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

by Moore, Laurence

  “Not that anyone will remember it. You’re a speck on our history. Nothing more than horse shit. You’re not the first mad man to try and seize control of Kiven and Ennpithia. No one remembers them and no one will remember you.”

  “I will fill the sky with Metal Spears and history will remember me.”

  Cooperman snorted. “Those weapons don’t exist.”

  “I told you before. You lacked the right man to recognise what lay discarded beneath the factory.”

  “Release me.” He looked around at the soldiers. “You have to stop him. Do you not realise what he’s planning to do?”

  Omar nodded. There was a second gunshot. Cooperman toppled over, blood pouring from his skull.

  “History will remember me.”

  TWENTY TWO

  The night was filthy.

  A light drizzle had grown steadily persistent until sheeting waves of thick rain formed a cold wall of grey. It had taken two hours along a rutted and rain swept trail to reach the deserted hamlet of Winshead. They spotted a barn on the outskirts of the settlement and took shelter. It was gloomy, damp and stank of mouldy vegetables. The roof was leaking and panels of wood creaked in the whistling wind. Rusted saws and cleavers hung from hooks; there were broken shovels, a broken plough, broken wooden crates and forgotten hand tools thick with dust.

  They hurriedly tied the horses and wrung out their clothes. They began to survey the surrounding land and saw a scattering of dilapidated buildings and winding lanes that curved toward a green where weeds grew rampant around a solitary, rain lashed cross, forlorn and abandoned, its stone discoloured. A narrow waterway snaked through the hamlet, arching and dipping past a half-collapsed water mill, the wheel still in place but no longer turning, its wooden blades green and mostly snapped. The waterway found stubborn resistance as it reached the green. A fallen tree had created a dam and the water foamed and bubbled, flooding the ground.

  “How did Quinn react when you told her?” said Nuria.

  “She didn’t.”

  “Too much to take in?”

  “She’s had a long few days.”

  “Are you certain Clarissa went there to kill herself?”

  Stone rested his hand on his horse. He could feel the warmth of the beast. His eyes glazed over.

  “She was being abused and it’s a city that kills.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Farrell’s dismissive voice was in his head. He became suddenly exhausted, spent.

  “What about them? Sure, we took them. What does that matter? Who cares about some kids?”

  He wanted to channel the sadness and anger and disgust into words but there was no time and he really didn’t know how to. Nuria could see it in his eyes and he could see it in hers and words were no longer important; all that mattered was to inflict pain against the Predator and whoever else waited for them at the farm. There would be no trial in Touron, no court of law, no reading of crimes, no deliberation, no he said, she said. Only shocking and bloody violence for a man who had chosen innocents as his prey.

  The guilty would die and they would die screaming.

  Nuria had absorbed Kaya’s terrible story of the men who’d abducted her and passed her on to another man, handing her over as a thing and as they stood in the cold and the damp, the rain falling, the wind howling, they were both filled with the knowledge that Quinn’s niece – Quinn’s daughter – had suffered the same fate. They had never known her or any of the other children.

  Apart from Kaya, they were only names.

  “Do you sometimes wish we’d gotten lost on the mudflats?” he said, staring at the carbine in his hands. “And ended up back in Gallen?”

  She went to him. “I did. But not now. Do you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Who cares about some kids? That’s what Farrell said to me.”

  “He’s dead now.”

  Stone nodded. “He is.”

  She took a deep breath. “This has become very personal for you.”

  “I’ve hurt children before, Nuria; smashed in heads, strangled, stabbed. How am I any different to this Predator?”

  “You were a child yourself at the time. You had no choice. You never took pleasure in it. You killed to survive.”

  He forced a half-smile, nearer to a grimace than anything else. She saw a tear in his eye.

  He said, “I needed you in Mosscar. It was too close with the Shaylighters.”

  “I’m here now.”

  Her hand floated loosely at him, seeming to neither pat nor stroke him, finding an awkward motion somewhere in between.

  He stepped toward her. Her blonde hair was plastered to her skull. Her cheeks were pale and cold.

