The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (16 page)

An axe swooped at her and Quinn rocked back on the balls of her feet as the steel edge swept inches from her nose. The remaining two prisoners looked on with stunned expressions, too terrified to flee through the open gate. The Shaylighters were snarling and hacking at her, edging her back toward the open-roof prison. A carbine was fired and a steel ball whizzed past her ear, smacking into a wooden pole behind her. She went low and thrust upward with the spear, twisting it with gritted teeth, jerking it free, blood spattering her face. She lashed out with one leg, taking down a pair of ankles, and drove the spear down into a ribcage. She pulled hard and swore aloud as the spear jammed in his bones.

“Fuck.”

Hands grabbed her. Fists and weapons clubbed her. She punched, kicked and scratched but there was too many of them now. She was smothered by bare-chested men. Her bruised face was pressed into the mud. They sat on her and tied her wrists a second time, punching her repeatedly. They rolled her onto her back and beat her until her face was crimson.

“Shabhail don reimse,” bellowed a voice. Quinn peered through a half-closed eye, blood streaming down her face.

It was Jeremy.

“Essamon will be furious if she dies before the arena.”

Slowly, Stone lowered the crossbow. It scraped against the hard ground. He began to stand, widening his arms, opening and flexing his hands, showing he was unarmed, the spear tip pinned against his neck.

The Shaylighter was talking to him but once more; it was a blunt language, spoken fast. Stone had no idea what was being said but it didn’t matter because in a few seconds he’d gut the man.
He stretched his body. He was at least a foot taller than the warrior behind him. The spear was now levelled into his back, poking against his spine. There was a new flurry of words, accompanied by rapid jabs with the spear, the gesture for Stone to move. He took a step forward, measuring his breathing.
The six guards were only forty yards away but he still had the element of surprise as the hundreds of Shaylighters roared within the stadium to the words of Essamon.

He whipped around, moving fast, the Shaylighter startled by the quickness of the older man. One hand circled the shaft of the spear and gripped it tight, pushing away the deadly tip. The Shaylighter saw a knife in the bearded man’s right hand. Stone thrust forward, stabbing the blade into his captor’s throat, releasing the spear and clamping his free hand across the man’s mouth at the same time. A muffled cry rasped against his rough palm. He jerked out the knife, the blade coated with blood and jabbed it into the man’s stomach, a trio of rapid thrusts.

He cradled the falling body, one arm around his back, easing him down toward the ground.

Breathing hard, he cleaned the knife blade and picked up his crossbow.

He peeked around the corner of the stadium. The six warriors were gathered before narrow openings with rusted and faded metal signs above each one. Stone fired, his aim true, the first warrior toppling over with a bolt lodged in his head.
He cranked the lever, began to move, firing and taking down another. The warriors scattered and carbines were lifted and steel balls whizzed through the air.
Stone broke cover, firing repeatedly, spitting out bolts, the deadly crank of the lever. A steel ball whistled over his head and buried itself into the metal door of a car. He kept moving, weaving through the cars, boots kicking up dirt.

The remaining Shaylighters cried out in their native tongue. A spear went past him and clattered into a truck.

None of them had sent a runner to raise the alarm. They were confident of capturing or killing him themselves. Stone sprinted in a new direction, momentarily losing them. Then he burst into view, firing rapidly, the handle cranking, the bolts shooting fast across the maze of rusted cars. A warrior screamed, shot in the chest. His legs buckled and he disappeared from view. The Shaylighters continued to chase the bearded man though three of them were now dead and they had not even grazed him once. An order was barked and Stone saw one of them peel away and begin to run back toward the stadium to raise the alarm.

He ran hard, lungs burning, zigzagging across the cracked black asphalt, vegetation curling through open fissures. A steel ball went past him. He kept running and firing and then pain tore through him like fire.
His hand dropped to his hip. The ball had ripped through flesh, right above where he had once been shot. He grimaced, raised a bloodied hand and kept firing until he heard another warrior cry out. He swept across the front of a car, scrambled onto the roof, aimed and fired, the bolt drilling into the throat of the last chasing Shaylighter, slamming his back against a crushed car.

Stone swivelled his head, grimaced from his wound. He saw the runner reach the dark openings of the stadium and raised the crossbow.

