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

by Laurence Moore

  “You ready?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” said Nuria, glancing down at the pile of bones Stone had uncovered. She wasn’t prepared to end up like that. She had not come all this way, suffered at the hands of vile men, only to die a meaningless death on a stretch of sand in the middle of nowhere, a victim to desert marauders. They were chasing a dream of a better life, of a better world beyond Gallen - she was not about to meekly surrender that.

  Tightly clenching the hilt of her sword, she roared, and lunged toward one of the men, plunging the tip of her weapon at his heart. Nimbly, he sidestepped her thrust, but made no movement to draw a weapon of his own. He continued to pace the hot sand, almost baiting her to attack once more. Stone raised his sword about his head and charged recklessly but the move was a feint and in that final moment he jerked his shoulder and hit the ground with a swift roll, pulling himself behind one of the robed men and sweeping his sword in an arc. The sword went through the man, slashing cloth and flesh, but he felt no impact against the blade, as if he had struck thin air.

  Stone bounced onto his feet, his boots scraping over hard rock, holding his sword in one hand.

  He scratched at his jaw. He’d hit him. He had timed the move perfectly. His sword should have cut the man in half but there he was, dancing around him, not ready to reveal his own weapon, merely threatening with superior numbers. That wasn’t possible. No man can withstand a blade. Stone backed away, drawing close to Nuria as she drove her sword into one of the robed men and yelled as it pierced his heart, only to see, in the next moment, the man standing several feet away, unhurt.

  “Stone,” she gasped.

  “Run,” he said.

  The three of them pounded the terrain, the sand giving way to hard ground, baked beneath the sun with ugly black fissures ripped through the brown rock. They kept running, pouring with sweat, the Map Maker soon trailing far behind them.

  “He can’t keep up,” gasped Nuria.

  “Fuck it,” said Stone.

  They sprinted back for him. He had collapsed to his knees, his bald head shiny with perspiration. They both took a defensive stance around him, protecting the helpless man, swords clasped with both hands. Wordlessly, they stared at the barren land, the wind stirring the sand. The arid landscape was empty.

  Stone narrowed his eyes.

  “There’s nowhere for them to hide,” whispered Nuria.

  The minutes dragged on. The three of them refused to budge. Finally, Stone sheathed his sword.

  Roughly, he lifted the Map Maker onto his feet.

  “Where are we? What is this place?”

  “Beatriz warned me,” he spluttered. “I didn’t believe her. She said the north was not a place a man should go.”

  Nuria and Stone looked at him.

  “Why? What exactly did she say?” said Nuria.

  “It was just stories,” he said, lowering his gaze.

  “I spared your life,” said Stone, placing a hand to his throat. “Because I felt pity for you. That can change very quickly. Now what the fuck did she say?”

  “She said that the people who existed here were different. Not like us.”

  “He’s right,” said a voice. “They are different.”

  Stone slowly released his grip. His hand moved carefully toward the hilt of his sword.

  “You don’t need that.”

  She was a little taller than Emil, no more than five feet two inches. She had no legs and stood on metal braces, worn and dusty boots attached to the bottom of them. She leaned forward on a walking cane, her bare arms brown and wrinkled from the sun, dotted with large spots. Her hair was white and thin, sprouting from her scalp and curling upward before trailing to her waist. Thoughtful brown eyes watched them from sunken sockets.

  “Where did you come from?” said Stone.

  “That’s a bit rude. I live here, this is my home.”

  There was defiance in her voice and the way she held herself, despite her afflictions.

  “Did you see those men?” asked Nuria.

  The woman shrugged.

  “Not anymore I don’t.”

  She smacked her lips, grinned. Glancing up at the sun, she pinched the bridge of her nose and gestured with her cane.

  “Just about to have some lunch,” she said. “Why don’t you join me?”

  She had sprung out of nowhere, thought Nuria, calmly confronting them with no fear of their weapons or who they might do. She must have seen the black robed men. There was no way she could have come this far and not seen them. Nuria replayed it in her mind; their sudden appearance out of thin air, the way they circled and pressed them but never actually attacked, and then that impossible moment when her sword had plunged through the heart of one of the men only for him to emerge unscathed. And in the blink of an eye they had vanished and this woman had appeared. She shook her head. The lack of food and water was scrambling her thoughts.

  Reluctantly, needing sustenance, the three of them followed the white haired woman across fractured rock until she descended a narrow path littered with small stones. Walking was awkward and her hips swung and jutted at odd angles as she took each step. Stone took the rear, continuing to observe the surrounding lands.

  The terrain was deserted.

  Wedged beneath a long outcrop of rock was tucked a wooden hut. There was a single window with open shutters and a rough hewn door. The area was a deep depression within the rocky dunes, permanently shaded. Stone couldn’t hear the sea. He had only stood on a coastline once, many years before, and had delighted in the sound of crashing waves and the foamy water stretching over the beach. He had glimpsed rivers and lakes and ragged streams but the vastness of the sea stirred him.

  She invited them inside. Allowing his eyes to roam he saw no obvious traps or indication that there was anyone else here apart from the white haired woman.

