She pointed at the four shirtless men armed with spears and shields that Emil had first seen on the edge of the village.
“That’s Mallon,” said Lena. “He’s wonderful. Don’t stare too much. I don’t think he likes being stared at.”
She looked at Emil.
“What happened to your eye?”
--- Three ---
It was dark when Mallon arrived.
A wash of white lights blinked in the night sky. Clouds shifted in the wind and trees rustled in the distance, a gently swaying wall of blackness. Fires had been lit through the village and blazed and sparked brightly. There was vibrant conversation and excited laughter, singing and clapping. Many villagers sat outside on makeshift seats, enjoying the mild evening air, swapping conversation, eating and drinking.
Stone had spent a lifetime in the scarred wastelands. He had passed through villages and settlements before, never staying more than one or two nights, stopping only to trade for fresh supplies. At times, when his pack was empty, he would use his skills with a gun to take care of internal problems or mercilessly wipe out external ones. Here he had nothing to trade and the militia seemed organised and well drilled. He had passed a field of halk on the other side of the forest, one of the few wild animals that roamed Gallen, but the villagers already hunted them and had a plentiful supply of hide, fur and meat. He would have to work on the wall to earn his food. It was not the worse thing he had ever done.
He found Emil walking at his side.
“They like to enjoy themselves,” she said.
Stone nodded
“I feel a bit suffocated here,” she whispered.
“I understand.”
Nuria was behind them, following alone. The Map Maker led their small party, excitedly talking with Mallon, rambling on about the people that had been exiled from the city of Chett years before and that he, Mallon, was a Chett descendent. Mallon simply stared at him, as if the bald headed man was crazy. He couldn’t fathom the man’s logic or his devotion to maps and he had never been to Chett. And he was not even Dessan born. Sadie lingered obediently at the Map Maker’s side, listening to his every word, sensing Mallon’s confusion and subsequent disinterest, urging him to slow down and take things easy and to wait until he spoke with the council.
Stone let out a sigh as Emil continued to open her feelings to him. He cared for the girl but he didn’t know what to offer in return.
“Maybe we should go,” said Nuria. “In the morning. If you are both unhappy here. What do you think?”
Emil stopped on the path.
“I thought you wanted to stay? You know, not everything is about you. I mean, why are you even here?”
“I’ve nowhere else to go,” said Nuria. “And I helped you get here or did you forget that part? Why are you so damn hostile to me?”
“You really don’t know?” said Emil, banging the heel of her palm against her head. “I mean, do you need me to explain it to you?”
Nuria shook her head. She could understand the young girl’s bitterness toward her. She accepted she had been blamed for everything.
“I was following orders,” said Nuria, quietly. “I never agreed with any of it.”
“You and Gozan set a fucking bounty on my head.”
Nuria fell silent.
“Problem?” asked Mallon, glancing round.
“No,” said Stone.
The militia leader led them into the centre of the village, where a large mud hut stood with armed men on duty outside. The walls of the hut were smooth and the roof neatly thatched. A curl of smoke rose from a round chimney. Villagers brushed past them, quickly growing accustomed to the strangers that had arrived earlier in the day. Fires crackled and Stone and his group waited. A large curtain was drawn back and they were invited inside. It was warm and smoky with brightly weaved rugs laid upon a wooden floor. Shelves had been carved into the walls of the hut, bases painted black and crammed with colourful and decorated pieces of pottery. Some items were vastly different and heralded from another age. Lumps of moulded plastic from the Before. The centrepiece of the display was a fine looking sword, fashioned with a long clean blade, though the handle was worn. Two men with shields and spears flanked the three council members. Immediately, they recognised Justine. She rose, smiled and Stone felt her eyes on him.
“I present you, Ilan,” said Justine. “He is the Elder Chief of Dessan. And this is Margaux, council member and school teacher.”
Ilan occupied the central seat. His face was heavy, thickly wrinkled, a squat head on broad shoulders. His hair fanned behind him, unrelenting waves of grey, braided with colourful beads. His black eyes watched them closely and his greeting was a silent and respectful nod. Margaux, sitting to his left, was easily half his age. Her skin was smooth, the colour of night, glowing in the candlelight. She greeted each of the ragged group of travellers with a handshake. Her clothes were colourful and neatly pressed, loose trousers tied at the waist, a sleeveless shirt buttoned to the throat. She wore a decorative headband, hair braided to her shoulders. Shiny bracelets hung from her wrists. Her hands were slender, delicate, with long fingers and cleanly scrubbed nails.
“What happened to your eye, child?” she asked Emil, arching a single eyebrow.
Her voice was smooth, velvety.
“I was attacked,” lied Emil. “In the wasteland. Scavengers.”
Margaux nodded, took her seat.
“You will find our village a much safer haven,” she said. “That I can promise you.”
