Probably.
More villagers clustered together. Men, women and young boys. Afraid, but resolved to fight. A few of them carried swords or crossbows but most were armed with hammers, shovels, rakes, picks, chopping axes, loose pieces of timber, lengths of chain; they stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where the attack would come from and who would be perpetrating it. That was unimportant. Great Onglee was under threat. They would not run and hide. He saw villagers older than himself and ones younger the traitor, Jeremy, many of them bemoaning the interruption to the second day of the festival. They jostled with good humour, an attempt to mask the anxiety in their eyes and the nerves that crawled around their skin. He knew most of them would be dead within the next few hours and he supposed they knew it to. Once more he thought about the man who had fled for the caves on the beach. Maybe he should tell these villagers to do the same and abandon the village. But knew he wouldn’t and, more than that, he knew he simply couldn’t. He had placed a marker in the wasteland since childhood. He had not walked away then. He was not about to walk away now.
Not without a fight.
The villagers grew more worried than ever as the humour flagged and the jokes wore thin and the stories became repetitive. Stone glanced back along the lane. He could see the Earl’s estate where a patched up Quinn was hurriedly fetching horses from the stable. There was still no sign of the Churchmen. He had hoped they would have been here by now to organise the remaining villagers into an effective fighting force.
He fumed and dipped into the ammunition bag worn across his chest. It clunked with steel balls. He loaded the slingshot. He was ready for the bastards. He peered through his binoculars once more but still they were not here. Had he reasoned this out wrong? Were the Shaylighters no more than common thieves despite their numbers? Robbing only to survive? If they attacked Onglee it would be a massacre on a scale Ennpithia had not witnessed for a decade. Did they conceal themselves in Mosscar simply to be left alone? He had spent forty years in the wastelands of Gallen, believing it to be the only land his boots would ever cross. Now here he was, a stranger in a new world, a world that a few weeks ago he had never even heard of. Ennpithia appeared an ordered society of law and devotion, trade and production. Had he misjudged the Shaylighters? Had he got this all wrong?
He lowered the carbine as the doubts continued to kick around his head. The last of the women and children had arrived at the Earl’s estate; walking, running, hobbling, being carried, the young ones wailing, the older ones more focused. Perhaps Kevane had been right when he’d teased Kaya. Perhaps he was the monster under the bed, an old and scarred monster, used up and worn out and frightening no one. He knew so little of Ennpithia. He got to his feet. But then Ennpithia knew very little of him - the Wasteland Soldier, the Tongueless Man, the names went on and on - but if he was right and the Shaylighters were preparing to unleash an unprecedented wave of violence then they would need a monster such as him.
He clambered from the animal pen and went to the nearest group of villagers.
Crossbow slung across her back, Nuria hammered her fist against the front door of the Hardigan’s house. A steady line of villagers trudged through the grounds of the estate, heading for the path beyond the outbuildings. Maurice assured her the way down the rugged cliff face was safe. She could see him hurriedly guiding them along the path, urging them to move faster. The noise of the sea filled her ears. The wind tickled the nape of her neck. There was still no sign of Boyd and, more worryingly, no sign of any soldiers. The influence he’d boasted was obviously proving worthless. Only a solitary Churchman stood watch at the gate of the barracks, taking a keen and nervous interest in the evacuation. The bell had stopped. Kevane would be on his way back.
With Stone safely returned from Mosscar, Nuria found her energy depleted. She was surviving on adrenalin and drink and little else. She needed rest but she knew there was no chance of any. She opened her canteen and tipped water over her head, shaking her tangled hair, dragging her fingers through the knots. She washed her hands over her face and banged on the door once more, lips twisted impatiently. Then she listened. The thick wood was warm against the side of her face; she heard a scraping sound, muffled voices, possibly footsteps and then silence.
Why were they refusing to answer?
Her pistol was tucked into the waistband of her trousers, hidden beneath the flaps of a crumpled shirt. She pulled it out, rested her finger against the trigger guard. Taking a step back, she arched her leg and drove her boot at the lock; once, twice, and the door crashed open.
Gun in hand, she moved into the house, sweeping it before her. She glimpsed the sitting room she had been inside only a few hours earlier. It already seemed a week ago. It was empty and the smell of stale pipe smoke lingered. She spotted the goblets Boyd had used. They were exactly where he had left them, drained, unwashed. She began to search, following the noise she had heard. It was a sprawling property of shuttered rooms filled with fine things. She saw a wooden staircase that led to a second level, the only building in Great Onglee with an upper floor.
Dust floated in glowing rays of dawn sunlight. Her grimy boots pressed against neatly stitched rugs.
There was no one around.
Nuria listened; the only sound was outside; the anxious babble of adults, the distraught whimpering of children.
She moved into a kitchen where a long table was scattered with abandoned plates and bowls and mugs. A cooking pot smeared with the residue of oats, a cloth wrapped around its handle, was still hot. A small fire burned in the stone hearth. They were here somewhere. She edged past it, the crackle of flames in one ear. She caught another sound. She nudged her finger down from the trigger guard and onto the trigger. She held her breath. There was a moment of hesitation and then the rush of footsteps followed by a laboured grunt and the swing of a long bladed sword. Nuria ducked and bent her body as the weapon swished through the air in a wide arc, clattering hard into the stone wall.
