The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (42 page)

“Do it,” he said.

He stared at the sky as she prepared a small fire. She unsheathed her machete and placed it across the flame.

“We lost all our vehicles at the Place of Bridges,” he said, swigging down water from a leather skin. “Many soldiers are dead.”

“We have more soldiers in the city.” She paused. “Why is the sky clear? I thought we would have seen it from here.”

He flinched as she cleaned the wound. “I don’t know.”

Adina picked up the machete. The blade glowed.

“By nightfall all your enemies will be dead, Adina. But we
must
fire the rest of the missiles.”

As she took hold of his arm there was the sound of distant gunfire.

“Six men will not be enough against Stone. You must get to the junkyard. You will be a match for him.”

He licked his lips.

“Now close the wound.”

No one paid much attention to him as he walked from the barracks into the village; too much had happened to care about a man with missing hands who
might
have
represented something from their faith. Father Devon had already moved on to his new miracle. The Map Maker saw men, women and children nervously lined behind makeshift barricades, armed with farm tools and household implements. Only a few of them carried swords or axes. Several men had crossbows. Parents glanced at children with looks of reassurance accompanied by a squeeze of the shoulder or a pat on the back or a ruffle of the hair. Slightly older children, more understanding of the impending carnage, were afforded a mature nod. The adults knew that no one would survive to bury them or their young ones.

The Map Maker looked to the horizon where the deep ranks of Shaylighters had gathered. The blood thirsty warriors yelled and chanted and stamped at the ground, waving spears and axes and carbines, impatient to be unleashed.

He heard a forlorn sob. It was a woman with three young children clustered around her. She wiped the tears on her sleeve and clenched a hammer in a fist that shook with naked fear.

Soon the tears will be our tears of victory, of rejoice, when these foul people are dead and bloody on the ground.

He looked at Lannast, standing beside him, young and robed and beautiful, ageless and invisible.

A gift from the old world.

“Come with me,” he said.

She had dictated his entire life, manoeuvring him from place to place, plucking at the strands of his existence until he’d found this land of green and blue. Now he ordered her and she followed.

His face showed nothing as he circled the barricades.

You will not return to that bitch, Harron. She is beneath you.

“I no longer want her,” he said. His voice was cold, desolate. “I know the blood that is in me, Mother.”

He ignored the trail that fed into the trees and opted for the long grass. The wind was warm on his face. He strode with confidence, aware of Duggan and Father Devon on the battlements, pointing at him.
His stomach no longer toiled in the face of certain death. Lannast walked with him, casting no shadow. He could taste her energy, her raw power. The grass swayed, curling around his thighs. He grew closer to the warriors. He could hear the snort of horses. His boldness intrigued the massed ranks of Shaylighters.

Good, my son, I knew there was a warrior in you. You are no meek and humble thing, you are from my line, you are a leader.

“My name is Harron,” he cried. “I am a seed. My blood is Shaylighter. I replace Essamon.”

The armed warriors bristled with uncertain anger. Two horsemen trotted forward; brutish looking, knotted hair and painted chests. One had a long face and wore a curved sword on his belt. It was Callart. The second one carried a fearsome axe across his back. It was he who spoke.

“I am Oxron,” he declared, from his saddle. “Who are you? What is this shit you mouth?”

He must know of your bloodline, Harron, before he attempts to kill you.

“Not yet,” said the Map Maker. “I will tell you when.”

Oxron nudged his horse forward. “Brix will bleed for the deaths of Essamon and Soirese. But it is I who will command the slaughter unless you wish to challenge me, fat man.”

There was a ripple of laughter behind him. The long-faced rider remained silent, one hand on his sword.

“Look at this,” said Oxron, dropping from his saddle and raising his voice to a loud cry. “This is the great warrior of the Holy House, sent to destroy us. This is the warrior Jeremy told us of. The fat man with no hands.”

His fist whipped out, snatched the cross from around the Map Maker’s neck and hurled it away.

“I no longer needed that,” he said, calmly. “It was the wrong way round.”

“No more of this nonsense,” hissed Oxron, drawing his axe. “No Shaylighter would speak or act this way.”

“Tell him, Lannast. Fill his empty head.”

Oxron raised his axe.