Justine offered them refreshments but before they could reply the Map Maker approached the council and unfolded his many maps. He began to engage them in conversation and initially they seemed intrigued by the landmarks he could point to in the south. They told him they had never travelled from the Eastern Villages. He also possessed a map from the Before but it did not show Gallen. This fascinated them less and their interest began to wane. Stone watched the bald headed man closely, with obvious mistrust of him. He had known of the Map Maker for many years, picking up his name from nomads and in towns, but had never courted the man’s company until recently - when he had needed to rob from him. He had returned the maps once he had finished with them so felt no guilt. The Map Maker was rambling now and the council were feigning commitment to his words. Sadie cautioned him to continue his story another time and asked for them to be excused.
The Elder Chief, Ilan, nodded.
“He is a curious man,” said Justine. “He appears to have achieved much with his life.”
Outside, there was laughter.
“You do not say much,” said Ilan. “What is your story?”
Stone scratched his burgeoning beard.
“I can work,” he said.
“You carry a gun,” said Ilan. “The lines on your face tell me you have used it many times.”
Stone nodded.
“Are we hiring a labourer?” bristled Mallon. “Or a fighting man?”
“Mallon,” said Margaux. “Do not address the council with that tone. No one is attempting to undermine you. Ilan is merely establishing the history of this man.”
“I mean no disrespect, Elder Chief,” said Mallon, bowing.
“Both men will work on the wall in return for food and shelter,” said Margaux. “I would like Emil to help me at the school.”
“I don’t know anything about school,” said Emil.
“Then you will be perfect,” said Margaux, flashing a smile. “A teacher I do not need. Someone to frighten the difficult children is what I require. Someone with a good heart and patience. I can see you have both. That much is clear to me. And you are strong, too, a survivor.”
Emil felt her cheeks flush pink.
“I can work on the wall as well,” said Nuria, feeling forgotten.
“Your tongue is different,” said Ilan, his words slow. “You told Justine you are from the wasteland but your manner is of one who has been educated and trained. Why do you hide where you are from?”
“She was a soldier,” said Stone. “From a city far from here. She is lying to protect me. She has nothing to hide.”
“Why are you protecting him?” asked Justine, of Nuria.
Ilan leaned forward in his chair.
“He killed people. That is what she conceals. He is a killer. A man cannot carry that many lines and not have spilled blood.”
He thought for a moment.
“You and the woman will surrender your guns to Mallon. They will be kept in the armoury. There are no guns in Dessan.”
Stone shook his head.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I do not want you walking around with your guns,” said Ilan.
“How about a compromise?” suggested Nuria. “Myself and Stone will keep our weapons but will no longer carry them in the village. We do not want to offend any customs you have here.”
The fire crackled as Ilan pondered her words.
“I am not above compromise. Your guns will remain in your hut. You will not wear them or display them in the village.”
Stone nodded. Nuria smiled.
“Tonight you rest,” said Margaux. “Tomorrow you work.”
Stone distanced himself from the others once they left the council hut. He wandered off along the nearest path, no patience for further questions or conversation. Stay or go, there was no other choice. Around him, there was celebration. Exotic food smells, succulent and spicy, tickled his nose. He saw pink meat roasting on spits, slowly browning, as a woman prepared more meat, cutting slabs into strips, sprinkling it with broken green leaves. He saw the concentration in the work and his curiosity raised eyes and brought smiles. He melted away and looked to the forest, gloomy and black, and for a moment Stone contemplated finding a spot in the darkness.
The village screamed in his head, chopping and slicing, singing, laughter - he wished it would dissolve into empty silence as the pain erupted inside, violent and corrosive. He saw his fists had clenched, ready to pound the face of the nearest man who bore a smile and waved a bottle of drink at him. He wanted to tear skin, shatter bone, spill blood and take back all that had been taken from him. He stopped and leaned against the side of a hut, trying to catch his breath as his heart thumped and his head spun. He flexed his fingers. Two women went past, carrying baskets brimming with broken biscuits. He had tasted one early, hard and dry. They saw him and flashed smiles. He had no true loathing for these people. Only envy. This was not his life; this had never been his life. He thought of his lost friend, Tomas. He had witnessed the boy’s birth and raised him from a young age when his real father had fallen to sickness in the desert, repaying what his father had done for Stone, eight years old, wandering the wasteland, alone. Now, his companion was gone and no more would he hear his friend’s telling voice of reason, the echo within, his line in the sand. He had taught Tomas to hunt, track, kill but Tomas had taught him much more. The child had become a son. The son had become a man. The man was now dust.
A drunken, toothless villager, reeking of sweat, thrust a bottle into Stone’s hand and clapped him on the back. He moved on, dancing a jig that involving stepping forward, then back, then to the side and, finally, saw him tumble to the ground, laughing. Stone raised the bottle to his lips and washed the bitter taste down his dry throat, the brown liquid spilling over his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ventured through the village into an area brightly lit with fires. It was hot and beads of sweat pooled his face. Men and women sat on blankets spread across the clay, the men without shirts, drinking from bottles and wooden beakers, biting into pieces of meat and fruit. Children ran and chased in the shadows, innocent squeals of delight. Stone saw the watchtower, casting a shadow, and noticed it was empty. He poked his head through the open doorway and saw a floor strewn with rubbish. A ladder rose through criss-crossed wooden beams to a platform above. He placed his foot against the bottom rung and tested it. It felt solid enough so he climbed. The platform creaked beneath his weight. Gusts of wind swirled around his face and the cool air was refreshing. The bell hung from the roof of the tower, a heavy piece of iron with a simple rope and hammer tied to it.
