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

by Moore, Laurence

  She was panting heavily. An exhausted, lop sided smile spread across her bloodied lips.

  Then she saw Essamon and the white beam angled across the farmland and she threw her weight against him, pushing him clear, and the heat was intense and the pain unbearable and her pulse hammered and her nostrils stung with the smell of cooked flesh and then there was only blackness.

  Stone watched her body slump into the mud. His eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth twisted into a roar, and he charged at Essamon, screaming through the wind and the rain, furiously pumping the carbine, steel balls whipping through the air. The beam was all around him and he swerved and ducked and rolled to avoid it. A steel ball hit the box and the light blinked off and the device dropped to the ground.

  The carbine clicked empty and the tribal leader wet his lips, pulling out an axe and long bladed dagger. Stone kept running, flipping the carbine in his hands, sweeping it in a wide arc and clubbing Essamon in the head. He struck him fiercely but it wasn’t enough to put him down. The axe and knife still came at him. A sharp edge slashed his arm. A tip punctured his leg. But rage had descended and Stone felt nothing. He slammed the butt of the carbine into Essamon’s face. The hat fell from his head. The inverted cross became smeared with blood. Stone kept hitting him until the leader of the Shaylighters lay crumpled in the dirt with his skull cracked open.

  He tossed aside the blood stained carbine. Pulled out his revolver. Hurriedly dropped bullets into the chamber as he ran.

  A horse burst from the stables.

  He fired twice at the ground and it reared up. The smaller rider tumbled from the saddle with a thud and, for a moment, the larger rider hesitated, but then he urged the horse forward. Stone fired, shot after shot, loud and deafening bangs, bullets sailing harmlessly through the rain.

  The small figure moved. He sent his boot crashing into her. She cried out. He jerked her to her feet.

  “You have one fucking chance to live.”

  Then the wind tossed back her hood.

  And he lowered his gun.

  TWENTY THREE

  Side by side, hands on their heads, they listened to the sporadic gunshots and the angry cries of the Churchmen.

  The rain fell, a deluge, growing louder and heavier, hammering against the walls of the cottage and trickling through the roof. The wind rattled the door and the shutters and the candles flickered in the draught. Jeremy had grown up here as much as inside his father’s house. His heart raced as he looked at Quinn. There was contempt in her eyes but he would soon change that; she had been a mother to him, an aunt and a rebellious older sister but tonight she would become his woman and then there was no going back. He knew the rumours about her and her preferences but none of that mattered now. He glared at the brown haired girl next to her. He could see she was trembling. He thought she was plain and boyish looking next to Quinn.

  Quinn was a real woman.

  She stood four or five paces from him; that familiar square shaped face dotted with faint bruises from her beating at the hands of the Shaylighters. He wet his lips. His heart continued to beat fast. Why couldn’t she have joined them? He knew how much she despised the Holy House and blamed them for losing Clarissa. How could she take their side against the Shaylighters? Essamon would reclaim Ennpithia with the help of the Engineer and his weapons and the land would change forever and then what would she do?

  The gunfire had stopped.

  “Rush who killed Daniel. That was him outside with the gun. He’s trying to escape.”

  She deserved to know.

  “I was here when he did it.”

  Silence.

  “He had no life, Quinn, you know that. He went peacefully. You should be glad he went peacefully.”

  Silence.

  “It was all Rush. He hoped it would stop you going into Mosscar. He’s a Shaylighter, Quinn. You used to tell me stories of the abandoned children. Do you remember the stories?” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. Kaya’s stomach heaved. “I wish I’d been born a Shaylighter. I feel the energy of them.”

  Silence.

  “I didn’t kill Clarissa. She was my friend.”

  He turned to Kaya.

  “What are you looking at?”

  The scruffy girl ducked her head, brown hair tumbling into her eyes.

  “Well?”

  Kaya grimaced and closed her eyes, expecting the gun to explode at any moment.

  “Leave her alone,” said Quinn. “You have me. I know that’s all you want. Just leave her be.”

  He rocked on his heels, digesting her words. Kaya faded from his vision. But then she opened her eyes and spoke and he jabbed the pistol at her once more.

  “I thought I knew you. That’s all.”

  “What? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You sound like someone I know. That’s all. You seem familiar.”

  “Why are you here?” he shouted, wind and rain battering the cottage. “You’re spoiling it.”

  “Leave it, Kaya,” whispered Quinn. “He’s not afraid to kill.”

  Kaya glanced at her.

  “Who is he?”

  “He was my friend once.” Jeremy heard a tinge of sadness in her voice. “But now he’s no one.”

  He was stung and waved the pistol but Kaya no longer flinched and Quinn shuffled a little, creating a small gap between them.

  “Do you know what they do with traitors, Jeremy? Do you? They’re buried alive and the grave is never marked. That’s what’s going to happen to you. They make you dig the hole and then they strip you naked and tie you up and throw you in. They leave you like that for a day and the whole village throw shit at you and laugh at your scrawny cock and at night the men from the inn piss on you and then in the morning the soldiers bury you whilst you’re still breathing and your grave is never marked. And no one will ever remember your name, little boy.”

