The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (43 page)

Omar looked up from the control panel. He’d heard the rapid burst of gunfire followed by the solitary shot. He lowered his tools. He looked along the road and stared up at the hill of dead trees. He licked his lips. Minutes passed and still there had been no more gunfire. He glanced at the missile battery as he worked. Baltan had tampered with the first missile but the remaining five were armed and he had repaired the control panel. He prepared to engage the firing mechanism when he heard a scrape behind him.

He stiffened. “The final shot. I should have known.”

There was no answer.

“Her name was Adina. She had a name, Stone. Unlike you.”

Slowly, Omar turned. Gas mask pushed on his head, Stone aimed the pistol at him.

“Get away from the truck. Start walking.”

“Where? The Place of Bridges? The bridges are gone, Stone. All of them. There is no way back for you.”

Stone frowned.

“What?”

“Already, there are vehicles coming from the city. You will be …”

Stone fired as he lunged for the control panel, drilling bullets through his hand and arm.

He dragged Omar screaming and bleeding from the truck, tied his wrists, and set out destroying it once and for all.

“There has to be another way,” said Nuria, as the sun dipped and the land grew dusky.

She thought for a moment.

“How did the Kiven smuggle weapons across to the Shaylighters?”

“They have tunnels,” said Commander Eddis. “But we don’t know where they’re located.”

“Shit.”

She cleared her throat.

“Do you have any maps of this area?”

He nodded at one of his men.

“Impassable mountains north,” he said, pointing. “We’ve tried them. You won’t make it that way. Down south you have marshes and stinking bogs. If you can wade through the shit and muck you’ll reach another range of mountains.”

“What about the sea? Are there any bays or rivers?”

“I don’t know anything about the sea. My boots stay on dry soil.”

“I’m not giving up on him.”

“I’m not telling you to, miss,” said Eddis. “But the bridges are gone and there’s something you should think on. When we went to war with the Kiven they only attacked us from the bridges. Never from the mountains and never from the sea.”

She chewed her lip. “He risked his life for you people.”

“I know that and I also know the name of every man lying dead or dying a painful death. We’ve all paid a heavy price today in stopping these bastards.”

“Look,” said Quinn. “It’s Stone.”

He stood on the edge of the canyon, bloody and filthy and shirtless, a gas mask pushed back on his head. He was kicking and dragging a wounded man at gunpoint.

“Who’s that with him?” said Eddis, staring through a telescope.

Nuria raised her binoculars.

“Omar,” she said. “The Cleric.”

Quinn stepped forward and raised the sniper rifle.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She put the stock against her shoulder and peered through the scope. Omar was on his knees, wrists bound, bleeding heavily. His head was thrown back and his mouth was moving. His eyes suddenly focused on her and the rifle and his lips stopped.

The shot echoed through the valley.

Stone rolled Omar’s body into the canyon. It spun toward the smoking wreckages and disappeared into black smoke.

Nuria was watching him through binoculars.
He stared back at her but he couldn’t stay here much longer. The area would soon be flooded with soldiers from the League; he’d seen the convoy of vehicles emerge from the city.
He needed to scatter into the wasteland they called the Black Region or, even riskier, head into the city itself where there would be more weapons and supplies and information on how to get back to her.

She hadn’t moved.

He swallowed and was about to duck back into the undergrowth when he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small wrapped gift she had given him. He curled his grimy fingers around the wooden piece of heart and pressed it against his scarred chest.

By the time Nuria lowered the binoculars, blue eyes streaming with tears, he was gone.

THIRTY THREE

“No,” said Governor Albury.

Boyd nodded.

“The letter states the Alliance has reformed. They have new leaders and the League has purged the dissidents.”

Albury listened.

“All the traitors have been executed.”

“By whom? Them? No, by us, Benny. It was Stone who captured Omar. Not them. I don’t care about their claims and promises. Kiven are born to lie. It’s good the bridges were destroyed.”

“I understand.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Albury, softly. “I’m sorry he was left over there. All he tried to do was help.”

“I’ll send word to Commander Eddis that any further communication is to be destroyed.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Yes, sir.”

Summer had passed. The trees were turning orange, yellow and red. His carpentry tools were covered in dust.

“What of Great Onglee?”

“The death toll is keenly felt. Generations were lost. There’s been a string of revenge killings against the Shaylighters and they’ve started to retaliate, tit-for-tat murders.
Captain Duggan and the Shaylighter leader, Callart, are working at eliminating these. Duggan has completed the drawing of new borders although over half of the Shaylighters are staying inside Mosscar.”