The Shaylighter hit the wall of the stadium. A low guttural cry slipped from his mouth. His arms flailed, fingers scratching against the pitted brickwork, and then he slumped to the ground, the crossbow bolt embedded in the back of his skull

Stone limped back through the graveyard of vehicles. He unclipped the magazine from the crossbow and saw it was empty. He discarded the weapon and winced at the pain in his hip. He peeled down his trousers and saw the flow of blood. He took a cloth and wiped it clean but the blood continued to seep. He reached into his tunic and drew one of Quinn’s knives. He placed the blade in the flames of one of the fires and looked around, seeing no one.

Inside the stadium, the crowd was cheering. He was in no doubt that a fight was underway in the arena. He had seen the state of the prisoners, weak and broken. He hoped it wasn’t Quinn who had been chosen first. He reckoned the Shaylighters knew who she was. She was the warrior who’d fought them on the roads of Ennpithia, denying them the bounty on Boyd’s truck and killing their warriors. She would fight last in the arena.

Stone snatched up a dropped spear and broke free a piece of the shaft.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hip stinging, forehead shiny with beads of sweat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He put the length of wood between his teeth. Bit down hard. Took the knife from the fire.

Then he pressed the blade to his wound.

TWELVE

“Soirese!”

The hairs on her arms prickled as they chanted her name. She wore black studded gloves and swung another fearsome punch. Her knuckles collided with the man’s jaw and there was the crunch of bone, the rip of skin, and the spray of blood and yellowed teeth.

She nimbly circled him, slapping him around the face, poking him with a single finger, goading him, humiliating him. As he came at her, stumbling and directionless, she powered forward and unleashed a succession of rapid jabs into his chest and abdomen. He gasped and reeled away; weak and pathetic, no match for her battle hardened skills. Her fellow warriors clattered weapons and tools, the noise rising to an ear-splitting crescendo.

“Tabhair gra dom,” she cried.

Love me, she demanded, and they did. The women wanted to be her. The men wanted to have her. But she took what she wanted and she took who she wanted. No one chose for her. No one stood in her way. She was the one they respected. She was the one they feared. She was the monster they whispered of in fearful stories, striding around the arena, six feet two inches tall, an immaculate body of lean muscle, an angular face daubed in streaks of coloured ointment, white scars on her cheeks and across her mouth, eyes the colour of the night, an upper lip flared above a row of jagged teeth. The inverted cross was painted down her glistening torso with a strip of cloth knotted across her near flat breasts.

She pumped her fists into the air and the crowd cheered. She rallied them once more and this time they roared.

She lifted the puny man from the blood stained grass and hurled his body against the ropes of the arena.

He was broken, the baying crowd spinning all around him. His face was a mess of blood, arms hanging loose, fingers uncoiled. He was desperately trying to form the words of a prayer but pain lanced through his body. The words tumbled ragged and without cohesion from his bloodied mouth. He had tried to fight her but he hadn’t landed a single punch. He clung to his faith. The Lord would not desert him. He knew he was in the last seconds of his life and the realisation churned his stomach. People and places flashed before him but the memories were so fleeting and so distant that he could grasp none of them. And then another punch collided against his body and the pain was so deeply layered he could no longer feel it.

“Is e seo aon chomortas,” she declared, bearing down on her prey, flickering torches lighting the ring.

“What did she say?” asked Jeremy, leaning forward, seated alongside Essamon on an elevated podium near the tunnel, surrounding by painted warriors armed with slingshot carbines.

“The man is weak. He is no challenge for Soirese.” Essamon’s voice flicked from his mouth. “She wants to fight stronger.”

He applauded as another punch slammed into the man’s face, breaking his nose, spilling blood and snot.

“Where is he?” asked Jeremy.

“Who?”

“The Engineer.”

“He left days ago,” said Essamon.

“I thought he would be here. I wanted to meet him.”

“And do what? Would you fight him? You are a boy. He is a man. He did not know she was important to you. Do not speak of him again. Do you understand me?”

Jeremy nodded and rubbed his sweaty palms together, looking down into the arena. Soirese was toying with her opponent, keeping the warriors entertained. In combat, the man would have died within seconds but this was not combat; this was entertainment.