  “Shut up! Just shut up! You’re lying! They don’t do that!”

  His finger went to the trigger. Quinn shuffled again. The gap was widening. She’d soon create two targets, not one, and he’d have to choose, and in that fraction of a second whilst he deliberated, she would take him down.

  “What good am I dead? You know what you want, Jeremy. Don’t you want me alive for it?”

  She moved again.

  “My body will be better hot than cold. Let Kaya go and you can have it.”

  He swallowed hard.

  Then a sickly grin covered his lips.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? If I let her leave she’ll get the Churchmen. She’s staying, Quinn.”

  He shook his head. “No more talk.”

  “When you’re finished with me you can kill me. I want to ascend to the Above and find Clarissa, my daughter.”

  “The Above doesn’t … doesn’t exist.” He stopped. “What did you say?”

  “She was mine, Jeremy. She wasn’t my niece. I gave birth to her.”

  “But who … who was her father?”

  “Daniel raped me. My mother told him to. She thought it would help me like boys. Clarissa was mine.”

  The colour drained from his cheeks.

  “You didn’t kill my niece, Jeremy, you killed my daughter.”

  He recoiled from her truth, damned by the words.

  “I don’t … but … I don’t … you were taking care of him. Why would you do that if …?”

  “Stone thinks Clarissa went into Mosscar to kill herself. What really happened in there, Jeremy?”

  “She went in there to kill herself? But I told her I had … it’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”

  His shoulders drooped. The gun wavered.

  “It was too much for me, Quinn. That bastard terrified me. Night after night he came into my room and beat me. He told me I was a child of sin and I deserved to be punished. He’s a monster. I kept running away. You know that. And one day I knew what I had to do. I took my horse and rode into Mosscar and I sat in the ruins and waited for the sickn
ess to kill me. I sat for hours. But it didn’t work. That was when Essamon found me. I knew their words. Dad would use them in the house and taught me bits of their language. I once asked him if he was a Shaylighter and he broke my arm. Do you remember that? You made a splint for me. I was afraid of Essamon. But I talked and he listened. He saw fire in me and showed me the truth of Mosscar and truth of the Shaylighters. He showed me how to be a real man.”

  His arm dipped. The gun was low.

  “I told Clarissa I’d thought about killing myself in Mosscar. But I never told her why or that I went there.”

  Quinn nodded. “She took your idea.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, she did. She looked up to you, Jeremy. What happened to her in there?”

  “A patrol found her just inside the city. The Engineer wanted Ennpithians for an experiment. She couldn’t speak their tongue. They took her with the others. She was exposed to something. They injected them all with a disease. I don’t understand it but it made them sick and then they let them go. Clarissa managed to ride back here. I swear I didn’t know, Quinn. It was the Engineer. He’s the man who killed her.”

  He took a deep breath. “But why did she want to die? I knew something was wrong but she wouldn’t tell me …”

  “Clarissa suffered the same cruelty that I suffered. She was abused, Jeremy.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “Not Clarissa.”

  “Dobbs and Farrell were kidnapping children from the villages.”

  “Not her.”

  “The children call him the Predator.”

  Jeremy shook his head.

  “You’re a child of sin. You deserve to be punished.”

  They both stared at Kaya; her face had turned deathly pale, her eyes were closed.

  “I know those words.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “And you sounded like him when you said them.”

  Jeremy’s mouth gaped.

  “His father is the Predator.” Kaya nodded. “It’s him, Quinn. He’s the one who abused me and Clarissa and all the others. And you as well, Jeremy. He even abused his own son. Your father is a bastard.”

  Quinn saw Jeremy’s eyes shift to the young girl. The gap was wide enough. She sprang at him.

  His finger jerked recklessly at the trigger and the bullet seared along the barrel and rifled through the silencer into her stomach, ripping through clothing and flesh and punching into her liver. Her mouth opened but there was no sound. He lost his balance, squeezing off two more shots as he fell. The first bullet lodged harmlessly in the roof but the second glanced off her temple and she collapsing on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and stared down at her body, the blood streaking from her stomach and face.

  He pointed the pistol at Quinn.

  “Look what you made me do.”

  Quinn dropped to her knees beside Kaya. She gently lifted the girl’s head. Her eyes were open.

  There was no pulse.

  “Get up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Up,” he yelled, twisting the thick ropes of hair in his fist and dragging her onto her feet.

  He placed the pistol against her forehead.

  “Do it, boy, there’s nothing left for me.”

  Beads of sweat rolled down his face.

  “You’re getting used to killing, Jeremy. Why stop now?”

  He blinked away tears.

  “You’re a bastard like your father. And he’ll get his, Jeremy, mark my words. Stone and Nuria are heading to Winshead. Pretan’s a dead man.”

  He lifted the pistol away, and then whipped it across her face, breaking open her lip.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  “No.”

  “Do it, Quinn.”

  Blood ran from her mouth. She glimpsed the excitement in his trousers.

  “That’s never going to happen.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Don’t be the monster he is.”

  “You’re going to be mine.”

  The words sickened her but she spat them at him. “Well, Daniel got there first. You only get seconds, boy. Is that what you want? Seconds?”

