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

by Moore, Laurence

  “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. That’s the price. Sal Munton for our help. And we stop at Brix on the way. We need weapons, ammunition, fresh clothes.”

  She offered Boyd his pistols. He tucked them away, nodded. “They might have hung him by now.”

  “You’d better hope they haven’t.”

  She looked at Stone.

  “We’ll talk in the truck.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Omar”

  Her back arched as she screeched his name; the palms of her hands slammed against the white washed walls. His grip tightened on her bony hips. Sweat trickled down his face.

  He shuddered, cried out, his seed flowing into her.

  They collapsed on the bed, panting and gasping, naked limbs tangled and shiny. The ceiling fan rotated with a monotonous click. He savoured the final moments of being inside her; the warmth and closeness, the peace, the calm, lost in the desire to remain this way forever; but then he opened his eyes and the room came into focus and he heard the fan and he heard the city and he was Omar once more and the feeling ebbed away.

  Adina rolled onto her hip. Smiled at him. His hand glided along her taut body. The swathe of candles flickered.

  “You’re amazing.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I love you, Omar.”

  “Good.”

  “And you?”

  He smiled and walked to the window. The six-floor hotel had belonged to him within a few months of arriving in Kiven. It was a dilapidated building with old and pitted brickwork but the League of Restoration employed numerous work gangs to restore properties throughout the city. He had detailed the best one for this place. Already there were vast improvements. It was night and the hotel was mostly silent except for his men. He had twenty four hour security. He was taking no chances. He was fresh blood and he knew resentment still festered within the League and from the other two factions.

  The night air was cold on his bare skin. He stared at the moon and stars, a majestic king surrounded by his army. He wrinkled his nose. He did not liken himself to the silver curve in the night sky. He despised the king of many shapes and despised his warrior stars and abhorred the foul blackness they lurked within.

  “Are you okay?”

  He hesitated. “I am okay.”

  “Nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Half of the city was in ruins, flattened and cratered. He looked out across the sprawl of rooftops that remained and saw lights in about a quarter of them. He nodded. They had achieved much. It was noisy on the streets, people and several vehicles and always ripples of music. It was like nothing he had ever heard before or could even begin to understand. It boomed and rattled, vibrated and echoed from the crumbling blocks and the estates. There was no such noise in the wastelands. On the horizon stood the factory, giant stacks belching fumes into the sky. His hand glided down his scarred chest.

  “It is nothing.”

  He turned.

  “I’ve vouched for you, Omar.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I just want to know you’re committed to the plan. It was your genius that brought it to us,”

  He strode back to the bed. She handed him a glass pipe. He sucked on it, drilled smoke through his nostrils.

  “I am committed.”

  She stroked him.

  “People are listening to you, Omar. You have the support of the League.”

  He kissed her. “Not all of them. Not yet. But most. Thanks to you.”

  She touched his face.

  “By the end of the night you will control the Kiven Alliance. The other factions will follow and the fate of the city will be in your hands.”

  “You are beautiful, Adina.”

  “You are beautiful, too.”

  “I am not.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It is the truth.”

  He touched his old wounds; face, chest, stomach and hand. The skin was deeply rippled.

  “I do not see it, Omar.”

  Her brown eyes flashed at him. The lashes were long and thickened with paint. Her dark brown hair was straight, worn to her shoulders, parted on one side. His women in the past had worn their hair wild and untamed and to their waist, not their shoulders. But once he had twisted it within his grip, it hadn’t mattered anymore. She had urged him to cut his own hair but he told her he could not. It was a tradition amongst his people. Long hair. Short beards. She had asked him who they were but he had not answered.

  “You are no longer one of them. You are Kiven now, Omar.”

  The following day, he’d instructed her to cut his hair. He kept his iron grey beard, neatly trimmed, jaw lines clean, but his head was now bald.

  “How long before they arrive?” she asked.

  “An hour or so. Unless they refuse. This is an unarranged meeting.”

  He passed her the pipe, slipping his hand between her legs as she dragged on it.

  “Rondo will be back soon.”

  She groaned. “Do you think they’ve signed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how long will it be?”

  He was thoughtful for a moment. “That will all depend on how much the Shaylighters antagonise them. It might take weeks. It might even take months. But I think it will be much sooner. Then it will happen.”

  She handed him back the pipe. He took a hit. There was a knock at the door. It was one of their servants.

  “Governor Omar, the bath is ready.”

  The title never failed to amuse him. Though he showed them no humour, no warmth. They were his slaves. Nothing more. His inner circle addressed him as Governor, too, but he preferred the identity of the Engineer, though it was more than a name for he was truly gifted with machinery and weaponry and what he had uncovered within the factory was not only an engineer’s dream but a warrior’s one, too. His eyes simply narrowed faster than that of most men. Whilst they were still explaining the problem he had already reached the solution. His quick mind had kept him alive for many decades. He had come to the Black Region alone; a stranger, a wanderer savaged by the harsh and isolated wastelands, brimming with knowledge that matched and often exceeded their own. He had found the city, a ruined city of the Ancients, but unlike any he had ever seen. The city had been a beacon in the night, its many lights glowing in the darkness. He had heard the noise of people and vehicles and drank in the fumes of black energy. They had welcomed him and he had taken refuge within the League of Restoration.

