The ground shifted once more as the tremor showed no sign of abating. He kept hold of the body as a trio of Shaylighters emerged from the gloom, firing carbines. They peppered the corpse and Stone returned fire with his revolver, deadly and accurate; three shots, three bodies. More warriors surged toward the ruined building. There was no end to them. Stone fired until the chamber of his revolver was exhausted.
He let the body slide down and drew his sword. He slashed, and gouged the tip of his blade through painted flesh, but the warrior he was fighting ignored the pain and chopped down with his axe. Another Shaylighter came at him but he flicked the sword and ripped a line through his throat.
“Quinn,” he shouted.
“Stone.”
He twisted violently as the ground beneath him continued to vibrate and weapons hacked and jabbed at him. Sheathing his sword, he wrestled a carbine from the gloom, fished into the ammunition bag worn across his chest and dropped in a clutch of steel balls. He pumped the sliding mechanism and began firing, blasting the remaining Shaylighters and picking his way across the shaking rubble as he took them down.
She emerged from the choking dust clouds, filthy and blood stained. They ran through crumbling tenement buildings, the fury of the tremor pursuing them with equal verve. A second sinkhole opened up and the building they had fought in disappeared.
But more Shaylighters had streamed from the stadium. It was far from over.
They burst onto a wide avenue; gaping sinkholes and hanging clouds of dust and ash.
No more than blurry outlines, the Shaylighters continued to fire at them. Steel balls whipped through the air, without a single one even coming close, but the hissing sound as each ball pinged through the swirling dust clouds chilled their blood. They continued to flee, directionless inside the sprawling urban landscape. They vaulted over a low chain-link fence surrounding an enclosed area and slowed as oddly shaped obstacles loomed out of the dark. The ground was strangely springy, a carpet of artificial bark that appeared undisturbed. The two of them dropped behind a child-sized house of rusted metal. Panting heavily, they hurriedly reloaded the carbines they now both carried. The world was beginning to fall back into place and the cries of the Shaylighters were distant and muffled as the tremor finally ceased and the wind nudged at the dust clouds.
Quinn dressed her arm wound with a strip of cloth.
“They’ll keep hunting us.” She grimaced as she spoke. “They have to … to stop us from telling anyone they’re here. I can’t believe how many of them there are. They must have been hiding in Mosscar for years.”
She looked at him
“How did you know it was safe?”
He prodded the vegetation. “This wouldn’t grow.”
“You didn’t know that. Not for certain.”
She wiped her face.
“You risked your life coming in here. You’re fucking crazy. Is Nuria with you?”
“She’s in Great Onglee.”
“Then you’re a selfish bastard, as well as insane.”
He shrugged. “She said the same thing.”
“She’s right.”
They weaved through the enclosed area, edging past flora covered steps and slides and tunnels and boats and rockers. Stone felt his skin crawl as the rusted steel frames creaked in the wind. He glanced toward Quinn; one eye half closed, the other drawn wide. She could feel the presence, too. It echoed with ghosts. This had been a special place, once, but the world had bubbled and blistered and now there were only whispers in the dark.
As they clambered over another chain-link fence Stone saw the Shaylighters had picked up their scent once more. He watched them loop around the enclosed area, even though it would have been much quicker to power through it.
Glistening with perspiration, they angled along a narrow concrete pathway that curved toward an underpass. Blackness smothered them. Faded graffiti covered the tilled walls. Boots echoed against the hard ground as they ran. Quinn glanced over her shoulder and swallowed hard as she saw a chasing pack of nearly twenty warriors.
The spearhead of the war-band was a tall, lean woman, arms and legs pumping furiously.
Soirese raised a single fist as she emerged from the underpass. Her warriors gathered around her, weapons ready.
Taut skin shiny, fists poised against her hips, she stood and listened, hearing only the rapid beat of her heart and the rustle of vegetation. The wind tossed her hair. Her eyes roamed the length of a rubble filled avenue, left and right. Deserted. She knew they could not have outrun them. Quinn was moving slow after her beating and the stranger appeared to be limping, too. They must have taken refuge within a building once more. Here the structures were single-storey with blasted windows and large faded signs. There were alleyways nestled between some of the buildings but she knew them to be dead ends; weeds and rubbish and old rusted dumpsters teeming with disgusting black flies.
She broke her men into search parties. It would not take long to find them. They were close; she could almost taste them.
Soirese led one group onto a grass covered bank that fringed the underpass. It was an excellent vantage point. Her warriors were poking through buildings and alleyways but finding nothing. She paced, frustrated. Behind her a four-lane highway, choked with hundreds of vehicles locked in torturous lines, curved around towering buildings that reached toward the clouds. She had been born here. In the very bowels of the tallest building. She saw flickering lights in the darkness. She would capture these murderous insurgents for Essamon, for the people of the stadium and for the families of the towers. She would bring Quinn and the bearded man to the arena. They would face her fists and Mosscar would reverberate with her strength and power.
