The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS)

by Moore, Laurence

  “Nuria?”

  He was standing beside the wooden rowboat he had spotted. She walked toward him, pocketing the darkness deep within.

  It was old but in reasonable condition. It was not covered with algae like most of the ships and vehicles wedged into the mudflats. It looked as if it had been recently used. She helped Stone drag it into the water. It bobbed on the surface. There were two loose planks of wood inside, undoubtedly utilised as oars. Nuria called to the Map Maker and his round face broke into a wide grin as he saw the boat. He splashed toward them.

  The sun broke from behind leaden clouds. The grey sea blinked with golden rays. The Map Maker sat at the top of the boat, muttering to himself. Stone watched him closely as he drove the wooden plank into the water, timing his strokes perfectly with Nuria. After several hours, they rested, drinking fresh water and chewing small pieces of toughened white meat. The wind tossed the boat forward. Nuria fetched the rope once more and tied the Map Maker to his bench. He protested but she didn’t want a sudden current to send him toppling overboard. They rowed until the sky was pinched with darkness and the stars glittered and the sea turned silver in the moonlight. Arms aching, hands cramped, they set the oars down and wrapped themselves in blankets. The stars began to disappear as the clouds surged above and it grew very dark and very cold.

  The rain fell, thick and heavy, giant plops exploding on the sea; the wind hurled the boat and flooded it with water.

  “Cut me loose,” shouted the Map Maker. “Hurry, I don’t want to die in the water. Quick, cut the ropes.”

  “Shut up,” said Nuria, using a cup to empty water from the boat. “You’ve no hands to hold on.”

  The bald headed man blinked the rain from his eyes. He saw nothing but swirling darkness ahead. Why was his life being threatened once more? He glared angrily at his stumps. He would never draw a map again or turn the page of a book or clutch a woman or himself between his fingers. Had he not suffered enough? He saw the world so differently. He saw the lines and the shapes, the curves and the bends. Surely he deserved better. It was a momentous task he had undertaken, picking up the pieces of his mission through years of mapping, understanding it had been only one part of the puzzle, one aspect of his true purpose. The boat shook. The wind howled. His teeth chattered. He thought about Philip, the one-legged man from Dessan, old and wise, the man who had first told him of Ennpithia. The Map Maker now recognised the man as an omen, signalling the way forward. He knew the world was fractured. He knew the world was broken. And he knew Ennpithia was where he would begin to mend it. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Stone and Nuria frantically bailing water from the old wooden boat as they glided deeper into the fog. He allowed himself a smile as they worked tirelessly to protect him.

  “That’s enough,” said Stone.

  Soaked, exhausted, face flushed red, Nuria nodded. The water pouring in and gushing out in equal measure as they crashed through the sea. They were still afloat but there was nothing more they could do.

  They cut the Map Maker loose and the three of them huddled beneath rain sodden blankets.

  Stone gripped Nuria’s hand tightly as the choking grey fog engulfed them.

  TWO

  Stone opened his eyes and instantly shielded them from bright sunlight. It had stopped raining. A wispy grey mist curled around the boat. He sat up, abruptly, brushing aside a sodden blanket and stared as the boat drifted gently through a winding canyon.

  “Nuria.”

  He shook her lightly. She stirred with a wide yawn as he searched for the makeshift oars but couldn’t see them anywhere. They must have gone overboard during the storm. The backpack was missing, too. His stomach whined at the thought of lost rations. Clothes damp, skin cold, he shivered. Nuria eased into an upright position, wiping grit from her eyes. She ran her fingers through her knotted hair and stopped mid-stroke.

  “Ennpithia?”

  Stone raked his beard.

  “It might be.”

  He glanced at the Map Maker, curled in the bottom of the boat, and planted his boot into the man’s back.

  “What’s happening? What was that?”

  “Did we make it?” asked Stone.

  The Map Maker saw towering peaks crowded with vegetation. He licked his dry lips.

