The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS)

by Laurence Moore

  She squeezed the water from it and draped it over the back of a chair. Uncorking the bottle, she poured. Stone dragged open the curtain, revealing a small room with a large bed.

  “Did they resist?”

  “Yes.”

  He drank, filled his cup. Her damp hair was draped on her shoulders. Her skin glowed.

  “There was no hint of them fighting back. Tristan spies for Ilan, learning what he can from the other villages; even he hadn’t seen anything to suggest rebellion.” She raised her goblet to her lips. “The levy was only one then. One person. That was all. One sacrifice to keep us all safe. The Collectors are mercenaries, Stone, they would take us all and burn our homes but then nothing would be left. The one who pays them is much smarter. He allows us to live, to grow, to populate, that way we continue to provide him with people.”

  “You’re a wildflower in the dirt,” he said, stripping naked. “That he waters.”

  Her eyes absorbed his multiple wounds and scars. Her fingers delicately touched one, traced a line along it.

  “When Siense refused to surrender another soul the order was given to destroy them.”

  He wiped a tear from her eye with his thumb.

  “They raped the women and children. The men were kept alive and forced to endure the agony. And then they killed them all and burned the village to the ground. The ruins lie east of here. There is nothing but blackened ground and a pit filled with bones. The terrible screams lasted for two days. All day. All night. Nothing but horror. And then we saw the smoke. And we were happy, we almost rejoiced, because it meant that their misery had been ended.”

  She drank.

  “After that, no one every fought back against the Collectors. This is our life, Stone, we accept it.”

  “What happens when someone you care for is chosen?”

  “That happens every time,” she said.

  He lifted her into his arms, her long pale legs wrapped around him, and pinned her against the wall.

  She woke in a cold sweat, panting. Her body ached, sore and spent. He was sat at the end of the bed, deep in thought, brooding and naked. She glimpsed fresh scratches in the flickering candlelight.

  “You talk,” he said, simply. “When you sleep.”

  Justine sat up, wiped her face.

  “I still hear the screams and see their faces. Sharing the story with you brought it all back to me.”

  He turned.

  “You went there, didn’t you?”

  “With Tristan. He’s an expert rider and very good at not being seen. We watched from a distance.”

  Stone saw her eyes glaze over. No words would begin to describe what she had witnessed.

  Outside, there was only the sound of the wind and the rain.

  She crawled along the bed and curled her arms around his neck, pressing her narrow body against his back, feeling his warmth.

  “I don’t want to see those faces anymore.”

  He kissed her hands as they roamed his chest.

  “Is Nuria your woman?” she asked, suddenly, nibbling his neck.

  “No.”

  “I think she would have it differently.”

  She reached into his lap.

  “I’ve noticed her eyes on you. And you spoke up for her, defended her against Ilan the first night you came here.”

  He still said nothing. She gripped him tightly. He throbbed between her fingers.

  “You’re planning to kill them, aren’t you?”

  He pushed her back onto the bed, rolled her onto her stomach and grabbed her hips.

  “No more talk,” he said.

  She gasped as he thrust into her.

  --- Six ---

  The early morning wind sent ripples across the river, distorting the line of trees mirrored upon its surface. The old wooden bridge creaked and groaned, almost with solemn reflection. The Centon was complete; it was the time of choosing, the day of purple ribbons. The village inhabitants emerged sluggish and dejected into a grey dawn light. They threaded along pathways to assemble on the main road through Dessan. The ground was horribly damp, filmed with a light mist that swirled about them. Clouds scudded across the crimson scarred sky. The fields were silent. The groves stood empty. Thin trails of smoke curled lazily into the air. Men, women and children, with heads bowed, stood shoulder to shoulder, sometimes holding hands. There was no music. No singing and dancing. The celebrations had passed and all that remained was fear, a naked primal fear, clenching hard at the throat, lodging deep within, steadfastly refusing to budge.

