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

by Moore, Laurence

  “Did you find out how your niece died?” he said, suddenly.

  “She wasn’t my niece.” Quinn choked. “Clarissa was my daughter.”

  “Who is he?” demanded Essamon, speaking Ennpithian. “This man from the water. What does he want?”

  Jeremy stood inside a large torch lit room. The ceiling was discoloured and bloated. There were blankets on the floor and fires and a large table spread with a map. The stand above creaked in the wind. He was shoulder to shoulder with the most fearsome men of the tribe; Oxron the rapist, Callart the butcher and many more; men who had risen above their fellow warriors, men with hardened faces daubed in terrifying paint, men who were considered the most loyal, the most trusted and the most vile. Only Soirese was absent, her war-band still to return since the tremors and the sounding of the horn.

  “His name is Stone. He came here with another man and a woman.”

  Essamon rubbed his shoulder. There was no wound. “I know. His woman struck me with an axe.”

  “She is called Nuria. Boyd hired them to guard his truck.”

  Jeremy nervously cleared his throat. He could hear his voice wavering.

  One of the warriors’s snarled, “Ait a bhfuil said o?”

  “They’re from Gallen,” he answered.

  “The desert land across the sea,” said another, speaking Ennpithian. It was Callart the butcher. He was a monster of a man, towering over the others. His long face was marked by a protruding nose and chin. His forehead was deeply lined and his eyes were sunk into blackened sockets. A curved steel blade hung from his belt.

  “I do not care about the sea,” said Essamon. “The sea is meaningless.”

  Jeremy tried to calm his voice. “The second man is still in Brix. The Holy House is interested in him.”

  Essamon picked up his box of light. “Why?”

  “I overheard Devon and Rush talking about him but it didn’t make any sense.”

  Oxron the rapist growled. “We will decide what makes sense, boy. Tell us what they were saying.”

  “They were arguing over the man’s identity. Father Devon believes he might be a great warrior sent to save them.”

  “Does this man have a name?” asked Callart.

  “No, not a real one. He calls himself the Map Maker. He seems to think he’s very important.”

  Essamon nodded. “I saw this man at the riverbank. He is bald and fat and has no hands. He is Ennpithia’s great warrior?”

  He grinned, cupped his hands around his stomach and began to waddle.

  “The man is like cattle. Ta se ramhar. Ta se ramhar.”

  Laughter boomed around the room. His men began to mirror Essamon’s actions, showing mock fear when confronted with each other.

  “Then why does the Holy House show interest?” said Callart, raising his voice. His long face was humourless. “Why do they think a man who cannot hold sword or spear might be a great warrior?”

  There was silence. The torches flickered. Jeremy glanced around the room.

  “There are words written,” he said. “Father Devon has a book. It talks of the Second Coming. When the Lord rises again to erase our sins. Father Devon believes the Map Maker is the Lord in mortal form.”

  The silence lengthened.

  “We do not fear their faith,” hissed Essamon. “Nor do we fear their Lord. This is not important. I will deal with this Map Maker when we take Brix. I will show the Ennpithians how mortal he is when I gut him.”

  He clenched his fist at his warriors.

  “We will ride to Great Onglee and have revenge for our dead brothers.”

  “No, it’s too soon,” said Jeremy. “Duggan isn’t back from Touron. You must wait for the beacon to be lit.”

  Jeremy saw the warriors take a step away from him. He was suddenly very alone and exposed.

  Essamon came forward, dark eyes glowering behind his goggles, the hat of feathers wedged upon his skull, his face streaked with red ointment, the inverted cross upon his bare chest.

  “Never speak against me.” His hand grabbed Jeremy. “You are a non-believer and you have helped us but you are not of our blood.”

  “I’m sorry.” The boy spluttered as grubby fingers closed around his throat. “It’s just we can’t …”

  “You and Brian are tolerated. Nothing more.”

