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

by Moore, Laurence

  Duggan frowned. “What about him?”

  “Essamon is dead. The freak with the hat of feathers is rotting under the sun. I killed him last night.”

  There were gasps and mutterings amongst the crowd.

  “Did you really kill him?” said Duggan.

  “His box of light is no more,” shouted Stone. “Anyone who was in Great Onglee knows how terrifying that weapon was.”

  There were cheers. Then he dealt his ace card.

  “Essamon was at Pretan’s farm in Winshead last night. And this morning the traitor Deacon Rush arrived.”

  Duggan tensed as the hostility swung toward Pretan and his soldiers. Stone had won the crowd. Quinn stepped forward and thrust her crossbow at Pretan, making things even tougher.

  “How can you trust anything this man says? He was collaborating with the Shaylighters and his son, Jeremy, was a traitor.”

  The crowd began to heckle and swelled forward. Lumps of mud whipped through the air.

  “Silence,” shouted Duggan. “Stone has still committed two murders and carries a forbidden weapon and he’s badly wounded one of my men.”

  “Who cares about Dobbs and Farrell?” shouted a voice. “They were kidnapping our kids.”

  “You should have done something about them years ago, Duggan.”

  The crowd continued to badger him. Duggan nodded to his bowmen.

  “Take him.”

  A volley of shots burst from the trees and ripped the ground around the Churchmen. They halted.

  “Send her down,” called Stone.

  The people watched as Nuria emerged from the trees, a pistol in one hand, the hand of a child in the other. Pretan shrank inside his wrinkled skin as they came down the grassy bank. Heads craned to study the girl; her eye was patched and her skin was deeply mottled but she still resembled Pretan’s twin daughters. Even Duggan stared. A third child? The girl knelt beside his wounded man and calmly placed her hands against his shaking leg. The hundreds of onlookers were hushed in fascination.

  “They’ve never seen anything like her,” said Nuria.

  “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  “What’s she doing?” asked Lenny.

  “Shut up and learn,” said Stone.

  The soldier on the ground was speechless. There was no pain. Nothing. He could see through the hole in his trouser leg where the bullet had passed through but the skin appeared unbroken. Frowning, he tore at the fabric, exposing more of his leg, but there was no scar anywhere. Gingerly, he got to his feet and took a few steps. He shook his head, looked skyward and made the sign of the cross. Stone relaxed his grip on Lenny, pushed him away. He heard the bowstrings strain but Duggan ordered his men to lower their weapons.

  He walked slowly toward the child healer.

  “How did you do that?”

  The girl looked at the cross on his uniform.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No,” said Nuria. “You’re not in trouble.”

  “It’s all true,” shouted Quinn, circling Pretan, her crossbow aimed at his head. “The strangers are telling the truth. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. The girl can heal with touch. That man had a bullet wound and now he’s walking as if nothing happened.”

  Duggan wheeled around. “That’s enough, Quinn.”

  “Dobbs and Farrell have been stealing our children and giving them to Pretan. They took my girl, Clarissa. Pretan beat her and abused her and used his own daughter to hide her wounds. This man used his daughter’s gift to cover his sick crimes. He’s a monster. The children call him the Predator. And none of us believed them. Tell me your children haven’t come to you with this story. Tell me.”

  “Quinn, no more.”

  Heads dropped in the crowd. A child bent down, picked up a rock and threw it.

  “Stone and Nuria are heroes. Pretan is your enemy. Pretan is the one who should be arrested.”

  “This is all lies,” hissed Pretan.

  “No, it’s not,” said Quinn. “You fucking cunt.”

  And she struck him, swinging the crossbow, cracking the stock across his face, splitting the skin.

  “Cunt.”

  She planted her boot into his face. Repeatedly. Blood flowed. And then someone shouted.

  “Kill the bastard.”

  And they rushed forward. Nuria scooped up the girl as her father disappeared inside the mob. Duggan rallied his men and sent them into the pack but it was hopeless and his men began to scatter, running back into the village. Duggan seethed. He could hear Pretan screaming as he was jostled and punched. His body was stripped. The villagers kicked him. Stone tucked his revolver into his belt, rested one hand on the butt and stood watching.

