“Now these are interesting.” He turned them over in his hands, noting the smile on Floran’s lips. “These are indeed a treasure, Floran, well done. I will try each one tonight.”
He put them onto a shelf, lifted his mug and sipped.
“What are they, sir?”
“Sometimes words, sounds, strange songs even. A catalogue of a very different time.”
“Do you put them in that box that turns them really fast?”
Alba nodded.
“That’s correct. Now, leave the box there; I will sort through the rest later.”
He paced the room, glancing out of the window, where the dull coloured generators hummed.
“Does he trust you?”
“Not yet,” said Floran. “But he will, in time. I helped him meet one of the women he came here with.”
“The one who murdered Darrach?”
“No, sir.”
“Has she been placed in the cage?”
“Yes, sir. The Warden saw to it personally.”
“And have the Collectors left?”
“Yes, sir. Jakub is leading them. The Warden seemed concerned they would not return with the levy. The Collectors are weaker without Darrach. The man terrified the villages. There was a suggestion that the Gatherers are sent instead.”
“I have been considering that already,” said Alba.
Floran cleared his throat.
“There is worry over Dessan. The man made a stand against the Collectors. The bastard has shown them what can be achieved by fighting back.”
He lowered his head as the man he knew only as the Thinker glared at him. There was a rush of the wind and the old house rattled. Floran watched his master stare out of the window, the high crumbling walls of the prison rising ominously from the ground. He waited to be dismissed, unsure where to cast his eyes. He feared the Thinker. Not in the way he feared the Warden. The Warden was bark and fists and he had never witnessed the Thinker commit a single act of violence - but then had no need to. There was no need for his knuckles to fleck with blood. He had an army of monsters to undertake his bidding. What chilled Floran the most, want unsettled him more than anything, was the Thinker’s voice; how composed it remained, how rational no matter what the words were.
Plucking up the courage, Floran inched his head upward. He saw the Thinker was consumed with the world outside, taking sips from his mug, his free hand dancing around the rim.
“I will meet with him today. Have the Warden fetch him For your part, Floran, continue to work on earning his trust.”
“Yes, sir,” said Floran.
“You’re not convinced of my approach, are you?”
He fingered his red armband.
“I will never forget what I witnessed at Sarrone.”
“You were never at Sarrone, Floran. Save your stories for the prisoners.”
“He said he met Lucas in the Southern Deserts.”
The Thinker nodded.
“Did he tell you how he escaped?”
“No.”
“Do you believe he really met him?”
Floran began to clean his glasses.
“He told me Lucas was heading home. Back to Chett. How could he have known that? I knew Lucas was from Chett but I doubt many others in here did.”
“And is he planning to escape?”
“Yes, but he has told me nothing of his plan.”
“As I said, continue to earn his trust.”
Floran slipped his glasses back on.
“He’s very dangerous, sir.”
The Thinker turned from the window.
“Indeed, he’s the most dangerous man in Tamnica, Floran. Which is why we keep him close to us.”
“What do you want with him?” said Conrad.
“Move,” threatened one of the Cuvars, gesturing at him with a club.
Conrad disappeared into the throng of prisoners as they were marched along the tunnel. Many of the men walked slowly, dragging their feet; several coughing, wiping runny noses, running temperatures. Stone remained pinned against the wall, arms pulled behind his back, clamped in iron. He heard one of the Cuvars mention the condition of the men but another dismissed it. Once the prisoners had gone, he was shoved him along a tunnel and into a large room that branched off into more tunnels and side rooms. Stone recognised the kitchen area and the room where the prison clothes and sandals were stored and he knew one of the tunnels led toward where Floran worked.
The Cuvars pushed him through the room, one of them jabbing him with his club, tripping him over now and then. He gave out a steady stream of abuse, attempting to goad Stone into fighting back. Stone spotted a half-chewed ear and realised he was the Cuvar he had attacked in the courtyard. He wondered if he was being led away for a beating. Conrad had endured a similar punishment a few nights before, pulled out of the cell block in the dark hours and led away to be thrashed with clubs, tossed back in bleeding and sobbing.
