The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (22 page)

“What are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer as Shaylighters flanked the rusted vehicle and opened fire with carbines. Quinn threw herself flat, yelling. Boyd steered the truck left and nudged against them, tyres spraying dirt. They scattered and fell back. Hunkered down behind the metal panels that ringed the roof of the truck, Quinn aimed her crossbow and took down a single rider, his body barrelling into the dirt. She cranked the lever and fired again, bruised face shiny with sweat.

“I can’t leave them, Benny.”

“I’m not stopping.”

“We have to go back for them.”

“No, we must get to Touron.”

Soirese hissed at her warriors, furious they could not halt the metal machine. It would be a magnificent prize to bring back to Essamon.

“Shoot na rothai,” she ordered.

Her warriors galloped forward, raised their weapons and fired at the tyres. The truck rocked to one side. Quinn slid across the roof, crossbow skating from her grasp.

What the fuck was that?

She peered over the edge of the roof and ducked at once as a steel ball whistled past her.

Boyd looked back from his seat. The metal panels covering the tyres were marked with dents. One of the wheels was flapping on its axel. He gripped the reins, whipped the horses hard.

“They’re going for the tyres, Quinn.”

On one knee, she fired, cranked the crossbow, fired again, and kept firing. Her fingers ached. Her arms ached. She gritted her teeth and spat bolts at them, forcing them back. Steel balls whacked against the truck and the metal tyre guards but the Shaylighters were drifting and the further back she pushed them the more their accuracy was diminished.

She dropped from view. “Reloading.”

Snapping off the magazine, she scooped out a handful of bolts from the bag she carried at her waist. Soirese had understood the solitary Ennpithian word. She urged her warriors forward. Packs of Shaylighters looped around the truck. One of the riders reached from his saddle and grasped at the iron spikes jutting downward. He held on and sprang from his horse. Boyd swerved the truck and the warrior’s feet slipped and he bounced away, screaming as he tumbled. Quinn snapped on the magazine, cranked the lever, leaned over and fired at Soirese. The warrior swerved and the bolt narrowly flew past her head. Quinn watched her turn her horse out to the right.

She fired again, missing a second time.

“Benny, let me save them.”

“I need you with me, Quinn.”

She glanced at the horse galloping alongside them, its rider gone.

“I’m not leaving them to die. He came into Mosscar, Benny. He saved my life. He doesn’t even know me.”

The riders were closing once more, carbines across their laps, hurriedly reloading. She watched three riders peel away and race down into a low valley. They powered forward, horses tearing up the ground. She raised the crossbow to fire but stopped herself, realising they were already out of range.

“They’re trying to get ahead of us.”

“I know, I see them.”

The wind was against the truck, slowing them more than the riders in pursuit along the floor of the valley. Soirese barked an order and Quinn saw two more Shaylighters race down there. Now five of them were below the wind and racing hard, about to swing in front of the vehicle. Boyd would be horribly exposed. They wouldn’t need to shoot out the tyres. One well aimed spear would take him out and then they would slow the horses.

“What does Stone want from you?”

“He doesn’t want anything.”

“All men want something, Quinn, you know that.”

“He wanted to help me find the truth about Clarissa.”

“But I have to get to Touron.”

The truck rocked again as another steel ball tore into one of the tyres. A Shaylighter screamed as Quinn took him down.

“Your family are in Brix, Benny. What’s so important about Touron?”

She fired, cranked.

“I have to stop the trade agreement.”

“The new treaty with the Kiven? Why? What are you talking about? What do you have to do with it?”

“They don’t know the truth. I do. I have to stop the Albury's signing it.”

Without looking at her, he held up the carbine she had brought out of Mosscar.

“You’re too young to remember, Quinn. It’s all lies. This is the proof. I have to take it to Touron.”

Taking a deep breath, she leapt from the roof. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Benny.”

He wailed.

“Quinn?”

“Good luck, Benny.”