  And there he had met Adina, the League’s chief advisor. He had been drawn to her at once and her to him, recognising all they wanted and needed. He was a warrior, a brilliant mind and an incredible lover. She was next in line to govern the League. Their affair had erupted like a fireball. But Adina had belonged to Governor Traore. So the stranger they had nicknamed the Engineer had plotted and schemed with Adina and they had murdered Traore without mercy. Set to be named the new Governor she had resurrected an old clause and bypassed the seat of power, handing it to her newly appointed chief advisor.

  Omar seized the League.

  There had been grumblings amongst the senior members, surprisingly more opposed to a stranger than a woman. Adina had weeded out the dissenters. She was practical and efficient. Problems were there to be eliminated and the dissenters disappeared. Any protestations at his succession diminished overnight. Within a few months, the long term members began to enjoy the rewards of Omar’s knowledge and skills. There was calm in the League once more and the members were prepared to bask in his great achievements.

  She told him how the Alliance had failed. Knitting together the heads of the factions for strength and unity had had the reverse effect. Their leaders had become weak. Men and women with power, who had once fought and bled on the battlefields against the Ennpithians, were now bloated, ineffective and voiceless, stifled by title and legislation.

  “The Alliance has no balls. Not li
ke you,” she had told him. “I can see the plan in your eyes. You will avenge the many that have fallen.”

  “I will do more than that.”

  Though, sometimes, Adina caught him in a moment, a curious moment, for a second or two, when his eyes were distant and she knew he was looking back into the past. She was certain it was his wounds; they were terrible and it was remarkable he still lived. But that wasn’t the full story. It was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  There.

  Just now.

  Almost as if he was sleepwalking through the passion they had stoked minutes earlier and that none of this was real, none of this truly mattered. Once, during a bleak time for her, she had even suspected he might be a spy, an insider sent by the Ennpithians, but there wasn’t betrayal in his eyes. She took another hit from the pipe, frustrated by her inability to penetrate the inner walls of his soul.

  “My Queen,” he said, taking her by the hand.

  She glided into his arms.

  “Am I?”

  The tiled bath was sunk into the floor. The ceiling was supported by pillars, filmed in steam. There were the tingling scents of orange and jasmine in the air. The two of them slipped beneath the surface, moaning pleasurably as they were enveloped in its blanketing warmth.

  Omar spread his arms, leaned his head back, momentarily closed his eyes.

  Adina swirled in the water. “It’s a brilliant plan, Omar.”

  He nodded.

  “Since the war we have lived in the shadow of the other factions. Now we can show them how important the League still is.”

  He nodded.

  “Sometimes I …”

  She cut herself short.

  “What is it?”

  Adina hesitated.

  “You are a direct woman, Adina. Speak.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why you’re doing all this. With me. With the League. You are one of us, Omar, you have the soul of a Kiven man, but you’re not Kiven born. You know nothing of the war and how we suffered as a people yet you want to punish the Ennpithians for it.”

  He was silent for a long time.

  She swallowed hard.

  “I have spent a lifetime in tents and on blankets beneath the sky. This is paradise. I want to reward you for allowing me to enter paradise. Your enemies are my enemies. It is the only answer I have.”

  Adina stared at him. “Paradise is what the Ennpithians believe awaits them in the Above. Do you believe in the Above?”

  “When a man dies he is dust. There is nothing else.”

  A vehicle rattled past on the street below, engine growling, exhaust pipe snarling.

  “I believe in what you’re doing for the League. But sometimes I worry.”

  The water cascaded around her lithe body.

  “Do you worry the plan will not work?” he asked.

  “It’s ambitious.”

  “Yes, but I am ambitious and that ambition is mirrored in you, Adina.” He smoothed his hands over his bald pate. “And I am thorough. The title of the Engineer sits well upon my shoulders. I am no Governor, you know that. I am a man of plans and a man of decisive actions.”

  “And what am I to this man of plans and actions?”

  “You are everything to him and he is nothing without you. He is a wanderer in the wasteland without you.”

  He glided across the bath toward her.

  “You wasted years with Traore. I wish I had come sooner and found you.”

  She looked silently into his eyes.

  “Understand this, Adina. They will remember us. A hundred years from now two lovers will sit in this same bath and they will relax in the beautiful water and stare across at each other and they will tell each other how strong their love is and then they will talk of the past and how they came to be here, together, in this bath, and they will whisper our names in awe; Omar and Adina, lovers from the past, the mighty warriors of Kiven and they will know, they will know what we have achieved.”

  “My father loved the past,” said Adina. “He would tell me how we were one people before the time of the cross. One people united by the miracle of Ennpithia. It was a haven. Then they came and the wedge was driven between us and we were shunned for our ways. They banished the Shaylighters into Mosscar and drove us into the Black Region.”

  Omar touched his old wounds. “Your land has a confusing history.”

  She laughed. “My father would have liked you. You see into the core of everything.”

  He offered his hand. “I will take you across the Place of Bridges.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes,” he said, folding her hands within his. “They will remember us, Adina. We will be in their dreams and in their nightmares.”