He was taken into a new tunnel, the old walls hung with flickering torches, casting light toward an arched ceiling, blackened from the naked flames. He continued to block out the stream of abuse and memorise the layout of the prison. The boots of the Cuvars echoed along the dirt covered floor whilst Stone’s sandals make more of a slapping sound. He passed closed doorways and a flight of stone steps before reaching a broad wooden door with a large handle. The men knocked and Stone heard the Warden’s voice beckon them inside.
The room was flooded with light from tall windows that reached toward a domed ceiling. Stone could see the prison walls and the women in the fields. Smoke belched from great chimneys on the rooftop of the factory where the tanners and blacksmiths and engineers worked, producing clothes, iron weapons and black energy. A fire roared in a grand hearth and paintings adorned the walls, impossible scenes of people and places coloured upon canvas in daring swirls and dramatic streaks, people that no longer existed, places that possibly never had. There were lines of ancient books on wooden shelves with bold lettering along cracked spines. His eyes widened child-like at the collection that surrounded him. He was a man of violence, a man who had carved out a rugged existence in the wasteland for decades, killing and hunting, quick with a gun, silent with his tongue, but the veneer had perforated through the years. He had grown an understanding of many things. He knew what these items were and he knew when they were from and how hard it was to obtain at least one of them, let alone this many. The wave of disorientation rushed from him as the Warden barked at the Cuvars to leave.
The red haired man grabbed Stone and marched him into the middle of the room to stand before an empty wooden chair with a tall back.
He stood behind him.
“I fucked your bitch,” he whispered. “I stripped her. I whipped her. Then I fucked her.”
He let out a deep, rumbling laugh.
“Now she’s in the fucking cage.”
Stone’s face exploded with rage. He pulled free, lunged at the Warden, driving with his head and shoulder. The Warden buckled but quickly drew his sword, iron scraping loudly against the scabbard. He flashed the blade at Stone, who sidestepped and lunged into him. His blow did nothing. The Warden lumbered against him, forcing him into a corner. The long blade gleamed in the light of the fire.
“She’ll rot in there,” he grinned, the tip of his sword prodding Stone’s chest. “Her skin will freeze. Her bones will stick out. Her mind will go crazy. She won’t even know who you are anymore. They all die in the cage. That’s what the whore deserves for killing Darrach.”
The door opened and Alba walked into the room. He froze at the sight of the confrontation before him, the Warden gesturing with his sword, taunting the prisoner known as the Tongueless Man.
“Warden,” he said. “Enough.”
The Warden gave Stone one final look, hard and unrepentant. He dragged him from the corner and returned him to the middle of the room, keeping his sword in his hand.
Alba eased onto the chair.
“I am the Thinker,” he
said. “I lead the population of Tamnica. You are known as the Tongueless Man – is that correct?”
Stone had barely acknowledged the arrival of the second man. Now he turned his focus toward him. His eyes saw cropped brown hair, grey flecks showing at the temples, meek looking eyes, a sallow complexion, gangly arms and legs, a timid chest, a flat stomach. This could not be the Thinker. It had to be a bluff. One of the Rats, attempting to sniff out more information. This man could be swept away in a puff of wind. He dismissed the man’s presence and attempted to head butt the Warden, driving forward sharply, but the Warden spun his sword and slammed the hilt into Stone’s face. He dropped to his knees, growling, tasting blood.
“Pick him up,” said Alba. “If you persist, Tongueless Man, you will end up in the cage with the woman.”
The Warden lifted him from the floor. Through the windows, heavy clouds filled the sky.
Stone slowly raised his eyes and Alba could feel it, it was tangible; the coldness peeling off the chained man, rolling from him in waves, the pure hate, the terrible violence ready to be unleashed in the blink of an eye. He felt a shudder ripple down his spine. The light had been drained from the room. Blackness had descended. He had been right in his estimation. This was the most dangerous man within the walls of Tamnica.
