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

by Laurence Moore

  They ran, sandaled feet pounding the damp ground, muscles screaming as they weaved through the trees. Stone led the way, sword in hand, dragging Justine behind him, talking to her all the time, over and over, the same words – “We’re taking you home, Justine. Just keep running.” – as the Tamnicans abandoned the cars and flooded the forest, hunting them down. They wound through the tangled undergrowth, Conrad shouting as a branch snapped into his face, Nuria gasping as one swished against her leg and punctured the skin. Her shoulder throbbed. It felt as if the truck had driven over it. She threw a glance back into the trees, seeing Conrad, his dark hair limp around his face. Beyond him, she could see only a smattering of Tamnicans. She looked forward, ducking beneath overhanging branches, almost losing her footing on the wet carpet of crushed pine needles and browned leaves, the trees more stripped than she had remembered, providing less cover. She felt the ground slope and heard rushing water and a vision filled her head, the night before they were taken, the men who had abducted her from the shack.

  “Stone, are you heading for the shack?”

  “No,” he called back. “We’ll be trapped in there.”

  No sooner had he uttered the words than several Tamnicans cut across them and Stone swung fiercely with the sword, hacking into one. The man yelled, dropping a crossbow. Nuria lunged at the second one, pain shooting through her arm, but the strike was weak, overstretched, and he blocked it, cutting his own sword toward her. Stone roared and charged the Tamnican, slamming sword against sword, iron against iron. Grimacing, Stone forced the man back and slashed at him, tearing his thigh. The man barely acknowledged the wound and thrust back. Conrad snatched the crossbow lying on the ground and raised the weapon to fire until Justine cried out, pointing.

  He turned, an axe raised behind him, and fired. The bolt spat from the crossbow and lodged into the Cuvar’s throat.

  The man toppled over. Conrad looked down at his pain stricken face, recognising him from the prison.

  He raised his foot and crushed his face.

  Swords clashed, as Stone fought the remaining Tamnican, the forest swarming with armed men, drawn to the noise, chasing through the trees, more than twenty of them, brandishing weapons, mouths spouting hate through white masks. Nuria, weakened by her wounded shoulder, hacked at the man, tearing her sword off his hip. He whistled through gritted teeth as the pain flared white hot. His leg felt it was going to fold over. Stone saw the sudden distraction and lunged forward, plunging his sword into the Tamnican’s chest.

  “What’s that?” said Nuria, wiping her face. “Can you hear that?”

  Conrad snatched the crossbow ammunition from the dead Tamnican. The four of them sprinted toward the river.

  “That sounds like horses,” he said, panting furiously.

  The Tamnicans closed in on them, pouring through the bare trees, shooting arrows and bolts.

  “I can’t keep going,” spluttered Conrad, cheeks red, dripping with sweat.

  Stone glanced back at him. He looked at Justine and Nuria; they were all exhausted, wasting energy running.

  He stopped, abruptly, and put his companions behind him, shielding them, readying his sword with both hands; his ragged hair and beard with streaked with blood, his lined skin littered with scars, knowing that he would rather die a fighting man than limping through the trees or meekly grovelling on a cell floor. He shut out all noise, the roar of the river, the closing thump of hooves, the voices of the Tamnicans racing toward them, and he seethed with anger at failing his companions. He had led them from that torturous place only for the escape to falter here in the forest. The place had been marked. This was where they would perish, here amongst the ancient trees.

  He thought back to when he had first glimpsed the truck in the courtyard, during his darkest days in the isolation cell, swiftly formulating a route out of the prison, masking his intentions with obedience, the one emotion the Thinker had craved and that he would never give; yet he had pledged fealty, rapidly weaving the mist of deception, drawing in Julen and instructing Nuria to draw Cathy in, too, the hook dangling with the tantalising bait of freedom. No matter how entrenched both were at the height of the prison hierarchy, Stone knew that neither would resist the opportunity and yet all the plotting and planning had come to this, surrounded by heavily armed Tamnicans weaving through the trees, more men than he cared to count, thick smoke curling into the air behind them from the wreckage on the road.

