The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (20 page)

“My mother forced the Holy House to banish her family to Touron. Her parents were good people but weak and my mother had a lot of influence in the village. She worked at the Holy House. She cleaned, organised fetes, gathered donations of coin, spread His word to travellers.” She snorted. “I can picture her now trying to convert you. Can you imagine falling to your knees in prayer?”

She winced as the sunlight touched her battered face, her skin raw and caked with blood.

“You kneel for no one. I can tell that. I think we’re alike.”

He steered the horse along the road, tossing up clumps of mud.

“I never saw Francis again. Once I had mastered a horse I went looking for her family in Touron, but I never found them. Touron is a huge town. Thousands of people. But I don’t think they stayed. I don’t think they liked it there. Who knows where they ended up? My mother prayed for my soul but in her eyes I was damned.” Her voice was hollow, as if she was talking about another person’s life, another person’s pain. “I was the Demon from the Below, Stone. I was polluted with sin. Her words, her actual words to me. How could you say that to another human being?
Polluted with sin, Annie
.”

Her hands dug into him. Her voice was a whisper. The horse trotted through the empty lanes of the village.

“So she made Daniel drive the Demon from me. He would be the
instrument of conversion
. He wouldn’t, at first, he refused her; I was his sister and he was supposed to protect me. But she beat him and she beat him and she kept beating him and she convinced him that to disobey your mother was a sin and in the end he did it and he did it again and it twisted him and he carried on, even when she wasn’t there to tell him. I learned to fight back and he never touched me again but by then it was too late and I was carrying Clarissa. I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared. I was only thirteen so I hid in one of Boyd’s stables. I was going to have the baby there. Like in the Great Book. In a stable.” She paused. “You don’t know anything about the Great Book, do you?”

“No.”

“You’re lucky being Gallenese. You don’t have any Holy Houses there, do you?”

He shook his head. “We have our own breed of lunatics in Gallen.”

“Boyd’s family took me in. They shunned my mother and Daniel. I had the baby but I couldn’t look at her. My mother took her from me and told Daniel he would have the responsibility of raising her. My mother concocted a lie in the village that the baby’s mother had died in childbirth. So Clarissa became my niece. Daniel was … he was a good boy, a good man … despite … and a good father to Clarissa, even better once my mother died. A dark cloud was lifted when she passed. I pissed and shit on her grave when they put her into the earth.”

She paused.

“I grew up hating my mother. Clarissa grew up never knowing hers. And she died without knowing.”

Stone drew the horse to a stop on the edge of the village green, busy with stallholders laying out wares for the day.

“I still don’t know how she died.”

The air was thick with the stench of animal shit. He spotted Nuria, back to him, legs slightly apart. The horse snorted, stamped at the ground. Her head tilted. She turned, slowly, raising one hand, shielding her face from the early rays of sunlight. She let out a deep sigh and walked toward him, crossbow slung over her shoulder.

“No sickness then?”

“Something worse.”

Her eyes were red, skin pale and gaunt. She was hardly sleeping or eating, only drinking and smoking. He hadn’t recognised the toll it was taking on her, until now, until leaving her side for less than half a day. It shocked him and his chest burned. She saw the concerned look in his eyes. A half-smile crossed her lips and she patted his leg.

“We need to talk about Kaya.”

“We have a bigger problem.”

Quinn dropped from the saddle, bloodied and exhausted.

“You’re finally here,” grumbled Boyd, emerging from the back of his truck. “What good is a hired man if he’s not around? I think I made a mistake with you, Stone. I should have taken on Dobbs and … Quinn?
Quinn?
”

His mouth hung open. He crossed himself, hurried to her. Nuria saw the façade of a hard nosed businessman rapidly dissolve.

“What happened to you in there? Is this the sickness? Are you infected with it? Quinn? Quinn? Tell me what happened to you.”

She looked at him numbly, as if roused from deep sleep. Her thick ropes of hair were spattered with dried blood. She rubbed her face with grimy hands, deep red grooves in her wrists.

“You should be thanking him, Benny, not shouting at him.” She winced. “Do you have some water?”

A bottle was hung around his neck. He took it off, passed it to her. She popped the cork, gulped it down.

“There’s no sickness in Mosscar.” She lowered the bottle. “The city is full of Shaylighters.”

“What?”

“Roughly a thousand of them.”

There was astonishment on Boyd’s face.

“They captured me.” She gestured at her bruises. “I don’t know how Stone got me out of there but he did.”

Nuria looked at him, a warm feeling swelling inside.