  “I never once found a river through a gorge in Gallen.”

  “But you never mapped all of Gallen,” said Nuria. “Did you?”

  He cast his eyes down at the satchel of maps around his neck. Some of them were now decades old, intricate and detailed, but it would be impossible for him to create any new ones. It was a crushing admission. He would map in his thoughts only. The wind nudged them further along the meandering river, the sun dazzling against its surface. The three of them gazed in silence at the escarpments of brown and yellow and white rock, dotted with tangled greenery spilling from above, and jutting outcrops of flowers bent back in the breeze.

  “I want to see the map,” he said.

  Nuria shook her head. “Not now.” She turned to Stone. “Did we lose the food?”

  “The oars as well,” he said.

  “Get me the map, Nuria,” demanded the Map Maker. “Please, I need it.”

  “What difference will it make?” she said. “You’ve no idea what direction we’ve been travelling in since we left Caybon. None of us were able to navigate in that weather. We could have been going round and round in circles.”

  “Why do you say all that? Why do you punish me further?” He raised his arms. “I have taken us this far. I’m asking for your help because I cannot help myself.”

  “What will that old map tell you? There’s nothing on it.”

  She was partly right but he would not admit that to her. The map he wanted was not one of his own. It had been gifted to him and was an incredible map with an astonishing level of detail, rendering his own sketches primitive. Clearly, it was a relic from the time of the Ancients. It was how the world must have looked before the Cloud Wars; vast continents of green and yellow with giant seas of blue and a host of curious names and landmarks, none of which he had ever found through his years of exploration.

  Except for one portion. One corner of a land mass that appeared to resemble his own map of Gallen. The shape was very close and there were cities on the old map that were ruins on his one. He had connected his own map to the age of the Before. Not that anyone believed him or understood or even cared. There were few historians in Gallen. He knew his knowledge and foresight separated him from most. Many ignorantly believed that Gallen was all there was and that a step into the sea was a death sentence. But he knew better. So did Stone. Stone had pushed for Ennpithia.

  “Beyond Gallen’s northern shoreline is a sea,” said the Map Maker, quietly. Nuria looked unimpressed with his tone. “Across the sea is land and this land is marked EN … which is short for Ennpithia. And this is where we are. We’ve crossed the sea. It’s behind us. Can you hear it? We can’t be anywhere else.”

  “You’re putting your faith in an old map,” said Nuria. She was hungry and needed to empty her bladder. She did not want this discussion with him. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “This is Ennpithia.” His voice was firm.

  He rubbed his temples with his wrists as the boat curved around a wide bend in the canyon.

  “We’re in Ennpithia. We’re in Ennpithia.”

  Nuria hesitated. His voice was beginning to crack. “Maybe you’re right,” she said, reluctantly. “I mean, I’ve never seen so much greenery. Look at the colours. I suppose we could’ve made it.”

  He raised his head, smiled faintly. “Thank you,” he said.

  The boat butted against a rocky bank scattered with loose boulders. Patches of vegetation strained through narrow fissures.

  Stone lunged, grabbed hold.

  “We’re somewhere,” he said, boots scraping against dry ground.

  No one knew them in the land beyond the sea. The death sentences that hung over them were for crimes long ago a
nd far away. No one knew their names and no one knew their stories and no one knew of the brutality they had unleashed in the wastelands of Gallen, righting wrongs the only way they knew how; with bullet and blade and fist.

  There was a sudden cry for help. It echoed around the walls of the canyon. The Map Maker flashed a look of worry. Stone sprang along the bank toward a craggy opening in the wall of rock. The cry rang out once more. It was definitely a man and he was much closer now.

  Stone peered around the opening and saw a long tunnel disappearing into the gloom. Moist air touched his skin.

  “Nuria,” he called, whipping out his sword.

  She was already out of the boat, the Map Maker behind her. She ran along the bank and they flanked the tunnel.