  Nuria and Conrad stood with him, faces clouded with the realisation that these would be their final moments, the sun breaking through the clouds, nudging aside the gloom, bathing them with a bright warm glow. Justine was crumpled on the ground, wrapped against a tree, red rimmed eyes staring blankly. Yet, as the sun touched her skin, there was a flicker of acknowledgement and she began to look slowly around, her surroundings registering in her shattered mind. Stone took one last look at her, broken and weak and shivering, and his heart jabbed with pain. He fleetingly thought of Emil as the Tamnicans surged toward them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  He gripped his sword tightly. For the first time in his life he truly wanted to live but now he waited to die.

  “At least we got to feel a Dessan sun,” said Conrad, grinning, clapping Stone on the back. “Not a bloody Tamnican one.”

  “And we escaped,” said Nuria, glancing up at him, the numbness in her shoulder no longer a distraction. “We die on our feet. Like soldiers.”

  He would never know, she thought, and now it’s too late.

  A grim smile touched his lips. He narrowed his eyes as the Tamnicans looped around them and attacked.

  --- Twenty ---

  Naked branches snapped and the ground reverberated as a swathe of horses thundered through the trees, darkening the forest. The ring of steel echoed through the early dawn as the exhausted prisoners made one final, valiant stand, blades sweeping through the air, iron clattering iron, Tamnicans pressing in closer, tightening the noose.

  Stone chopped, slashed, howled and saw men fall, only to be replaced by more. Conrad cried out as a sword bit into his arm. His weapon slipped from his grasp and he clutched the wound grimly, blood flooding over his hand. He dropped to his knees, spent, finished. Stone edged around to protect him, hacking furiously with his sword, the ground littered with twitching and groaning bodies. Tamnicans screamed at them, hurtling forward. Nuria flashed her weapon, sweeping in a wide arc, severing limbs, gouging and slicing. She was drenched with sweat and blood. Her shoulder throbbed. Her lungs burned.

  Still the Tamnicans surged at them until a long spear spiralled through the trees and struck one in the back. The man let out an agonised cry before stumbling forward several paces, then losing his footing and sprawling onto the damp ground. Stone frowned at the weapon lodged in his back. The darkness swept over them all and he grabbed Nuria and Conrad and pulled them tight, dragging them to where Justine was on her feet as riders swarmed the forest in a blur, shooting arrows and cutting down the Tamnicans with swords and spears. Seeing the heavy numbers rushing at them the men from the prison ran without a fight. Stone watched as the Tamnicans were chased back to the road, volleys of arrows and spears whistling after them.

  “It can be,” said Conrad, wincing. “It’s the militia. On horses.”

  He looked at Nuria and Stone.

  “How long were we gone?”

  Stone thought back to the day he had first encountered the militia of Dessan; a well trained unit of twenty five men, wooden shields and spears. He saw twice as many men now and each one fearlessly rode a mare. A tan coloured horse reared before them, snorting. Stone looked up at the familiar features of its rider; the short dark hair, the dusky skin, the slanted eyes, the flat nose. Mallon jumped down from his saddle as his cavalry pursued the remaining Tamnicans.

  “Tristan was scouting; he heard the engines, spotted the smoke. We rode hard to get here.”

  He drew his gaze across the four of them, bloodied and broken, weak shadows of the four who
had disappeared more than half a year ago. He swallowed hard, unable to find any words to express the feelings that boiled inside him. As the seasons had changed, the fields had become cold and hard, the groves lost their leaves and fruit and the snow had turned the world white. During that long winter Mallon had given up hope of ever seeing them alive, and yet, with the weather changing once more, and the season of warmer days and longer nights ahead, here they stood. Unable to conceal his joy, he embraced Conrad and Justine, fellow villagers he had known since childhood.

  Hastily, he issued orders to his men, detailing them to strip the forest of discarded weapons and search any abandoned vehicles for supplies. Stone heard engines and glimpsed four cars speeding back toward Tamnica.

  “They’ll come again,” he said.

  “Let them,” said Mallon, as they were brought horses and bottles of water for the ride back to Dessan.