  Justine had woke to an empty bed, momentarily forgetting the day, the warm surge inside quickly extinguished when she did so. She picked at a hazy memory of Stone slipping away before light. He had whispered to her, shared feelings, made a promise, but she had been too exhausted to hear his words and had gladly drifted back into the warm and enticing folds of sleep, his hand gently stroking her hair before leaving. She pulled a dress over her naked skin, stepped into sandals and wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders. Margaux arched an eyebrow at her unkempt hair and eyes clogged with grit as she entered the council hut. A fire was burning and Justine warmed her hands for a moment. There was fresh water and she took a cup, gulping it down. There was fruit and biscuits but, though her stomach rumbled, she had no appetite.

  Ilan donned a black gown and fetched a long staff. The ceremonial trappings had belonged to his father. He emerged from the council hut, onto the red clay road that snaked through the village, his iron grey hair sweeping behind him in the wind. Justine and Margaux followed dutifully. Margaux was the giver. Justine was the carer. Ilan spoke softly in the tongue of the Ancients, or so the villagers believed, a mantra gifted through cycles of his family, an intonation only he understood. His lips moved slowly as he walked. His voice was dull and gravely. There was speculation to the meaning, perhaps he beseeched forgiveness for the undertaking of such a ritual or offered platitudes of respect that applauded the courage of those about to sacrifice their own lives. Only Ilan knew the true meaning of the words and no one really cared enough to ask him.

  As the council passed each villager a deep sigh could often be heard. One woman fainted with relief.

  Ilan continued through the village, the words slipping from his mouth, curious phrases overlapping, and then, finally, he stopped and drove the staff into the dirt. He did not turn his head to face the chosen man.

  “Please, oh, no, shit, not me, no, fuck, I’m sorry, I mean, I work hard, Ilan, please, Ilan, please don’t. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. No, please, please … NO.”

  Margaux stepped before him. Her slender hands were gloved. She tied a purple ribbon around his elbow.

  “No, it shouldn’t be me, no, I don’t want to … take it off, please take it off, why won’t you listen to me? Listen to me. I’m going to take this off. I am, I’m going to take this off, I’m not going.”

  Justine held his hands, stroked his face and whispered to him. His eyes bubbled with tears.

  Ilan walked a short distance before stopping again and once more a man had been chosen, this one much younger, more a youth than a man, long haired, a ragged beard, shapeless clothes, slouched and nonchalant. He sought no words of comfort or wisdom as the ribbon was tied around his elbow and none were offered.

  “Where is Stone?” said Nuria, further down the line.

  “I don’t know,” said Emil.

  Her cuts were healed but her face was bruised. The knife was still in her boot. She had every intention of using it this morning.

  “And the Map Maker?”

  “Gone,” said Sadie.

  The words came out flat. Her eyes looked red, cheeks puffy. Nearby, black ollish birds chirped and scampered.

  “Just the women then,” said Emil, and laughed, bitterly, as a sharp blast of wind curved through the village. “Looks like we’re going to have to get on after all.” The people around them glared fiercely at the sound of Emil’s laugher. This was not a time for humour. “Why a
re we standing here?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Nuria. “We don’t care about any traditions.”

  Ilan stopped for a third time and repeated the motion of planting his staff into the moist clay. The purple ribbon was in Margaux’s hand but the woman resisted and jerked away from her.

  “I have a family,” she said. “Choose someone else, please, not me, send someone else away. I’m not going. You can’t make me. I don’t have to go. None of us should go.”

  Justine offered her hands and the woman, Alize, slapped them away and spat at her.

  “No,” she said. “Not me.”

  Mallon, despite the appointed leader of the militia, carried the identical burden of his fellow villagers and lined the road with them, as vulnerable as they were. He knew the name of every one in Dessan and who they shared with. He knew where they worked and what they were good at and what they were shoddy at. He knew the disputes and rivalries and petty squabbles and he resolved each and every one of them until they flared once more and he was again forced to step in. He knew the secrets, the lies, the deceptions, the betrayals and the confidences. He knew every hut and every path, every tree and every blade of grass, and in these terrible moments, when Lena moved the stone to obscure the purple square and the Collector’s were possibly only an hour from his home, this knowledge seemed to pale and count for so little and he glimpsed the unravelling of a life, his own life, all twenty five years of it; the words he had failed to speak, the secrets he should have shared, the friends he had lost.