“This is why the Churchmen could never find them,” said Boyd. “I suppose it makes sense. Ennpithians are raised to stay away from Mosscar. Why would you ever doubt it and go in there?”

He shook his head.

“And they’re using these,” said Quinn, handing him the slingshot carbine.

“That’s not possible.” He turned the weapon over in his hand. “These are …”

“There’s no time for all this,” said Stone, suddenly. “Nuria, go to the barracks and raise the garrison. Tell them the village is going to be attacked.”

“By the Shaylighters?” said Boyd. “You’re wrong.”

Stone scrunched his eyes at the man. “We know where they’re hiding now. That changes everything.”

“The Churchmen won’t listen to me,” said Nuria.

“You were a general once. Make them listen.”

“I’ll go,” said Boyd, still holding the carbine. “Nuria’s right. She’s a stranger, they won’t listen to her. I have some influence here. Sergeant Clayton is in charge and he’s a friend. Quinn, get your arm stitched. When you’re done have the truck ready to leave. We need to head to Touron.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “Why?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

The portly merchant moved quickly toward the barracks, a solitary stone building in the distance, ringed with a palisade wall.

“What’s going on?” It was Maurice, with Kevane at his side, both men striding from the Earl’s estate.

“I told you he wouldn’t go there,” said Kevane, gesturing toward Stone. “He was drinking and whoring all night.”

He noticed Quinn.

“Who kicked the shit out of you?” he asked.

“The village is about to be attacked,” said Nuria, before Quinn could reply. “Is there somewhere the women and children can hide?”

“There are caves on the beach,” he said, the humour evaporating from his face, his hand gliding to the hilt of his sword.

“Then alert the village. Quickly, Kevane.”

He nodded. “I can use the bell at the Holy House.”

“Who’s going to attack us?” asked Maurice, as his companion jogged toward the centre of the village.

“Shaylighters,” said Quinn.

“The Shaylighters have never attacked a village. They don’t have the numbers. You’re wrong, Quinn.”

“There isn’t time for a debate,” snapped Quinn. “How do you reach the caves?”

Maurice pointed toward Earl Hardigan’s estate.

“There are steps in the cliff behind the Earl’s property but they haven’t been used in a while. I don’t even know if there’s a safe way down.”

“Find out,” said Nuria. “Please.”

He looked at both women, shot a glance at Stone and then trotted back into the estate.

Nuria wheeled around at Stone.

“I need to find Kaya. Where will you be?”

He raised the slingshot carbine.

“Where do you think?”

FIFTEEN

Stone grabbed the man by his collar. “Where the fuck are you going?”

The man spluttered, startled by the bearded stranger with the hideous face scar. He had seen him roaming the festival the day before and had avoided him then. He wanted to avoid him even more right now. His young wife and children gathered around him.

“Get a weapon and fight.”

He was strong and wrestled away from Stone’s grip. His name was Bevan. He stood tall, in his early twenties, capable and healthy looking with long limbs and dark hair and a neat beard. His two daughters, no older than five or six, gazed up at their parents with frightened eyes as the village heaved with families rushing toward the Earl’s estate. The air was filled with shouting, the panicked bleat of animals and the clanging of the bell. It was the second morning of the festival and no second morning had ever begun in this manner.

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” said Stone. “Every man who stands will be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then why are you running?”

Bevan took the trembling hands of his children. “We all need to hide. I’m protecting my family by staying with them.”

Stone shook his head as they disappeared into the jostling ranks of women and children, running for the caves. He took out his binoculars and scanned the open fields. There was no sign of the Shaylighters. It was only a matter of time. Less than an hour. He looked through the village and spotted armed men forming into groups. He went to the outskirts and took up position in an empty animal pen. There was plenty of cover and he’d already memorised his route back.

The early morning sun beat down on him and the wind rustled his hair. He licked his lips and his stomach grumbled. He thought briefly of the man who had fled and shook his head once more. The right thing was to make a stand, to repel those who wanted to take from another. It was nothing new, he supposed. Not all men could stand. He wondered how many warriors Essamon would bring. If he pressed two or three hundred fighters against Onglee it would all be over in a handful of minutes.

What the fuck was taking Boyd and the Churchmen so long? Was this man Clayton as stubborn as Captain Duggan? Were they arguing over the validity of an impending attack?

Probably.

