The grim levy claimed from Le Sen and Agen was inside two wagons. Iron cages bolted to wooden flatbeds. Four men, each wearing a blue ribbon, Two men, one woman and one child, each wearing a yellow ribbon. Some villagers remained on the road and stared with defiance as the convoy rumbled by. A baby began to cry and a woman sobbed. The Collectors threaded through the village at a relaxed pace, untroubled. The wagons creaked, the horses snorted. Four more horsemen followed at the rear, each one armed with sheathed sword and a rifle.
“Run,” said Nuria. “Run now. Back to the forest. Get away from here.”
Emil shook her head.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You don’t owe these people anything.”
“I know that.”
“Then go, Emil … fuck … just run.”
Yet there was a resigned look across the Magic Girl’s face. Alone on her bed last night, staring at the thatched roof above, the mud hut empty, she had figured it out quickly enough. She had healed her cracked nose and cut skin but the pain of the beating lingered within and her gift could not heal that wound. She had measured the fists that had struck her to reason her attacker had been a woman. Margaux had warned her away from Mallon and she had learned from him, last night, over a bowl of cooked apples and halk meat, that he endured a bitter relationship with the woman since her son, Davide, had died.
“To be honest, it goes back further than that. Davide’s father was sleeping with another woman. In a village, secrets do not stay secret for too long. There was a terrible fight near the tavern, where Rosa worked. Margaux was humiliated. What made it worse for her was that Rosa - I don’t want to be unkind – but she is not an appealing woman. She is lazy, foul mouthed and enjoys more than one person’s portion of food. You have to understand that Margaux is a woman who values appearance, sometimes more than what is inside a person.”
Mallon touched his chest. Emil was disappointed that he had chosen to wear a shirt for the evening, although it was worn loose, so she could at least enjoy some of his chest.
“Margaux turned on me, told me I should have informed her of what was going on. Maybe I should of.” He sighed. “Her son, Davide, was a new recruit in the militia. He was fourteen. A little old to start. Normally, we train them from the age of eight. He was a quick learner but he lacked instinct. He always needed to be told what to do, how to react. One day, out hunting halk, he stumbled and broke his ankle. The poor boy screamed so much that the halk went into blind panic and one trampled him, catching his throat and crushing the life from him. It was a tragic accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. I left that morning with seven warriors but returned with only six. Margaux blamed me. Once more. She has tormented my life for many years. I do not let her gossip trouble me. I know what she says. I don’t want to think of that vile woman anymore.”
The Collectors were greeted by deep bows from Ilan and Justine.
“You all know me,” said the lead horseman. “I am Darrach, Warlord of the Collectors. The levy has been raised to four. The Centon is complete and payment is now due. I will give you a moment to choose your fourth one.”
He leaned from his saddle, spat.
“But then you already know the new rate, don’t you? The next time I see a spy I’ll take the bastard’s head and drag his body through Gallen.”
He raised one hand and his mercenaries sprang from their horses, like a pack of woodland beasts freed from traps. They snarled and howled and immediately grabbed the two men who bore the purple ribbon. Hastily bound in iron, they were shoved, kicked and bundled into the wagons, where the other prisoners huddled meekly, eyes downcast. One of the mercenaries took a cart of freshly picked apples and wheeled it back to the horses. He slowly unpacked the fruit into saddle bags and then shoved a few apples through the cages. Alize fought as the Collectors grabbed her. She shrieked and pleaded for her fellow villagers to help her. Hands clenched, thoughts raced, but eyes looked away, the seconds counted until it would be over. Rayan, Alize’s life partner, folded his thick hands. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. One of the Collectors slapped Alize hard across the face and then squeezed her chest. Rayan’s left eye twitched as the man continued to maul her.
“Stop that,” said Darrach. His voice was a growl, a brutal rasp. “They do not belong to you.”