She steered the horse away from him, swerving off the road onto the grasslands, heading back toward the village, using her knees to guide the horse, firing at the Shaylighters until the crossbow magazine was empty. Quinn heard the roar of Soirese and looked over her shoulder. The riders swung away from the fleeing truck. She knew Soirese would come after her. She was certain Essamon wanted no one to escape from Great Onglee but she had guessed Soirese’s thirst for blood would win out. A few hours earlier she had been cheated out of a raw battle in the arena. She would trail Quinn from one corner of Ennpithia to the other to settle that score.

The way into the village was mostly clear. The riders who’d corralled the eastern flank had been the same ones who’d pursued them across the plains. She could hear sporadic roars of battle. Most likely Stone and Nuria. Smoke covered the rooftops as the fires continued to spread. A raw lump shaped in her throat. She loved Great Onglee.

Eyes drawn, she rode hard into the lanes, taking out her pistol and cutting down the warriors who flailed at her with axes.

Nuria tugged down her scarf. “It’s deep.” She pressed a thick cloth against Hog’s shoulder. “Hold this.”

He kept a shaking hand on the wound, grimacing as the cloth darkened with his blood.

“Do you understand what I need to do?”

He nodded, grimly. He understood. He understood only too well. His shoulder spiked with throbbing pain. He watched the blonde haired woman rattle around the small home they were in. The dwelling had two rooms and both were empty. A fire was still burning in the hearth. Simple possessions had been abandoned. Whoever the occupants had been they would never see them again. Hog tried to focus on who had lived here but his thoughts were cloudy and he had lost track of where they were in the village. The sight of the axe tearing him open bustled into his thoughts and his skin grew ice cold. He shivered, despite the fire and the warmth from the sun, its gentle rays poking through gaps in the window shutters. He must have looked scared because the woman stroked his face and told him it was going to be okay.

She was grubby and blood stained but he couldn’t help but notice how curved, almost lopsided, her lips were. He guessed those lips had been kissed many times before. He wished he could remember her name but he couldn’t. It was tucked away in the shadows, out of reach. She reminded him of his first wife, senselessly murdered on the streets of Touron.
What was he thinking? She looked nothing like any of his wives.
Were the gates of the Above opening for him? Was the Lord beckoning him forward? Was this the last woman he would ever see before he made his journey? He thought it might be.

He took his hand from the wound and the blood poured from his shoulder and he grabbed at the cross hanging around his neck and clasped it fervently with shaking palms as he ground out a prayer through clenched teeth.

Nuria whirled round.

“Keep your hand on the wound.”

She pressed the soaked cloth onto his shoulder and reached for his hand but despite his weakening state he refused to let go of the cross. Nuria wiped the sweat from her forehead. It was too warm in the small house but she could not risk opening any of the shutters. His face was ashen. Blood gushed down his arm and chest. His lips moved sluggishly.

She forced a piece of wood into his mouth.

“I need you to bite on this. They can’t hear us, okay? You’re not dying on me, Hog. That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Hog? Because of the pigs. Now bite down on this, you stubborn bastard.”

She took her knife from the fire. The tip of the blade glowed. He howled, twisted and thrashed. She sat on his stomach. Giant spots of perspiration erupted across his pale face. She rolled the knife around the wound, blackening the skin as the blood began to coagulate. The sweat was running off her. The heat from the fire in the hearth was intense.

“You hold on. You’re not dying on me, Hog. You’ve pigs to take care of. Who’s going to feed them if you’re not here? We’re not going let these bastards beat us today.”

Her blue eyes filled with tears as she worked on his shoulder.

“I reckon you have a wife as well. Down in the caves. A wife, right? And kids? I bet you have lots of kids.”

His head lolled to one side.

“I’m nearly done. You think of your wife, and your kids, all those kids, and your pigs. Don’t forget the pigs, Hog. Don’t forget them.”

The piece of wood was dangling from his mouth.

“I’ve sealed it. You’re going to live. You’ll be okay.”

His fingers opened around the cross.

“You’re going to be okay.”

Hog stared back at her. She leaned and kissed his forehead. Her tears splashed into his open eyes.