  His time would be soon. The council tolerated him, no more than that, and one day Margaux would tie that ribbon around his arm and he would be bundled from here and Dessan would fade into memory; his hair would lengthen, his skin would line, his bones would ache and Dessan would be a shadow, only a name, a surreal place that he would visit in his dreams and, maybe, in that alternate existence, he would kick his feet in the river with Lena and he would finish building his wall and he would most certainly hold Emil in his arms and kiss her on the lips.

  Mallon stepped from the line, went past Justine and reached for Alize. She collapsed against him, choking, sobbing, incoherent. He had no words for her. He held her close but could offer her nothing. His shirt became soaked and she was desperately gasping for air. Her life partner was named Rayan and he looked on passively. He worked the land, ploughing and sowing. Alize’s lover was a much younger man named Gabriel. He was training as a blacksmith and fashioned spearheads. He had two young sisters, one of whom had no vision. Alize would visit him when his sisters were at school. Mallon saw nothing in the young man’s eyes as the ribbon was finally tied around Alize’s elbow.

  Ilan lifted his staff and took several paces forward as Mallon felt Alize’s body sag. He steadied her and several women around him took hold of her. One of them went to fetch a bottle of drink. Mallon’s stomach knotted and his fists clenched and unclenched. His temper had already flared this morning when he learned from Emil that she had been attacked. One of the men who stood with him had viciously beaten an innocent girl last and, once this slave ritual was complete and the Collectors had left, he would begin to investigate. By nightfall he was certain to take the man into the forest and beat the life from him.

  He focused his gaze across the road and spotted Conrad grinning at him, indicating the damp patch on his clothing. The fool of a man could find childish humour in any situation. Conrad was the only man he knew not responsible for beating Emil. He had been at the tavern with Nuria. This much he knew. Besides, his best friend might be a clown but he had never struck a woman. He was harmless but still Mallon had to suppress the urge to knock that smirk off his face, or at least hurl a remark or two at him; yet the time of the choosing was one of revered silence and so he glared instead until but he realised that he no longer had the Saacion’s eye. His long haired childhood friend was observing the council and his face had drained of all mirth.

  Suddenly, Conrad broke the line.

  “Ilan,” he said. “You cannot, please …”

  The wooden staff stabbed into the ground and Nuria’s expression of shock was quickly replaced with disgust at the old man, for lacking the courage to face her. Resolutely, Ilan’s eyes stared ahead, his lips no longer moving. Her stomach toiled and a pain jabbed in her chest. Where the hell was Stone? Her pulse was racing. She felt she would be violently sick at any moment. Where was he? No, she wasn’t accepting this. She hadn’t thrown away her former life and travelled all these miles to become the victim of an insane village ritual.

  “No,” she said.

  She heard Conrad protesting and saw him step from the line and admired his loyalty to a woman he hardly knew. He had warned her last night, told her the truth behind the Centon and the tale of a fourth village, Siense, who had refused to be subjugated by the Collectors. She had wanted to speak with Stone, to retell Conrad’s story, but he was nowhere to be found and now he had disappeared. The dawn light had grown gloomy and large spots of rain began to pelt down. It was all too late now. It didn’t matter anymore. She had been chosen. She was the fourth levy. The past had caught up with her. Punishment was due.

  Nuria shook her head as the dark skinned Margaux walked toward her, a single purple ribbon held in her gloved hand.

  “Keep that away from me or I’ll break …”

  Margaux smiled at Nuria, and there was a stunned collective gasp as she hurriedly tied the ribbon around Emil’s arm.

  “Margaux,” said Justine. “Ilan chose Nuria, not the one-eyed child. You have placed the ribbon wrong.”

