The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (21 page)

He crossed himself, gestured to the knot of men loitering behind him.

“We all want to know what’s going on.”

There were nods and grumbles.

“Mosscar is filled with Shaylighters and there’s a good chance they’re on their way here right now.”

Hog grinned, and then burst out laughing.

“What’s funny?”

“You ain’t from here,” said Hog. “Don’t you know about Mosscar? There’s a sickness in the city. No one lives there.”

The bell stopped. A shutter banged in the wind. Stone turned his back on the man, raised his binoculars.

“What shall we do, Hog?” asked one of the men.

“Reckon we should head up the barracks,” said another.

“I think this fella drunk a bit too much yesterday,” said Hog.

There was another peel of laughter but then it tailed away, replaced by nervous smiles that rapidly shaped into stony expressions.

They could all hear it.

Thunder.

“Take a look,” said Stone.

Gingerly, Hog raised the binoculars to his eyes.

“The Lord save us.”

“Where are your men going?” said Nuria, Earl Hardigan at her side.

Clayton looked at them both. He was easily ten years older than her, fair haired, a neat beard, his armour emblazoned with the cross of the Holy House.

“I’m deploying them inside the estate. With your permission, Earl Hardigan. It’s been a long established plan of defence for Great Onglee. We can protect the route to the caves where the women and children are and thankfully the Earl’s estate has better walls than the ones we have at the barracks.”

“Has this worked before?”

Clayton hesitated. “Great Onglee has never been attacked before. The war with the Kiven never spread this far.”

“Then how do you know it will work?” Nuria was becoming increasingly frustrated with the sergeant.

“We can concentrate all our firepower in one area. A barrage of arrows will drive back the Shaylighters.”

They had barely scratched the surface of the village looking for Kaya when the Churchmen soldiers had marched from the barracks; strapped down swords and bows and quivers bristling with arrows. Forty young men with grim faces. Ready to stand and fight.

She shook her head. “You’re making a mistake.”

Clayton was a man whose life revolved around the issuing and accepting of orders; from Captain Duggan, the war veteran in charge of all Churchmen Regiments across Ennpithia’s hamlets and villages and towns; from the Holy House with its deacons and priests; from his wife and his wife’s mother and quite often his own children. He was trained, organised and intuitive. His life was orders. And nothing was about to persuade him to listen to a complete stranger, a worn out looking woman who did not wear the cross of the Holy House and was practically a non-believer, if Boyd’s assessment of her was correct.

“Miss, I’m already taking a bit risk here.” He crossed his arms. “Mr Boyd is an old friend of mine and whilst I’m not convinced we’re about to be attacked, certainly not by Shaylighters anyway, I’m willing to lean on the side of caution. And if the attack doesn’t come then I’ll strike it down as an honest mistake and we can all get back to celebrating the festival.”

“Sergeant, the attack will come and you have to listen to me. This defence will not work.”

“Don’t lecture me on strategy. I have been in the Churchmen Regiment for a long time now. I know how to organise my men.”

“Then your men will die. And quickly.”

The soldiers making preparations behind the walls of the estate looked over at her, some with concern.

“And so will the women and children.”

Boyd said, “Nuria, what would you do if you were in charge of these men?”

“We’re going to be heavily outnumbered. Having all the firepower in the same place sounds a good idea but it will also give the Shaylighters only one target to aim for. Split the men into mobile groups. No more than five soldiers. Then hit and run. Use the cover of the buildings, the narrowness of the alleyways. Draw them into tight spots. Hit and run. Pull the Shaylighters all over the place and pick them off. Then pull back here as a last resort.”

“That might work in theory,” said Clayton. “But that would leave the women and children vulnerable.”

“They’re vulnerable anyway. You show your entire hand here and the Shaylighters will know there is something worth attacking.”

Boyd nodded. “She makes a good point, Clayton. She was a General once, you know.”

“Not in any army that I recognise, Mr Boyd. The men are under my command and we already have our strategy in place.”

Nuria fumed. “How long will it take for the other regiments to arrive?”

“For now there’s only us. Until I can establish if there is an attack.”

“It might be too late by then,” said Boyd. Nuria could sense even he was growing impatient. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to send riders to the other villages now?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order. It was Boyd’s way. He asked nothing. He told everything.