“Put your damn sword away, Warden,” said Alba, his tone deeper.
Eyes straight ahead, Stone wiped the blood from his mouth on his shoulder. The Warden sheathed his sword and Stone turned to lunge at him once again until he heard a sound he recognised only too well. He shifted around to see his revolver pointing at him, bullets in the chamber, hammer cocked.
“You truly are an animal,” he said. “Obedience is demanded in Tamnica. To disobey ends in punishment.”
The fire crackled.
“No one wants that, do they?”
Alba studied the weapon closely.
“This is quite a beautiful firearm. We do not have any firearms here in Tamnica. The Gatherers carry the few we have. There are many who cross this land with weapons such as this but have no ammunition for them.”
He looked along the barrel.
“One pull of the trigger and the legend of the Tongueless Man is at an end. Did you know that, Warden? This is the Tongueless Man. He is a wasteland warrior with a very dangerous reputation in Gallen.”
“Would you like me to rip out his fucking tongue?”
Alba nodded.
“I think that might be wise. He doesn’t appear to use it very much.” He continued to aim the revolver at Stone. He looked into the bearded man’s eyes. “Nothing. Not a glimmer of fear.”
He let out a short laugh, and told the Warden to take his hand off his dagger. Alba carefully released the hammer and set the weapon down. He continued to observe Stone in silence as the wind rose and the grey clouds packed together.
“Do you know what the most important thing in Tamnica is?”
Stone said nothing.
“Answer your master,” said the Warden, punching him in the kidney. He cried out in pain.
“No,” said Alba. “No more of that. You have to understand a man like this, Warden. What we demand is obedience and violence will not work on him. He has been beaten many times in his life. Do you see that defiance in how he stands? Even now, chained up, with no hope, he still rebels. He has fought against any authority that has attempted to contain him his entire life.”
Stone felt a twinge of discomfort at how fluently the man had revealed his nature.
“Violence will not break him.”
“Violence will break any man,” said the Warden, sullen.
“Oh, it will end him, Warden, I agree, but it will not break his spirit. You need to be smarter than that.”
The Warden snorted, suspicious of these radical approaches the Thinker employed.
“Well,” said Alba. “Have you figured out what the most precious and valuable commodity in Tamnica is?” He paused. Stone wondered if the man was quite happy to ask and answer his own questions. “People.” He was. “And we cannot produce them quickly enough. My father attempted repopulation but his methods proved ineffective. Women often died in labour. Infants barely made it beyond a few days. Here, our reliance is on the people the Gatherers find and the levies that are paid by the Eastern Villages. You see, Tamnica is more than a prison. It is a beginning, albeit an ugly one, but then history is dotted with ugly beginnings.” He gestured at his books. “This prison will blossom into something much more important. We are Tamnicans. We are a people, a nation. The roads, the trees, the grasslands, are Tamnica. Soon, settlements will become towns, towns will become cities. We will push our borders and the work of rebuilding the shattered past and creating a new future, a better future, will reach its peak, and we will all be Tamnican.”
Alba waited for a response to his near perfect oration - something, anything - but a mask had drawn over Stone’s face and his grand words had been ignored.
“We have a brutal regime here but it is required. You must understand, Tongueless Man, Gallen is a far better place for this prison. You would not want some of the men and women in here roaming the land out there, preying on the innocent.”
Stone heard a faint chuckle from the Warden.
“People,” said Alba, repeating himself. “The most important thing in Tamnica is people. And since your arrival, a Cuvar has been maimed, a man has been murdered in the cell block with two more sent to the infirmary, one of whom died from stab wounds. This has to stop. One of your women rots in the cage. I will allow her to die unless you relent and show obedience.”
He rose from his chair.
“Will you show obedience?”
Stone slowly shook his head.
“Then you condemn her to a wretched death. Warden, how many companions did he arrive with?”
“A man and another woman,” said the Warden.
