don’t … what are you saying?”

“It means kiss it.”

“Is that … Shaylighter? Do you speak Shaylighter?”

“Kiss the cross, Shauna.”

Nervously, she leaned forward, lips pursed, but he snatched her by the hair and dragged her out of the chair, spinning her across the room and slamming her into the wall.

“The cross is no longer your master, Shauna. You no longer worship it. You do not kneel before it.”

She was on the floor, whimpering. He towered over her and kicked her.

“Do you understand?”

She gasped for air.

“I understand.”

He yanked her onto her feet. Tears streamed down her face.

“Are you going to be problem for us?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

He tugged her hair. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m sure.”

“Do you promise?”

She sobbed. “I promise.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that.”