It was Earl Hardigan.
“Nuria? I heard someone break in. I thought we were being robbed. I didn’t realise it was you.”
She straightened, the pistol still aimed at him.
“Are you here to rob us?”
“I’m looking for Kaya.” She lowered the pistol. “I kept knocking but you wouldn’t answer. I thought something was wrong.”
“Isn’t Kaya was with you?”
“That was hours ago. Didn’t she come back to the house?”
“No.”
“Stephen, what’s happening?”
That familiar ice cold voice, the woman made of steel. It rattled through the silent rooms.
“When this attack is over I will help your daughter. I believe her and I know you do.”
He nodded. “I do but I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Stephen!”
“One moment.” He paused. “I need to speak with my wife. Then we can look for Kaya together.”
Nuria followed him into another room with cushions and paintings. Lady Hardigan stood in an open doorway, a gaggle of children behind her. The room beyond was brightly lit with torches and candles. There were narrow bunks, folded blankets, crates of vegetables and fruit and wrapped loaves. The door was made of steel with a large internal handle. It was noticeably shorter and narrower than any of the other doors in the property. Nuria idled in the middle of the room as Stephen spoke with his wife. She saw the woman’s eyes fill with venom as her husband attempted to placate her. Angry words passed between them. The children shrank from sight. Nuria paced, impatient. She ran her eyes over the steel door once more and noticed the front of it was fitted with a painting backed by stone that matched the walls of the room. She suddenly realised that, once closed, the door would become invisible. It was a secret annexe, a safety room. Her eyes flicked toward Lady Hardigan.
“Yes,” she said, pushing past her husband. “It’s a secret room and now you know about it. Stephen, you bloody fool. Wh
y did you bring her in here?”
“I’m sure she won’t say anything. Why would she?”
“How can you be certain? We’re quite a prize for …”
“My only interest is in finding Kaya. Do you know where she is?”
“No,” snapped Isobel. “Stephen has been worrying over her. The ungrateful little …”
“I’ve searched the grounds,” he said, talking over his wife. “But I thought she’d left with you.”
“I haven’t seen her since we spoke in the barn.”
“Do you think it’s possible, I mean, do you think she’s been taken again?”
“We have to search the village.”
“Isobel, go and wait with the children.”
She narrowed her eyes. A funnel of coldness blasted Nuria. Once more the façade peeled away ungracefully.
“I want you out of my fucking house. Get out. Go on, you scruffy bitch. Out. Out. Get out right now.”
“Will you shut up?” barked Stephen. “Now look after our children.”
“Mummy.”
Isobel glared at them both, shaking with rage, but the trembling voice called a second time and the steely eyes weakened. She turned from them and stepped back into the room.
“Let’s find your daughter,” said Nuria.
“Oi, you!”
It was one of the villagers, pointing at Stone. He was a thick set man, his grey beard flecked with white. His skin was pock marked and browned from working in the sun. His shirt was open to the waist revealing a shiny cross hanging from a shiny chain, nestling in a bed of wiry grey hair. There was an old scar across his stomach, where he’d been slashed, years before, during a street robbery in Touron, the town he had been born in. His first wife had died in the same attack. He’d travelled to Great Onglee, a distraught and broken man, but found work with a family who bred pigs. He had a kind way with the beasts and took no pleasure when it came to the slaughter. His real name was Carl but men nicknamed him Hog. He married for a second time and now his wife and four young children were tentatively edging down the ragged path toward the beach, seeking refuge in the old caves beneath the Hardigan estate.
Hog had been elected spokesman. The men wanted answers and an explanation and this stranger appeared ripe for giving them both. He approached Stone, taking long and confident strides, brandishing a wooden club with jagged pieces of metal protruding from it.
“What’s all this about? Who’s ringing that bloody bell?”
“Kevane.”
“One of the Earl’s men? What’s he up to?” Hog swung the club. “They only ring that thing on Reverence Morning or if the village is under threat and it isn’t bloody Reverence Morning.”
He crossed himself, gestured to the knot of men loitering behind him.
“We all want to know what’s going on.”
There were nods and grumbles.
“Mosscar is filled with Shaylighters and there’s a good chance they’re on their way here right now.”
Hog grinned, and then burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“You ain’t from here,” said Hog. “Don’t you know about Mosscar? There’s a sickness in the city. No one lives there.”
The bell stopped. A shutter banged in the wind. Stone turned his back on the man, raised his binoculars.
“What shall we do, Hog?” asked one of the men.
“Reckon we should head up the barracks,” said another.
“I think this fella drunk a bit too much yesterday,” said Hog.
There was another peel of laughter but then it tailed away, replaced by nervous smiles that rapidly shaped into stony expressions.
They could all hear it.
Thunder.
“Take a look,” said Stone.
Gingerly, Hog raised the binoculars to his eyes.
“The Lord save us.”
“Where are your men going?” said Nuria, Earl Hardigan at her side.