Clayton, a man of issuing and accepting orders, flushed. The collar of his shirt was ringed with sweat.

“Sergeant, you need to send a rider to Brix, at the very least. The Archbishop will be arriving there in a day or so. If there is civil unrest in the area then the Archbishop must be made aware of it so the Summer Blessings can be postponed. We cannot risk the life of the Archbishop.”

“And if she’s wrong? What then? I’m sorry, Mr Boyd, I’m not sending my men on wild errands until I see this with my own eyes.”

He was dug in. Nuria approached Earl Hardigan who had been listening to the heated exchange with interest.

Clayton called for her. “Miss, I need you to surrender that weapon.”

Her hand brushed against the pistol in her waistband. She was surprised he’d even noticed it.

“You’re carrying an outlawed firearm.” He signalled to several of his men. “Under the laws of the Holy House of Touron no Ennpithian is to brandish a weapon of the Before.”

He stepped toward Nuria, two armed bowmen at his side.

“You need to hand it over or I will arrest you.”

There was a grating sound. Quinn emerged from behind Boyd’s truck, the rapid fire crossbow in her hands, cocked and ready to fire.

“There are hundreds of painted freaks heading this way, Sergeant Clayton. Any minute now they might pour into this village. We need every weapon against them. Sinful or not.”

The long row of Churchmen soldiers watched on in uncomfortable silence. They all knew Quinn. They all liked her and trusted her. And she looked bashed in. Someone was responsible for that. Possibly the Shaylighters. But Sergeant Clayton was their commanding officer.

“I’d rather shoot Shaylighters,” she said.

Boyd cleared his throat and leaned toward Clayton. There was a brief and hushed conversation.

Nuria watched the officer nod. “Miss, I’m allowing you to keep the weapon for now but I’ll need you to surrender it once this is over.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” She had no intention of surrendering anything. “Will you consider re-deploying your men?”

“The men follow my orders. Not yours. We’re holding this position. Now you’re welcome to come inside before we close the gates and lock them.”

“That’s my property,” said Earl Hardigan. “Perhaps you should consider this young woman’s advice.”

“Sir,” said Clayton, addressing the Earl. “During a time of …”

But he was unable to finish the words. He heard thunder and saw the surging dark cloud in the distance.

“Inside,” he yelled.

The air filled with the noise of horses, eighty to a hundred of them, galloping hard across open scrubland, kicking up grass and mud. Hundreds more Shaylighters covered the stretch of land on foot, a raging sea of long haired, bare-chested warriors, painted with the inverted cross, running fast toward the village. Loud shouts filled the air. Spears and axes were rattled. Slingshots were fired.

Boyd turned to Quinn.

“We’re leaving. Right now. Get inside the truck.”

“What?”

“These people are lost, Quinn. It’s going to be a massacre.”

“But we can’t just run.”

He strode toward the vehicle. The horses stamped and snorted.

“We have to go now.”

Nuria went at him. “Are you planning on leaving us behind?”

“Stone should have stayed out of Mosscar. He caused this. There’s a place on the truck if you want it.”

The truck, thought Nuria. That’s where Kaya is. Of course, she should have checked there first.

She scrambled across to it, dropped to the ground. There was nothing but grass and dirt.

“Earl Hardigan?” called Sergeant Clayton, the gate half-closed. “Sir?”

Nuria got to her feet. “I won’t stop looking for her. It’s better you protect your family. I’ll bring her back to you.”

The heavy gate slammed shut behind him. Boyd snatched the reins and nodded toward Quinn.

“We’re leaving now.”

“Give me one minute.” She turned to Nuria. “He’s wrong. I went into Mosscar. Stone followed. Get him and come with us. Look how many of them there are. I don’t want you left behind.”

“Stone won’t leave. Not whilst we can still fight. And I won’t leave without him.”

Hog said, “Fuck.”

He handed Stone his binoculars. “This isn’t shaping up to be much of a nice day, is it?”

They came in three thick columns, pushing hard, bearing down on the village. The men stood in awe, rooted to the ground, unable to comprehend what was happening, what they were witnessing. Some of them had fought in the war. They knew what it was to face men on a field of battle. Never knowing how long each breath would last. Never knowing how many seconds your life held. But this seemed worse. It was as if the soil had been peeled back and the Demons from the Below had clambered out.

