Under the veil of night, the group moved as silently as possible, keeping low, picking by buildings flattened during a cataclysmic period of Gallen’s history. The Map Maker pointed the way forward but Stone eased them to a stop with the raising of his hand. The four of them pressed against a wall thick with dirt. Both Conrad and Nuria were armed with swords. Nuria also carried the crossbow. Stone tilted his head and they saw the outline of a lookout above. The pathway curved around a bend and climbed a flight of dull coloured steps to where the young man slouched, a rifle hanging loose from his shoulder, blue and white scarf around his neck, wind tossing his long black hair. He was quietly singing to himself, his voice reedy and tuneless, nodding his head at the same time.
Stone drew a short blade from his boot and waited, eyes piercing the blackness, attempting to spot a second lookout.
Certain it was a lone guard, he inched forward, pulse racing, thumping inside his head. The blade was gripped tight in his hand. He took another step, boot grinding against the scattered rubble. The guard’s melody never faltered. His voice grew a little in volume. There was an aching vibration in the distance and he appeared to be nodding his head in tandem with the noise. Stone’s three companions watched on as the lookout became more engrossed in the faraway beat. Stone unfolded his body behind the wild haired man, his left hand curling around and clamping his mouth, the blade flashing in his right, sinking into the young man’s chest, snapping his body over the wall, still covering the mouth, cradling him, laying him down, right hand plunging deep and hard, legs jerking spasmodically and then nothing.
He wiped the blood from the blade, handed the rifle to Nuria.
As they crossed walkways and crept through alleyways, edged along half collapsed walls and jogged through underpasses to avoid the larger patrols, the city mushroomed around them, revelling in the arrival of newcomers, demonstrating its reach toward the clouds above, boldly revealing sweeping highways and bridges of metal lines, distant runways of sky cars and buildings that had once housed magnificent libraries, galleries and museums; the city shook, desiring to shed the coat of death and destruction that had rudely tossed itself upon daring moments of vision, bravery and creativity, striving to regain its former glory, its undeniable majesty, but the gesture was a falsehood and it was forced to duck its head and cover its face in shame for the highways were ruptured, the bridges shorn in two, the runways potholed, the sky cars bereft of broad wings, the buildings shattered and pitted with no identity and no memory of their once grand beauty; it was a metropolis of ghosts, of crushed existence, of hopelessness and the cloak of death was inescapable, relentless and suitably apt.
The group were menaced by the oppressive city. Stone wiped the sweat from his brow. He had tracked through cities before but no place had ever crawled beneath his skin like this one.
“Let’s get this done,” he rasped.
The throbbing noise filled the night air; monotonous, repetitive, vibrating through the high rise buildings. They reached a broken road that ran past a long line of crumbling tenements daubed with faded writing. Small fires burned on the street where a rusted car with doors hanging open was parked. Blue and white Chattes lounged around the metal beast, the thudding, deafening noise pouring from its insides. Stone scraped his beard, shook his head. There was no way they could sneak through this area. The Map Maker tapped him on the shoulder and pointed back toward a dangerous looking path leading into blackness.
“That’s the route,” he whispered.
Reluctantly, they skated down a slope of rubble, bits and pieces tumbling down the verge with them. Thankfully, the sound masked by the deafening boom from the car above. They stood on the edge of an unnatural canyon, a gaping void in the city, almost as if a giant fist had reached from the skies and punched repeatedly at the same spot, pulverising it until a vast hole was created. The open wound had been left untended and the dry terrain was dotted with patches of grass and weeds, empty bottles, spent cartridges, sun bleached bones, bald tyres, rusted pieces of cars. Surrounded by tenement buildings they spotted smoke rising from one of the rooftops, silhouettes of Chattes cooking food, voices and laughter carrying on the cold wind.
Hunched down, they sprinted across the ground, carefully weaving around the obstacles before them in the gloom. The area they needed to cover was easily a few miles. A potent stench assaulted them as they ran. Feeling exposed, Stone continuously glanced up at the row of buildings, fearing they would be discovered at any moment, but the canyon was bereft of moonlight and no torches were pointed in their direction. They moved fast until there was a stiffened cry from Conrad. The Dessan man was on his knees, retching.
