Even at that tender age, tunelessly singing every Reverence Morning, a wooden pew pressing into the back of her knees, the damp of the building causing her to shiver, Quinn had wondered why the Lord had made her ill in the first place, though she was already smart enough to keep such a question from her mother. She had asked her father the question and he had meekly agreed that faith was both confusing and contradictory, though rewarding. She had no idea the meaning of the words he had used. A year later he was gone, his strong frame struck down by a rapid and brutal sickness that saw him repeatedly vomit blood. No one sat on his garden bench anymore. She’d allowed the wildflowers to claim it.
Reaching her ninth, with her father gone, Quinn began to think the Lord had a nasty streak about him. She cried until her mother beat the tears from her. She could still remember that beating. More than any other.
On a windy day, listening to the crash of the sea, she would smoke his pipe and close her eyes and taste that familiar tang. She supposed it was why she enjoyed sharing a smoke with Duggan. Her father had been a more cheerful man but the experience was as close as it was going to get. She was glad her father had not witnessed the war. The pointless deaths would have broken him. He had never understood the division between Ennpithia and Kiven. Nor had she. Quinn wondered why her thoughts were consumed with her dead parents and the war and the grim secrets the past held.
Memories tapped from behind doors. Scratched to get free.
She sat up.
It was time for answers and she would not find them in the distant past. It was only the recent past that concerned her now.
She’d camped on the edge of the forest and slept wrapped in a tarpaulin cover. She shook it free of rainwater and folded it away. The soil beneath her boots was moist from the overnight rain and a light mist drifted over the hill. She would have a mile and a half of open ground to cover before reaching Mosscar. She tied her horse, Blissful, to a tree and stroked her mane before reaching into her backpack and taking out a slim black scope. It was one of many illegal items she carried. One search through her pack would see her hang, though she was pretty confident of talking her way out of any situation.
She cleaned the scope with a cloth before crouching and raising it to her eye. The way ahead was patchy grassland with ruts and hollows. She scanned the farms to the east. There was the distant bleat of sheep and she could see men and women working the land. She swept her gaze toward the hills in the west. The wind blew in her face and rippled her tightly wound ropes of hair. There was no evidence of any roaming Shaylighters. She licked her lips. Boyd would have set up his wares by now and would already be collecting coin. She wondered how Stone and Nuria were working out. She was glad he’d hired them instead of Dobbs and Farrell.
It was time to focus or she would succumb to the same pain-ridden and agonising death that Clarissa had. Someone had lured her into this damned place. She had suspected Jeremy at first. Despite his polite, well mannered and honest nature he was still a young boy and young boys have lusts and needs and she wondered if he had attempted to force himself upon Clarissa … but none of that made any sense, the logic didn’t flow, and she had seen the devastation in him when he learned that Clarissa had contracted the sickness of the Ancients.
Pack slung over one shoulder, Quinn pocketed the scope and moved forward, half-crouched, slowly drawing a black pistol from the woollen fleece she wore. It was already warm and pockets of sweat were forming beneath her arms. She shrugged off the fleece and tied it around her waist. She instantly felt cooler in a sleeveless shirt. Pistol in her left hand she sprinted across the open ground. She spotted broken pieces of black asphalt, winking beneath thickened streaks of greenery. It was the outskirts of the city. She halted and reached into her pack for the piece of tech she had told Jeremy about.
The metal box was yellow and scratched. There was a single moulded handle, a circular dial and a switch. She had fixed a strap to it so it could be hung around her neck. She flicked the switch. There was a low buzz and a red light slowly began to glow. She had purchased the outlawed item for a hefty bag of coins. The man who sold her the device was unsure of its correct terminology but understood how to operate the unit and the potential it offered. He referred to it as a noise box. There was a detachable handle which he called the tester. Boyd had connected her with the man and he was a trusted dealer.