  “But the Engineer’s plan is …”

  “I warned you before. You do not mention the Engineer. You are nothing to him and nothing to us.”

  He continued to crush Jeremy’s throat. Oxron the rapist grinned.

  “Let me have him first, Essamon.”

  “Silence,” said Essamon, releasing the boy. “We have promised him a place in the new world and Shaylighters do not break promises. We are not Ennpithians.”

  He patted Jeremy’s cheek. “Mention the Engineer once more and I will give you to Oxron.”

  Jeremy coughed as the warriors laughed at him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No more,” said Essamon. “The moment has passed.”

  “What if the boy is right?” It was Callart. “If we attack Onglee before the beacon is lit, then the Archbishop will stay away. He will fear for his life and hide in Touron. The plan is to attack Onglee once the beacon has been lit and the Archbishop has begun the Summer Blessings.”

  Essamon pondered the words of his most trusted man. He knew what the plan was and he knew the part the Shaylighters were to play but his thirst for revenge was driving him. The bearded man had stepped into his land and killed his warriors. Now he had come into his home, killing and stealing. Quinn was a prize to his people. She had left many of his tribe rotting in the dirt. He was seething with anger that he had not witnessed Soirese’s destruction of this Ennpithian in the arena.

  “This will not go unanswered.”

  He looked at his men.

  “There are many parts to the Engineer’s plan. But if we do nothing, if we wait, then word will spread that there is no sickness in Mosscar. The Churchmen will rally their soldiers against us. We have no choice but to attack Onglee. This man Stone has forced our hand. Aon priosunaigh. Aon sclabhaithe. Great Onglee will suffer the true wrath of the Shaylighters. No more hiding. None of them must escape. Understand? None of them.”

  His tongue flashed across his lips.

  “You, boy, go back to Brix and warn Rush what has happened here tonight. He must come to us.”

  Jeremy swallowed. “I can’t go back. I killed two Churchmen. They’ll be looking for me.”

  The slap stunned him, the blow colliding with his eye socket. The Shaylighters laughed.

  “Do as I order,” hissed Essamon. “Callart, prepare our warriors. Oxron, go and find Soirese, she should be back by now.”

  He kissed the box of light.

  “Let us see how the cross protects Great Onglee.”

  “Her name was Francis,” said Quinn.

  Hazy sunlight picked sluggishly at the horizon. Stone could see the outline of the village, clouds drifting above it. A thin mist curled around the horse as he galloped from the forest. The sun would quickly burn it away and he sensed the day would be long and hot. He glanced over his shoulder once more. There had been no sign of any pursuit.

  “She was a few years older than me. One day my mother discovered us together. I was in love.”

  Stone listened in silence. He wasn’t sure if she was telling him the story or simply retelling it for herself. He pushed the horse hard, only a few more miles. The pain in his hip was little more than a dull throb. He had been shot there once before. Now his old scar would have a companion.

  “My mother forced the Holy House to banish her family to Touron. Her parents were good people but weak and my mother had a lot of influence in the village. She worked at the Holy House. She cleaned, organised fetes, gathered donations of coin, spread His word to travellers.” She snorted. “I can picture her now trying to convert you. Can you imagine falling to your knees in prayer?”

  She winced as the sunlight
touched her battered face, her skin raw and caked with blood.

  “You kneel for no one. I can tell that. I think we’re alike.”

  He steered the horse along the road, tossing up clumps of mud.

  “I never saw Francis again. Once I had mastered a horse I went looking for her family in Touron, but I never found them. Touron is a huge town. Thousands of people. But I don’t think they stayed. I don’t think they liked it there. Who knows where they ended up? My mother prayed for my soul but in her eyes I was damned.” Her voice was hollow, as if she was talking about another person’s life, another person’s pain. “I was the Demon from the Below, Stone. I was polluted with sin. Her words, her actual words to me. How could you say that to another human being? Polluted with sin, Annie.”

  Her hands dug into him. Her voice was a whisper. The horse trotted through the empty lanes of the village.

