He let his hand drop and began to turn away when she threw her arms around him and hugged him. Stone was numb. She held him in the way that no woman, not even Justine, had ever held him. The feeling was confusing, overwhelming. He awkwardly shaped his arms around her. The rain lashed them. His eyes turned moist. As they broke apart, he said, “Make a life with him.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve. Mallon offered Stone his hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “We can make Dessan a better place now. Firstly, by kicking out that twisted bitch Margaux,”
Stone nodded.
“We’ll be back in a few days.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
--- Eight ---
The forest was a blur.
Stone kept his boot lowered against the accelerator and pushed the car hard. The vehicle was in poor shape, heavily dented with a rattling left wing. The tyres were worn and large patches of brown rust bubbled across its ancient, bullet peppered body work. The dial showed nearly a full tank of black energy but he had no real idea how long that would last. The car screeched as he swerved to avoid a long crack in the road where wild greenery had punched through the asphalt.
He knew that Darrach and the Collector he had escaped with would ride all day and all night to reach their clan settlement but he also knew the car could outrun them. He imagined the fleeing men would keep to the road for now, until they heard the throb of the car engine, and would undoubtedly scatter into the trees. Woodland terrain was poor for horses but impossible for a car. They would need to bring that horse down to stand any chance of heading them off. He had heard Darrach refer to the men with the blue and white scarves as Maizans. He asked the others if they knew of the name but his question drew blank looks. He asked them about the Tamnicans but they had not heard of them, either. A little frustrated, he concentrated on the road ahead, the forest sweeping all around him, his hands steady on the wheel, the driver’s seat lumpy and uncomfortable. The interior of the car was worn and grubby and a sharp acidic aroma had lingered, slowly fading now as the wind whipped through open windows, catching Justine’s beautiful hair. He watched the yellow strands float. He glimpsed Nuria staring at him in the rear-view mirror and his brow creased.
Late in the afternoon, with the sun beginning to dip, he relaxed his speed and then eased the car to a stop.
His arms were aching and he needed to stretch and relieve himself, cramped in the same position for most of the day. There had been no trace of Darrach or his man. No doubt they were already in the forest. Stone arched his back, flexed his arms and disappeared behind a tree for a moment. Finished, he glanced along the road. Something had caught his eyes back there. The three of them watched him as he drew his revolver. He held up his hand and they waited in the middle of the road, vigilant, gripping heavy iron swords. Stone tentatively pushed through the tangled undergrowth, the sky gradually darkening, the gloom making it hard to see. Pine needles crunched beneath his boots. He narrowed his vision. He couldn’t make out exactly what he was looking at but there was definitely something large hidden amongst the trees. He moved forward, dropping to a crouch, right arm extended, finger against the trigger. He listened. An old man had once told him that forests were sanctuaries of nature and once brimmed with life; even the tinniest, most fragile insect could make the loudest click or chirp. The Cloud Wars had robbed life from the woodlands and it had never returned. The old man had told him he had gleaned the knowledge from a book. Stone had remarked that the man was very drunk.
He waited and strained to hear. There were no clicks or chirps; only the wind and his heavy breathing. He took another step and then another and then the obstruction took shape before him; it was a small building, a shack, obscured by large green netting. He began to circle it. He was impressed. The patchy green netting had concealed the building from the roadside. He had sensed something was here but could have easily missed it. Stone continued around the small dwelling. He could smell the freshness of the forest, damp and dripping with rainwater. He came around the front once again and gestured to the others, still loitering on the road in the pressing gloom. He kept his revolver trained on the door as they crept into the forest. He pointed at the netting and Nuria and Conrad took hold of it. He glimpsed Justine, across the road, poking her sword into the bushes and long grass, peering down at something.
Stone tuned his attention back to Nuria and Conrad and nodded; they yanked hard at the netting and it slid down to reveal a wooden shack.
Seconds ticked by.
He went forward, dropping down and pressed his ear against the door. He heard nothing.
Stone reached for the handle, twisted it, and pushed the door wide open, sweeping the room with his revolver.
“Empty,” he said.
“Stone,” called Justine.
He sprinted over to her as Nuria and Conrad went into the shack. Justine stood with her sword raised, a blood stained blue and white scarf hanging from it.
“Four bodies,” she said. “Rotting and stinking, pushed into the bushes.”
“Maizans?”
She nodded, flicked the scarf from her sword and pointed deeper into the trees.
“There’s more over there, but someone burnt them.”
“Show me,” he said.
She led him into the trees, pushing back branches, to where the charred bodies were piled in a clearing, the ground beneath them blackened. The smell was terrible. He walked back with her, then stopped and crouched, lifting a small item from the ground.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A shotgun casing,” he said.
He tossed it back into the grass.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly taking his hand, squeezing it. “For what you did this morning.”
Stone nodded, said nothing. He swung her against the nearest tree and thrust his mouth against hers.
“Blankets,” said Conrad. “A lot of blankets. And even more blankets.”
Nuria picked up an empty bottle, sniffed it. She set it down on a cramped wooden table.