He peered down at the people below, watching them as he finished the bottle. A smile crept upon his face. He had put a long distance between himself and the city of Chett where a death sentence awaited. He thought about the offer to stay here, work hard for a living. He had seen nothing to dissuade him from doing so. Though the curious box near the bridge, with the stone and the purple square, puzzled him. Perhaps it was nothing more than a child’s game - but it was an oddity and something about it continued to unsettle him. Was it the squares? The dark stone? The purple colouring in the final box? No, there was something else about it, something familiar. He trawled his memory, picking through the past.
It was then, from the corner of his eye, Stone glimpsed movement on the outskirts of the village. He quickly forgot the strange box and the empty bottle in his hand and reached into his pocket for a pair of grubby and scratched binoculars.
He swept his vision along the road out of the village.
There.
A man on horseback.
He scanned the area below. Two warriors stood at the bridge and two more patrolled around the village but the rider would be upon them before the militia completed their circuit.
Stone grabbed the hammer and struck the bell.
“What is it?” said Mallon, rushing to the tower.
“A rider,” said Stone, pointing.
The militia leader stared at Stone, undecided of the tall man with the grim look. He wondered if this was some kind of trap. There would be only one way to find out. He bellowed names into the crowd and sprinted along the road. Several men rushed to him at once, all of them grabbing shields and spears. Stone followed the militia, his pace more leisurely, his hand idling against his revolver which he had not yet concealed, as ordered to do so. The horseman grew closer and a large crowd spilled onto the road. A baby was crying. The fires on the edge of the village illuminated a young man, slumped forward in his saddle, bleeding heavily, clinging to the horse with all his remaining strength.
“It’s Tristan,” shouted Mallon. “Help him down, quickly.”
Whispers spread through the onlookers and one of the militia ordered them to disperse but no one moved. Two of them helped Tristan down from his horse, lowering him gently. He coughed and spat blood as they eased him to the ground. Stone saw the crowd quickly part as the council emerged onto the red clay road, looking down at the injured horseman.
“Take him to the Saacion,” said Margaux, gently holding Ilan’s arm. “Hurry.”
The onlookers began to clear the area, under the stern gaze of Justine, shuffling away, subdued.
“What’s happening?” asked Nuria, appearing at Stone’s elbow. “Who is that?”
Stone looked into Ilan’s eyes and knew exactly who it was. The shattered look when power is stripped from a man, when the mantle of chief or leader or warlord melts into nothing, rendered worthless, and all that remains is a father watching his son bleed profusely into the dirt. He saw Emil, her single eye staring back at him, damning him for the secrecy, the lies they were spinning amongst these people. She looked down at Mallon, the warrior Lena dreamed of, the hero, the soldier, yet Emil saw only a man showing terrible fear as he scooped Tristan into his arms, blood seeping from his stomach and leg. Gallen was a world without medicine. Tristan would die tonight. He would suffer an agonising death from his wounds. Ilan would burn the body of his son and scatter his ashes. Mallon fled between huts with Tristan in his arms and Ilan could do nothing more than stare after them. Emil hardened her look at Stone. You have to let him die, his expression told her. I can’t, she said. I don’t care if they know.
Emil ran after Mallon.
“Is she going to help?”
“Go with her,”
said Stone.
“Me? She won’t want me anywhere near her.”
“Keep an eye on her,” he said, facing her. “Please, Nuria.”
Unsure, Nuria hastened after Emil. The villagers began to scatter and the level of noise slowly increased. A warrior led the horse away. Ilan and Margaux followed. Stone began to walk in the opposite direction, toward the bridge. He had taken no more than a few paces when he became aware of a shadow. He stopped and turned, his hand reaching for his revolver.
“I don’t think you need that,” said Justine.
He relaxed his hand.
“Thank you for sounding the alarm,” she said.
She stood in the near dark, huts behind her, fires raging, dancing and laughter all around, but she seemed apart from it. She was taller than most women he knew, a flat and narrow body in a long dress.
“What’s a Saacion?”
“A mender,” said Justine, stepping toward him. She saw Stone frown. “He’s a ... a doctor, a healer.”
“Can he save him?”
Justine shook her head. He could smell fruit from the trees, wildflowers in the grassland.
“Ilan’s son?” he said.
“The only one he will recognise,” said Justine. “You are quite observant of many things.” There was a curve to her voice. “Though not everything. You’ve survived a long time out there, haven’t you?”
She nodded beyond the village.
“The people you travel with,” she said, walking slowly with him. “They seem different. You have not been with them long, have you?”
“No,” said Stone.
They reached the bridge. The militia on guard looked back at them. The lilt of her tone softened his black mood.
“Do you know who attacked him?”
“No,” said Justine.
He nodded.
“You’re lying.”
“People lie all the time.”
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 4