  Waiting.

  Listening.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes … shit,” she whispered, as the boat floated away. Ennpithia or Gallen, they were here to stay. “I’m glad you stayed out of it.”

  “He talks to you like a child.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “I was tempted to chuck him in the water.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she said, looking over her shoulder to where the Map Maker was slumped on the ground, talking to himself. “You know you’d miss him.”

  They stiffened at the sound of running feet. Whoever was in trouble was coming straight for them.

  A young man came rushing along the tunnel with fast moving shadows pursuing him. He was clutching a spear with a broken shaft. He burst into the sunlight, face flushed from running, pasty skin marked with red blotches. Stone swung out an arm, catching him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him, the broken spear flying from his grasp and landing in the river with a splash. He rolled the young man along the bank, out of sight.

  Nuria gripped her sword tight and nodded at Stone.

  Bare-chested men spilled from the tunnel, brandishing axes. They spotted the swords but were running too fast to stop. Their momentum carried them onto Stone and Nuria’s blades. Blood splashed, the men screamed. They quickly jerked free their swords and hacked at the men, finishing them. A third man skated past them and quickly bounced onto his feet; long knotted hair swinging behind him, his bare chest painted. He snarled, baring a row of yellowed teeth and flashed his axe. Nuria went at him, slashing two-handed with her sword.

  The young man looked on wide-eyed and wordless as the tall man plunged into the tunnel.

  Stone saw the gloomy outline of another bare-chested man. In his left hand he held a lit torch, the flickering orange glow illuminating a dirty and narrow brimmed hat bristling with dark feathers and wedged onto an angular head. The rim shadowed eyes concealed behind round goggles. His cheekbones were smeared with red ointment. The man took a step forward, sweeping the torch before him. Stone observed a thick black line painted down his chest, from throat to waist, with another black line low across his stomach. It was then he saw a block shaped object in the man’s right hand. The man hissed, a long tongue darting over twisted lips. Words spilled from his mouth in a language that Stone did not recognise.

  “Maroidh me thu …”

  Stone raised his sword. It was a language everyone spoke.

  He swung his blade at the warrior. His sword hacked into the torch and it erupted with a shower of sparks.

  The man stepped back and a sickening smile formed across his face. There was a discernable click in the tunnel and a white beam shot from the box unlike anything Stone had ever seen. The beam was solid, flooding the tunnel with brilliant light; more powerful than any torch or vehicle headlamp. Stone threw a hand across his eyes. At once there was a searing pain in his chest. His heart began to beat fast. He glanced down and saw the beam was burning through his tunic, singeing his flesh. He cried out in pain.

  “Stone,” yelled Nuria.

  Instinctively, he allowed his legs to buckle and dropped to the floor of the tunnel. Nuria grunted and the axe spun through the air, turning over and over with tremendous ferocity. It smacked against the man with the box of light, slicing through his shoulder. He screamed and dropped the box, the beam instantly dying. More men appeared in the tunnel and gathered around the man with the hat. Stone scrambled to his feet, wincing with pain. He snatched up his sword and lunged forward but his legs had no strength and he could barely stand or take a step. Had the light injured him more than he’d realised?

  But within a split second he realised the ground was shaking. Black cracks appeared in the walls and snaked along the ceiling. Huge pieces of rock broke from above and one struck the side of his head, slamming him against the trembling wall. Blood trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. Nuria’s hand curled around his arm, pulling him onto his feet. Thick clouds of dust swirled around them. Gasping, they staggered back onto the bank, the world shaking all around them, boulders rolling down and striking the river with loud splashes.

  Nuria saw the blood coursing down the side of his face. The Map Maker yelled as a giant slab of granite slid down and shattered. There was a loud splash as the young man they had saved dived into the river and began to swim away, his bare arms cutting powerful strokes through the water.