Boyd was shrewd and well connected. His business flourished in Ennpithia. He paid his levies to the landowners, taxes to Touron and made ample donations to the Holy House. He was friends with everyone and held no grudges yet beneath the hardworking, law abiding and charming veneer he had developed a deep knowledge of the whispering merchants, those who dabbled in the rarities from Kiven and places beyond the sea. He never bought or sold anything illegal himself, he was a devoted knee bender, but he could always funnel a person in the direction of someone who did.
She unclipped the tester: it was a cylindrical piece of metal with a mesh grill at one end and a curly black cord at its base that snaked into the noise box
She swept the tester before her but there was no sound. She hesitated. Had she switched it on correctly? She glanced down at the red light and saw it was still aglow. Gun in one hand, tester in the other, noise box around her neck, Quinn took a deep breath and moved across the cracked and faded asphalt, boots echoing on the roads of the Ancients. Millions of souls had once pressed upon this very spot. Now there was only one. She glanced down at the large dial with its single black needle. There was a sequence of numbers and the dial was on zero. She stepped forward, the city rising around her, towering concrete and twisted metal engulfed by foliage. It was impossible to discern what any of the buildings might have been. Greenery climbed and curled, snaked, smothered and choked.
She swept the tester before her but there was no sudden flare of noise; that raw and metallic sound she was anticipating. Her eyes dropped to the dial on the noise box and she saw the needle had not budged. She shifted her direction and moved slowly east but still there was no angry burst of noise and the needle was dormant. Quinn swore and backed away. All Ennpithians feared the sickness that plagued Mosscar, and she had more reason than most to fear it, but now she was angry that the noise box was failing to detect any. Could the box be faulty? Had it become damaged? No, her contact had tested it in the northern reaches of the Black Region, where the red flags were placed, and he had assured her the noise box had screeched - repulsed by the disease that crawled through soil and stone. Boyd trusted the man and that was good enough for Quinn. She retraced her steps. Still the needle refused to recognise any danger. She headed west. For ten minutes she roamed the outskirts of the diseased city – buildings that reached into the clouds, roads and tunnels and bridges – discoloured and smashed and slowly being absorbed by foliage. She waved the tester before her and the noise failed to materialise.
“What the fuck is this?”
She kicked her boot and it connected with something small that rattled along a street lined with identical sized buildings. The object came to a stop. Slowly, she looked around. The concrete buildings were half-wrapped in greenery but it was easy to see they resembled small houses. There was a short road beside each one with a mangled vehicle on many of them. The noise box hung silent around her neck. The red light glowed. A shiver went down her spine. She swallowed and stepped over ragged vines. The wind ached through the old structures and Quinn imagined souls crying at her. She whirled around, pointing her pistol at the nearest building, but there was no one there, there was no one anywhere.
“The sickness is deeper in the city,” she muttered. She nodded and lowered her weapon.
There was a faint tremble in her hand.
She ignored it, kept walking.
There was nothing here for a child beyond morbid curiosity in the past and Clarissa had never shown even the slightest interest in the Before. Why, Clarissa? It made no sense. It made no sense at all.
Had Clarissa walked down that very street and felt t
he ghostly reach of the past as she had?
It still made no sense.
Quinn suddenly raised her pistol. She could hear the rush of horses.
“Shaylighters.”
She moved. Sweeping the tester in a wide arc, the box silent, the needle still, she sprinted into the city’s arms of death. She dropped behind a square building with a curved roof where foliage surged through a gaping hole. Quinn reconnected the tester to the box and took out her scope. Back against the wall, she pushed herself slowly upward and began to scan the landscape. The riders were growing close, coming from the southeast. She edged along the wall and found herself next to a twisted iron gate, brown with rust. Vines curled around it. She peered through and saw a wide flight of concrete steps leading into blackness. The horses were nearly upon her but still she could not seem them. It couldn’t be Shaylighters. She would have heard the whoops and cries from them by now as they thundered across the scrubland.