  “Do something,” yelled Duggan.

  Stone smiled. “I did.”

  Churchmen streamed from the village and the people began to flee. Duggan pushed into the remaining crowd as his men circled the crippled and bloodied body of Pretan.

  “You’re finished here. All of you. I’ll have banishment orders issued within the hour.”

  Quinn shrugged. “This was the right thing to do, Duggan.”

  Nuria carried the girl to him.

  “Captain Duggan?”

  He ignored her.

  “Captain Duggan, now you will listen to me this once. You need to protect her. She’s the most precious person in your village. Don’t you think of turning your back on me. She’s more important than you or the men in the Holy House or any of your laws and beliefs. She can save lives. She can heal the sick and dying. She can do real good for your people. You need to protect her.”

  He still said nothing.

  “All we’ve tried to do is help.”

  “Your help has seen a man kicked to death. Two little girls have lost a father and a brother.”

  “A child abuser and a traitor,” said Quinn. “Big fucking loss.”

  Nuria shrugged. “Well, they gained a sister.”

  Duggan looked at Stone.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Nuria stepped into his line of vision. “We’re going to escort Boyd to Touron. Like we promised.”

  “Make sure you don’t come back.”

  “We won’t.”

  Quinn slung her crossbow on her shoulder. She stood with Stone and Nuria.

  “Not all of them want to fight,” said Stone. “Talk to Boyd. You might still avoid a war.”

  Pretan’s limp and blood stained corpse was lifted from the ground and carried toward the village. His hands dragged in the mud. His one-eyed daughter watched in silence.

  “Where’s Kaya?” asked Nuria. “I thought she’d be here. We need to tell her it’s all over. Quinn, where is she?”

  Her head dipped, her voice was hollow. “Jeremy was watching the cottage last night. He broke in. He had a gun.”

  Nuria bit her lip, leaned into Stone and pressed her face against his chest. He folded his arms around her and her shoulders shook as she cried. He stared over her dirty blonde hair and noticed the fresh bruises on Quinn’s face and the bandage wrapped around her arm.

  Nuria felt a tug on the hem of her fleece. She looked down at the child healer.

  “Can I make you better?”

  “No, sweetie, not this time.”

  Stone placed a hand on the girl’s head, turned her around.

  “Heal Quinn,” he said, pointing.

  Rondo was behind the wheel of the buggy as it streaked through the long avenues. He was in his early thirties, dusky skin, a thin moustache, loose black clothing. A rifle leaned against the passenger seat, fitted with a telescopic lens. There was an ammunition belt curled on the seat with a dusty looking backpack. He tossed open the flap, rooted inside for a chunk of bread. Darkness crawled over the city. Bread hanging from his mouth, he reached for the dashboard and the headlamps raked along the avenue, illuminating minor cracks in the asphalt and the sidewalks. It was good to be home. He grinned and swallowed the last of the bread.

  A man recognised hi
s customised vehicle and called out to him and Rondo raised his hand in acknowledgement. Rondo was known by many, feared by most, with an established reputation, hard earned, the right hand man of the League, the enforcer, trusted and loyal. He had served Traore and now he served Omar. Omar was a different breed, a man after his own heart. Traore had grown lazy through the years, his passion diluted by title and privilege. He should have fucked his woman more and honoured his responsibilities to the voiceless people of the League instead of allowing the lower level factions to thrive in the aftermath of the civil war.

  There had always been gangs but the numbers boomed during and after the war; peddling drugs, whoring young women, stealing from businesses. A crippling life became even more desperate. The gangs didn’t care. They fought over blocks and corners killing over names and colours. Food was scarce, it always had been, it still was, but the gangs held the noose and people died from starvation more than by gun or blade. Rondo had been born into the gangs, the Red Dog. He’d run with them, murdered and tortured with them, chilled the neighbourhoods with unprecedented violence, but then he’d walked away from it, sickened by the cruelty against the citizens of the League. He didn’t care about the citizens of the Ministry or the Society. They chose to be victims. Kiven gangs were merciless and Traore had neither crushed nor absorbed them, the way Omar was doing.