“It’s cosy,” he said.
The shack smelt damp and a metal pan on the floor was overflowing with rainwater that had seeped through the roof.
“That was quite the adventure this morning,” he continued. “I wonder what my father will do now.”
“Do you find humour in everything?” she asked him.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, rummaging through bags and sacks. “Why not? The world is a strange place.” He paused. “What’s Chett like?”
Nuria straightened, pushed a hand through her blonde hair and looked at him.
“Why?”
“I would love to see it one day,” he said. “Unlike my father, and the people who live in Dessan, I like to travel from time to time. I hear stories of places. The city of Chett. With its giant buildings and walls and the fine soldiers of the Red Guard.”
“One day,” she said, thoughtfully.
“With you? That’s something I will look forward to.”
He ran his hand over the table.
“This place is clean. Two people were here recently.” He nodded at the makeshift bed on the floor. “I wonder how much they loved each other.”
“You guess all that from a quick look around?” said Nuria.
“It’s amazing what you can see when you stop and look. You miss it, don’t you? Your home, I mean. At least, that is what you told me last night. Or did you forget? I think you might have had one too many.”
She punched him, playfully, then the smile went from her face.
“Why are you here, Conrad?”
He picked up his sword.
“Because you are here.” He hesitated. “And I want to be where you are. I have since the moment I first saw you.”
“You were drunk the moment you first saw me.”
He smiled.
“Your friend saved my brother’s life. I’m glad we were able to do the same for her today.”
H
e took her hand.
“Ilan says he feels nothing for me, does not even recognise me as a son, but planned to take away the one person I truly care for.”
The light was fading quickly. It would be an ideal place to camp.
“Do you think we should turn back?” she said. “We don’t really know where this road is taking us or what Tamnica is. It could be a town or a city or even nothing.”
“Those wagons of our people go somewhere.”
“Stone,” she began, rubbing the heels of her palms together. “He’s a very determined man. He knows where he wants to go and doesn’t stop, no matter who or what stands in his way. He can land himself in a lot of trouble and the people around him, too. He’s a little stubborn.”
“Most men are,” said Conrad, leaning against the wall of the shack, running one hand down her face and neck.
“Stop that,” she said, half heartedly. “He tries to fix things, change what he sees as wrong … and sometimes … it can … his ways can … he’s a dangerous man to be with.”
Nuria gasped, as Conrad nibbled her neck.
“He was prepared to fight the Collectors on his own. I salute that type of bravery in anyone.”
“Conrad,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
There were footsteps outside.
“No, Conrad ….”
He heard a snap of fear in her tone.
Her skin was flushed; her back scraped the tree, her head roared as Stone pounded savagely against her.
She dug her nails into him, cried out.
And then they heard the scream.
Stone jogged back to the shack, revolver in his fist, Justine following behind him, straightening her dress.
In gloom, he glimpsed the undergrowth had been disturbed. The door to the shack was open and Conrad was lying on the floor, unconscious. Nuria was nowhere to be seen.
“See to him,” said Stone.
He saw the path the abductors had taken. He reasoned two or three men, no more than that. He moved swiftly through the trees, hearing them ahead, the purple sky turning black. The white lights blinked as he followed them deeper and deeper into the forest. He began to curve away from them, losing them for a moment, then drawing closer to their flank. He glimpsed a man, clutching an axe, and fired, but his bullet struck a tree and shattered bark. He kept moving forward. Nuria screamed again and there was a muffled shout. Stone was much closer than he had anticipated.
Rain began to fall. The soft ground quickly moistened and his boots slipped. He yelled her name and fired again, hitting nothing.
He felt the terrain slope down. He could hear rushing water. The darkness engulfed him. The rain was in his eyes. He ran through the trees, his legs aching, his lungs burning. A black shadow loomed ahead and there was the whoosh of an axe. Stone fired into the blackness and heard an agonised cry. He saw the man lose his footing, hands clutching a hole in his chest, blood seeping down his rain soaked shirt.
As Stone sprang past him, the man drew a short blade and stabbed at Stone, the tip penetrating his leg.
Stone yelled, buried the barrel of his revolver in the man’s head of long hair and squeezed the trigger.
The trees thinned and he found himself on a grassy bank. Ahead a dilapidated stone bridge crossed a fast flowing river. He saw the shattered rusted hulk of a car, trees all around it. He threw himself back into the undergrowth as an arrow hissed past him. He held his fire, certain the bowman and Nuria were crouched behind the car.
He heard movement coming up fast behind him and spun round to see Conrad crashing through the trees, sword in hand. His face was soaked with rain. He ran past Stone and ducked as a second arrow shot through the air.
Stone pushed right, coming round the flank. The rain sloshed about him, he could barely see a thing.
Nuria screamed again.
Conrad sprinted toward the car as the bowman reached into his quiver for another arrow.
There was the crack of a gunshot and the man’s head rocked to one side. He slumped onto the grass, blood pouring down his face.
Nuria was face down in the mud, a trembling hand on the back of her neck, a skinny man in ragged clothes astride her.