  He rose from the bath, walked to the window, and looked west, to the star drenched horizon of the Place of Bridges.

  “We will make Ennpithia beautiful once more.”

  Omar stood on the hotel steps, Adina at his side.

  The night was warm, tinged at the edges with thumping music from the tenements; that deep sound he could not understand.

  A nine vehicle convoy filled the avenue, engines idling, a snarling line of heavy armour, customised cars, jeeps and pickups; tyres straining against the ruptured asphalt, like feral beasts eager to be unleashed upon whimpering prey. A smile spread across his face as he admired his legion of war machines, his metal warriors cannibalised from vehicles of the Ancients. Bright streaks of paint obliterated the rusted bodywork, vulnerable wheel arches were protected by metal panels, windshields were covered with thick grills, hoods and bumpers bristled with spikes and dense coils of wire. The flatbeds of the pickups were mounted with an array of fearsome weapons; spike guns, cannons and bolt guns.

  Two dozen soldiers were monitoring the surrounding buildings and rooftops; tan leather face scarves, goggles, white helmets, sleeveless tunics with assorted pieces of metal body armour. They carried slingshot carbines and crossbows, pistols and machetes. They were the elite foot soldiers. The League shaped the future and the foot soldiers enforced its vision. Loyal, ruthless and utterly dedicated, they served the Governor, whoever that might be, without question or hesitation.

  Adina was dressed in black, legs slightly apart, a wraparound skirt slashed to the waist, a shirt slashed across her breasts. The wind shaped her. She wore twin leather holsters beneath a feathered cloak with a pistol slotted into each one. A machete hung from a decorative belt around her slender waist. The leather sheath lay against her bare leg as her skirt blew open. Bracelets and bangles jangled on her wrists. Strands of brown hair flicked across her cheeks.

  The middle vehicle was an armoured transport with space for ten occupants inside and a turret fitted with a machine gun on the roof. A side door was opened and a man and a woman stepped out.

  “Governor Cooperman, Governor Nichols.”

  It was Adina who greeted them, her tone flawless. Cooperman was in his late forties, tightly curled brown hair, no beard, pock marked skin. He was formally attired. She placed his right hand between her warm palms and leaned into him. The official could smell the freshness of her hair and feel the warmth of her glowing skin as she planted a breathless kiss upon both cheeks. His empty left sleeve flapped in the wind, a civil war memento. She moved to Nichols. The loose limbed and gangly woman was six years younger than Cooperman but looked much older. Her face was long with sucked in cheeks and dark half-moons beneath her eyes. Her hair and clothes were shapeless. There was firm handshake and nothing more.

  “It makes a change to have an Alliance meeting at night,” said Cooperman, looking around. “And without notice. I enjoy surprises.”

  He shrewdly left the throwaway comment hanging. It was his way and had served him measurably as Governor of the Ministry of Progress. A fool would underestimate him but Omar was no fool.

  “I’m not happy about the time, either,” said Nichols, with an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders.

  Cooperman eased back, dropped into sil
ence, allowed her to run with it.

  “I think we would all prefer daylight hours, Omar. We have families. And daylight is much safer.”

  “I can only apologise,” said Adina, smiling sweetly and not actually apologising for anything.

  “We have a protocol for Alliance meetings,” continued Nichols. “We have to be careful about meeting.”

  She looked around at the vehicles and heavily armed soldiers.

  “If the city were to lose all three of us our factions would be cut adrift and within a day there would be chaos.”

  “Governor Nichols,” said Adina. “We are well aware of the protocol for Alliance meetings.”

  “I know you are, Adina. Your former partner, Traore, was a well studied Governor but Omar is quite new to this.”

  Omar said nothing. He shifted his eyes toward Cooperman, the warrior and master tactician.

  Adina said, “There has been a development that requires the attention of the Alliance. That is why protocol had to be ignored. But the meeting cannot take place here. We need to leave at once for the factory.”

  “But the Alliance greeting,” protested Nichols.

  “We can bypass the greeting this once,” said Adina.

  Nichols defiantly folded her arms, uncomfortable with the excessive military style escort and the arrogant dismissal of protocol concerning an Alliance meeting and the traditional greeting. As principal leader of the Society of Souls it was not the first time she had clashed with the League and, though many of their beliefs and policies overlapped, she was concerned that this disregard was yet another sign of the thinning ties that bound the Alliance. More and more she feared those threads would one day snap.

  “I do not want this to occur again, Omar. I’ll accept it as an oversight, your lack of understanding.”

  Omar bowed stiffly.

  “Protocol is one thing all factions must respect.”

  “This development must be very important,” said Cooperman.

  The four of them climbed into the armoured transport. Engines revved and the convoy roared away from the hotel, snaking through the city streets, the long avenues mostly deserted. Only low level criminal gangs were on the sidewalks now. Making deals and fighting over corners and tenement buildings. The minor factions were rogue, unassimilated within the Alliance, with structures and hierarchies of their own, but Omar had recognised the visceral levels of violence they inflicted and had already begun to slowly absorb their numbers into the ranks of the League.