There was noise all around her but she could only hear her heartbeat. It was like a drum. She climbed off him and studied the knife in her hand, brought it close to her face. The tip was smeared with Hog’s blood. Another victim. Her eyes glazed over. The world was awash with blood, awash with victims.
There was no one left. She was all alone.
She drew back her left sleeve, revealing the branding on her forearm. A trio of symbols. The mark of Tamnica. They still possessed her. Her body was still in the cells. Her body was still curled on the floor. Her body still worked the farm and breathed in the cold sea air.

Nuria hovered the blade above the branding. One. Two. Three. A circle. A triangle. A square.

Shaylighters ran past, howling, rattling weapons.

Her hand was shaking. Tears trickled along her nose.

And then she set the knife down; her head drooped and she sobbed into her blood stained hands.

Suddenly, her head snapped back. She looked around and sniffed. It wasn’t the fire in the hearth overheating the room.

The building was burning.

She sprang to her feet as flames licked across the ceiling. Hurriedly, she crept to the door. She could hear the muffled voices of at least two or three men outside.
She crouched and tried to see through the cracks but thick smoke blinded her vision. She licked her lips. Her clothes were drenched with sweat. The flames pressed toward her.

She raised the scarf over her nose, took out her pistol and burst through the doorway.

She put down two masked warriors. The pistol clicked empty.

As the smoke shifted Nuria saw six more Shaylighters gathered in the lane. She drew her sword.

SEVENTEEN

Stone grunted.

Swords clashed, steel against steel, ringing loudly as Great Onglee was consumed by fire. The heavy smoke coiled around them as they fought. But the warriors observing were drifting away, tiring of a dual that had yielded little blood and frustrated they were unable to intervene because the man fighting was Callart and only a warrior who considered his life worthless would dare interfere with one of his sword battles.

Stone was aware the numbers were thinning out and he kept a careful eye on any gaps appearing because no matter how much he feinted and hacked and slashed, Callart blocked every one of his attacks. He was no match for the Shaylighter swordsman. More than once Stone felt his heart quicken as the moment came when Callart had pinned him down or beaten his attack or snaked around his defence and in those agonising half-seconds he waited for the killing blow to come but it never did.

The Shaylighter carried a triangle shaped metal shield that was presenting Stone with all manner of problems. Two handed, Stone lunged at it, his strong arms swinging his heavy blade with repeatedly loud clangs.
Callart slammed the shield into him and Stone reeled away. Once more the man lingered, failing to exploit the moment. Stone went at him until his scarred face blazed red but still he could not wrestle the shield from the man’s grip.

The helmeted Shaylighter nudged forward, feinted deftly and clattered Stone, bloodying his face and sending him sprawling. Only a handful of warriors remained to offer a lacklustre cheer.

Stone rolled as Callart raised his curved sword overhead and cut downward. He bounced onto his feet and took several paces back, circling Kevane’s body. He reached for young man’s sword. Callart nodded, almost with appreciation, as Stone swung the two blades, balancing the weight, adjusting his feet. He had never fought with two swords before. He noticed the warriors had all but scattered. They had grown restless of Callart’s toying. There were a few soldiers left in the Hardigan estate still firing arrows. The fun was there. Not here.

Horses sped by, heading for the estate, eager to slaughter the last of the Churchmen and hunt down the women and children.

Stone knew this man had him beat. He had laboured his attack moments earlier, deliberating raising his sword overhead, signalling the move. Stone was reminded of how Soirese had fought in the makeshift arena, playing with men who were inferior to her strength and skills as a fighter, but he was certain that Callart was not doing the same. He could have cut Stone down many times but had not. In truth, he had not even nicked him once. He had only drawn blood with the shield.

Stone realised the Shaylighter wanted him alive.

Callart looked around, saw they were alone.

He said, “You fight well.”

Stone ignored him. He was not fighting well. He was being dictated to. He plunged the swords forward, targeting the shield, once more, swinging strokes heavy and clumsy and predictable. Then he bent his shoulder and slashed with his right hand sword. Callart was too focused on the dual attack against his shield. He brought down his curved blade but Stone’s sword cut across his legs and the tall man winced in pain and staggered back and the shield slipped from his grasp.

“Now I am,” he growled.