  He had left Dessan with forty five men and would return with the same number. No casualties. Stone saw a steely look in the face of the young man, an edge that had not been there before. He rode at the head of the column, horses trotting back along the highway, scouts far ahead.

  “Where did you get the horses from?” asked Stone, swigging down mouthfuls of water.

  “The Collectors,” said Mallon, thrusting out his chest. “Long after you had left they came back to Dessan looking for the levy. Rode in with horses and wagons demanding we honour the Centon.”

  He glanced across at Stone.

  “We slaughtered them and took everything. I now have an eighty man militia and we use smoke signals to call on Agen and Le Sen if we are ever attacked. Likewise, they can do the same with us.”

  Stone listened.

  “I rode to Agen and Le Sen and told them how we had repelled the Collectors once more and that no one from Dessan would ever be taken by force. They were still paying the levy but their leaders talked and a decision was made to destroy all the Centons. No more wagons, Stone. No more ribbons. I sat with the other villages and we cemented a bond. The Eastern Villages will stand as one, united against any who try to harm us. You showed us the way. Now we can always protect our people. We plotted to annihilate the Collectors. Punish them for the innocents they had taken from us for generations. Tristan had located their settlement, northwest of here.” He turned in his saddle and pointed into the forest. “We waited for the snow to come and then we launched our attack against them. I led two hundred armed men against the Collectors, Stone. We have wiped them off the face of Gallen.”

  Stone said nothing. Rays of the sunlight stretched from the pale sky, tingling his aching and bruised skin.

  “Only that bastard Darrach survived. We never found him. He is the only Collector that still roams free.”

  There was an ugly bitterness to Mallon’s voice, a twisted delight. Stone had littered Gallen with bodies but he always deemed it a necessity rather than a joy. Although he hardly knew the man Emil regarded him fondly, taking a natural shine to the good looking, composed and likeable young man, but this version of Mallon was radically altered; he spat his words, uncaring who heard them, it only mattered that they were said. Stone could hear the layers guilt and self-loathing in his tone and puzzled over what could be spiking his soul.

  “Darrach is dead,” he said, quietly, hoping that might ease any burden. “He was killed in Tamnica.”

  Mallon nodded. The information did not lighten his mood.

  “They don’t even know you in Agen and Le Sen, Stone, but they know of you and how you inspired us to fight.”

  Stone could hear Justine, coughs racking her frail body.

  “Justine is sick,” he said. “Nuria and Conrad are badly wounded. We need to hurry. Emil will be able to help them.”

  Mallon ordered for his men to raise the pace.

  “How is she?”

  Stone waited for a reply but there was none. He stared across at Mallon, hooves clattering against the hard road, clarity dawning in his thoughts.

  “What happened?”

  His voice was little more that a growl. Mallon felt his chest heave. He blinked the tears from his eyes. Suddenly, Stone sprang onto his horse and bundled him from the saddle. The two men crashed into the undergrowth, rolled and grappled. The column slowed and halted as fists blunted against flesh. Mallon was swift, Stone was worn, punches stabbed into his ribs and face. He raged and smothered the man, clasping his blood caked hands around his smooth neck.

  “What the fuck did you do to her?”

  “Nothing,” gasped Mallon. “He took her.”

  Hands wrestled the men apart and swords were thrust at Stone. Nuria had dismounted and was running along the road.

  “Who took her?” snarled Stone.

  “Your fucking friend,” shouted Mallon. “The Map Maker. He tricked us all. Freed Margaux to create a diversion.” There was a scattering of nods and murmurs from the men on horseback. “He killed two of my men. Took her at gunpoint and rode north.”

  The horses grew restless. Shadows streaked across the highway.

  “What are you fighting about?” said Nuria. “He just saved our lives.”

  “Emil’s gone,” he said, brushing aside the sword blades. He reached for his horse. “The Map Maker took her.”

  He barely had the strength to pull himself onto the saddle.