Alize shook with terror as they clamped her in irons. Tiny drops of blood spilled onto her chin. She was hurled into the wagon. She crawled into a corner, shaking violently.
“Where is the fourth one?” called one of the Collectors.
“Tell Stone,” Emil said to Nuria. “And I’m sorry. For blaming you. I was angry. I’m sorry. Please, just tell Stone.”
She turned her eyes to Mallon.
“Help me.”
“Ilan,” he said. “I will go in her place.”
Ilan leaned against his staff.
“Take her,” said Darrach, from his saddle.
One of the Collector’s strolled toward Emil, swinging a set of chains.
“Ilan,” said Mallon. “Answer me, I beg of you. Tristan would have died without her. Is this how you …”
“Enough,” said Justine. “You know he will never change who is chosen, Mallon. There is no point asking the blind fool.”
Ilan looked between the two of them, holding his staff, saying nothing. Nuria stood before him and spat on the ground.
“It was Margaux who chose Emil but you picked me, you old bastard.”
She turned and suddenly angled a punch at the Collector, striking him across the chin and then swiftly drove her boot into his knee, turning him round. The man plucked a sword into his hand and swung, the tip of the blade narrowly missing her stomach. He sprang forward but Nuria was agile and her boot struck the man hard in the groin. He howled, dropping to the ground, where she booted him again, putting him down. Another Collector appeared, his sword already drawn, but Mallon lunged at him, taking him from the side, pushing him from the road into the dirt. He punched him and wrestled the weapon from his grasp,
Darrach leapt from his horse, drew his long sword and swung the fearsome blade at Mallon, holding it beneath his throat.
“Drop it, boy.”
Mallon let the sword fall.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he said.
No one spoke, shocked by the sudden defiance against the Collectors.
“Do you not remember Siense?”
His booming voice echoed around the village.
“Is that what you want?”
He signalled to his men and they came forward, weapons drawn. Mallon was struck, across the back of the head. He stumbled onto his knees and Darrach drove his boot into the young man’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground, where he planted his boot into his stomach. Two men pounced on Nuria and clubbed her with the hilts of their swords. Conrad had vanished but now re-emerged on the road brandishing a sword, the blade that had rested in Ilan’s council hut.
“Conrad,” said Ilan. “How dare you?”
“Conrad, no,” said Justine.
The dark haired man looked down at Nuria, lying in the dirt, blood running from her nose and mouth.
He jabbed the sword toward Darrach, who chuckled, his gloved fist brandishing his giant sword.
“Are you challenging me, you stupid little bastard?”
Conrad’s eyes did not waver.
“How good a swordsman are you, Conrad? Because every one here knows how good I am.”
Darrach edged forward.
“Do you want really to die in the pissing fucking rain?”
Conrad’s mouth twisted. Slowly, he lowered the sword.
“Get the girl.”
“No,” shouted Mallon, as Emil was marched away, wrists in chains. Justine felt an ache in her chest. Her breathing became rapid. Her skin began to burn. Her stomach was shredded. She had begged Stone not to end this but as she stood in the heavy rain, the horror of Siense flooded her thoughts, and she wished he was here, cutting them
down in a hail of bullets. She shut her eyes and wanted to flee this insane world and find a better place, with Stone at her side. She had seen it in him the moment he had strode across the bridge - a man who might stamp upon the tradition the Eastern Villages clung to. Mallon deemed it slavery and he was right. She lowered her head with shame and reached for him, lifting him from the dirt, as the strange girl with the copper coloured hair was bustled into the wagon.
“Justine, why did you send Emil away?”
It was Lena, hair and clothes soaked, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I didn’t,” she said.
“She was my friend and I was horrible to her. Margaux said that, she said that, said Mallon and Emil were laughing at me, making fun of me, and I called Emil a monster and now I can’t say sorry and I …”
“Take that sword back to the council hut,” said Ilan, to Conrad, and the Collectors gathered to watch, jeering.