More villagers clustered together. Men, women and young boys. Afraid, but resolved to fight. A few of them carried swords or crossbows but most were armed with hammers, shovels, rakes, picks, chopping axes, loose pieces of timber, lengths of chain; they stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where the attack would come from and who would be perpetrating it.
That was unimportant. Great Onglee was under threat. They would not run and hide. He saw villagers older than himself and ones younger the traitor, Jeremy, many of them bemoaning the interruption to the second day of the festival. They jostled with good humour, an attempt to mask the anxiety in their eyes and the nerves that crawled around their skin. He knew most of them would be dead within the next few hours and he supposed they knew it to. Once more he thought about the man who had fled for the caves on the beach. Maybe he should tell these villagers to do the same and abandon the village. But knew he wouldn’t and, more than that, he knew he simply couldn’t. He had placed a marker in the wasteland since childhood. He had not walked away then. He was not about to walk away now.

Not without a fight.

The villagers grew more worried than ever as the humour flagged and the jokes wore thin and the stories became repetitive. Stone glanced back along the lane. He could see the Earl’s estate where a patched up Quinn was hurriedly fetching horses from the stable. There was still no sign of the Churchmen. He had hoped they would have been here by now to organise the remaining villagers into an effective fighting force.

He fumed and dipped into the ammunition bag worn across his chest. It clunked with steel balls. He loaded the slingshot. He was ready for the bastards. He peered through his binoculars once more but still they were not here. Had he reasoned this out wrong?
Were the Shaylighters no more than common thieves despite their numbers? Robbing only to survive? If they attacked Onglee it would be a massacre on a scale Ennpithia had not witnessed for a decade.
Did they conceal themselves in Mosscar simply to be left alone? He had spent forty years in the wastelands of Gallen, believing it to be the only land his boots would ever cross. Now here he was, a stranger in a new world, a world that a few weeks ago he had never even heard of. Ennpithia appeared an ordered society of law and devotion, trade and production. Had he misjudged the Shaylighters? Had he got this all wrong?

He lowered the carbine as the doubts continued to kick around his head. The last of the women and children had arrived at the Earl’s estate; walking, running, hobbling, being carried, the young ones wailing, the older ones more focused. Perhaps Kevane had been right when he’d teased Kaya. Perhaps he
was
the monster under the bed, an old and scarred monster, used up and worn out and frightening no one. He knew so little of Ennpithia. He got to his feet. But then Ennpithia knew very little of him - the Wasteland Soldier, the Tongueless Man, the names went on and on - but if he was right and the Shaylighters were preparing to unleash an unprecedented wave of violence then they would need a monster such as him.

He clambered from the animal pen and went to the nearest group of villagers.

Crossbow slung across her back, Nuria hammered her fist against the front door of the Hardigan’s house. A steady line of villagers trudged through the grounds of the estate, heading for the path beyond the outbuildings. Maurice assured her the way down the rugged cliff face was safe. She could see him hurriedly guiding them along the path, urging them to move faster.
The noise of the sea filled her ears. The wind tickled the nape of her neck. There was still no sign of Boyd and, more worryingly, no sign of any soldiers. The influence he’d boasted was obviously proving worthless. Only a solitary Churchman stood watch at the gate of the barracks, taking a keen and nervous interest in the evacuation. The bell had stopped. Kevane would be on his way back.

With Stone safely returned from Mosscar, Nuria found her energy depleted. She was surviving on adrenalin and drink and little else. She needed rest but she knew there was no chance of any. She opened her canteen and tipped water over her head, shaking her tangled hair, dragging her fingers through the knots. She washed her hands over her face and banged on the door once more, lips twisted impatiently. Then she listened. The thick wood was warm against the side of her face; she heard a scraping sound, muffled voices, possibly footsteps and then silence.

Why were they refusing to answer?

Her pistol was tucked into the waistband of her trousers, hidden beneath the flaps of a crumpled shirt. She pulled it out, rested her finger against the trigger guard.
Taking a step back, she arched her leg and drove her boot at the lock; once, twice, and the door crashed open.

Gun in hand, she moved into the house, sweeping it before her. She glimpsed the sitting room she had been inside only a few hours earlier. It already seemed a week ago. It was empty and the smell of stale pipe smoke lingered. She spotted the goblets Boyd had used. They were exactly where he had left them, drained, unwashed. She began to search, following the noise she had heard. It was a sprawling property of shuttered rooms filled with fine things. She saw a wooden staircase that led to a second level, the only building in Great Onglee with an upper floor.

Dust floated in glowing rays of dawn sunlight. Her grimy boots pressed against neatly stitched rugs.

There was no one around.

Nuria listened; the only sound was outside; the anxious babble of adults, the distraught whimpering of children.