Alba nodded. He picked up the revolver once more, rolled it between his slim hands.
“When the woman dies, we will put the next one in, and then the man, and then you. You will all die. You all bear my mark. You are my property so I decide your fates. That is beyond dispute.”
Stone frowned at his branded arm and glanced around the room again. It hadn’t registered with him the first time. He scanned the bookshelves and paintings and saw it once more – there - nestled amongst the sweep of fine artwork was a child’s innocent drawing; a family of stick people, three of them, one tall, one shorter, one tiny – DADDY … MUMMY … ME. The stick family had round heads with dots for eyes and curves for mouths. They stood on a stretch of wavy ground with vertical dashes. Behind them was a square house with round windows and a triangle shaped roof. Square house. Round windows. Triangle roof. Square, circle, triangle. The marks from the Centon. The brand on his arm. He raised his eyes.
“I thought it was a wonderful concept,” said Alba, taking a slim book from the bookshelf, curled and yellowed with age. He showed Stone the front cover.
How to draw shapes.
Stone saw a square, a circle and a triangle.
“Something so terribly dark, from something so terribly innocent. The mark of Tamnican property.”
“I will kill you,” said Stone, speaking for the first time. Alba sat, smiling, book in his lap. “Will you?”
“I’ll kill your family first.” He nodded at the child’s drawing. “I’ll shoot them so they die quickly, without too much pain, but you I’ll gut, you’ll die a wretched death.”
“Let me kill the bastard,” said the Warden, half drawing his sword. “He has threatened you, Thinker.”
Alba raised a hand, seemingly unmoved, but Stone saw it was a smile that had wavered, now tinged with drops of fear. Stone was no fool. He understood why he had been summoned. Floran had fed the Thinker all the information he had gleaned but the man wanted more and what better way to control a rabid beast than to train him and keep him by your side at all times. Dead he was another pile of bones to throw into the sea. Alive he was a mon
ster, but it was better to own one, than live in fear of one.
“Release Justine from the cage.”
“There are no names here,” said the Warden, and kicked him in the back of the legs, dropping him to the floor.
He leaned over Stone and began punching him in the head. He drew his sword and put the blade against Stone’s neck.
“He’s an animal,” said the Warden. “He has to die, Thinker.”
“No,” said Alba, rising from his chair. “Cuvars, in here now.”
Stone felt the blade shift and rolled toward the Thinker. He threw all his weight against the man, crashing him into the chair. The Warden swung his sword and it clanged loudly against the stone floor. Stone fell backward, hands behind his back, and reached for the revolver, snatching it between his fingers, yanking the trigger, the chamber turning, the bullet roaring from the barrel and shattering one of the windows.
A gust of wind blew into the room as the Cuvars burst in, wielding clubs. The Warden flashed his sword again. Alba melted away into the corner. Stone turned, struggling to hold the revolver, and fired. His aim was wild but heard a scream and a Cuvar slumped to the floor. He fired again, the bullet pinging off the floor. Then he was hit with tremendous force and pain lanced through his hands and arms and the revolver slipped from his grip. He was wrestled to the floor, punched, kicked and stamped on.
His eyes filled with blood.
“Put the bastard in isolation,” said Alba, his breathing ragged. “He will learn obedience the hard way.”
--- Sixteen ---
The cars roared from the city.
Mesh covered balding tyres spun furiously against the asphalt. Brown rusted bodyworks daubed with blue and white streaks shook and bounced. Exhaust pipes spat angry trails of fumes. Headlamps blazed, cutting through the wintry gloom as tufts of snow drifted from the sky. Burning black energy, the angry line of vehicles skidded around gaping holes where rampant undergrowth had punched through the highway. The ruined city lay behind them, ghostly markers of buckled masonry projecting up from the ground, like ugly arms reaching out of the ragged soil. Ruptured carriageways swept past blackened towers of shattered glass. The wind blew fierce through naked iron girders and then spiralled below, howling wildly through rubble strewn canyons that were once avenues.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 19