She peered into a few vehicles, dropped to her stomach and looked beneath them, but her prey was nowhere to be seen. She slammed a bunched fist against the roof of a car. She scrambled down the bank and strode onto the street, waiting beside an immense vehicle that had rolled onto its side. It was the length of many cars and the height of several men. It was patched with brown rust and its giant wheel arches, thick with black grime, had long been stripped of their enormous tyres.
She glanced at it - once, twice - and sneered.
They had gone nowhere; they were inside the metal beast.
The back window was smashed open and she glimpsed broken seating inside. It was a good place to hide.
She whistled and her warriors surrounded the vehicle.
Squashed tight against his body in the narrow luggage compartment, Quinn held her breath as the Shaylighters scrambled over the coach. The metal hatch overhead, in truth the side of the vehicle, she guessed, groaned as footsteps patterned across it. Stone’s hip wound was stinging and he desperately wanted to scratch it but dared not move. The seconds dragged by as the warriors dropped inside the long vehicle and found no one hiding there. They heard the woman give fresh orders, clearly frustrated. There was the hammer of feet as the warriors jumped from the vehicle, landing back on the asphalt.
Minutes passed and they heard the woman lead her warriors along the avenue.
Stone shook his head.
Her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Rooted in the same position, Quinn felt her left leg turn numb. She tried to flex it but there was no movement. A dent in one corner of the hatch allowed a pocket of cool air to filter inside but she was feeling nauseous at the stench of the confined space.
There was the thump of horses and cries of Shaylighters. The patrol loitered for a minute or two before galloping away.
They waited for a long time. They knew it was impossible to remain hidden forever. Dawn would soon arrive and there would be no way out of the city then. They needed a blanket of darkness to escape. Stone wondered if Quinn had found her answers. He certainly hoped so. The size of the tribe deeply concerned him. She had described only a handful of road bandits but this was a small army, tucked away in place no one would ever look.
He turned his gaze toward her. She nodded back at him and
he reached for the hatch.
THIRTEEN
Nuria snatched hold of the woman’s wrist.
“No.”
It was the first defiance Lady Hardigan had experienced in a long time. Kevane had described the Earl’s wife as a hard bitch and Nuria didn’t doubt that for one moment. The woman’s features had been shaved from steel. Rigid eyes the colour of slate glared from thickened crevices of skin. Her back was unbent and had probably never wilted once, not even during childbirth, but Nuria’s grip was resolute, fingers clutched around the raised hand, the lined palm flat, the skin ice cold, the fingers extended, the nails scrubbed clean, neatly shaped. Kaya loitered beside Nuria, dishevelled brown hair tumbling onto her forehead, cheeks stained with tears.
Nuria attempted to force the hand down but there was stiffened resistance. The men gathered loose and ineffective.
“Leave her alone,” said Nuria.
It was Boyd who attempted to broker a peace. “I’ll pour some drinks.” He began to clatter about.
The woman’s concentration faltered, for a fraction of a second, distracted by Boyd’s clumsy efforts at playing host. Nuria exploited the opportunity and pushed Lady Hardigan’s hand onto her hip.
“Leave my house.”
“Not yet.”
“Stephen, throw this thing out.”
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t know who you are but I have nothing to say to someone like you. Get out of my house.”
“This concerns your daughter.”
“Which means it’s no concern of yours.”
Her voice was stilted, annoying; she was stepping on each word, attempting to smooth away the rough edges, claiming to be someone and something she clearly wasn’t.
Nuria cringed. “You’ll listen to me. Both of you.”
“Stephen, get this servant out of my house.”
“My name is Nuria. I work for Mr Boyd and I’m no bloody servant.”
The Earl listened to his wife’s command but did not immediately respond. He studied the woman lingering in the doorway, grubby boots stroking the fringe of one of his precious rugs scattered across a flagstone floor. She was not a plain woman and he was intrigued by the conviction in her blue eyes and captivated by their beauty, too. Her tone was educated, that much was clear, and despite the crossbow on her shoulder and the sword buckled at her waist, she was no common mercenary.
He said, “Let her speak.”
“Stephen, I want her out of my house.”
“Enough.” His voice snapped. “Let us hear what she has to say.”
Nuria waited for the Earl’s wife to bite back but she didn’t. An awkward silence enveloped the room that no one was willing to breach until Boyd cleared his throat and presented a tray of goblets, brimming with wine.
“Why don’t we all take a drink?”
Only the Earl accepted one. Nuria didn’t even acknowledge Boyd so he shuffled away and sat beside a softly glowing lamp, the flame orange behind blackened panes of glass.
“Why are you prying into our family?” It was the Earl, his voice even, his question valid.
Nuria opened her mouth but Lady Hardigan weighed in once more.
“She’s nothing more than a common vagabond, Stephen. Look at her. She stinks. I thought Quinn was a rough slouch. I didn’t think it was possible to scrape any lower in the gutter, Mr Boyd.”
“Insults are not helping, my Lady,” said Boyd.
“He’s right, Isobel,” snapped the Earl. “No more of it.”
He took a drink.
“This is a very stressful time for us with the festival. Kaya is our eldest and feels the stress more than our other children.”
“Stop telling her our business,” hissed Lady Hardigan.
“Isobel!”