“We need to keep moving,” whispered Stone.
Nuria crouched beside him.
“I’m just exhausted,” he gasped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I’ll be alright.”
He stumbled to his feet but Stone pushed him back down into the grass, suddenly drawing his short blade.
“Hide,” he said, rolling away from them.
Nuria and Conrad hurriedly edged behind a half-crushed car. The riotous celebration at bombing the marketplace was in full swing. Nuria watched Stone inch forward, picking a path through the rubbish. She strained her eyes to see what had spooked him. It took a few moments but then she saw the tall outline of a man scampering toward them. He appeared to be limping. He wore a hooded coat, concealing his face. She saw no colours on him.
Suddenly, the man stopped, and began to look around in a panic.
“Cristo?” gasped Conrad, disbelief in his voice. He rose swiftly from his hiding place. “Cristo, it’s me, Conrad.”
Stone sprang from the darkness, brandishing his weapon. Cristo ignored Conrad and spun round, whipping free a machete from beneath his coat. There was a clash of steel and the blade flew from Stone’s grip.
“Stone, it’s Cristo,” said Conrad, rushing toward them, waving his arms. “Cristo, for fuck’s sake, it’s me, it’s Conrad.”
No one was listening to him. Stone grappled with the tall man and they tumbled onto the ground. He slammed a punch into the man’s groin and forced the machete from his grasp. Cristo howled and twisted in pain.
“Stop hitting him, Stone,” barked Conrad.
Nuria felt her stomach clench as the noise was abruptly switched off and the landscape plunged into near silence.
“Down,” whispered Stone.
All of them hit the ground. Cristo winced in pain, cursing Stone. Outlines of men began to appear on the ridge of the canyon, carrying flaming torches and rifles.
Stone could hear heavy breathing as they lay frozen in the dirt, waiting, hoping.
Muffled voices drifted on the wind. He saw men pointing. There was shouting and then he glimpsed the line of Chattes disperse.
“Wait,” he whispered.
Moments later the booming sound from the car filled the night air. Loud voices rang out.
The five of them picked themselves up from the grass covered ground. Cristo faced Stone. As he crouched to pick up his machete Stone levelled a pistol at him.
“Fire that and they’ll be on top of us in minutes.”
Conrad stepped between them, rolling up his sleeve, revealing his Tamnican branding.
“You can trust us,” he said, quietly.
Cristo blinked at the marking. Nuria followed Conrad in showing the man the same branding on her arm.
She glared at Stone. “Show him,” she said.
Grudgingly, he did so.
“Well,” said Conrad, grinning. “We’re all members of the same club so can we work together?”
“How did you escape?” said Cristo, his gaze drifting to the Map Maker. “What did they do to you?”
“Take a guess,” muttered Conrad.
“Not here,” said Stone.
Cristo tagged along with them, in silence, half jogging, half hopping, red rimmed eyes vacant beneath his hood. Conrad attempted conversation with him but it was futile. Losing Dani had cru
shed him. Conrad still felt Tamnica pumping through his veins and wondered how much of it boiled inside Cristo. They might have both escaped the prison but it had yet released its hold on them. He shook the grim thoughts from his head. Nuria glanced at the tall man accompanying them, puzzling why he had stupidly wasted his freedom by placing himself and his woman in the middle of Tamnicans and Maizans.
Up ahead, the Map Maker continued to gesture with his stumps. Gradually, the terrain began to ease toward ruined buildings and they emerged from the canyon. The sound from the car was fading. Scrambling over rubble, they crept into the nearest building and took a few moments to catch their breaths.
“Car,” whispered Nuria.
Headlamps lit the black street. Families huddled in derelict, flat roofed buildings and peered from behind tattered curtains as the car went by. Chattes clung to the rusted vehicle as it circled the streets. Stone saw an open thoroughfare dotted with rusted iron statues of men and women, set atop cracked stone plinths choked with giant weeds. The Map Maker pointed at a tenement block beyond the square, faint light glowing behind boarded up windows. The building stood on a low hill, a single road angling toward it. Several armed men loitered outside.