  “So she made Daniel drive the Demon from me. He would be the instrument of conversion. He wouldn’t, at first, he refused her; I was his sister and he was supposed to protect me. But she beat him and she beat him and she kept beating him and she convinced him that to disobey your mother was a sin and in the end he did it and he did it again and it twisted him and he carried on, even when she wasn’t there to tell him. I learned to fight back and he never touched me again but by then it was too late and I was carrying Clarissa. I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared. I was only thirteen so I hid in one of Boyd’s stables. I was going to have the baby there. Like in the Great Book. In a stable.” She paused. “You don’t know anything about the Great Book, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lucky being Gallenese. You don’t have any Holy Houses there, do you?”

  He shook his head. “We have our own breed of lunatics in Gallen.”

  “Boyd’s family took me in. They shunned my mother and Daniel. I had the baby but I couldn’t look at her. My mother took her from me and told Daniel he would have the responsibility of raising her. My mother concocted a lie in the village that the baby’s mother had died in childbirth. So Clarissa became my niece. Daniel was … he was a good boy, a good man … despite … and a good father to Clarissa, even better once my mother died. A dark cloud was lifted when she passed. I pissed and shit on her grave when they put her into the earth.”

  She paused.

  “I grew up hating my mother. Clarissa grew up never knowing hers. And she died without knowing.”

  Stone drew the horse to a stop on the edge of the village green, busy with stallholders laying out wares for the day.

  “I still don’t know how she died.”

  The air was thick with the stench of animal shit. He spotted Nuria, back to him, legs slightly apart. The horse snorted, stamped at the ground. Her head tilted. She turned, slowly, raising one hand, shielding her face from the early rays of sunlight. She let out a deep sigh and walked toward him, crossbow slung over her shoulder.

  “No sickness then?”

  “Something worse.”

  Her eyes were red, skin pale and gaunt. She was hardly sleeping or eating, only drinking and smoking. He hadn’t recognised the toll it was taking on her, until now, until leaving her side for less than half a day. It shocked him and his chest burned. She saw the concerned look in his eyes. A half-smile crossed her lips and she patted his leg.

  “We need to talk about Kaya.”

  “We have a bigger problem.”

  Quinn dropped from the saddle, bloodied and exhausted.

  “You’re finally here,” grumbled Boyd, emerging from the back of his truck. “What good is a hired man if he’s not around? I think I made a mistake with you, Stone. I should have taken on Dobbs and … Quinn? Quinn?”

  His mouth hung open. He crossed himself, hurried to her. Nuria saw the façade of a hard nosed businessman rapidly dissolve.

  “What happened to you in there? Is this the sickness? Are you infected with it? Quinn? Quinn? Tell me what happened to you.”

  She looked at him numbly, as if roused from deep sleep. Her thick ropes of hair were spattered with dried blood. She rubbed her face with grimy hands, deep red grooves in her wrists.

  “You should be thanking him, Benny, not shouting at him.” She winced. “Do you have some water?”

  A bottle was hung around his neck. He took it off, passed it to her. She popped the cork, gulped it down.

  “There’s no sickness in Mosscar.” She lowered the bottle. “The city is full of Shaylighters.”

  “What?”

  “Roughly a thousand of them.”

  There was astonishment on Boyd’s face.

  “They captured me.” She gestured at her bruises. “I don’t know how Stone got me out of there but he did.”

  Nuria looked at him, a warm feeling swelling inside.

  “This is why the Churchmen could never find them,” said Boyd. “I suppose it makes sense. Ennpithians are raised to stay away from Mosscar. Why would you ever doubt it and go in there?”

  He shook his head.

  “And they’re using these,” said Quinn, handing him the slingshot carbine.

  “That’s not possible.” He turned the weapon over in his hand. “These are …”

  “There’s no time for all this,” said Stone, suddenly. “Nuria, go to the barracks and raise the garrison. Tell them the village is going to be attacked.”