  “I seem to need you more and more.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “I think so.”

  She put her hand against his face; his beard scratched against her palm, her grubby nails touched his scarred skin.

  “Let’s put this right. It’s what we do best together.”

  Then she took her hand away and the tear was gone from his eye.

  “What are we going to do with the healer?” he asked.

  “We kill her.” She cranked the crossbow. “We kill everyone up there.”

  Quinn had told them the hamlet had been deserted for numerous years and the old farm was located at the north end. It had belonged to a family with the name of Engell but there had been a complicated dispute over ownership of the land and then it transpired the land never belonged to them in the first place. She didn’t really know the full story except that a lot of coin was owed and the animals were sold off and the wages of the local men were halved and then they were let go and without work the families moved away to Brix and Great Onglee and Featherun and the hamlet was eventually abandoned.

  Stone fished out his binoculars, wiped the scratched lenses clean. There were no lights showing anywhere. Water gushed along muddy trails, sweeping past half-collapsed buildings with missing front doors and folded in roofs. Trees swayed and shook in the wind.

  “I think that’s the place,” he said.

  He handed Nuria the binoculars.

  The ground at the north end of the hamlet dipped away. She saw broken fences, weed covered plots, low sheds, a shattered well, broken wagons and a shuttered farmhouse.

  There was a backdrop of foot hills fringed with lonely trees.

  “Did you hear that?” she said.

  “Horses.”

  “Do you think he’s alone in there?”

  “No.”

  They stepped into the pouring rain, ignoring the main lane through the hamlet that led to the green. Nuria carried her crossbow, Stone carried his carbine. They had agreed to keep their firearms concealed for now; they needed silent weapons until they had a better idea of how many they were going up against. Kaya had described only one man and the healer. But there might be any number of lookouts and guards paid to fight. And in this weather they could barely see ten paces ahead.

  Drenched, they edged along the back of a haphazard row of buildings, half-crouched, moving slowly through the wild grass, eyes left and right, heading in the rough direction of the farm. Nuria tasted the rain on her lips. They pressed forward through the torrential downpour. The ground was black and slippery and Stone swore under his breath as his boot went into a water filled hole.

  A metal sound filled the air. They dropped, listened, tried to track the noise. Stone pointed at a rusted weather vane.

  They crept forward once more.

  Rain pebbled the waterway. The sound was hollow. The water pushed against the stationary wheel of the watermill.

  They sloshed onward and tensed as they cleared the muddy bank, certain they had spied movement through the rainy gloom. Nuria glanced at him and he nodded toward a nearby building. The door was missing but the roof and walls appeared intact. He slipped inside and swept the room with his weapon. It was empty. The wooden floor groaned beneath
his weight. His muddy boots left prints as he crept past the abandoned furniture toward an open window. He peered along the main lane of the hamlet. No movement there.

  Nuria remained outside, keeping watch, crossbow ready, face streaming with rainwater. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly threw herself into the grass as several steel balls passed overhead.

  Stone sprang to the doorway.

  “Are you hit?”

  “No.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “I’ll cover you.”

  There was no need for silence now. He slung the carbine over his shoulder, yanked out his revolver, took a deep breath. He rolled around the doorway, dropping to one knee and began firing. The gun was shockingly loud, punching great holes in the endless drill of rain. He swept the low ridge with bullets, carefully squeezing the trigger, spreading the fire, pinning down the two or more men Nuria had seen.

  She crawled toward the doorway, through the mud and rain and filth, counting the bullets. A lone steel ball whizzed by in retaliation. She scrambled inside, put the crossbow on her back and drew her pistol. She leaned around the doorway and opened fire as Stone flipped open the chamber on his revolver and dropped in six more hand made bullets.

  He jogged back to the window and peered out into the lane once more. Now he could see movement.

  “Shaylighters,” he whispered. “Three of them this side.”

  He took the shot, sent the first one sprawling into the mud, the man’s painted chest erupting with a dark smear.