“You dare utter the sacred name of the Cailleach. You will die slowly, fat man.”

He held his axe, fingers curled around the shaft, but it never swung down toward the Map Maker. Callart frowned at him. Beads of sweat broke out across Oxron’s face. Fear flashed into his eyes as the axe grew impossibly heavy, straining his arms, forcing his shaking hands down until the weapon slipped from his grasp and dropped into the grass, lying with the cross.

Oxron shook his head and took several paces back.

“You’re a Conjurer,” he whispered, scratching at his temples. “Get out, get out of there. What is it? No, no.”

The Map Maker stood impassively as Lannast crawled through Oxron. Callart strained in his saddle, intrigued. Oxron dropped to his knees, crying out. Tears ran down his cheeks. He sank into the grass, curled in a ball, began to sob.

“Enough.”

As you wish, my son.

“Get up,” said the Map Maker. “On your feet.”

Oxron scrambled from the ground, cowering, shielding his tear streaked face.

“My name is Harron. I am the son of Lannast. I lead. You will follow. Tell them.”

But Oxron scampered away, riddled with fear. Callart climbed down from his horse, whipped out his sword and thrust the blade toward the sky.

“Harron is from the bloodline of Lannast. He is our leader. Oxron is no one.”

There was immediate obedience; warriors thrust their weapons toward the sky then beat axe against spear. The noise was deafening, a rumbling thunder across the grassland.

“You have been amongst them,” said Callart, as Oxron scampered away, balefully glancing back. “Is there news of the Engineer?”

“His promise of these lands is a lie. He intends to destroy everything and everyone. Omar is a monster.”

“So the tall stranger carried my message? Good.”

“His name is Stone. He is hunting Omar and will kill him. But Omar has lied to you. There will be no great victory.”

“I do not want any victory. Many of us regret Great Onglee. We just want land to work. We want to be left alone.”

What is this? I have made you leader, Harron. Lead our people to glory. Have you tricked me?

“Easily,” he said, turning his head and smiling.

I will torture your soul. I will show you glimpses of the past, pictures of the future, I will make you beg for death.

“Then my life will be the same,” he shouted. “You’ve tormented my mind for forty years.”

He shook his head.

“A few more will not hurt.”

The Map Maker faced the hordes of Shaylighters.

“Lannast has spoken to me all my life. Convincing me that I needed to come here and mend the people of this land. But all she wanted me to do was drive them further apart. Lannast wants blood.”

Warriors cheered. A worried look spread upon Callart’s face.

“But there will be no more killing,” shouted the Map Maker. “You do not have to like the Ennpithians. You do not have to trust them. But you have to learn to live with them. There can be peace. You will have the land you are owed. The Engineer has lied to you. He is not your friend. He doesn’t care about the Shaylighters. He intends to destroy you all.”

A whistling noise filled the air.

Ennpithians and Shaylighters looked to the sky as the missile broke through the clouds, angling toward them.

“Look,” yelled the Map Maker. “This is the weapon of the Engineer.”

Minutes passed.

The missile was half-buried in the soil, steadily vibrating from the impact, smoke curling from one end.

The warhead was intact.

Men circled it, stunned by its appearance. Nothing travelled in the sky. Nothing but the clouds.

Pulses racing, the Map Maker saw fear all around him. He knew it was his last chance.

“This is the work of the Engineer. He has betrayed you. He wants death, destruction, no land for Shaylighter or Ennpithian.”

Some walked away, disgusted by his words, but many lowered their weapons and listened. Ennpithians streamed from Brix, led by Father Devon and Captain Duggan. The Map Maker thought he glimpsed Shauna but could not be certain.

“A Metal Spear,” gasped Callart. “This is not possible.”

“This is your enemy.” He jabbed at the missile. “It does not care if you are Shaylighter or Ennpithian. It will kill you without mercy. Nothing will stop it. We have to take it from here.”

“Mosscar,” said Callart, nodding.

There were cries of dissent.

“If we are to begin again and ride free then we must forsake the city. We are caged like wild things inside its walls.”

“No,” said the Map Maker. “People believe Mosscar is a city of death. The lie must end. We will carry the Metal Spear to the cliffs and throw it into the sea. It has no part of our new world.”