She moved into a kitchen where a long table was scattered with abandoned plates and bowls and mugs. A cooking pot smeared with the residue of oats, a cloth wrapped around its handle, was still hot. A small fire burned in the stone hearth. They were here somewhere. She edged past it, the crackle of flames in one ear. She caught another sound. She nudged her finger down from the trigger guard and onto the trigger. She held her breath. There was a moment of hesitation and then the rush of footsteps followed by a laboured grunt and the swing of a long bladed sword. Nuria ducked and bent her body as the weapon swished through the air in a wide arc, clattering hard into the stone wall.

It was Earl Hardigan.

“Nuria? I heard someone break in. I thought we were being robbed. I didn’t realise it was you.”

She straightened, the pistol still aimed at him.

“Are you here to rob us?”

“I’m looking for Kaya.” She lowered the pistol. “I kept knocking but you wouldn’t answer. I thought something was wrong.”

“Isn’t Kaya was with you?”

“That was hours ago. Didn’t she come back to the house?”

“No.”

“Stephen, what’s happening?”

That familiar ice cold voice, the woman made of steel. It rattled through the silent rooms.

“When this attack is over I will help your daughter. I believe her and I know you do.”

He nodded. “I do but I don’t understand it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Stephen!”

“One moment.” He paused. “I need to speak with my wife. Then we can look for Kaya together.”

Nuria followed him into another room with cushions and paintings. Lady Hardigan stood in an open doorway, a gaggle of children behind her.
The room beyond was brightly lit with torches and candles. There were narrow bunks, folded blankets, crates of vegetables and fruit and wrapped loaves. The door was made of steel with a large internal handle. It was noticeably shorter and narrower than any of the other doors in the property. Nuria idled in the middle of the room as Stephen spoke with his wife. She saw the woman’s eyes fill with venom as her husband attempted to placate her. Angry words passed between them. The children shrank from sight. Nuria paced, impatient. She ran her eyes over the steel door once more and noticed the front of it was fitted with a painting backed by stone that matched the walls of the room. She suddenly realised that, once closed, the door would become invisible. It was a secret annexe, a safety room. Her eyes flicked toward Lady Hardigan.

“Yes,” she said, pushing past her husband. “It’s a secret room and now you know about it. Stephen, you bloody fool. Why did you bring her in here?”

“I’m sure she won’t say anything. Why would she?”

“How can you be certain? We’re quite a prize for …”

“My only interest is in finding Kaya. Do you know where she is?”

“No,” snapped Isobel. “Stephen has been worrying over her. The ungrateful little …”

“I’ve searched the grounds,” he said, talking over his wife. “But I thought she’d left with you.”

“I haven’t seen her since we spoke in the barn.”

“Do you think it’s possible, I mean, do you think she’s been taken again?”

“We have to search the village.”

“Isobel, go and wait with the children.”

She narrowed her eyes. A funnel of coldness blasted Nuria. Once more the façade peeled away ungracefully.

“I want you out of my fucking house. Get out. Go on, you scruffy bitch. Out. Out. Get out right now.”

“Will you shut up?” barked Stephen. “Now look after our children.”

“Mummy.”

Isobel glared at them both, shaking with rage, but the trembling voice called a second time and the steely eyes weakened. She turned from them and stepped back into the room.

“Let’s find your daughter,” said Nuria.

“Oi, you!”

It was one of the villagers, pointing at Stone. He was a thick set man, his grey beard flecked with white. His skin was pock marked and browned from working in the sun. His shirt was open to the waist revealing a shiny cross hanging from a shiny chain, nestling in a bed of wiry grey hair.
There was an old scar across his stomach, where he’d been slashed, years before, during a street robbery in Touron, the town he had been born in. His first wife had died in the same attack
.
He’d travelled to Great Onglee, a distraught and broken man, but found work with a family who bred pigs. He had a kind way with the beasts and took no pleasure when it came to the slaughter. His real name was Carl but men nicknamed him Hog. He married for a second time and now his wife and four young children were tentatively edging down the ragged path toward the beach, seeking refuge in the old caves beneath the Hardigan estate.

Hog had been elected spokesman. The men wanted answers and an explanation and this stranger appeared ripe for giving them both. He approached Stone, taking long and confident strides, brandishing a wooden club with jagged pieces of metal protruding from it.

“What’s all this about? Who’s ringing that bloody bell?”

“Kevane.”

“One of the Earl’s men? What’s he up to?” Hog swung the club. “They only ring that thing on Reverence Morning or if the village is under threat and it isn’t bloody Reverence Morning.”