Nuria listened to Conrad talking with Cristo in a hushed voice. They spoke of Tamnica, the choosing ceremony in Dessan and the robbery he had committed with Dani. Conrad appeared to be doing most of the talking.
“Did you hear that?” said Nuria, settling alongside Stone, who was keeping watch. “I just heard Cristo mention that his woman, Dani, waited two hundred and forty one days for him. That’s how long he was in Tamnica for.”
Stone glanced back at the man. He saw the Map Maker was talking to him now, showing him how Basile had brutalised him. He heard Cristo ask about Dani but the Map Maker shook his head.
“That’s love for you,” she said, and paused. The Tongueless man was silent. “Do you have a plan?”
He nodded, twisting his mouth into a thin smile.
The car had been heavily customised, patched together with random metal panels hammered to fit the rusted lower frame and then wielded into place. The wheel hubs bristled with spikes. A wire mesh cage covered the top of the vehicle, adequate protection against spears, arrows, crossbow bolts and rocks. Razor wire was coiled at the front and sides but the back remained clear where two men clung on. Two more sat inside. As the driver guided the vehicle around the statues and swept along a deserted road, the headlamps illuminated a lone figure scurrying along, collar raised, head down, hands deep in pockets. He knew instantly from the walk it was a woman. One of the men hanging on the back of the car whooped loudly and banged his hand on the roof of the mesh cage.
The driver eased his foot against the accelerator and the car shot forward. His grin was concealed beneath a blue and white scarf. His fellow soldier in the passenger seat roared with excitement. The woman quickened her pace as the two men leapt from the rear of the vehicle and began to run after her. Boots echoed along the broken concrete sidewalk. Nervous faces appeared at windows, hurriedly withdrawing from sight as they saw the Chattes chasing down an innocent woman, foolishly wandering the street alone.
Nuria felt them all around her as the car skidded to a halt, engine still running, lights cutting through the gloom.
A large flap in the roof was tossed open and the two men clambered out. They saw the woman disappear through an arched doorway and melt into the darkness. The first two men rushed after her, calling for her to wait for them, desperate to get their hands on her. As they burst into the rubble strewn building, swords flashed and slashed at them and they were cut down within seconds. Nuria edged around the arched doorway and fired her crossbow at the third Chattes, the bolt thudding into his chest, propelling him backward with a short gasp.
“Fuck,” said the driver, whirling round, only to be confronted by Stone, driving a blade into him.
He tried to cry out but a thick hand pressed across his mouth. Stone bundled him against the car and held him until his life ebbed away. He yanked free the blade and dragged the body clear of the sidewalk.
“I want you to stay here,” he said, to the Map Maker. “Keep out of sight. Don’t make a sound.”
The bald headed man nodded. Stone turned to Cristo.
“You know what Basile looks like, right?”
“Yes.”
“You can drive?”
Cristo gave a short nod.
“Good.”
The four of them armed themselves with pistols, stripped from the bodies of the Chattes, and carried their own bladed weapons. Conrad climbed in the front with Cristo, Nuria and Stone held on at the back. She still carried her crossbow and wore the quiver on her hip.
“I was about to leave this with the Map Maker,” she said, handing back the rifle Stone had given her earlier. “What kind of a man does that to someone?”
“No less than I wanted to do to him,” he said, slinging it onto his back.
“She’s not going to come with us, is she?”
He shook his head.
“Leon’s using her.”
“I know.”
“I told her, but she told me to fuck off.”
He looked at her.
“I know.”
The Map Maker poked his head above the rubble and watched the car tear along the road, zigzagging through the square of statues. The armed men on the hill were paying no attention to it for the moment but as the car bumped onto the road that curved toward them he saw the men begin to spread out, confused, realising the vehicle was headed straight for them. There were gunshots and both of the men dropped, Stone and Nuria cutting them down. He heard more shots, muzzle flashes from a doorway, men spilling into the road. Stone and Nuria ducked as the car ploughed forward, slamming into a group of armed Chattes and tossing bodies into the air.