  “What the fuck are they doing here?”

  Nuria leaned around the doorway and cracked off a few shots.

  “I’ve still got two or more this side.”

  A steel ball flew past Stone and thudded into the wall. He spotted one of them crouched behind a rickety dwelling, firing his carbine. Stone cracked off three shots and the long haired warrior ducked from view. He had no idea where the third one was hunkered down. He moved from the window and began to poke at the ceiling. He dug away at it with his bare hands. Nuria’s pistol blazed. A distant cry echoed on the wind as she took down one of the warriors.

  “I was hoping we wouldn’t see these bastards for a bit,” she shouted.

  Steel balls peppered the building. Stone handed her the revolver as he scrambled onto the roof. He crawled forward, keeping low. Nuria picked her shots, pistol and revolver, door and window. He reached the edge of the building and sprang onto the next roof. He was halfway across when his foot when through the roof and caught. He swore as he tried to wriggle free.

  Nuria had gone silent. The Shaylighters sensed she was reloading and began to move. He glimpsed two moving toward the window, three more crossing the long grass. His face was soaked with rain. He tugged at his boot, gritting his teeth and wrenched it free with a laboured grunt. Nuria was still silent. She must have reloaded at least one of the handguns by now. He rolled to the edge of the roof as two Shaylighters crept past. He lined up the carbine and fired. The steel ball whipped from the muzzle and hit the warrior in the back of the skull. He screamed; dropped to his knees, slumped forward. The second warrior spun round, looked for Stone, spotted him on the roof. Nuria leaned from the window and hammered two bullets into his back.

  She winked at him. Stone pumped the carbine, drawing tension into the slingshot. He rolled across the roof, hearing it groan. Nuria went back to the doorway. The Shaylighters were streaking through the long grass. She took a breath and opened fire with both guns, muzzles flaring in the sheeting rain. Stone hit them from above with the carbine and the three warriors were cut down in seconds.

  She handed him his revolver as he dropped from the roof and they dashed ahead toward the farm.

  “What are they doing here?” she shouted.

  “It has to be the healer.”

  Stone lifted his arm, fired into the gloom. A Shaylighter jerked backward, carbine flying from his grasp.

  “Fuck, this is why they think Essamon can’t be killed.”

  Nuria twisted her mouth angrily. “I put an axe in the bastard’s shoulder at the riverbank and he never had a scratch on him in Great Onglee.”

  “Next time stick it in his head.”

  They were clear of the dwellings and hovels. Bodies of Shaylighters were sprawled in the mud, the rain already washing away the blood.

  “Is Essamon the Predator?” said Nuria.

  “The freak has to be.”

  Stone stopped to refresh the ammunition bag he carried. Ahead the ground fell away, dotted with bushes and wildflowers, tangled and swaying. The scattered farm buildings were shrouded in darkness. Faces raw, clothes soaked, splashed with mud, they pressed forward. The wind drove the torrential rain at them, another obstacle, another defence. They skirted giant puddles and tools dull with rust and large piles of sodden timber and a trough thick with algae.

  A collapsed greenhouse, its clear sheeting flapping and billowing noisily in the wind, was pinned against the soil by a rickety metal frame. The rain lashed it and the sound distracted them, momentarily. They fanned out; Nuria sweeping left, toward the outbuildings where a clutch of horses were stabled, Stone looping right, toward the flank of a weather beaten farmhouse.

  A warrior appeared from the corner of a building and opened fire at Nuria. She jerked aside and the steel ball gouged a hole in the timber behind her. She cracked off a shot with her pistol, cupping the weapon with her left hand, but the bullet whistled past the warrior. He pumped his carbine, and fired for a second time. She folded into the mud and the ball whipped over her back. She could feel her boots sinking. The Shaylighter charged into view, weapon raised, and she fired through the rain, the bullet angling from the muzzle and blowing a hole clean in his throat.

  There was the snap of metal as the collapsed greenhouse was wrenched from the ground and skittered away in the wind.