Then three riders crested a hill and she let out a sigh of relief. It was Jeremy with two Churchmen.
Anger flared. What was the stupid boy doing in bringing them here? She knew he was worried about her but she was loaded down with illegal weapons and tech. The Churchmen would take her away in chains. She fumed. His childish, over protective nature had landed her in a terrible mess. Rapidly, she slipped off the noise box and her pack and placed them out of sight. She set her pistol and scope on top and jogged clear of Mosscar. The horses reared as she emerged from the ruins, waving her arms, and Jeremy scrambled down from his saddle, face pale, windblown.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, catching his breath.
She was furious with him. “Why did you come here?”
The two soldiers climbed from their horses. Neither of them asked what she was doing out here but they had rode all night with Jeremy and now found a spot to relieve themselves.
“Something terrible has happened.”
She saw it in his eyes. She was all that was left now.
“Go back to Brix,” she said. Her voice was hollow. Her hands dangled loose against her hips.
“I don’t know what happened. I went to see him last night and he wasn’t breathing and …”
“Quinn.” It was one of the Churchmen, emerging from the brush. “You should come back home with us. You need to take care of things.”
She looked at him blankly. His horse whined as he climbed onto it. “You shouldn’t be near this place.”
“I can go where I want. No law says I can’t put a foot in Mosscar.”
The second soldier appeared, wiping his palms on his trousers. He clutched the reins of his horse and swung onto the saddle. He remained silent whilst his companion spoke.
“Your niece went in there and look what happened to her. Hasn’t there been enough tragedy in your family?”
“We’d all hate to lose you, Quinn,” said the second soldier, finally opening his mouth.
She turned on Jeremy.
“Why did you bring them?” she whispered
“I had no choice. They wanted to escort me. Please. Daniel is dead. You need to come home.”
“He’s right, Quinn.” It was the first soldier again. The horses were snorting, growing impatient. “I can’t make you come back but I really hope you do.”
She squinted at them.
“Thank you for telling me about Daniel. You can all go now. I’m staying here.”
The Churchmen shrugged.
“Jeremy, ride back with us.”
“No, you have to take her with us. This place will kill her.”
“She isn’t breaking any law,” said the second soldier.
“Make her come back. You can’t leave her out here.”
The first soldier shook his head. “People grieve in different ways, son. Get your horse.”
“Quinn?” said Jeremy, tears in his eyes. “I’m begging you. He looks so sad. He’s all alone in the cottage. Don’t go in there. Please, Quinn. I feel terrible. I was supposed to take care of him and now he’s dead and I let you down. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
She put an arm around him.
“He was very sick, Jeremy. His body and his mind. He never got over losing her. I haven’t, either, which is why I’m staying.”
“Please …”
“Go home, Jeremy.”
He stepped back from her. “She’s carrying outlawed weapons and tech.”
Quinn froze; the soldiers looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
The first soldier trotted forward, eyebrows raised.
“Is he telling the truth, Quinn?”
She extended her arms.
“Search me.”
The man peered down at her. He eyed the knife belt strapped across her chest. She had a fine looking chest, the wind blowing hard against her sleeveless shirt. He looked for a moment longer.
“Knives are not outlawed, son.”
“She must have hidden them somewhere,” said Jeremy. “They’re nearby.”
“Enough of your nonsense. We’re going back to Brix. Get on your horse, boy.”
His right hand moved and Quinn’s eyes widened as she saw one of her pistols in his grip. He whirled round and the gunshot was deafening. The first soldier toppled backward, a crimson hole spreading in his throat. The second one reached for his sword and kicked his horse to attack but Jeremy swung the pistol, cupping his left hand beneath the weight of the firearm, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet slanted upward through the man’s cheekbone. He slid from his saddle and slammed into the grass with an ugly crunch of bone.
He spun round, aimed at Quinn.
“No.”