Hundreds gathered in the long grass. There was anger, seething resentment, a few scuffles, but Callart had control over most of his warriors and Duggan subdued his Churchmen and the villagers who had lost family at Great Onglee.

For the first time there was a common enemy.

Shauna went to him, cupped his elbow, smiled.

“She’s still here,” he said, his breath ragged. “I don’t … I don’t know … she is strong, Shauna. She is …”

She placed her hand against his cheeks. His skin was burning.

“I can’t believe it. You did it.”

He leaned against her.

“She is … no, no, leave them alone … you wouldn’t, please, don’t … I … no, you’re finished … you … a boy … it’s a boy … I have a son … and you cannot hurt him … no … you cannot, you cannot!”

Shauna stumbled as he collapsed against her. She couldn’t hold him. His body went down into the grass. She cried out. A few people rushed over. She dropped to her knees, cradled his face.

“Just breathe,” she said.

His eyes were wide open.

“Harron. Harron.”

She felt for a pulse.

“Help me. Someone help me. PLEASE!”

Father Devon broke through the knot of people. The Map Maker was lying on his back, staring at the sky.

“Save him,” he said, urging the child healer forward.

Adult eyes peered at her. She placed her hands on his chest. Her single eye closed. Then popped opened.

“Is he okay?” said Father Devon.

“I sent the bad woman away,” said the girl.

There was a sudden scream. Shauna looked around and saw an old woman standing in the grass, wrapped in a hooded robe. Her skin was blackened, her long hair burning with fire.

Lannast’s mouth opened but the scream was soundless. Her flesh crumbled, pieces carried on the wind, and the hooded robe dropped to the grass.

Shauna grabbed the Map Maker and pulled him up. “Harron?”

Slowly, his eyes came into focus.

THIRTY TWO

Silence would be his ally.

He couldn’t stand toe to toe with six well trained and heavily armed soldiers; he’d be wiped out or captured in seconds.
Crouching beside a four-high stack of rusted cars, Stone hurriedly stripped off his ripped fleece and shirt. His thick chest was littered with old scars. The sun felt good on his bare skin. He tore a few strips from the shirt and knotted them around his arm wound. Then he tied the rest of the shirt around his face, covering his mouth and nose. He’d glimpsed one of the weapons that would be ranged against him and was taking no chances. He opened the ammunition bag and scooped out a handful of steel balls, carefully mixing them inside the leather bag of coins from Boyd.

Knife in one hand, a makeshift cosh in the other, Stone closed his eyes, hearing the wind whistle through the old vehicles, rattling bumpers and hoods, wings and exhausts, grilles and arches, tossing dust and dirt. He kept his eyes closed, steadied his breathing and picked them out,
They were calling back and forth as they cleared the long aisles of the junkyard, moving cautiously but with speed, looking left and right, up and down. He isolated each voice, each scrape of the boot, each creak of weapons or jangle of equipment. He opened his eyes and jogged. He closed in on a soldier over six feet tall, dark haired and clean shaven, rapidly expanding the hunt, finger around the trigger of a crossbow. There was a shout from nearby, another aisle clear, but the crossbowman ignored it, wanting to draw no attention.

The masked shirtless man was a blur. The knife spun through the air and lodged in his throat. The crossbowman gurgled and staggered, caught between firing his weapon and flailing for the knife buried in his flesh. Stone swept into his path and settled it for him, lunging with the leather bag of coins and steel balls, fast and decisive, one swift strike, a toe-curling smack across the face, putting him down in the dirt.

Stone yanked out his knife, took the crossbow, melted away.

Voices; calling and shouting, urgency in them, coming this way, five soldiers all converging on his location, rushing to find only a body.

Hit and run.

But Stone didn’t run. He moved fast but he didn’t run. He was twice the age of the soldiers hunting him and his body was aching. He’d hardly slept and barely eaten; he needed to conserve every ounce of energy. Omar was still out there with the remaining missiles. The bastard had fired off one but how many more did he have? He couldn’t even begin to think of the stark devastation the first missile had inflicted across Ennpithia. He pushed it from his thoughts. There was nothing and no one in his head but taking out these men. He knew Omar would have told them how effective he could be against superior numbers and superior weapons. But men were men and there would be a fraction of a second when they would underestimate him, reasoning that youth and strength would be what swung the pendulum in their favour. And Stone knew those were the moments he thrived inside and would take them out of the hunt and push them violently from this world.