Nervously, he stared at the building with the boarded up windows, swallowing hard as the memories swirled in his thoughts. His skin began to crawl, his eyes moistened. He wiped his arm across his face and curled into a ball as Stone kicked open the front door open and the four of them headed inside. He could see it. He was so close. Stone would retrieve his maps and they would journey to Ennpithia and he could reveal himself. When they saw his achievements they would recognise his judgement, his power, his elevation – he would be set beyond bullet and blade.
The noise was muffled. He imagined them moving through the building, ruthlessly slaughtering Basile’s men. His stomach churned at the mention of the monster who had chopped off his hands. His face was drenched with sweat, armpits dripping. He was helpless, useless. Any moment more Chattes might arrive and take him away and mutilate him even more. Why had he been punished this way? Why had his hands been taken? What would they take next time? His eyes? No, not his eyes. He would rather them sever his feet than blind him. If they robbed him of his vision he would ask Stone to place a gun against his head and pull the trigger. He felt bile flood into his mouth and spat. He shrank into the darkness as the minutes stretched longer and longer. Stone would not fail. He was right. He did not have to like the man, he only had to respect what he could do – and he did. He had long heard of the man’s reputation before his first encounter with him. He was a man he would allow to stand alongside him when he reformed the shattered pieces.
He closed his eyes and dreamt of the path to Ennpithia.
Her body was draped across a makeshift bed; one arm dangling toward the floor, stringy blonde hair matted with blood, a gaping hole in the side of her head, face contorted with shock, frozen in that horrible moment of sudden death, never to change. A narrow ribcage jutted against naked skin the colour of porcelain. There were marks around her wrists and ankles. Stone lifted her stray arm and folded it over her chest. He gently closed her eyes, tossed a blanket over her. Her pale feet poked out at one end. She had been caught in the crossfire, as they had burst into Basile’s den.
“Fuck you,” said Basile, spitting in Cristo’s face.
The machete sliced thro
ugh his skin. He gritted his teeth, showed no pain, no weakness, no fear.
“I am Maizan,” he growled. “You will all pay for what you have done.”
Stone glanced at the man as he hunted for the maps. Stripped naked, with no weapon, tattooed arms tied behind his back, blood already trickling from a half dozen cuts, his building taken, his men dead, nothing remaining except the stink of cordite and blood, the Chattes leader jutted out his chest with defiance. Stone recognised him as the mirror image of Leon. Both were devoted to the city. Both claimed the right to be Maizan. Both were passionately dedicated to destroying the other in a storm of blood. Stone was in little doubt that once Basile was dead, and he would be dead very soon, and Leon seized control over the people and the tablets and the bullets that the old ways of one man being more important than the other, of one man having more than the other, would seep through the facade until the cracks finally appeared and his power would be threatened by a new breakaway gang claiming the right of true Maizan. Then the cycle of tit-for-tat violence would erupt and spiral out of control once more and the funeral pyres would blaze into the night.
“Where is she?”
“We fucked that bitch so many times,” laughed Basile. “I think it must have killed her.”
Cristo slashed him again and again with the machete, dropping the man to his knees. Stone continued to rummage through rooms of cupboards, bags, boxes and crates as Cristo demanded to know Dani’s whereabouts, screaming into the bleeding man’s ear. Conrad and Nuria had prised a board from one of the windows to keep watch on the street below, knowing they would not have long before a wave of foot soldiers descended upon them. Uneasily, they watched Cristo slice off a finger. This time Basile cried out. Desperately, he wrestled with the rope around his wrists, spitting and cursing at Cristo.
Nuria looked at the raw faced Maizan; dark hooded eyes, cropped hair, unshaven and scarred. This was the man who had butchered the inhabitants of Beatriz’s town. The man who had mutilated the Map Maker in the most savage of ways. The man who had no doubt stolen the girl who now lay dead beneath a blanket, an innocent victim, no older than Emil; yet despite this she took no pleasure from his cries and the pool of blood forming beneath him. His face had turned sheet white and he screamed once more as Cristo sawed off his toes. She looked at Conrad, head turned toward the street. She could see in his eyes that the torture had sickened him as well, whether deserved or not.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 31