The Shaylighter came forward. The curved blade hissed through the air. Stone recoiled, losing Kevane’s sword. He jerked sideways across the grassy lane, the sun burning down on him. Callart loomed in the grey haze and his sword crashed against Stone’s blade, clattering it to the ground and finally Stone was beaten. The Shaylighter lunged. Stone reached for the knife in his boot but it was too late. The curved blade went to his throat.

Callart raised his helmet.

Stone recognised him; he was one of the five riders who’d shadowed them across the plains from Brix to Great Onglee.

“The Engineer is Omar.”

Stone blinked.

“Not all of us want this war. Many of us only want justice.”

Callart took a step back.

“You must stop the plan. It is evil.”

There was the sound of horses.

“Callart,” roared a voice, in the distance.

“Hit me,” said Callart. “And run.”

Stone viciously head butted him. Callart’s long body sagged to the ground. Stone fled into the alleyway as a spear hurtled after him.

Boyd saw them stream from the valley. He guided the truck onto hard ground. It bounced and jolted across the brush. The Shaylighters leaned into their rides and steered toward him. They were in front of him now, rising in their saddles, levelling their carbines at him. Boyd turned again, curving back toward the road, swinging the vehicle around.

They bore down toward him, galloping hard, firing off steel balls.

Then he yanked on the reins and the horses brought the truck to a halt, slashed sideways across the road.

He disappeared as they split into two groups. Three riders burst around the left hand side of the stalled truck, two more from the right. The guns shocked the warriors. Spears and carbines raised, they had expected the portly merchant to be on his knees praying and begging for mercy. Yet this round man moved deftly, brandishing a weapon of sin in each fist.

Boyd kept firing, in both directions, expertly squeezing the trigger, never wasting a single bullet.

Five shots, five bodies; the horses trotted away, saddles empty.

He walked slowly amongst them. One of them twitched. He fired at once, drilling the bullet into the Shaylighter’s skull.

Satisfied, he tucked both pistols into his coat and belted it. He brushed himself down, straightened the colourful ties around his neck and patted his horses before climbing back onto the truck. He lifted the reins and studied the empty road east toward Brix. Behind him, the smoke smeared horizon echoed with muffled screams and ragged bursts of gunfire.

Shaking his head, he kissed the cross around his neck.

Stone knew she was in trouble.

He darted through the alleys between the burning buildings, drenched in sweat and blood and grime, clutching only his knife. He ignored the intense heat. He had to get to her.
The way ahead was smothered with flames. Roofs and walls were collapsing all around him. His neck scarf covered his nose and mouth but his lungs still burned from the black smoke. The desperate clash of weapons filled his ears. There was no time to find another way to her, no time for hesitation or rational thought.

He yelled and charged and burst through the raging fires unscathed. His heart was pounding. He saw Nuria pinned by a clutch of warriors. She held her sword with both hands. Still running, not missing a step, Stone dipped his shoulder and grabbed a spear from the ground and thrust it hard into the nearest warrior, lifting him off his feet and propelling him onto his back. Blood showered as he yanked it free. He placed himself alongside her, both hands curled around the shaft, thrusting hard as she hacked with her sword.

Nuria swiped away an axe and rammed her blade into the stomach of a warrior, splashing the inverted cross with bright blood as she pulled her weapon free. Stone spotted several warriors behind the advancing pack, armed with carbines, angling for a shot, but there was no gap for them to open fire without hitting their own men. He still carried the ammunition bag across his chest and was desperate the get hold of one of the slingshots.

They were wedged between the Shaylighters and the fire. She looked at him and he looked at her, faces obscured by heavily stained scarves, eye blue against brown, pupils flickering with the flames. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Sword and spear. They stabbed, slashed, hacked, blocked.

But was there a way out?

Stone began forcing a path around the warriors. An axe swung with furious pace toward his neck. He blocked it with the spear, hammered his boot into the man’s groin and then gouged the tip of his spear into the warrior’s shoulder. The man staggered back and he stabbed him a second time, rolling his sagging body around and using him as a shield. Nuria chopped a Shaylighter in the leg, putting him on his knees, and then hacked into his throat, half decapitating him.