Two of them.

Moving in his direction.

Long aisles stretched left and right and behind him. They were coming in from the right.
He loaded the crossbow. He would only get one shot with it. There was no cover to fire, reload and fire again.
He needed a shield. He listened once more. What had he heard? He tuned in. There, a buzzing sound, overlapping with the wind.
He tilted back his head and saw a score of black flies darting rapidly from a vehicle above and then flitting back inside.

The sun beat down upon his back as he climbed. He slid into a faded and rusted car, three vehicles up.

Beneath his mask, his nose wrinkled at the smell of stale black energy and decomposition. He shifted his weight into the back where the body was crawling with hundreds of black flies. They swirled around him. He didn’t swat them away. He didn’t move. He let them explore his damp skin.

There was the jangle of equipment and amplified breathing and then two Kiven soldiers came into view. Both men wore gas masks. One of them carried a slingshot carbine but Stone didn’t recognise the weapon of the second man. It was black and tubular, like a bolt gun, but with cables running from it, connected to a large grey canister strapped to his back. It was the sickness weapon. It was the weapon that had prompted him to mask his face. This was how they must have used it in the beginning, in Mosscar, with Clarissa.

Stone eased his left hand against the body, slowly lifted it, moved his right arm around it, but then the wind blew harsh and the car shifted an inch and the crossbow scraped against metal and the two soldiers looked up at him.

“Shit.”

A steel ball smacked against the rotting corpse. Stone squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. The bolt hit the soldier with the sickness weapon, punching into his shoulder, but he didn’t go down. The other soldier fired again.
Once more the dead body was an ideal shield and absorbed the steel ball. Words passed between the two men and they fanned out. Stone rolled around the corpse, flies crawling through his hair, reloaded the crossbow and fired again. The soldier with the carbine cried out, the bolt lodged in his leg. He limped away, leaving a spotted trail of blood, firing back as he sought cover.

The man with the cylinder on his back raised his weapon and Stone saw a cloud of gas emerge from it.

The wind caught it, swirled it around.

He leaned forward, skin glistening with sweat, and fired. His aim was deadly. The bolt shocked the eye piece of the gas mask and the Kiven man slumped to the ground.

Stone held his breath, dropped hard on the dirt.

The surviving soldier fired. Stone gritted his teeth as the steel ball glanced off his shoulder. He ran at the man, knife in hand, and took him off his feet, burying the blade deep into his stomach. He wrestled the gas mask from the soldier and head butted him. Quickly, he discarded his soaked shirt and tugged on the mask. He hated the damn thing at once but the gas was somewhere. The Kiven man clawed at him and Stone slashed open his windpipe.

He grabbed the carbine and fled.

“These cables have been disconnected,” said Omar.

Baltan nodded.

“The quake must have shaken them free.”

Leaning over the control panel, he continued to work, aware of Omar’s inquisitive stare.

“Did you do this, Baltan?”

“Did I do what?”

“Did you tamper with the control panel?”

“No, of course not.”

“Have you stopped the missiles from firing?”

The young man stepped back, lowering his tools.

“No and no. I fired the first one. You saw it, Omar. I fired it. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because the sky is clear. Why didn’t I see the cloud? Why didn’t it explode?”

“I promise you, Omar,” said Baltan. “I ‘m loyal to the League. I’ve been a member of the scientific branch since childhood.”

“You are a terrible liar, Baltan. What did you do, Baltan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

Baltan took a few paces back and stared at the machete in Omar’s fist.

“I can’t let you murder thousands of innocent people. You’ve seen no explosion because there wasn’t one. The missile was harmless.”

Omar hissed. “What?”

“I disabled the warhead. And the control panel is beyond repair. You will never get these missiles airborne.”

He swept the blade, slicing open Baltan’s throat. The scientist stumbled, dropped to his knees.

“You will not rob me of greatness. All of them will burn.”

He buried the machete in the man’s skull.

“All of them.”