  He backhanded her across the face. “You bitch.” He tore at her shirt. “Take it off. Take it all off.”

  Barnes was a raw recruit; seventeen years old, tall and big boned, with a flat and beardless face. He’d joined the Churchmen Regiment last summer after a failed apprenticeship with the blacksmith. Now he was on lookout duty by the river. It was unlikely the Shaylighters would navigate the waterway, no doubt the reason why he’d been posted here. He’d never seen a Shaylighter before but had heard all the wild tales from his fellow soldiers; monsters towering seven feet tall, chests painted with an upside down cross, an axe as big as a tree - and that was only the women. He’d laughed at the time.

  Alone inside the wooden outpost, roughly a few hundred paces southeast of the barracks, he found less humour in the description. The building was partially concealed by undergrowth. He had a stove and a seat and a telescope on a wooden tripod angled toward the river; a long black line snaking through the canyon, dotted with heavy rain. The uninhabited southern islands, covered in vegetation, were in darkness. They were not even islands, in truth. More and more they were breaking away and disappearing into the water. Barnes was convinced that one morning the river would become the sea and the canyon would be gone forever.

  It wasn’t cold but it was damp and he warmed himself by the stove, waiting for a pan of water to boil.

  As it began to bubble he reached into his tunic for a small pouch and tipped some herbs into a mug. Then he carefully poured in the hot water and stirred with a wooden spoon. He reckoned Captain Duggan would return by morning. He was excited at the prospect of the Summer Blessings. He knew the Archbishop was an old man but he spoke with such verve and Barnes had great respect for him. He wore the cross on his armour with pride and knew his family was proud, too. Secretly, he knew his father had always wanted him to become a soldier and not a blacksmith.

  Barnes carried his drink to the telescope and peered through it. He could see the fishing boats moored at the dock, rocking from side to side.

  He took out a biscuit, nibbled it, wiped the crumbs from his lips, raised his mug and hesitated.

  He could hear splashing, more than normal, more than the rocks falling away from the walls of the canyon.

  He leaned forward.

  He strained his eyes.

  The mug slipped from his gloved hand.

  The river was filled with boats.

  “Thank you for walking me home,” said Shauna, numbly.

  “Are you going to be alright?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not bleeding anymore.”

  He said nothing. The village was mostly quiet. Lights glowed in a few dwellings. The two of them sheltered in the doorway as the rain lashed down and the dark clouds rumbled overhead. He could sense she was reluctant to go inside and his eyes betrayed deep concern for her. She had been brutalised, as he had, when Bastille had chopped off his hands in Maizan. He would never be the same man. She would never be the same woman.

  In a slither of moonlight Shauna saw the lines around his concerned eyes, like painted dashes. The fleshy strokes told her the bald headed man was twice her age, at the very least. Father Devon believed he was a special man but Shauna wasn’t sure about that, not yet. The only man she had ever grown close to was her husband. She had no intention of growing close to the Map Maker or trusting him but there was a beguiling quality about him and she was glad to be thinking of him and not the attack. And she was no longer thinking of Brian, either. Anger flared inside her when she thought of her husband. If he had chosen to stay away from this malicious plot then she would not have been attacked. She was so confused. And so frightened.

  “You look frightened,” he said.

  “It’s like you can read my mind.”

  “You don’t want to go in there, do you?”

  She shook her head. “No.
”

  “They’re not waiting for you.”

  He watched her glance at the falling rain.

  “Do you want me to check?”

  Shauna nodded.

  The Map Maker prodded the broken door with his stump. It creaked loudly. He stepped into the gloom. Swallowing hard, he moved through the rooms. Empty, no one lurking in the dark, waiting to pounce on her. The men had gone through her home like a tornado. Furniture was overturned, clothing and crockery and personal items scattered. It was a horrible mess.

  Shauna came inside and looked around and shivered. The Map Maker moved toward her but she took several paces back. She did not want a man near her. She looked down at the fireplace where she had been intimate with Brian the night before he left for Touron. He would return in chains.

  The Map Maker said, “I’m sorry that was done to you.”

  “Then why was it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Lord hates me.”

  “Why does he hate you?”

  “I’m a sinner. I must be. We’re all sinners. He denies me children, he sends my husband to hang and my brother and his family are dead. He hates me. I know it.”

  The Map Maker rubbed his head. “What happened to your brother?”

  “My brother lives … he lived in Great Onglee.”

  “They might be alive.” He paused. “I’m sure the Lord doesn’t hate you.”

  “But you’re Him, aren’t you?”

  The Map Maker stared at the rain. “I don’t know who I am. Not anymore.”

  “Father Devon thinks you’re Him. In mortal form. Every one is talking about it.”

  “How can he be so sure?”

  “You have to be him. You look different, sound different. There is something different about you.”

  She let out a deep sigh. “Where are you staying?”

  “With Mrs Renshaw. Father Devon arranged it.” He hesitated. “Do you want to stay there? You can have my bed. I can sleep on the floor.”

  He looked into her eyes.

  “There’s a lock on the door. I can sleep outside. You can have the room.”

  She nodded, smiled faintly. She looked on the verge of tears.