“You’re talking to me, Father,” smiled Conrad, staring along the blade. “Does this mean you acknowledge my existence?”
Ilan grabbed Conrad’s wrist and attempted to shake free the sword but the younger man’s grip was firm.
“It’s my sword, Father, or have you forgotten?”
“It is you who has forgotten,” hissed Ilan.
Conrad shook his head.
“I have not forgotten anything, Ilan.”
“If you fucks are all finished,” said Darrach, his booming voice causing the villagers to shrink away. “With your touching family fucking reunion there is one more piece of business left.”
The rain lashed down on him.
“There will be no wall in Dessan. Do you understand me, Ilan?”
The Elder Chief nodded.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Darrach, we understand.”
“Louder,” demanded Darrach.
“We will destroy the wall,” said Justine. “We understand.”
Darrach grinned, his eyes roaming her narrow body. Justine tightened the blanket around her.
“I look forward to the day you wear a purple ribbon,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Make sure that is all you wear.”
His men laughed and sprinted back to their horses.
Mallon stood by the wagon, holding Emil’s hands though the bars. He had seen the Centon complete time and time again and witnessed the taking of so many innocents. He had cared for all of them. He had loved none of them. The anger welled inside him. He gripped her hands tightly. He knew that if he never saw her again it would destroy him. She appeared calm. He had expected her to cry or plead but there was an inner strength he had yet to learn of.
The wagons jerked forward. Alize screamed and one of the other prisoners told her to shut up.
Emil stared at Mallon.
And said nothing.
“Are you okay?” asked Conrad.
Nuria nodded, brushing herself down. She shivered in the pouring rain. She watched Mallon follow alongside the wagons until he was harried away by the horsemen.
The convoy rolled on, heading for the bridge.
“Where do they go?”
Conrad shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“I do,” said Tristan, nodding at his older brother.
“Where?” said Nuria. “Quickly.”
“They follow the dirt road for a few hours,” he said. “It reaches a highway and they travel west through the forest.”
Nuria nodded.
“That’s where Stone will be.”
“How do you know that?” said Conrad.
“A road through a forest,” she said. “A perfect place for an ambush. He wouldn’t walk away from this.”
Mallon marched past them. He walked with purpose, taking long strides. Justine followed him, calling to him, but he ignored her. He reached the bridge as the convoy began to recede up the winding dirt road, into the forest. He stared at the wooden box and grabbed it suddenly. He tried to wrestle it from the rock, tugging at it, but the ropes held firm.
Conrad approached him, offering him his sword. Mallon snatched the blade, wielding it with both hands. He slashed the ropes and split the Centon in half. Face red, filled with loathing, he hacked at the wooden box, splintering it into dozens of pieces. He brought the sword down again and again until Justine gently took his arm.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at the group who had gathered around him.
“Where do you keep the weapons?” asked Nuria.
Conrad found his father in the council hut, his old hands resting upon an empty shelf, where the sword had once lain. Now it was sheathed and buckled to his belt. He opened his mouth, but knew only a childish remark would come from it so, for once, he saw the pain he continued to inflict upon his father and chose to remain silent. It was cold and damp, a sadness permeated in the air.
“How many of you are going?” croaked Ilan.
“Mallon, Nuria, Justine.”
He turned sharply, his eyes filled with disappointment.
“We will disappear from this world.” He began to walk back to his chair. “The men and women will be tortured, violated and murdered.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve allowed for years, Father?”
“Do not address me as such,” said Ilan, his temper rising. “Your mother bore you but not from my seed.”
Conrad strode toward him, his right hand balanced on the hilt of his sword.
“You do not know that for certain.”
“You disrespect me and the Eastern Villages. What are you? A drunk and a fool with women.”
“It is you that made me drink, Father. Your hatred for me drove me to it. Your damn stubbornness over the Centon.”
“I banish you from Dessan. I will notify the militia.”
Conrad snorted.
“This is my home. You will not drive me from it.”