  Omar accepted their existence but controlled and manipulated the levels of violence thus reaping the respect and devotion of the Kiven people but still allowing the gangs to operate. This was a man who saw clearly and saw quickly, a man who seized opportunity and made things happen. Rondo liked that. In this life, a man who hesitated was a man who was beaten. The Alliance had hesitated for years, sullied by the weak Ministry of Progress and the even weaker Society of Souls; deliberating fools propped up by fawning sycophants.

  Still, he imagined they’d been dealt with during his time away.

  He slewed around a bend, racing hard. He passed the crumbling tenement blocks of his childhood, still gang central, the aged brickwork soot stained and defaced, iron railings fixed over empty windows. He swung over an iron bridge. The wind buffeted the fast moving, lightweight vehicle. He saw the stars in the black sky and the scattered dark clouds. Across the parched river were the shops and stalls, the thriving marketplaces of Kiven; bright and noisy and cheap smelling. He laughed at men who enjoyed the stalls, calling them weak and pussy whipped, but, in truth, he delighted in stopping and browsing, trading pathetic coin for objects he had no understanding of, no use for and no purpose in owning; yet he wanted to own them, to decorate his apartment, to impress the many women in his life that he was a refined and cultured man.

  It was Adina who spotted his vehicle as it screeched into the underground car park, twin exhausts spitting trails of fumes.

  “Rondo is back.”

  “Good,” said Omar, relaxing on the bed, shirt off, revealing his scarred chest and abdomen.

  She came away from the balcony; glanced at him. Conversation had been stilted and awkward since last night.

  “We need to clear the air,” she said.

  Omar took a hit of the pipe. “I will accept your apology.”

  “I have nothing to say sorry for. You lied to me. You said we would offer them the chance to join us.”

  “Them? With us? We would have achieved nothing with them, Adina.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me that was the plan?”

  “Did you have a problem with them dying?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then what is the matter here? Be quiet, I need to think.”

  He slipped a hand toward his groin, stroked himself.

  “That’s not part of our discussion, Omar.”

  “It will be if I need it to be.”

  “You won’t treat me that way.”

  “I cannot think, Adina.”

  “You told Cooperman about your past. Before telling me. That hurt me, Omar. I know so little of your life before me.”

  He did not reply.

  “The Society and the Ministry will want answers.”

  “Then you will give them answers. I am a warrior, Adina, not a politician.”

  “A warrior? Or a Warlord?”

  He lowered the glass pipe.

  “I once ruled a great tribe. Now I am here. I do not want to talk of the past. Only the present. With you.”

  She nodded, thought for a moment.

  “This is why we should have kept Nichols and Cooperman alive. The city would have been easier to control with them as puppet leaders.”

  “They would have never been puppets. Especially not a man like Cooperman. You know nothing of a man like that, Adina. Men do not reach his age, my age, being puppets. We stand and we fight. The only solution was to kill them. Now we face down any dissenters and then move forward with the plan.”

  “How long before we head for the Place of Bridges?”

  “Soon,” said Omar. “Very soon. I want the vehicles and men ready. Once we hear from our spies that the Marshals have been redeployed to deal with the Shaylighters then we can advance into the final stage.”

  His hand touched his rippled skin. “I am waiting for your apology.”

  She shrugged off her jacket. “Keep waiting.” Her shirt was tight, sleeveless. She still wore her twin shoulder holsters.

  “Do you intend to use them against me?”

  Her hands glided over the pistols, then slid over her breasts.

  “Which ones?”

  A smile lit his face. She sauntered back to the bed, twisted his foot. He reached for her.

  “Rondo will be here any minute,” she said.

  “He can wait.”

  There was a bang on the door. Omar shook his head.

  “Come in, Rondo, you bastard.”