His deafening voice silenced her. She sat grinding her teeth.
“Why do you persist with this behaviour, Kaya?” said the Earl.
Slouched alongside Nuria, hands tucked into the waistband of her woollen trousers, she shrugged.
“You know why.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“I said, you know why.”
“Kaya told me that …”
“We know exactly what she told you,” said Lady Hardigan, her steely gaze on Kaya. “It’s a pack of lies.”
“Our daughter has to share our attention with her brothers and sisters. She doesn’t cope very well with that. She feels starved of affection. This is her way of trying to …”
“That’s nothing to do with it,” said Kaya.
“It’s everything to do with it,” said the Earl. “You even told me yourself how you feel unloved by us.”
“I feel unloved because you won’t believe me. I’m not making it up. Why would I? He’s called the Predator. That’s his name.”
Lady Hardigan threw her hands in the air.
“I would believe you, Kaya, but where is the proof?” The Earl paused. “You disappear for a day here, a day there and then return upset claiming some man has … has done things … but you don’t know who he is or where you are taken and you have no marks …”
“She doesn’t appreciate anything, Stephen. She has no idea how hard you work to maintain our home.”
”You’re our eldest, Kaya.” The Earl’s tone softened. “We love you very much but you have to …”
Kaya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then show it and believe me.”
There was silence. Boyd sank another drink.
“I want you in bed,” said Lady Hardigan. “And I want to hear no more of these disgusting and impossible stories.”
“The Predator is real. He’s been doing it for years. I’m not the only one he takes.”
“There isn’t a fucking scratch on you,” shouted Lady Hardigan, rising from her chair, eyes bulging, revealing her true breeding.
“That’s because the witch heals my wounds.”
No one answered her.
“It’s true.”
Silence.
“I’m not lying.”
Silence.
More silence.
It was Nuria who spoke. “They’re known as Pure Ones.”
The Hardigan's turned at the sound of her voice. Boyd lowered his wine. Even Kaya craned her neck around. Nuria waited a moment longer, certain the venom in the air had ceased.
“A one-eyed girl born with scarred skin.” She held up her hand. “They can heal with touch.”
Kaya licked her lips.
“You’re making it up,” said Lady Hardigan, no longer smothering her voice, allowing all the strands to loosen.
Nuria snorted, shook her head. The Earl stared at her.
“Have you seen one of these Pure Ones?”
She nodded.
“I know of one healer. She’s a friend. She lives in Gallen, where I’m from. I’ve seen her save lives, make wounds from bullets and blades disappear. She once drove the sickness from a woman, took away the red marks and the lumps. It’s the most incredible thing to witness.” There was a hush in the room. Even Lady Hardigan was silent. “Healers exist but it’s rare to come across them. What Kaya is telling you is possible but I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
It was the Earl asking the question. His wife was stony faced, jaw twisted into a snarl.
“Healers usually help people. It’s strange to imagine one allowing this man to brutalise your daughter and then help conceal the crime.”
“Is it possible she could be forced to heal?”
Nuria shook her head. She imagined Emil being forced to heal. It would have never happened. She wished she was here right now, standing beside her. The young girl would have tore strips off Isobel Hardigan. Sixteen, seventeen years old, Emil was the only healer Nuria had ever encountered; headstrong, stubborn and determined, with a tongue as fiery as the colour of her hair; she stood for no nonsense. Nuria understood why Stone had bonded with her so well. More than guilt, more than the death of Tomas, the two was so al
ike.
“Healers are compelled to help. It’s an instinct. But … you can’t force them to heal. The power comes from inside them, I think.”
Nuria turned to Kaya.
“You need to tell us everything about the Predator; what he looks like, when he takes you and where.”
“Do you all believe me now?”
The Earl wiped a hand over his face and nodded, glumly.
“I don’t understand it, Kaya, but I don’t think you’re lying.”
He looked around the room.
“Can you help, Boyd?”
Nuria saw a flash in Boyd’s eyes. He seemed incredibly perturbed by the question. She watched the portly merchant from the corner of her eye. Then Kaya grabbed her arm, distracting her.
“I want to tell you alone. I don’t want every one listening.”
Dobbs forced open the front door whilst Farrell kept watch. The streets of the village were relatively empty with only a few men and women drifting home from the inn. Shauna could see he was trying to make as little noise as possible but the door was old and as he leaned into it the wood splintered beneath his weight and he crashed through into a gloomy room lit by a small fire. They carried swords buckled at the waist and wore masks to obscure their features but they shouldn’t have bothered; she easily recognised them. Besides, there were very few men in Brix capable of threatening or beating or even killing a woman. She saw Farrell holding a hammer in his gloved fist and shivered as she imagined it shattering her bones.
She had purposefully left the fire burning. She had assumed Rush would send someone to intimidate her further. She wasn’t as stupid as he thought and now knew for certain that the deacon planned to harm her. They had both assumed that only Jeremy was involved but now she wondered many others were part of this murderous plot? It would be impossible to trust anyone now. She couldn’t go to her neighbours or the barracks or even Father Devon. They might all be pieces of the conspiracy.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 16