“I’ll kill the bitch,” he said, the knife tip at her temple.
“Conrad,” she sobbed.
The ragged man buried her face into the ground.
“Shut up, you fucking whore,” he screamed.
Stone emerged from the trees, behind him, and the ragged man turned, flashing the knife.
Conrad lunged forward, swung his sword with both hands and the man’s head rolled down the bank into the river.
Stone kicked the headless body off her and she scrambled to her feet, breathing heavily. She threw her arms around Conrad and held him tight.
He acknowledged Stone with a nod.
As they began to walk away from the riverbank, Stone glanced back, frowned, and crouched down next to the headless corpse.
Justine stoked the fire. The shack glowed, a beacon through the saturated black forest. Outside in the pouring rain, Stone dragged the netting back down over the building. The light from the fire disappeared. He smiled, grimly, his leg stinging. He walked back to the car, started the engine and reversed it off the road. He took the key from the ignition and slipped it into his pocket. The boot made a grinding metal sound as he opened it and lifted out supplies. He went in and sat by the flames, the crackling warmth slowly drying his clothes. Water dripped through the roof, plopping into a single metal pan. He took off his boot, rolled up his trouser leg and cleaned the knife wound. The cut was deeper than he had at first thought and would require stitching.
Wrapped in layers of blankets, Justine watched him, unable to avert her gaze as he methodically stitched his wound, grimacing as the needle passed through skin.
Conrad passed around food and a bottle of drink, one of several they had taken from the Collector’s.
“Do you think Darrach is riding in this?” he said, to no one in particular.
Stone took a swig from the bottle.
“No.”
He finished, then tugged on his boot and rolled down his trouser leg.
“We should have caught up with him,” he said, chewing at a piece of meat. “The two of them must have gone through the forest.”
A frown creased his forward.
“What is it?” asked Nuria, shadows dancing around the walls.
“The man who held the knife to you had these marks on his forearm.”
Justine sat forward.
“They match the ones on the Centon. And I’ve seen them before.”
“The man you killed?” said Justine.
“Well, I was there when he was killed,” said Stone. “He was a long way from here, out in the wasteland, but they were the same marks.”
He fell silent for a moment.
“Burnt into the flesh.”
No one spoke. They ate and drank in silence, pondering his words. The rain continued to fall. The wind echoed through the trees. Justine offered Stone an apple and he bit into it. Conrad stroked Nuria’s hair as she gently lay toward him, her eyes tired. He drew the blanket tighter around them both.
“What’s at Tamnica?” said Stone, looking into the fire. “What happens to the people taken there?”
“They never return,” said Conrad. “That’s what happens to them.”
Stone took first watch. He found a spot beneath a tree, the rain pouring down around him, spattering the broad leaves above. He leaned against the soaked trunk and scanned the forest and the highway. He saw nothing. The sky was black. The clouds drifted in the wind. The white lights were gone. He had survived for a long time in this world using strength and instinct and it was that that was gnawing away at him, telling him to turn back. Yet if they gave up he knew the Collectors would return, and in greater numbers, and Dessan was not ready to repel them. The Centon had enslaved the village and softened them with promises of protection. With a wall and a larger militia they could
learn to protect their kin and thrive and grow. Maybe the village could expand beyond its boundaries and reach Le Sen and Agen and then the Collectors would hold no power over the region as hundreds swelled to thousands, moulded into a giant fist of resistance.
Stone raised the collar on his shabby long coat. He walked a slow patrol, circling the building, picking through the trees, stopping and listening, observing, then edging back to the highway. Puddles splashed as he crossed the road to where the bodies of the Maizans lay rotting in the undergrowth. He examined each one. None bore the burn marks. In the pocket of one man he discovered a wrapped package of curious silver discs. He had no idea what they were and placed them inside his coat. He stared at where the charred bodies were piled, rain sluicing down them. He wondered why some had been burned and some had been left to rot.
He walked back to keep watch on the shack, thinking of Justine.
Stone twisted the ignition key and the engine gunned into life. He swung onto the highway and levered his foot hard against the pedal.
The rain had given way to a misty and grey dawn light, a washed out sun poking through the clouds. The rush of air into the car brought all four of them into sharp focus. Stone was confident they would catch up with Darrach soon or come across the Collector’s settlement. He wondered how close they were to Tamnica. Justine leaned back against the door, yawning; Nuria was whispering a story of Chett to Conrad who was listening intently; Stone kept his hands on the wheel, turning to ease around a wreckage of rusted metal, a car with flat tyres and shattered windows.
Suddenly, there was movement in the trees and something was hurled across the road. The car went across it and there was a bang and Stone began to lose control. He wrestled furiously with the wheel. Justine screamed as the car skidded and skated from the road, slamming into a tree. Conrad looked back and saw men dragging a long barbed chain into the trees. Stone’s door was jammed. He hastily pushed Justine clear of the car. He scrambled out behind her, pulling free his revolver and crouching down. He saw the front tyres of the car had been shredded. The vehicle was useless.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 11