They’d ignored the outer edges of the rubble and worked in the centre, clearing down toward the rat run.
It was a dangerous approach and Commander Eddis was gravely concerned that the outer ring might shake loose and collapse on them - but it appeared a risk his men were prepared to take.
They worked in silence and bore grim expressions as they shifted the rubble and carried away crushed bodies.
Nuria worked amongst them. Eddis admired her grit. There were cries and groans from the wounded as the medics worked on them. He knew, sadly, most would probably die.
A few of them, already patched up, struggled over to help, bandages staining with fresh spots of blood as they lifted away the dust coated stones.

No one spoke of the missile that had passed overhead.

“There it is,” said Commander Eddis, handing a ring of keys to the nearest of his men. Nuria arched her back, wiped her glistening brow, rocked impatiently on the balls of her feet as the Marshal opened a large wooden hatch, revealing a shaft. A line of iron rungs disappeared into blackness.

Eddis blocked her with his arm. “Not you. Not yet. We need to establish whether the landings and tunnel are intact.”

“But …?”

“You’ll wait here for now. That’s a damn order.”

Frustrated, Nuria paced, hands on her hips, as two men descended into the shaft, one of them holding a brightly burning lantern. She watched the pool of light grow smaller and smaller.

Within a few minutes she called out. “Is the tunnel still there?”

“Be patient,” said Eddis. “They won’t have reached the first landing yet. It’s a long way down.”

She walked away. Boyd offered her a weak smile. Quinn looked dazed. Smoke swirled around them.

She stared along the canyon, north and south, hoping they were mistaken, hoping they had gotten it wrong, hoping that at least one of the bridges had survived, but she knew the truth and the truth was cold and the truth was remorseless and her heart burned because of it.

“Nuria,” called Eddis.

The Marshals were climbing out of the shaft.

“The tunnel’s filled in,” said one of them. “And the landings have collapsed. It’s pretty bad down there.”

“How long will it take to clear?” said Nuria.

Eddis looked at her.

“Nuria, it took nearly two years to construct the shaft and the tunnels into Kiven.”

Stone tracked the fourth man. He was roaming a series of short and tight aisles, cars haphazardly wedged together, squeaking in the wind.

Hating the gas mask, he closed in on the soldier, finger on the trigger, ammunition bag jangling lightly on his hip.
There was a steady trickle of blood from his shoulder but nothing too serious.
The Kiven man heard his near-silent approach and whirled round, angling his body. He was armed with the same weapon. Both men fired. Both men missed.
Stone pumped rapidly and fired again and this time the man cried out. His hip erupted with blood but he managed to get off a wild shot. A steel ball landed between Stone’s feet.

Yanking back the slider, Stone heard a familiar sound inside the carbine as the frayed slingshot snapped.

“Shit.”

He slammed into the Kiven man, discarding the busted weapon and whipping out his knife. The two men wrestled into a wall of metal that shook and teetered. Stone veered his head from a punch and jarred his neck. He slashed with his blade but the Kiven man, half his size, was nimble and light on his feet. He jerked back, despite the flow of blood from his wound, and swept out a leg, dropping Stone. He landed a kick and a punch and Stone had nothing in reply.
They could both hear the remaining men closing in. Stone thought he’d heard a woman’s voice amongst them.
The agile man came at him once more and Stone raised his knife, clearly signalling a throw.
As the man sprang forward, his focus on the knife, the makeshift cosh appeared in Stone’s other hand. He saw it too late. It wheeled in with pace and accuracy, loaded with steel balls and metal coins. Pain shot through his temple, his vision went black and he hit the ground.

Stone whirled round and threw. The knife spun through the air. He
had
heard a woman; the blade punctured her chest and she gasped and her black hair fell across her shocked eyes and her body sagged and the pistols she was carrying dropped and Stone ran at her, breathing hard, scooping the firearms from the ground, the last two soldiers appearing with weapons raised, squeezing the triggers as they rounded the corner, howling into the gas mask, sweat pouring down his body, one shot after the other.

He lowered the pistols, took short breaths. He walked back to where the agile man twitched on the ground and shot him through the head. The woman was still alive. She was panting, eyes swimming with tears. He jerked the knife from her chest and cleaned the blade. Her hands flapped at the wound.

She choked. “Why? Why?”

He ignored her and tucked one of the pistols into his waistband.

“Why did you hurt, Omar? Why?”

Stone put the pistol against his head and squeezed the trigger.