“She could have killed him a long time ago. She wants to put on a show.”

Essamon nodded. “This man was beaten before he climbed into the arena.”

“She is worshipped.”

“Will Quinn be a match for her?”

The words crawled from his mouth, like a scaly beast dragging its belly over sun blazed rock. Jeremy was silent. His blood turned to ice. He had pleaded with Quinn to stay away from Mosscar. Now he would be forced to watch her fight. In a perverse way, it thrilled him. His groin strained in anticipation at watching two beautiful women brawl bloody and relentless.
Brix was behind him now. He was a man. This was his destiny. He had helped murder Daniel and felt nothing. He had shot and killed two Churchmen and felt nothing. No elation. No remorse. Nothing. It was simply what had to be done to protect the plan.

“Soirese will kill her.”

“That is good then,” said Essamon. “Many of our brothers are no longer here because of her.”

Essamon clapped a hand against the boy’s back. He thought of the moment the child had wandered into Mosscar, talking to himself, wanting the diseased concrete to claim his soul, ordering it to kill him.
Fluent in Ennpithian and Shaylighter, Essamon had listened and watched the child fall to his knees amongst the rubble.
He had pushed aside the carbines of his warriors and when the boy spoke their native tongue, losing only a few words here and there, Essamon knew he had been correct in sparing him. The boy damned the Lord in the Above. He had been beaten and terrorised and no matter how hard he prayed no saviour appeared to him.
The Shaylighter leader recognised hate and hate was something he understood and understood well. Hate was something he could mould and exploit. There was a twisted irony as he learned the boy’s identity but chose not to reveal the alliance that had already been formed.

The man in the arena was on his knees. His ribs were cracked. It was agony to breathe. Soirese silenced the crowd. There was barely a murmur amongst the hundreds.

She cried out, speaking Ennpithian, the words awkward, stilted. “There is no Above. He will know this.”

Her mouth twisted into a snarl and she snapped the man’s neck before he could utter a single word.
The crowd bellowed as his body slumped to the grass. Soirese pinned him with her boot and beckoned with her hands, demanding more worthy opponents. The crowd went wild. Jeremy watched the next prisoner being led into the arena. It was the second man that had been captured and he put up more of a fight, determined to rely on his fists and not prayer. He went toe to toe with her but failed to land a single blow. She was fast in the arena, darting about the assembled ring.
She glided across the grass, hammering her fists into his chest, aiming kicks into his throat and back and groin, chopping and head butting and stamping until he fell to his knees, like her first victim. The man raised a shaking hand toward Essamon and begged for his surrender to be accepted.

The Shaylighter leader rose from his seat, arms outstretched. The wind whipped around his hat of feathers.

Soirese stepped back against the ropes, hands on her hips, torso filmed with perspiration. She glared at the Ennpithian. He was pathetic. He was no man. They were no match for her. She was irritated they had placed another feeble man before her. She wanted to hone her skills against the best. She craved the woman they knew as Quinn, the warrior who had slain many of her brothers on the road. She would tear her limb from limb.

Jeremy listened to Essamon’s words, mentally translating each one, as he declared to his warriors that the man was a coward.

“An bosca,” called the crowd. “An bosca, an bosca, an bosca.”

The box.

Essamon motioned for the man to rise. Slowly, the Ennpithian was on his feet, gritting his teeth, unsteady, face racked with pain as he cradled a broken arm.

“An bosca,” hissed Essamon.

The box erupted with light. The man whimpered as the white beam lit up his chest and his flesh began to burn. He screamed and tried to run but he was too weak and the beam was searing through him. His hair was alight, his legs buckled and still Essamon poured the white light upon him. The air filled with the stench of melting flesh and bone.

The man no longer screamed.

Soirese skirted around the mess. She signalled to the crowd. “Beidh me ag troid an da mna.”

I will fight both women, thought Jeremy.

A group of Shaylighters rushed back to the cage. The fervent cheering evaporated and conversation broke out in the crowd.
Food was passed around. Children grew suddenly bored and mock fights broke out with parents urging them on. Fires crackled and the blackness of the night cocooned the stadium.
Soirese moved around the arena, keeping her body warm, fighting off any stiffness or cramp. She shadow boxed, growing impatient with each jab and swerve. Where were her next opponents? She glanced up at the podium and saw Essamon was becoming agitated by the delay. He nodded toward her and she galloped over the ropes of the arena and eased swiftly through the crowds.