  “By the Shaylighters?” said Boyd. “You’re wrong.”

  Stone scrunched his eyes at the man. “We know where they’re hiding now. That changes everything.”

  “The Churchmen won’t listen to me,” said Nuria.

  “You were a general once. Make them listen.”

  “I’ll go,” said Boyd, still holding the carbine. “Nuria’s right. She’s a stranger, they won’t listen to her. I have some influence here. Sergeant Clayton is in charge and he’s a friend. Quinn, get your arm stitched. When you’re done have the truck ready to leave. We need to head to Touron.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “Why?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  The portly merchant moved quickly toward the barracks, a solitary stone building in the distance, ringed with a palisade wall.

  “What’s going on?” It was Maurice, with Kevane at his side, both men striding from the Earl’s estate.

  “I told you he wouldn’t go there,” said Kevane, gesturing toward Stone. “He was drinking and whoring all night.”

  He noticed Quinn.

  “Who kicked the shit out of you?” he asked.

  “The village is about to be attacked,” said Nuria, before Quinn could reply. “Is there somewhere the women and children can hide?”

  “There are caves on the beach,” he said, the humour evaporating from his face, his hand gliding to the hilt of his sword.

  “Then alert the village. Quickly, Kevane.”

  He nodded. “I can use the bell at the Holy House.”

  “Who’s going to attack us?” asked Maurice, as his companion jogged toward the centre of the village.

  “Shaylighters,” said Quinn.

  “The Shaylighters have never attacked a village. They don’t have the numbers. You’re wrong, Quinn.”

  “There isn’t time for a debate,” snapped Quinn. “How do you reach the caves?”

  Maurice pointed toward Earl Hardigan’s estate.

  “There are steps in the cliff behind the Earl’s property but they haven’t been used in a while. I don’t even know if there’s a safe way down.”

  “Find out,” said Nuria. “Please.”

  He looked at both women, shot a glance at Stone and then trotted back into the estate.

  Nuria wheeled around at Stone.

  “I need to find Kaya. Where will you be?”

  He raised the slingshot carbine.

  “Where do you think?”

  FIFTEEN

  Stone grabbed the man by his collar. “Where the fuck are you going?”

  The man spluttered, startled by the bearded stranger with the
hideous face scar. He had seen him roaming the festival the day before and had avoided him then. He wanted to avoid him even more right now. His young wife and children gathered around him.

  “Get a weapon and fight.”

  He was strong and wrestled away from Stone’s grip. His name was Bevan. He stood tall, in his early twenties, capable and healthy looking with long limbs and dark hair and a neat beard. His two daughters, no older than five or six, gazed up at their parents with frightened eyes as the village heaved with families rushing toward the Earl’s estate. The air was filled with shouting, the panicked bleat of animals and the clanging of the bell. It was the second morning of the festival and no second morning had ever begun in this manner.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” said Stone. “Every man who stands will be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then why are you running?”

  Bevan took the trembling hands of his children. “We all need to hide. I’m protecting my family by staying with them.”

  Stone shook his head as they disappeared into the jostling ranks of women and children, running for the caves. He took out his binoculars and scanned the open fields. There was no sign of the Shaylighters. It was only a matter of time. Less than an hour. He looked through the village and spotted armed men forming into groups. He went to the outskirts and took up position in an empty animal pen. There was plenty of cover and he’d already memorised his route back.

  The early morning sun beat down on him and the wind rustled his hair. He licked his lips and his stomach grumbled. He thought briefly of the man who had fled and shook his head once more. The right thing was to make a stand, to repel those who wanted to take from another. It was nothing new, he supposed. Not all men could stand. He wondered how many warriors Essamon would bring. If he pressed two or three hundred fighters against Onglee it would all be over in a handful of minutes.

  What the fuck was taking Boyd and the Churchmen so long? Was this man Clayton as stubborn as Captain Duggan? Were they arguing over the validity of an impending attack?