  The man dumped his rifle and pack on the floor and looked at them, sheepishly, realising what he’d interrupted.

  “Did they sign it?” asked Omar

  Rondo went into his pack and retrieved a sheaf of papers. “Emissary Rondo is finally home.”

  He threw them into the air. The three of them laughed as the papers sailed onto the floor.

  “They wish to begin trade runs in ten days. Ten years of peace and now we have trade with them.”

  Omar handed him the pipe. “Well done, my friend.”

  “I’m glad to be back. I want to wash the stench of Touron from my clothes. I need drink and pussy.”

  “There are plenty of both on the floor below,” said Adina. “Any complications?”

  “A few.” He paused. “The Archbishop has fallen ill. He won’t travel to Brix for the Summer Blessings.”

  “What?” said Omar.

  “And the Shaylighters have already attacked. No waiting for the beacon. Great Onglee is gone. Hundreds massacred. Everything destroyed.”

  Omar and Adina exchanged looks. It was Omar who spoke. “Will they split their forces over the destruction of this village?”

  Rondo shrugged. “I don’t know. I only heard this when I was leaving. And there have been arrests. The rumours are the Ennpithian traitors have been captured or killed.”

  “Do these traitors know of our involvement?”

  “I cannot imagine Essamon would’ve told them about us.”

  “What is he planning to do now? Will he still attack Brix?”

  “I heard the Shaylighters are already advancing on Brix. Omar, the Holy House there is the oldest in Ennpithia. The Legend of the Patriarch. All that shit. Destroying it will strike at the heart of their faith. It doesn’t matter if the Archbishop is there or not. He is certain to die from poor health anyway. They have no miracle medicines in Touron.”

  “But we cannot hold the Place of Bridges against all the Marshals. We do not have enough men and weapons. This is why we used the Shaylighters, Rondo.”

  “Rondo is right, Omar,” said Adina. “The Holy House in Brix is more precious to them than the Archbishop. It would’ve been perfect to destroy them t
ogether but if the Archbishop is dying we will achieve both things anyway.”

  Omar looked at them, thought for a moment.

  “They’ll weaken the border,” said Rondo. “It will come. It’s only a matter of time. The lie of Mosscar is over and the Shaylighters will run wild. The Albury’s have a new enemy to fight.”

  “Hmm,” said Omar. “Let us hope they do not forget the old one.”

  Both men grinned.

  “Well, this is not how I planned it,” he said. “But perhaps things have fallen favourably for us.”

  He clapped Rondo on the back.

  “Good work.”

  “Was there anything else?” asked Adina, taking a hit from the pipe.

  Rondo nodded. “Just three strangers in Brix. Travellers. Two men, a woman. Brian says they came from Gallen.”

  Omar stiffened. “Gallen? Was the woman one-eyed?”

  “No,” said Rondo, and frowned. “I mean, he never said.”

  “Did he describe her?”

  “In her twenties. Pale skin. Blonde hair.”

  “And the men?”

  “One was fat and bald.”

  The colour drained from Omar’s face. Rondo glanced at Adina.

  “And the other man? Tell me. Quickly. Describe him.”

  “Brian said he was tall, with a scar down his face. He heard someone use the name Stone.”

  “Omar, what is it?” said Adina, but he’d turned away from her. “Do you know this man Stone and the others? Talk to me, Omar.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, walked to the balcony, inhaled the smell of the city.

  “I never thought I would see you here,” he whispered.

  Slowly, he faced them.

  “Drink and pussy can wait, Rondo. Refill your buggy and drive back to Touron. You need to speak with the Albury’s once more.”

  “Yes, Omar.”

  “This is what you must tell them.”

  Rondo listened intently, then quickly picked up his rifle and pack, nodded at Adina and left.

  Adina rubbed the goose bumps from her arms. “Omar?”

  “The woman is called Nuria. She is a fighter. The fat man is called the Map Maker. He is nothing. But Stone …”

  He walked to her.

  “Stone is the man who mutilated my body.”