  Inside, it was gloomy and cluttered but refreshingly cool. Nuria glimpsed a large basin filled with blackened water and her stomach clenched at the odour. There were rough looking seats but she was simply glad to ease into something more comfortable than broken rock beneath her bones.

  Muttering to herself, their host rummaged through a large cupboard, pulling out wooden goblets and a jug. She set the goblets onto a low table with a scratched and faded surface and trudged into the back of the hut, clutching the empty jug. She returned a few moments later, holding it in her right hand. She poured clear water into the goblets. Nuria flicked a look over her shoulder at the basin of foul water. Had this come from that? That wasn’t possible. She had seen filtering systems in her home city of Chett but they had involved complex workings created and maintained by men with knowledge far superior to her own. The most effective method she knew was to boil water over a fire and allow it to cool. The woman returned once more with a bowl of food, small chunks of a curious looking meat none of them recognised.

  “Thank you,” said the Map Maker, eyes gleaming. He lifted the goblet but Stone placed his hand across the rim.

  “We’ve been out here a long time,” he croaked. “No traces of any water. Or food.”

  The Map Maker blinked, slowly retrieving his hand from the bowl. The white haired woman sat opposite them, brown eyes revealing nothing.

  “I have a system for turning that,” she said, pointing at the sludge-like water. “Into that.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Nuria, raising the goblet and sniffing it. There was no smell.

  “Who are you?” asked Stone. “How have you survived out here for so long?”

  Smiling, she lifted her own goblet and drank, the water trickling over her lips and dribbling down her chin. She plucked a piece of meat from the bowl, chewed and swallowed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “My family have lived here for generations. My father’s father built this house in the rocks. My name is Yannis but you already know that or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re the Sea Warrior?” exclaimed the Map Maker. “That’s not
possible. You can’t be.”

  He glanced at her legs.

  “It’s a lie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I was told the Sea Warrior was a man.”

  Yannis – if that’s who she was – shrugged indifferently.

  “Once he was. It’s a family legend. What can I do about it?”

  Nuria stared at the wizened faced woman.

  “When did you lose your legs?”

  “These,” she said, slapping one of her metal braces, chuckling. “I was born like this. My mother made these for me when I was young. As I grew taller she added bits of metal and made a longer pair.”

  “Where is she? Your mother?”

  Yannis frowned at her.

  “Do you know how old I am? My mother is dust.”

  The Map Maker was shaking his head.

  “But you can’t be the Sea Warrior. How can you handle a boat?”

  “You have no hands,” said Yannis. “But you made it here. Across the desert. How is that possible?”

  He fell silent for a moment, suitably rebuked.

  “We came for passage to Ennpithia. Do you have a boat?”

  She laughed, dry and hoarse. She rocked in her seat, her crackling humour the only sound accompanying the whistle of the wind.

  “What’s so funny? Why are you laughing at me? I don’t like you laughing at me. Please stop it, stop laughing at me.”

  “You have no sense of humour,” said Yannis, shaking her head with disappointment. “What has a boat got to do with it?”

  “I don’t understand,” said the Map Maker.

  “Will you have your drinks? Or I have wasted my time bringing you here? I thought you were thirsty.”

  Stone stared into her lined face. Her eyes were fearless. Something was very wrong here. She could not have survived this long alone. There had to be others. There had to be someone in league with her.

  “Who are the black robed men?” he said, running a finger around his goblet. “You wouldn’t understand,” said Yannis.

  “Are they protecting you?” he asked. “Is that how you’ve managed to survive this long?”

  Yannis let out a mildly frustrated sigh.

  “What is wrong with you people? Why do you assume I need protection? From who? Generations of my family have lived here. We’ve always been safe. Not many people come this far north. There is nothing here.”

  “How do they do it? Appear out of nowhere and then move so quickly?”

  “Why do you think they appear out of nowhere?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What if they are always there but you had only just noticed them? Had you not considered that?”

  Stone shook his head, confused.

  “A voice from the past. A snapshot of what once was.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nuria, leaning forward.

  “Caybon,” said Yannis. “They are Nearly Men of Caybon. They cannot hurt you. My father called them memories. Reaching out for whoever is still here. Some mornings I watch the sunrise and I see them stir from the sand. They were not reacting to your swords. I don’t believe they are truly aware of you or your weapons. I’ve walked amongst them many times. They simply exist. Some aspects of Gallen cannot be easily explained. We live a world that was once different. The echoes are all around us. The Nearly Men are a reminder, that’s all, of a civilisation that once was. I imagine stories of them must have drifted south, frightened people. You’re the first travellers I’ve seen in years.”

  “Caybon is gone?” said the Map Maker.

  Yannis looked around her home.

  “This is Caybon.”

  He sighed.

  “Do you have a boat?”

  “No.”

  Nuria lifted her goblet, drank. Stone glared at her but the water was refreshing and quenched her thirst. She scooped up a handful of meat. It was tough but had a distinctly salty taste.

  A silence fell upon them. The Map Maker looked crest fallen. His dreams had been crushed.

  Nuria, on seeing his face, said, “What about Ennpithia? Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course,” nodded Yannis.