Stone glanced back at the Hardigan estate. He saw the soldiers huddled behind walls.

“Useless bastards.”

Nuria was sprinting toward him, face red.

“What the fuck went on down there?”

“Sergeant Clayton,” said Nuria, panting. “He’s a prick. They’re only willing to defend the estate.”

“They’re getting closer,” said Hog.

Essamon rode in the centre; the woman Stone had witnessed fighting in the arena was on the right; there was a tall man with a long face on the left.

“They’re going to break,” said Nuria. “And flank the village. We’ll be cut off. His warriors on foot will do the killing.”

Hog swallowed.

“Boyd and Quinn have gone,” she said.

“What?”

Stone glimpsed the truck surging along the dusty road back to Brix, bathed in sunlight.

“You saved her and she ran,” said Nuria. “Bitch.”

There was a terrible hissing sound. It churned Stone’s stomach. He knew it only too well. He grabbed Nuria and bundled her into a doorway, yelling at the villagers to take cover. Two men were sent sprawling into the dirt, faces torn open as a barrage of spears and steel balls flew through the air. There was the blast of a horn and the Shaylighter’s cavalry broke. The outer columns swept around Great Onglee and tightened the noose of death. Essamon pulled up his horse as his howling warriors streamed into the village. He rose in his saddle and aimed the black box. He flicked the switch and smiled gleefully as the solid white beam shot from it.

A man screamed as his flesh ignited. His pain was swiftly ended as a warrior buried an axe in his forehead.

“Ca bhfuil do tiarna,” roared Essamon, unleashing the white light against the turf and thatch roofs. “He will not save you. I am your death.”

Rolls of orange flame rushed across the tops of the buildings.

“Now we reclaim our lands.”

SIXTEEN

Essamon watched his warriors swarm into the burning village. It was only the beginning.

He had commanded his tribe since the end of the civil war. He had heard of the great battles between the Ennpithians and the Kiven and had grown frustrated by the indecision of his leaders. They had idled and exploited little of the weakness. It had been their moment but they had done nothing. Yet when power was passed to him, and he bore the ceremonial trappings of the hat of feathers, he had struggled with the change. He was still the mighty warrior and his people knew the power of his spear and the strength of his axe. But now his cries for war and invasion and land were tempered by responsibility and balance and acceptance that the Churchmen, though scattered and few in number, were hardened fighters with superior weaponry to that of his people.

Consumed by the weight of his ancestors, burdened by the Old Ways of patience, Essamon had skulked within the crumbling ruins of Mosscar, as they had, watching the foliage take further hold. Their birth lands had been ripped away during the Age of Purification when the Metal Spears fractured the sky and billions had perished screaming beneath death clouds. The Ancients had fought the final war of the Before but survivors had emerged from the ashes, diseased and mutated, the will to survive unbroken.

And during the centuries that followed, in the aftermath, in the desperate second world, when it appeared, finally, that the last light of Mankind was about to blink out, when the power no longer fizzed and crackled, his people had shaped the future on a blackened landscape. But then the Holy House had been discovered and the cross had emerged from the mists and the men who followed were unlike them and the power they wielded was not measured with spear or axe; the violated world fought back, with thunder and flame, with root and plant, and wastelands became pastures, broken hills became forests, valleys became rivers and the men of the cross claimed a divine victory in the name of their Lord - and Ennpithia was birthed upon lies and division and his people were shunned, exiled to reside within the last city, the city of plagues, the city of certain death, they city they called Mosscar.

And for a decade Essamon had continued to pump life into the vein of weakness. Until the arrival of the Engineer.

A man of words. A man of action. A man with a plan.

“I am your death,” said Essamon.

He nudged his horse into the village, followed by a dozen riders. Smoke swirled around him and he could feel the intense heat from the fires. The lanes were littered with bloodied bodies. Small houses and shops crashed down all around him. There were sporadic shouts in the distance as the last of the villagers were hunted.

It was Soirese who spotted the truck, fleeing along the bumpy coastal road.

“Quinn.”

Essamon bunched his fists.