She reached the cage. It was empty. The gate was hung open and the bodies of her people lay in the grass, throat’s slit.

She howled and warriors rallied to her. One of them foolishly offered her an axe and she fractured his jaw. She had no need of a hand held weapon. She sent a runner to Essamon and then gathered forty warriors. She looked for the two women but they were nowhere to be seen. There was a second tunnel here, which burrowed beneath the giant stand of broken seats. Small fires burned inside and she glimpsed shadows fleeing.

Soirese pointed and let loose a blood curdling war-cry.

Quinn looked at the woman alongside her and knew she would not last. Fear would slow her down and that might see all three of them captured. She grabbed the woman, hands around her shoulders.

“What’s your name?”

That rapid, clinical, punchy voice. The woman stared back at her, distraught, barely cohesive. She was in her twenties, a slight build, brown eyes stretched wide, freckled nose stained with tears, dirty black hair spread on trembling shoulders. Her stubby fingers were caked with mud where she had clawed at the ground in the cage.

Quinn slapped her. “What’s your name?”

“Rita.”

“Where are you from?”

“I … I’m …” Her teeth were chattering. Quinn slapped her again.

“Where?”

“Onglee. Great Onglee. I’m from Great Onglee.” Her lashes bubbled with a fresh crop of tears.

“You want to get back there, right?” said Quinn, almost nose to nose with her. “So you must listen to me.”

Stone waited, unmoving, half-crouched in the darkened concourse that ran beneath the stand, watching and counting the seconds. He held the slingshot carbine, right finger on the trigger, left hand curled around the pump slider, the stock pressed into his shoulder.

He gritted his teeth against the pain in his hip.

Quinn told Rita she had to run and she had to keep running and the reward would be her home.

Stone growled, “We need to go.”

He handed Quinn her knife belt and led them past a long row of cubicles where fires burned in rusted metal drums. There were grime smeared counters and cracked tiled walls with faded pictures beneath rippled plastic covers. Shadows flickered across white washed walls. Rita let out a shocked gasp as she saw the first of the bodies, a man, draped over one of the counters, his skull bashed in, blood dripping into a large puddle.
She saw more Shaylighters, men and women, sprawled and lifeless, blood streaking the grey concrete underfoot. She stuttered and the colour drained from her face.
The bearded man had killed all these people. She began to shake and could no longer look at him. Her legs grew heavy and refused to budge, but Quinn took her by the wrist and yanked her forward. They started along a walkway, Rita being half-dragged, as the noise of the crowd ebbed into an ominous lull.

Stone guessed they must have discovered the empty cage by now.

They reached a vast hall where the wind whistled through gaping holes in the ceiling. A scattering of stars winked and shone in the black night. It was clear there had once been an upper level, a mezzanine floor, with access to further rooms and corridors and walkways, but it had crashed down long ago and was now only rusted and mangled steel.
Stone glanced over his shoulder as he picked his way back through the rubble. He saw an outline of warriors gathering at the mouth of the concourse.
He recognised the silhouette of the warrior woman from the arena and heard her roar, banshee like; then the outlines began to move, rapidly, and steel balls flicked toward them.

Rita screamed as her shoulder blade was punctured. Quinn sucked in her breath and watched as the poor woman lost her footing and jerked forward, speared on a jutting piece of twisted metal. Her back erupted and her arms dropped limply at her sides, fingers picking at the dirt.

Stone unleashed a volley, darting across the rubble as he fired. He yelled at Quinn that he would cover her, gripping the fearsome weapon in his thick hands, left hand pumping the slider and drawing taut the sling.
The carbine carried ten shots but he would be overwhelmed if he stopped to reload the magazine. The Shaylighters found cover and poured steel balls at him. He moved constantly, unsure how long he could avoid being hit. He ducked as another one fizzed over his head. He glimpsed Quinn gently lift Rita’s head. Blood ran from her trembling mouth. She was still alive, barely, but finished.

“Go,” he yelled, firing off his last shot.