“I see,” said Albury. “I hope they appreciate the concessions we’re making.”

“We’re only giving them land we don’t use.”

“Do you think we should give them more?”

“I think we should learn to live alongside them.”

Albury glared. “I think I would like to visit the site of Great Onglee and witness first hand the devastation.”

“We lost twenty men to infection clearing the area. It might not be safe yet.”

“Twenty? Trinity could’ve saved them.”

“The men were being transported here. They died on the road.” He cleared his throat. “How is the girl?”

“Happy, I think. I have no experience of young girls, Benny. They all seem to laugh and smile a lot. I assume she’s happy. The hospital worship her.”

“It’s a shame her sisters couldn’t accept her.”

“Yes, I suppose. Is there still unrest toward Archbishop Devon?”

Boyd glanced out of the window. He studied the rooftops of the great Holy House of Touron.

“It hasn’t gone away. This new breakaway order continue to question why Devon took so long in bringing the child healer to Touron when he knew the Archbishop was gravely ill. They’re attempting to build a new house of worship. I have a man watching the situation closely.”

“And what of the Map Maker? Have you located him yet?”

“No, he disappeared with a woman from Brix. He gave us a place to begin with the Shaylighters. Maybe in some way the crazy man did put us back together.”

“Hmm,” said Albury. “The conscription laws will still be enforced. Every other boy will bear arms. We will not be left vulnerable.”

Boyd remained quiet.

“How is the work progressing in Winshead?”

“Slow. The hamlet was abandoned for many years but the farm buildings belonging to Pretan have been demolished. The refugees from Great Onglee will take up residence by winter.”

“That’s something positive.” His voice was distant.

“Yes, sir.”

“I think we’re born to fight,” he said, with a defeated sigh. “It’s our nature to conquer and kill and take what the other has. That was the way of the Ancients and it’s the way of us. Do you not agree?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t agree with you, sir.”

“But the Shaylighters and the Kiven; liars and killers.”

“Not all of them. Omar was a man who arrived at the right time with the right amount of charm. He managed to enlist the disenchanted of the Kiven people. But they’re not all like him. And Callart, the Shaylighter warrior, he wants only peace. He has a wife, sir, and children. He is just a man. Like you, sir. So, no, I don’t agree with you.”

He touched his cross.

“You might be Ennpithia’s ruler, Lewis, but you’re still a man and you’re hurting. Rondo and Omar were willing to murder thousands and turn Ennpithia into a wasteland of death. And you welcomed them and attempted to forge a bond with them. They humiliated you. But you have to get past this. Ennpithia needs that vigour you possess, that bright spark to take us beyond the greed and hatred of men like Omar and Essamon.”

He paused.

“Maybe you should make a table. I’m sure it helps more than prayer.”

Albury smiled, wryly.

“You are a good friend, Benny; you will make an ideal advisor.”

“I prefer the road, sir.”

He patted Boyd on the arm. “Where do you think they are?”

“Still trying to find a way across the mountains.”

“It was good that Commander Eddis spared ten Marshals to travel with them.”

“The mountains have never been crossed. I pray for Quinn and Nuria and the soldiers with them. They won’t give up looking for him.”

“Do you think he’s still alive? Two months have passed.”

“He’s a resourceful man.”

“And all the smuggling tunnels have gone?”

“Yes.”

“So there is no way back for him?”

“No.”

“This man saved our people and we don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”

“A lot of lives were lost that day.”

“Is there nothing we can do, Benny?”

Boyd straightened.

“No, sir.”

“Then prayer is all we have,” said Albury, grimly. “And carpentry.”

Rain slithered down the window panes. It was a newly constructed building on the corner of the parkland, the only gardens within the city where trees flourished and flowers grew and citizens paid to walk its winding pathways. But it was autumn and the riotous colours had faded and the trees were bending in the harsh wind and the lawns were covered with fallen leaves and the sky was grey and red and the only place to be was inside.

The three of them gathered around an open fire, sipping brandy from cut glasses; two men, one woman. The ratio had to be maintained. The Society, the heart, would always provide a woman; the Ministry, the vision, would always provide a man; the League, the fists, would always provide a soldier.

“They have been rooted out, executed,” said the soldier. “Omar and his followers are the past.”

The woman spoke. “Have you found the stranger?”

“No.”

“Are we certain he’s still here?”

“The quake destroyed all the bridges and the smuggling routes. The stranger is here.”

“What are your thoughts on that?” asked the man.

“During his short time in power Omar constructed relationships with many of the street level gangs. He used them for special assignments that could not be linked to the League.”