  “Then it’s not a fairy tale. It really does exist.”

  She rose from her seat.

  “Is that what people think? Let me show you. It will all become a lot clearer to you.”

  The four of them stood on the beach, dotted with pebbles, the wind whipping about them.

  Yannis leaned on her cane, observing the stunned expressions they bore.

  “Must have died centuries ago,” she said. “My father called it the Metal Sea. That’s what his father called it. Reckon that’s about right. Stories are told that the Cloud Wars were bad here. Took away Caybon. Took away the sea. Like I told you, you don’t need a boat.”

  They stared across the rippled mudflats, glinting with sunlight, stretching to the horizon where it rubbed against the blue and red sky.

  Mangled and discoloured metal bloated starkly from the soft and blackened ground; pieces of boats, ships, sky cars.

  “We can walk there,” said the Map Maker.

  “There have been some that have tried,” chuckled Yannis.

  That first night, they slept amongst the rocks.

  As one day slid into another, a fragile bridge of mutual trust grew. Yannis showed them how to hunt food and water on the mudflats. They saw small fast moving creatures they had never seen before, living beneath the surface. She explained what was safe to eat and what was harmful. She opened her home to them, revealing a series of small caves that had been dug into the rock behind the hut. They were piled with collected odds and ends that she had discovered through the years. She hoarded everything she had found and stored it haphazardly. It was here she revealed how she purified the sludge like water and was able to strip away all the harmful bacteria. None of them had ever heard of bacteria.

  Yannis offered them a place to sleep, glad of the company, but still they chose to bed down outside. Finally, they relented and slept within the hut and the caves, consuming small amounts of food and water. The food was often hard and chewy but surprisingly flavoured and filling. One day, Stone took a shovel and dug amongst the sands. Nuria helped him and they kept at it until they clanged against metal. Furiously digging, they uncovered the outer framework of a roof. The map was correct. They truly had reached Caybon. The town was buried beneath them.

  Exhausted, they lay on their backs, the sun blazing from the sky, holding up the map between them, staring at the stretch of blue between Caybon and the land marked EN.

  The Map Maker had lapsed into sullen moods. Unable to draw, unable to complete any task, he would remain silent for days, wandering alone, losing hours on the beach, the moist sand beneath his feet, talking with only himself.

  --- Thirty ---

  Nuria crouched beside the shore, at the furthest tip of Gallen, on the very edge of the world.

  “Are you doing this?” muttered Stone.

  “Stop complaining,” she said.

  She had cut his hair, snipping away the long strands, shaping it to fall neatly upon his shoulders. Now, she carefully trimmed his beard. She had no intention of scraping all the hair from his face. She found it hard to trust a man without a beard. A lack of facial hair made a man look curiously wild, even menacing. She had seen Stone shorn and shaven once before and the look had disturbed and frightened her; it had thrilled her, too, if she was being honest.

  “Nearly done,” she said.

  The three of them had to make a decision soon but not today. She hoped it would not be today.

  “Do you know something I’ve worked out about you?” she said, clipping away with a pair of borrowed scissors. “You’re very quiet around people you care for.”

  He shrugged. He imagined the smell of the sea, the crash of the waves in his ears, but there was only the wind and the scissors.

  “You always have a lot to say,” said Nuria, continuing to cut back his beard. “To unimportant people, usually before you k
ill them.”

  A faint smile crossed his lips. She smiled back at him.

  “So I’m starting to think you care quite a bit about me because you spend most of the day ignoring me.”

  The soft skin of her hand touched his face once more as she levelled off some loose strands.

  “I don’t ignore you.”

  “And you don’t like to be alone, do you? You want the silence but the silence frightens you, doesn’t it?”

  “Nothing frightens me.”

  “I’m yet to meet a man,” she said, playfully. “Who is frightened of anything.”

  He was thoughtful for a moment.

  “There never is silence,” he said.

  The scissors paused. She placed a hand on his shoulder. She wanted to wrap her arms around him.

  “We have to decide, don’t we? Do you want to go back south? Or follow the shoreline?”

  “I don’t see any point in turning back now,” he said.

  “I know. I suppose I’m enjoying the peace and quiet, the solitude. Yannis is harmless to be around.”

  Stone grunted. She snipped at his beard.

  “You still don’t trust her?”

  “The Nearly Men,” he said. “That doesn’t bother you?”

  She rose, arched her back.

  “It unsettles me, yes, because I don’t understand it. I’m not sure I believe it, either. I mean, did we really see them the first time? We were all exhausted and suffering with the heat. We were dehydrated, I don’t know, maybe we imagined it. There, all done.”

  Stone got to his feet, brushing off loose hair.

  “We didn’t imagine it. You saw what I saw. You put your sword through one of them the same as I did and nothing.”

  “You look very presentable,” she said, ignoring his point. “And very handsome.”

  He stared out across the mudflats.

  “Not even a thank you?”

  “I’m showing you how much I care,” he said, smiling faintly.

  The two of them were silent for a moment, each with their own thoughts.

  “Ennpithia is still out there,” said the Map Maker, emerging from behind them. “You said there is nothing left in Gallen for any of us, Stone.”