  Suddenly, almost as quickly as the tremor had begun, it subsided. A few rocks and stones trickled down the gorge and dropped into the water with light plops. The wind angled through the canyon. The abrupt silence caused the hair to rise on Nuria’s neck. Stone went to the tunnel. The men were gone. He went to the river and dunked his head, washing away the blood from the side of his face. Flicking his head back, panting, he gingerly touched the skin. It was tender but would heal. He tore a strip from his clothing and tied it around his skull.

  “What happened in there?”

  He shook his head, a stunned expression in his eyes. Nuria stared at him.

  “What was that light?”

  “I don’t know,” he croaked. He glanced down at his chest, lightly fingering his scorched clothing. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “Was it a torch?” said the Map Maker.

  Nuria pointed at Stone.

  “A torch doesn’t do that.”

  Stone sheathed his sword and studied the blood splashed bodies. All three men had long knotted hair and were painted with the same curious symbol. A thick black line from throat to waist with a thick black line across the stomach.

  “Is this what you meant about living in peace beneath the sign?” he said, to the Map Maker. “That’s what you were told, wasn’t it?”

  The Map Maker stared down at the corpses, saying nothing.

  The river was empty. The man and the boat had gone. Nuria’s skin crawled. They were trapped here.

  Who were these people? What had they put themselves in the middle of?

  “We should have stayed in Gallen,” she said.

  “There was nothing to stay for,” said the Map Maker, glumly. “I had to reach here. You don’t understand what it’s like for me.”

  “Until we arrived in Dessan you’d never even heard of Ennpithia,” she countered. “You’re unable to stay in one place.”

  “Can you?” said the Map Maker, stung by her words. “Or you?”

  Stone ignored the comment directed at him and got to his feet. He moved toward the tunnel once more and Nuria followed him, feeling less claustrophobic in the narrow space than any conversation with the Map Maker. The dust had settled and they saw the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the way ahead. They stopped to examine a giant split in the right hand wall. Cool air rifled from above.

  “We should try and find our way back,” said Nuria. “We killed three men. All with that strange sign on them. What if they’re part of a much larger tribe? What if we’ve stepped into the middle of something we don’t understand?”

  He stared into her eyes. “No more Tamnica.”

  She recoiled at the name. They both bore the scars and branding from that the horrific prison. She nodded, slowly, knowing that the inner battle was one only she could win or l
ose.

  “Stone.”

  It was the Map Maker. The two of them rushed back to the riverbank where he lingered beside the corpses.

  “Look at them,” he said, incredulous. “Look at the sign.”

  Stone and Nuria stood at the feet of the bloodied corpses. Nothing had altered. It was the same as what they had observed a moment earlier. A wide black line from throat to waist, crossed with a wide black line across the lower stomach.

  “What are we supposed to be looking at?” said Nuria.

  They came beside him.

  “Do you see it?” he said.

  They looked. The sign was now upside down with the horizontal line nearer the top rather than at the bottom.

  Stone shrugged. “So?”

  “I’ve seen it before. That way around.” He tapped the side of his head with his stump. “When the noise comes, when I hear the voice, like pieces of metal scraping together, I see that sign. It whispers Ennpithia to me.”

  Nuria rolled her eyes.

  “It’s always been with me. The noise, the sign. But this is the first time I’ve seen it for real.” He paused. “Why do you think they paint it upside down?”

  Nuria stepped away from the corpses and into the tunnel, re-examining the large crack in the wall. Emil, the child with healing hands, had told her once she thought the Map Maker was a creep. This was before he’d kidnapped her and allowed her to become entwined in a gang war in the city of Maizan, ultimately leading to the Map Maker losing his hands. He was a well known oddity in Gallen. Sometimes respected, sometimes vilified. He unnerved her when he spoke. She pitied him, though, which made her annoyance with him a complicated emotion. He was no longer able to perform even the most simple of daily tasks and his love of drawing had been robbed from him. She knew all this but still found herself more and more frustrated by the tone of his solemn voice.