Ilan eased into his chair.
“You shouldn’t have allowed Margaux to manipulate you.”
“We had chosen Nuria,” he said. “Not the one-eyed child.”
“Even worse,” said Conrad, throwing up his arms in disgust. “A stranger. This is how you repay a newcomer to our village? Do you know something, Father? There is a man out there who is about to risk his life for people he doesn’t even know.”
“He knows the child,” said Ilan.
“He had already planned to attack the Collectors before Emil was chosen,” shouted Conrad. “He is a brave man, miserable and humourless, I agree, but he’ll face down your enemies whilst you sit here, a coward, living in the past. Mother is dead. The sickness took her. What does it matter what she did or didn’t do? Maybe she made a mistake. Maybe she didn’t. Anyway, you took a new woman to have Tristan.”
“That is different,” said Ilan. “I need an heir for this seat.”
“An heir? An heir to what? Look around you, Ilan; it’s a hut of old relics.”
He shook his head.
“Today, I’ll fight not just to free the prisoners in those wagons but to save Dessan. What will you do, Father?”
--- Seven ---
Sheets of driving rain lashed down upon the clay road that snaked through the forest.
Head ducked against the fierce weather, Darrach ordered two riders to scout ahead. He had had no need for scouts when travelling between the villages, the land was sparsely populated, mostly scrubland and low hills, and no one would attempt to lay traps or tangle with the Collectors but, within a few hours, his men would reach the highway and the journey to Tamnica was five days through dense forest and barren lowlands and here he might encounter bandits attempting to steal his levy. A raid upon the convoy had been attempted once before but his men had beaten off the hopeful thieves. As punishment, they had nailed several of the captured robbers to the trees, a stark warning to any who would dare threaten to steal from his clan.
He could hear the prisoners moaning and crying in the wagons and passed word for them to be silenced. This was the part of th
e business he detested the most. The ride from Tamnica to the villages was an enjoyable one, days spent in the saddle, nights gathered around a roaring fire, eating, laughing, drinking, sharing a woman if they had took one with them. The return trip was a dull journey, loaded down with a miserable cargo that whined and sobbed, consumed rations and required guarding through the dark hours when they needed to defecate. He vehemently despised the men they rounded up, too cowardly to stand and fight like real men. No, these worthless fucks would prefer to crawl on their hands and knees and be enslaved. All three of the villages held a Centon and the spineless weaklings honoured the pointless wooden box that charted when they would return, sacrificing a few so the rest could remain. Siense had showed spirit and guts. Darrach had respected that. He had still unleashed his clan upon them to violate and butcher without mercy, but he had acknowledged their spirit. Siense had defined them through Gallen. The land had reverberated with the horror and the terrible story travelled through the towns and settlements and cemented fear.
Only a fool would defy the Collectors.
Darrach galloped forward, spraying clumps of red clay, rain and wind in his face. He drew closer to the highway and spied the first rendezvous his convoy would make on the return trip. The pathetic villages had believed his demands that the levy had increased to four. What would they do? March to Tamnica and confirm the fact? No one would ever know. Tamnica had set the levy at three. Darrach had increased it to four. This was an extra slice of the pie for his clan. He reached the highway, turned left and his horse vaulted a gaping pothole. He saw the vehicles parked two hundred yards ahead, a car and a small van, rusted and battered, his scouts already dismounted and waiting for him. He pushed his horse along the highway, hooves clattering against the cracked, rain slick surface. Darrach slowed, dropped down from his saddle and banged a fist on the roof of the car.
A young man climbed out. His raised a hood over his shaven head. A blue and white scarf hung around his neck and he rocked on the balls of his feet as the rain soaked his clothes. His hands were clasped over his groin and he held a pistol, the muzzle pointed at the ground. Two men sat in the car behind him. One more in the van. Another youth in a balaclava patrolled with an automatic rifle. All the men wore blue and white.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 9