  Ilan’s eyes seethed at Margaux. She had usurped the laws of the Centon.

  “Take that off her,” said Justine.

  “No,” said Ilan, as whispers and mutterings broke out amongst the villagers. “The declaration must never be undone. The child has been chosen.”

  “I want to take mine off,” wailed Alize. “We should all take off our ribbons. It’s not fair. I’m not going with them.”

  “Remember Siense,” called a voice.

  “You have to go,” shouted another. “To save us all.”

  “Quiet,” said Ilan.

  He turned to face Emil, rainwater trickling down his face. He had never made eye contact before with the wearer of a purple ribbon.

  “You saved the life of my son, Tristan. I will never forget that. I will carry the shame of what has happened.” He placed a hand on her shoulder but Emil shrugged it off. “Know that Margaux will be punished and will now stand in line with the rest of you from this day onward.”

  “You think I care about that?”

  “I hope that your magic can save you.”

  Emil lunged at Margaux, snatching the woman by the wrist and peeling off one of her gloves to reveal bruised knuckles.

  “You poisonous fucking bitch.”

  She hit her square in the face, splitting her lip and reached for the knife in her boot. Margaux held up her hands. The blade flashed and drew a line of blood across her palms. Mallon sprinted along the road and threw himself at Emil, taking down both her and the knife.

  “You disobeyed the Centon,” said Justine. “You’re finished with the council, Margaux. No ribbon can ever be removed. You know this. If one can be removed then all can. Mallon, have your men dump take her to the punishment pits.”

  A group of militia broke from the line and held Margaux, who was smiling and chuckling with glee.

  “The Collectors will receive a wonderful prize this time,” she said. “You one-eyed freak.”

  Nuria ducked into the hut she shared with the others and searched beneath her bed for her pistol but it was missing.

  “Freak,” screamed Margaux. “You little slut. You ugly monster. ”

  She hunted for Stone’s rifle and revolver but they were gone, too. Who had taken her weapon and where the fuck was Stone? He shared no bond with the Map Maker; he had once even robbed the man of his prized papers. He had not eloped with him. And he wouldn’t have left Emil behind. With no wea
pon, she stepped back outside, and saw Margaux being marched away. Mallon stood with Emil. Her battered face looked numb. A purple ribbon fluttered at her elbow.

  “I knew,” she said. “Lying on my bed last night, I figured out who had attacked me. I knew I would be chosen this morning.”

  “You were not meant to be,” said Justine.

  “Thanks,” said Nuria. “Bitch.”

  Emil reached for the ribbon, to remove it.

  “You cannot,” said Mallon. “Please, Emil, if they do not receive the levy of four they will kill every one here.”

  She hesitated. He had told her last night the fate that had befallen the fourth village. He had tried to encourage her to leave, to avoid being chosen. He had even intimated that he might consider leaving with her. She had no idea that Nuria had experienced the same conversation with Conrad.

  “Do you want that to happen?”

  “No,” she said.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “I would wear the ribbon instead of you,” he said. “Only it cannot be removed. If one person can remove the ribbon then so can every one.”

  “Good,” said Nuria. “How can you stand there defending this? What kind of a man are you?”

  “I do not defend it,” said Mallon, raising his voice at her. “I do not agree with it. It is slavery and I hate it. I am only explaining it.”

  Emil looked into his eyes.

  “Are you going to let them take me?”

  The bell began to ring. The Collector’s had reached the outskirts of Dessan.

  “Where is Stone?” said Justine.

  The horses trotted slowly into the village, wagons rolling behind them, wooden wheels grinding deep ruts into the clay road. A silence fell across the people and the watchtower bell tolled no more. The lead horseman carried a great sword on his back and wore patched together pieces of armour crafted from iron and animal hide and thick fur. He was bearded, his long face pitted and scarred. Six men rode behind him, fearsome eyes glaring from faces obscured with scarves and helmets, a menacing array of weapons hanging from belts and saddles.