She hesitated, two blades half-unsheathed. She had been too stunned to draw them any quicker. She would have reacted faster to a dozen Shaylighters bearing down on horseback but a single boy killing Churchmen with one of her own pistols had rooted her to the spot. She glanced toward Mosscar where her pack and gun were hopelessly out of reach.
“You couldn’t stay away,” he said. “You had to push it. Why couldn’t you wait, Annie?”
Quinn stared at the muzzle of the pistol.
“Take off the belt. Drop it on the ground.” His finger caressed the trigger. “Do it. Slowly, that’s it.”
Her knife belt snaked into the grass.
“Is Daniel really dead?”
“Yes.”
Quinn nodded.
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“You lying little bastard.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“He would have been easy for a puny boy to kill.”
“I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”
“Some man. You need a gun against a girl.”
He jabbed the pistol toward her.
“Shut up.”
She snorted. “What about Clarissa? Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“You did. I know you did. You lured her out here and sent her to her death. Why?”
“I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”
“You’re lying.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Why not?” She paused. “Who are you protecting?”
Jeremy lowered the pistol. A smile touched his face. Quinn heard footsteps behind her.
“Nach gortaitear di,” he said.
She blinked. He spoke Shaylighter. That wasn’t possible. How could he know their language?
The hair rose on the nape of her neck. She slowly turned.
At least thirty of them had gathered behind her, creeping out of the ruins; snarling faces, long knotted hair, bare-chests painted with the inverted cross. She saw they brandished spears and axes, their preferred weapons, but she also saw a dozen slingshot carbines. She had never seen Shaylighters wielding these before. And she had never seen so many of them.
And none of them looked sick.
“Ta si duais.”
Quinn shuddered at the voice. She had heard it once before and once only. Sh
e saw him emerge from the crowd of warriors, his distinctive hat of feathers, goggles over his eyes, a black box clutched in one hand. She glanced at his bare shoulder where Nuria claimed to have struck him with an axe but there was no sign of any wound.
“Chur lei,” cried Essamon, pumping his fist into the air, and the Shaylighters swarmed around her.
Shauna squeezed, strangled, twirled and shook and hung out the last of her sodden washing. The wind blew stiffly against the clothes. She spotted Father Devon and Deacon Rush outside Father William’s house. The priest rapped against the stout front door but there was no answer. He sighed and glanced at his young companion who offered a passive shrug.
She called over. “He’s out.”
“Do you know where he went, my dear?”
“Fishing, I reckon. I heard him leave before dawn.”
“Yes, he’s not the quietest of men, is he? Thank you, Shauna.”
She brushed hair from her face, felt drained and wished Brian was here. He would have all the answers, all the reassurances. She waited for the men of the Holy House to leave. She noticed the priest carried a wrapped package under one arm and puzzled over it for a moment.
Taking a deep breath she called, “Deacon Rush, can I have a minute of your time?”
“How can I help, Shauna?” His expression dropped. “You look deeply troubled.”
“I am.”
Rush turned to Father Devon.
“Talk with her,” said the older man. “I will see Father William by myself. Good morning to you, Shauna.”
She stood in her untidy garden as Father Devon trudged away. The long grass curled around her ankles. She lowered her eyes toward the fence; it had become damaged during the last winter and was now a ramshackle and embarrassing spectacle of split and warped wood lashed together with fraying lengths of rope. Brian had no materials to repair it and not enough coins to purchase any. Touron law stated that a man could no longer walk into the forest with an axe and fell all the trees he required. The woodcutters chopped down the trees and the trees were stored in lumber camps and the camps required payment. Shauna raised her eyes and saw one or two neighbours glance at her shoddy fence and overgrown garden and dilapidated house of stone and turf that leaned to one side due to the tremors. She could only imagine what they thought of her and her husband and as much as she claimed not to care she knew, deep down, she did. And, despite this, even because of this, she wanted to stay, but knew it would be impossible to do so.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 11