She signalled for riders to follow. As she wheeled her horse around, a steel ball whipped past her and struck it. The horse cried out and she swerved in the saddle. She saw the bearded man break from cover, leading a motley group, filthy and blood spattered.

Essamon switched on the box but they had already disappeared.

They kept moving, firing and reloading; but there were too many of them, even with this strategy; they needed the Churchmen soldiers, they needed extra men, it was becoming desperate.

The four of them – Stone, Nuria, Kevane and Hog - scrambled behind a wheelwright. The building was shuttered. The fire hadn’t reached here but the air was thick with smoke. Their faces were half concealed by scarves. They were panting heavily as they leaned against the rough wall.
The tradesmen who worked here had been some of the first to die. Their bodies lay in the mud, speared by the Shaylighters. Their hands had been broken. Stone had witnessed this more than once since the attack. The killing of a man or woman was followed by the breaking of the hands. It was as if the non-believers had a strange belief of their own.

A wrenching sound filled the air.

“That’s Hardigan’s gate,” said Kevane. “They must have gotten inside.”

There had been several flurries in the beginning; the loud twang of bowstrings, the deadly hiss of arrows, a sky streaked with black lines, Shaylighters cut down by the dozen, but it had tapered off over the last ten minutes and if the gate had been breached then the estate would become a killing ground in no time.

“We need to make sure they all got away,” said Hog. “Even if we don’t, right?”

“They got away,” said Kevane. “Maurice would have made sure of it.”

Stone looked at Nuria. He could only see her blue eyes. Her hair and clothes were matted with blood and grime.

“Nuria?”

“We were beaten before they got here,” she said. “We have to run.”

He nodded. She was right. They had hit. They had hit hard. But there was only one thing left to do.

Run.

“What about Kaya?” he said.

Before she could answer a trio of warriors rounded the corner. Stone whipped around and fired, a steel ball tearing up through the shoulder of the nearest one.
The carbine was empty and Stone clubbed him to the ground with it, stamping on his head repeatedly until it cracked. A second warrior hacked at him with an axe but Hog blocked the lunge with his club, charged into the Shaylighter and hurled him against the wall of the building, driving his knee into a stomach daubed with the inverted cross.
The man rolled, turning and swinging his axe, but Hog hit him with his club, jagged pieces of metal slashing open the warrior’s arm. Then he buried the club in the man’s skull.

The third warrior was already down, a single bolt lodged in his head. Nuria cranked the crossbow.

Shaylighters bore down on them. It was chaos in the smoke. It was getting harder to remain hidden. The fire forced them out onto the street. Nuria peppered the oncoming warriors with bolts, mercilessly cutting them down, exhausting her ammunition. She could no longer see Stone or Kevane but Hog was still with her. She slung the empty crossbow over her shoulder and pulled out her pistol. Her sword clanged against her legs. It would be her final weapon.

The two of them fled into another alleyway but saw more Shaylighters. Nuria fired twice, single headshots. The warriors went down.
They sprang over a low fence. The ground was covered in straw. The building was intact. Hog raced for the back door. There was a war-cry as warriors leapt from the roof. Nuria fired, sending one of them sprawling, the bullet angling up through his nose. Two more cornered Hog, swinging axes. He blinded one with his club but grunted as the second one struck him, chopping into his arm and shoulder.

Nuria blew the back of his head open.

Hog staggered toward her, an axe in his shoulder. Near delirious, he wrenched it from his flesh.

Stone and Kevane fought like wild beasts, lunging and cutting with their swords. The bodies piled around them. Shaylighters were filling all the alleyways and they were slowly becoming boxed in. There was nowhere left to run. As the fires continued to spread, a gut wrenching scream ran out; someone had been left behind, too sick to move, too heavy to carry.

Kevane tilted his head. Tears fell from his eyes. Stone yelled at the young man but the warning came too late.

The spear shot through the smoke, angling down, tip glinting, punching into Kevane’s back.
He cried out, staggered forward, fell against Stone, choking, his sword slipping, blood gushing from his mouth. The Shaylighters roared and surged forward. Stone let the young man’s body drop and flashed his sword in a wide arc, pushing them back. He jerked free the spear and hurled it at the line of bare-chested men, taking one of them down.