  A slither of lamplight caught her eye. She swivelled her head and saw the farmhouse door nudge open.

  It was Essamon and he was carrying the box. He called out in native Shaylighter, his words fierce against the roar of the elements. He stepped clear of the farmhouse; confident, untouchable and immortal. War paint covered his face. He switched on the box and a beam of light curved across the withered fields toward Stone.

  Stone dragged himself from the sticky ground, boots slipping in puddles and tried to scramble free as the beam cut toward him.

  Nuria lined up the shot, heart racing. Aimed for the bastard’s temple, just below the narrow brimmed hat of feathers.

  Her finger curled around the trigger.

  It came barrelling toward her, a long blur in the dark. A shoulder and head slammed into her and the gun went off and the bullet hit nothing. Her eyes rolled and she bounced onto her feet. A boot spun across her line of vision and her right hand erupted with pain. The pistol skittered away and disappeared into the mud. The boot hit her again, a rapid swipe across the face and she cried out, her mouth swimming with blood.

  Soirese loomed above her, studded fists clenched.

  No, Quinn killed her, took her out with two bullets to the chest in Great Onglee. Fuck, this is why the Shaylighters came here.

  She towered over Nuria, six feet two inches tall. She grabbed her, wrestled the crossbow from her back, discarded it.

  “Anois taimod ag troid”

  Now we fight.

  Nuria feinted with her left and swung with her right, wheeling in fast, but Soirese had brawled with men and women for years and had never been defeated in a fist fight. She had guessed Nuria’s bluff; fooling her into thinking she had been fooled. Her long limbs stretched. As Nuria came in with the punch her ankles were kicked from beneath her and she crashed into the mud once more. Soirese stamped her boot into Nuria’s face and rocked back on her feet, laughing.

  “Easy.”

  Stone saw the fight from the corner of his eye. He recognised the woman from the stadium. Soirese. She had killed two men in the arena without much effort and even Quinn’s gun had not been e
nough to keep her down. Her flat chest and abdomen showed no wounds from the gunshots, not that he could see much through the watery gloom as he nipped and dashed across the fields, chased by the searing white light from Essamon’s box. He cracked off a few shots but his aim was loose and the bullets bit into the walls of the farmhouse. He glimpsed movement behind Essamon and spotted two figures in cloaks, one very tall, one much shorter. This was the Predator. It wasn’t Essamon. This was the real guilty man with the healer at his side and they were lurking in the doorway, hoping to flee.

  Dropping to one knee, Stone fired rapidly, forcing Essamon to take cover. The farm was plunged into sudden darkness as the light snapped off.

  Soirese turned, for a moment, and Nuria lunged at her, grabbing hold of the woman and head butting her. She head butted her a second time, her bloodied face rippled with anger, eyes bulging. Soirese was dazed but struck back, her weighted gloves pounding into Nuria’s kidneys. Gasping, Nuria fell away and Soirese smothered her, raining punches into her. Nuria rolled and tried to push her off but the woman was too strong. She furiously yanked her hair, drawing her close, and then gouged her eye.

  Stone swung his revolver at Soirese but she was wrapped against Nuria, both women slamming and clawing. He couldn’t risk a shot from this distance. He caught movement at the farmhouse and saw the cloaked figures sprint toward the outbuilding where the horses were kept. In the blink of an eye they would be gone and the trail for the Predator would go cold. Stone had a less than a split second to decide and he didn’t hesitate. There was only one place he was heading. He ran toward Nuria, cracking off single shots at the farmhouse, keeping Essamon pinned down. He heard the snort of horses and Essamon shouting in Shaylighter but Stone kept running, revolver empty, yanking the carbine off his shoulder.

  Nuria cracked a torn fist across Soirese’s face, battering the bleeding eye, and the towering warrior was dazed by the blow. She was suddenly all over her. She dripped blood and sweat and tears but relentlessly slammed her clenched fists into Soirese, punch after punch. As Stone reached them, Nuria curled an arm around the woman’s throat and the snapping of bone silenced even the storm.