  “I looked for her,” said Mallon, stepping toward him. “We all did. We went out on foot and looked everywhere but we couldn’t find her. After we killed the Collectors we could cover more ground on horse. I sent search parties in every direction. And nothing. No trace of them. We found a town far to the north but no one was left, they had been massacred. I even travelled as far as the borders of a ruined city but she was nowhere.”

  “Tell him,” said one of the militia.

  Mallon swept onto his horse.

  “Tell him what?” asked Nuria.

  Stone’s cold eyes levelled at Mallon.

  “Yes,” he said. “Tell me what?”

  “I questioned every one in the village,” he said, the tears gone from his eyes. “I learned that Philip had told the Map Maker about Ennpithia and he stupidly believed him.”

  Conrad trotted forward on his horse, his arm wrapped. “Are you fucking serious?” he said. “He actually listened to Philip.”

  “What’s Ennpithia?” asked Nuria.

  “A fairy tale,” said Mallon, darkly.

  Dessan was less than an hour away. The sun shone down on the riders. Stone listened as Mallon explained how the Map Maker had fooled Margaux into believing he was helping her escape, only to knock her unconscious and hide her body in the forest. The militia had hunted for her, wasting precious time, unaware she had been buried in a shallow grave. The Map Maker had then slipped into the village and murdered Tobias, the man Mallon had left protecting Emil, and set fire to the his home. He told Stone that both Margaux and Ilan had since been expelled from the village – “For the crime of sending innocent men, women and children to die at the hands of the Collectors.” – though he reassured Stone that Justine would be allowed to remain. She had never chosen the levy and had always offered kind words and comfort to those about to be wrenched from loved ones.

  “You were supposed to take care of Emil,” said Stone.

  “I did,” flared Mallon. “He deceived us.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Why did he take her?”

  “She’s a beautiful young woman,” said Mallon, then paused. “But that wasn’t why he took her. He already has a woman – Sadie – he could have taken her. I figured it out. Sadie told me of a conversation they had shared before he left for Ennpithia.”

  What happens if you get hurt? There’ll be no one to help you…

  “He took her as a healer. The Magic Girl. Which means there is a good chance she is still alive. I covered every blade of grass trying to find her, Stone. I don’t know where she is.”

  They turned off the road, onto a dirt track of red clay, already marked with d
ozens of hooves. The track snaked down through the trees and he could hear the river. As they emerged from the forest Stone saw a palisade wall now ringed the village. A large gate was at the top of the bridge and there was a wooden watchtower manned by two men.

  “Impressive,” said Mallon. “Isn’t it?”

  He rode through the open gate with Mallon, crossing the wooden bridge. Villagers stopped and pointed. They had seen the militia gallop into the forest as smoke filled the sky but they had no idea what had happened. There were cheers and several broke into applause as they recognised the battered four. Stone noticed Mallon fidgeting in his saddle, uncomfortable that the adoration was no longer directed exclusively toward him. He slowed his horse and looked down at a short haired blonde woman with a swollen stomach, working in the field. She arched her back, cupped a hand over her eyes and stared at him.

  “Sadie,” gasped Nuria, noting her ballooned figure.

  “Too much change,” said Conrad, looking around. “I hope the tavern is still here.”

  “We need to stitch that arm up before you have anything to drink.

  He grinned, ashen faced.

  “No one is touching my arm until I’ve had something to drink.”

  She glared at him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll have my arm tended to first.”

  Stone climbed down from his horse, his sandaled feet sinking into the red clay. He was surrounded by excited faces. It was a curious feeling. Questions came at him from every direction. He sought out Mallon, who was organising his men to take care of the horses. He saw them led away toward a newly constructed building that served as a stable. Smoke coiled into the air and his nostrils filled with the smell of cooking.

  “Can you give me weapons and a horse?”

  Nuria overheard his question and threaded through the crowd of villagers, badgering her about what had happened. Over the next few days, more escaped prisoners from Dessan, Le Sen and Agen would reach home, with stories to tell of the horrors they had endured, but for now, these four were the first to ever return. The crowds swelled. A woman led Justine to her hut and asked for water to be fetched from the river. Stone felt a hand grab his arm and turn him around.