But all at once they did not fight back. The men parted and a tall warrior stepped forward.

“Fhagail do,” he said.

He wore a grilled helmet, obscuring his long face. He wore a belt hung with locks of hair knotted with coloured ribbon. He wore pieces of metal armour strapped to his arms and legs.

He barked at the warriors gathered in the alleyways and they cheered him on.

“I am Callart.”

He unsheathed a long and curved blade.

“You killed our brothers and sisters in Mosscar.”

Stone lowered his scarf, spat on the ground and raised his sword.

“Retreat,” shouted Clayton. “Into the house. Move. Come on. Move.”

He took thirteen men and Earl Hardigan with him. All of his surviving men were wounded. Even the Earl was bleeding, nicked by a steel ball. The rest of his soldiers lay dead on the ground.

With the gate down, cavalry surged onto the estate and galloped toward the numerous outbuildings.

“Block this door.”

It was damaged, from where Nuria had broken it open, but Clayton’s men dragged furniture across it, reinforcing it. A wounded man had been left behind. The sergeant witnessed a Shaylighter behead him and then break his hands.

“Take him down,” he growled, pointing.

Arrows whipped from the house. The painted Shaylighter twisted and dropped.

“Keep killing them.”

The village was wreathed in smoke. His men sweated and fired until their fingers bled and their quivers emptied.
More horses rode into the estate. Clayton saw a man very different to the rest. He realised this must be Essamon, the leader of the Shaylighters. He was an oddity; his hat of feathers, his goggles, his war paint. He had never seen the man before, only the veteran Captain Duggan had tangled with him. Essamon could not die. It was no myth. It was the truth. Duggan had put two arrows in the man’s chest more than a year ago yet here he rode without a mark on him. Clayton cursed Quinn and Stone. None of this would be happening right now if they’d stayed out of Mosscar.

Heart racing, Clayton kissed his cross and rallied his men. “Draw your swords. The Lord believes in us. We fight for Him. We fight for the Light.”

His men rattled their blades.

“The one with the hat. He’s the one we go for.”

Then a powerful light blinded Clayton and he screamed, his face on fire.

Waist deep in seawater, Maurice pushed the boat out. He watched the last of the women and children sail away.
It was heart breaking to see the little ones crying and frightened. The women began to stroke with the oars. He had given each boat the same instructions; hug the coastline. By nightfall, or at least at dawn, they should reach the shoreline of Brix.

He jogged along the beach, heavy boots sinking in the damp sand, sword banging against his hip. He faced the last of the villagers with disgust; it was the men who had chosen to run.

“You get the last boat.”

He had remembered the caves but forgotten all about the boats. They had been stored away during the war as part of an evacuation plan that would have taken the remaining Ennpithians across the Metal Sea and into Gallen, if the Kiven had taken control of the land. Only the Kiven had never passed Touron and the plans had never been implemented and the boats and oars and makeshift weapons had remained covered and unused.

The men dragged the boat to the water’s edge.

“You should stand and fight,” he said, as they pushed off. “You can hear the screams. You can see the smoke.”

Maurice turned his back on them. “Cowards.”

It was time to find Kevane. He drew his sword and ran for the path that wound up the steep side of the cliff.

Quinn yelled from the roof of the truck. “Shaylighters.”

Boyd saw a score of riders pushing hard from the village, a shifting veil of smoke framing them.
He looked on, grimly, for a few more seconds, and then whipped his six horses, urging them for more speed. The horizon rushed toward him as the truck thundered along the road, jolting from side to side as it gathered pace. Quinn spotted the leader of the war-band; it was the warrior woman who had pursued them in Mosscar.

The twenty riders spread across the grassland, galloping hard.

“Stone saved my life, Benny.”

“I have to get to Touron.”

She saw they carried slingshot carbines and spears. She jerked down as a steel ball flew over her head

“What about Stone and Nuria? Is going to Touron more important than their lives?”

“Yes.”

The truck bounced along the road, hooves snatching against the sun parched track. A horse swerved alongside them and Boyd glimpsed the razor sharp steel tip of a spear. Quinn fired and the Shaylighter flipped from his horse, body smacking into the ground.

She cranked the crossbow.

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“A messenger could’ve ridden to Touron.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Quinn.”