Clayton looked at them both. He was easily ten years older than her, fair haired, a neat beard, his armour emblazoned with the cross of the Holy House.
“I’m deploying them inside the estate. With your permission, Earl Hardigan. It’s been a long established plan of defence for Great Onglee. We can protect the route to the caves where the women and children are and thankfully the Earl’s estate has better walls than the ones we have at the barracks.”
“Has this worked before?”
Clayton hesitated. “Great Onglee has never been attacked before. The war with the Kiven never spread this far.”
“Then how do you know it will work?” Nuria was becoming increasingly frustrated with the sergeant.
“We can concentrate all our firepower in one area. A barrage of arrows will drive back the Shaylighters.”
They had barely scratched the surface of the village looking for Kaya when the Churchmen soldiers had marched from the barracks; strapped down swords and bows and quivers bristling with arrows. Forty young men with grim faces. Ready to stand and fight.
She shook her head. “You’re making a mistake.”
Clayton was a man whose life revolved around the issuing and accepting of orders; from Captain Duggan, the war veteran in charge of all Churchmen Regiments across Ennpithia’s hamlets and villages and towns; from the Holy House with its deacons and priests; from his wife and his wife’s mother and quite often his own children. He was trained, organised and intuitive. His life was orders. And nothing was about to persuade him to listen to a complete stranger, a worn out looking woman who did not wear the cross of the Holy House and was practically a non-believer, if Boyd’s assessment of her was correct.
“Miss, I’m already taking a bit risk here.” He crossed his arms. “Mr Boyd is an old friend of mine and whilst I’m not convinced we’re about to be attacked, certainly not by Shaylighters anyway, I’m willing to lean on the side of caution. And if the attack doesn’t come then I’ll strike it down as an honest mistake and we can all get back to celebrating the festival.”
“Sergeant, the attack will come and you have to listen to me. This defence will not work.”
“Don’t lecture me on strategy. I have been in the Churchmen Regiment for a long time now. I know how to organise my men.”
“Then your men will die. And quickly.”
The soldiers making preparations behind the walls of the estate looked over at her, some with concern.
“And so will the women and children.”
Boyd said, “Nuria, what would you do if you were in charge of these men?”
“We’re going to be heavily outnumbered. Having all the firepower in the same place sounds a good idea but it will also give the Shaylighters only one target to aim for. Split the men into mobile groups. No more than five soldiers. Then hit and run. Use the cover of the buildings, the narrowness of the alleyways. Draw them into tight spots. Hit and run. Pull the Shaylighters all over the place and pick them off. Then pull back here as a last resort.”
“That might work in theory,” said Clayton. “But that would leave the women and children vulnerable.”
“They’re vulnerable anyway. You show your entire hand here and the Shaylighters will know there is something worth attacking.”
Boyd nodded. “She makes a good point, Clayton. She was a General once, you know.”
“Not in any army that I recognise, Mr Boyd. The men are under my command and we already have our strategy in place.”
Nuria fumed. “How long will it take for the other regiments to arrive?”
“For now there’s only us. Until I can establish if there is an attack.”
“It might be too late by then,” said Boyd. Nuria could sense even he was growing impatient. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to send riders to the other villages now?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an order. It was Boyd’s way. He asked nothing. He told everything.
Clayton, a man of issuing and accepting orders, flushed. The collar of his shirt was ringed with sweat.
“Sergeant, you need to send a rider to Brix, at the very least. The Archbishop will be arriving there in a day or so. If there is civil unrest in the area then the Archbishop must be made aware of it so the Summer Blessings can be postponed. We cannot risk the life of the Archbishop.”
“And if she’s wrong? What then? I’m sorry, Mr Boyd, I’m not sending my men on wild errands until I see this with my own eyes.”
He was dug in. Nuria approached Earl Hardigan who had been listening to the heated exchange with interest.
Clayton called for her. “Miss, I need you to surrender that weapon.”
Her hand brushed against the pistol in her waistband. She was surprised he’d even noticed it.
“You’re carrying an outlawed firearm.” He signalled to several of his men. “Under the laws of the Holy House of Touron no Ennpithian is to brandish a weapon of the Before.”
He stepped toward Nuria, two armed bowmen at his side.
“You need to hand it over or I will arrest you.”
There was a grating sound. Quinn emerged from behind Boyd’s truck, the rapid fire crossbow in her hands, cocked and ready to fire.
“There are hundreds of painted freaks heading this way, Sergeant Clayton. Any minute now they might pour into this village. We need every weapon against them. Sinful or not.”
The long row of Churchmen soldiers watched on in uncomfortable silence. They all knew Quinn. They all liked her and trusted her. And she looked bashed in. Someone was responsible for that. Possibly the Shaylighters. But Sergeant Clayton was their commanding officer.
“I’d rather shoot Shaylighters,” she said.
Boyd cleared his throat and leaned toward Clayton. There was a brief and hushed conversation.
Nuria watched the officer nod. “Miss, I’m allowing you to keep the weapon for now but I’ll need you to surrender it once this is over.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” She had no intention of surrendering anything. “Will you consider re-deploying your men?”
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 19