There seemed to be no end to the bare-chested warriors. As one fell another took his place. The fighting had died away in the village. Survivors had been chased down by the Shaylighter’s cavalry. Warriors ransacked bodies and dwellings, often risking the flames to steal an armful of possessions. The Hardigan estate blazed yellow and orange. The stubborn resistance was at an end.

Crunching over dead bodies, Stone dragged his makeshift shield closer to the edge of the lane where the warriors armed with carbines hovered. Two of them began firing at him.
Steel balls whipped through the grey smoke and struck the chest of the corpse. A warrior prepared to hurl an axe and Stone plunged his spear into him, tearing into flesh and bone. It became rooted in the Shaylighter’s body and his hand slipped from the shaft.
He held his knife. He was only a few paces from the carbine wielding warriors who were rapidly reloading. The side of his face and the back of his neck tingled from the heat of the fire and crackled loudly in his ears.

Stone gritted his teeth and hurled the body into two men, ramming his knife into the one on the left - once, twice - then spinning around and throwing it at the one on the right, the blade sinking into the warrior’s throat. He slumped to the ground, dropping the metal and wooden firearm.

Grabbing for the fallen weapon, Stone pumped the carbine. The sling tensed, a fresh steel ball dropped in.

He reached for the trigger and began firing.

Quinn spotted them; framed by burning buildings, knee deep in bodies. Blackened by smoke, exhausted and blood drenched, they broke out, Stone spitting steel balls at the Shaylighters, punching a hole, forcing the pursuers wide. Nuria followed, flailing with an iron sword.

She cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Stone, Nuria.”

The village was a raging inferno. Her horse was gone. But she still carried her pistol.

“I’ll cover you.”

She opened fire and Shaylighters fell.

“Quinn.”

The voice was twisted and barbed, a scream of hate. Quinn whirled around and saw a monster thundering toward her on horseback. Soirese carried no weapon and surged through the coils of choking smoke, leaning from the sandal, one gloved hand clenched into a mighty studded fist.

Quinn narrowed her eye, and calmly fired twice. Soirese was tossed from the saddle and Quinn grabbed the horse as it bolted past. Stone urged Nuria to run and continued firing at the Shaylighters.

“Stone,” shouted Nuria, scrambling onto the horse.

The carbine was empty. There were no other horses. He signalled for them to go. He would make his own way out. He was scooping a handful of steel balls from the ammunition bag when two warriors raced toward him, brandishing axes.
He hurled the steel balls, stunning one of them. The other leapt at him and bundled Stone to the ground. Quinn kicked at the horse and steered it toward the two men as they grappled. She passed her pistol to Nuria. She sprang from the horse, jammed it against the Shaylighter’s skull and squeezed the trigger. Stone shoved the man off him, breathing heavy, covered in blood and tissue.

Nuria pointed. “It’s Boyd.”

Quinn twisted in the saddle. “You crazy bastard, Benny.”

The truck swerved along the outskirts of the village and the three of them hurried toward it as the Shaylighters gathered around the body of Soirese.

Stone felt his eyes roll shut and jerked himself awake. The wares inside the truck were haphazardly stacked; boxes and barrels slid across the metal flatbed as the vehicle pounded the long road back to Brix.
Nuria kept watch on the roof, scanning the landscape with binoculars. Great Onglee was an ugly mark on the horizon, fading slowly as the truck crossed meadows and pastures and open fields. There were no more Shaylighters. She dropped down through the hatch and took another long drink of water. Stone was sat with his scarf lowered, grimy face folded in deep thought. No words passed between the three of them, each languished in their own private hell.

It was Nuria who eventually spoke. “Hog was killed.”

“And Kevane.”

“Did you see Maurice?”

“No.”

“I never did find Kaya.”

“Did she confide in you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Nuria hesitated. “Later.”

The truck rocked from side to side. He looked at Quinn.

“Should I thank you for coming back?”

“You’d both be dead if I hadn’t. I mean, if
we
hadn’t. I didn’t want to leave you behind.”

Stone wiped his blood stained hands against his legs.

“So this is the promised land of Ennpithia where a man can live in peace beneath the sign?”