The fire crackled. The windows rattled in the wind.

“You mean assassinations?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the soldier, without hesitation. “We have exploited these partnerships to flush out the stranger. We also have a network of spies and informants but rapid communication is a problem.” He paused. “Kiven is a huge city. I’m sure you realise that.”

“And its people must never know how close we came to a second war,” said the man. “Missiles are not progress. Not in the eyes of the Ministry.”

“Nor the Society,” said the woman. “I cannot fathom how this Omar was able to take us to the brink so easily.”

“We have made changes to our old laws,” said the soldier. “A man like Omar will never be allowed to murder his way into such an influential position. The League will burden all and any blame. However, the imbalance in our city provided a conduit for him.”

“What imbalance?” said the woman, lowering her glass. “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone.”

“Half of the city is in ruin. Half of the ruins are occupied. But all of the occupants belong to the League.”

“What are you suggesting?” said the man.

“I’m a soldier therefore I suggest nothing. I speak as I find. There is an imbalance in Kiven. Omar exploited it. That is fact. The League sacrifices the most and suffers the most. That is another fact. I am a fighting man. I do not play word games.”

The man and woman looked at each other.

“What about all these weapons at the factory?” she asked. “Have you destroyed them?”

“No, of course not. Any hope of peace with the Ennpithians has gone. We fired a missile at them. They will never trust us. Never. One day that crime will be answered. We must be capable of protecting our borders.”

“Back to the matter of the stranger,” said the man. “You mentioned the street gangs?”

“Yes, they understand he is to be killed.”

“After all what has happened,” said the woman. “Is this really the only resolution? Using
death squads
?”

“He cannot be allowed to live,” said the soldier. “Not only is he responsible for the murder of League members he is the only surviving witness to what really happened at the Place of Bridges.”

“One hundred thousand citizens believe in the Alliance,” said the man. “And it has to remain that way. Even those who occupy the ruins. It took years to stabilise our city after the first war. We cannot afford a second one.”

The man raised his glass. “In memory of Governor Cooperman.”

The woman raised her glass. “Governor Nichols.”

The soldier raised his glass, but offered no words.

“The meeting is concluded,” said the man.

The glasses were set down. They formed a triangle; the soldier clenched his fists, the woman touched her chest, the man placed his hands above his eyes.

“Kiven,” they said, in unison.

“The stranger will be hunted down,” confirmed the soldier. “He is outnumbered and outgunned. He will be dead before the snows fall.”

The boy was six years old; wild stringy hair, clothing of cotton and animal fur, idly playing on the worn stairs, racing his two wooden cars with wooden wheels. The building resonated with noise, his excitable and animated voice blending into the tapestry of tenement life. Large families with multiple jobs lived here. Large families with little coin and little opportunity to earn more lived here.

The lobby door creaked open. The boy felt the cold air on his skin but he didn’t look up. There was no need. He knew the neighbourhood belonged to a gang. He knew the gang protected the families. There was no reason to be frightened or intimidated.

But he was curious.

His cars stopped in mid-collision and he peeked from the corner of his eye. The boy counted three men. He knew numbers, he was bright with numbers, adored them. Bandanas were wrapped around their faces and the sleeveless vests they wore were emblazoned with the head of a mythical creature. Their bare arms bore ink, dark curls and swirls, numbers and letters. The door eased shut. The cold air was gone. The men carried black pistols. They patted the boy on the head as they crept onto the stairwell.

The boy put down his cars and stood. He tilted his head back and watched them edge along the landing toward a closed door where the stranger lived. The man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun. The child waited and watched with fascination. It was raining outside. It was windy outside. Thrust into adolescence, the rain and wind would always remind him of this day. He wet his lips as the three masked men reached the door.

Shockingly loud gunshots splintered the wood. The boy cried out, slapping his hands over his ears. One of the masked men toppled over the railing and hit the filthy floor with a wet smack.

The gunshots brought his mother rushing into the hallway. She frantically grabbed him as there was more firing from above.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said, rubbing the back of his head. “Don’t look at him, don’t look at him.”

The man’s skull had cracked wide open and the floor tiles were streaked with blood.

The child raised his head and stared up at the landing. He saw the bodies of the other gang members.

Then he glimpsed the man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun.

And then the man was gone.

“Why did the stranger kill them?”

“Because they wanted to kill him. That is the way of things.”

“Is the stranger a bad man?”

“No,” said his mother, warmly, looking up. “The stranger was a good man.”

“Will he come back?”

She hesitated. “No.” 

“Where will he go?”

She picked up his wooden cars.

“Into the wasteland.”