The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (18 page)

He turned his gaze toward her. She nodded back at him and he reached for the hatch.

THIRTEEN

Nuria snatched hold of the woman’s wrist.

“No.”

It was the first defiance Lady Hardigan had experienced in a long time. Kevane had described the Earl’s wife as a
hard bitch
and Nuria didn’t doubt that for one moment. The woman’s features had been shaved from steel. Rigid eyes the colour of slate glared from thickened crevices of skin. Her back was unbent and had probably never wilted once, not even during childbirth, but Nuria’s grip was resolute, fingers clutched around the raised hand, the lined palm flat, the skin ice cold, the fingers extended, the nails scrubbed clean, neatly shaped. Kaya loitered beside Nuria, dishevelled brown hair tumbling onto her forehead, cheeks stained with tears.

Nuria attempted to force the hand down but there was stiffened resistance. The men gathered loose and ineffective.

“Leave her alone,” said Nuria.

It was Boyd who attempted to broker a peace. “I’ll pour some drinks.” He began to clatter about.

The woman’s concentration faltered, for a fraction of a second, distracted by Boyd’s clumsy efforts at playing host. Nuria exploited the opportunity and pushed Lady Hardigan’s hand onto her hip.

“Leave my house.”

“Not yet.”

“Stephen, throw this thing out.”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t know who you are but I have nothing to say to someone like you. Get out of my house.”

“This concerns your daughter.”

“Which means it’s no concern of yours.”

Her voice was stilted, annoying; she was stepping on each word, attempting to smooth away the rough edges, claiming to be someone and something she clearly wasn’t.

Nuria cringed. “You’ll listen to me. Both of you.”

“Stephen, get this servant out of my house.”

“My name is Nuria. I work for Mr Boyd and I’m no bloody servant.”

The Earl listened to his wife’s command but did not immediately respond. He studied the woman lingering in the doorway, grubby boots stroking the fringe of one of his precious rugs scattered across a flagstone floor. She was not a plain woman and he was intrigued by the conviction in her blue eyes and captivated by their beauty, too. Her tone was educated, that much was clear, and despite the crossbow on her shoulder and the sword buckled at her waist, she was no common mercenary.

He said, “Let her speak.”

“Stephen, I want her out of my house.”

“Enough.” His voice snapped. “Let us hear what she has to say.”

Nuria waited for the Earl’s wife to bite back but she didn’t. An awkward silence enveloped the room that no one was willing to breach until Boyd cleared his throat and presented a tray of goblets, brimming with wine.

“Why don’t we all take a drink?”

Only the Earl accepted one. Nuria didn’t even acknowledge Boyd so he shuffled away and sat beside a softly glowing lamp, the flame orange behind blackened panes of glass.

“Why are you prying into our family?” It was the Earl, his voice even, his question valid.

Nuria opened her mouth but Lady Hardigan weighed in once more.

“She’s nothing more than a common vagabond, Stephen. Look at her. She stinks. I thought Quinn was a rough slouch. I didn’t think it was possible to scrape any lower in the gutter, Mr Boyd.”

“Insults are not helping, my Lady,” said Boyd.

“He’s right, Isobel,” snapped the Earl. “No more of it.”

He took a drink.

“This is a very stressful time for us with the festival. Kaya is our eldest and feels the stress more than our other children.”

“Stop telling her our business,” hissed Lady Hardigan.

“Isobel!”

His deafening voice silenced her. She sat grinding her teeth.

“Why do you persist with this behaviour, Kaya?” said the Earl.

Slouched alongside Nuria, hands tucked into the waistband of her woollen trousers, she shrugged.

“You know why.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“I said, you know why.”

“Kaya told me that …”

“We know exactly what she told you,” said Lady Hardigan, her steely gaze on Kaya. “It’s a pack of lies.”

“Our daughter has to share our attention with her brothers and sisters. She doesn’t cope very well with that. She feels starved of affection. This is her way of trying to …”

“That’s nothing to do with it,” said Kaya.

“It’s everything to do with it,” said the Earl. “You even told me yourself how you feel unloved by us.”

“I feel unloved because you won’t believe me. I’m not making it up. Why would I? He’s called the Predator. That’s his name.”

Lady Hardigan threw her hands in the air.

“I would believe you, Kaya, but where is the proof?” The Earl paused. “You disappear for a day here, a day there and then return upset claiming some man has … has done things … but you don’t know who he is or where you are taken and you have no marks …”

“She doesn’t appreciate anything, Stephen. She has no idea how hard you work to maintain our home.”

”You’re our eldest, Kaya.” The Earl’s tone softened. “We love you very much but you have to …”

Kaya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then show it and believe me.”

There was silence. Boyd sank another drink.

“I want you in bed,” said Lady Hardigan. “And I want to hear no more of these disgusting and impossible stories.”

“The Predator is real. He’s been doing it for years. I’m not the only one he takes.”

“There isn’t a fucking scratch on you,” shouted Lady Hardigan, rising from her chair, eyes bulging, revealing her true breeding.

“That’s because the witch heals my wounds.”

No one answered her.

“It’s true.”

Silence.

“I’m not lying.”

Silence.

More silence.

It was Nuria who spoke. “They’re known as Pure Ones.”

The Hardigan's turned at the sound of her voice. Boyd lowered his wine. Even Kaya craned her neck around. Nuria waited a moment longer, certain the venom in the air had ceased.

“A one-eyed girl born with scarred skin.” She held up her hand. “They can heal with touch.”

Kaya licked her lips.

“You’re making it up,” said Lady Hardigan, no longer smothering her voice, allowing all the strands to loosen.

Nuria snorted, shook her head. The Earl stared at her.

“Have you seen one of these Pure Ones?”

She nodded.

“I know of one healer. She’s a friend. She lives in Gallen, where I’m from. I’ve seen her save lives, make wounds from bullets and blades disappear. She once drove the sickness from a woman, took away the red marks and the lumps. It’s the most incredible thing to witness.” There was a hush in the room. Even Lady Hardigan was silent. “Healers exist but it’s rare to come across them. What Kaya is telling you is possible but I don’t understand.”

“What do you mean?”

It was the Earl asking the question. His wife was stony faced, jaw twisted into a snarl.

“Healers usually help people. It’s strange to imagine one allowing this man to brutalise your daughter and then help conceal the crime.”

“Is it possible she could be forced to heal?”

Nuria shook her head. She imagined Emil being forced to heal. It would have never happened. She wished she was here right now, standing beside her. The young girl would have tore strips off Isobel Hardigan. Sixteen, seventeen years old, Emil was the only healer Nuria had ever encountered; headstrong, stubborn and determined, with a tongue as fiery as the colour of her hair; she stood for no nonsense. Nuria understood why Stone had bonded with her so well. More than guilt, more than the death of Tomas, the two was so alike.

“Healers are compelled to help. It’s an instinct. But … you can’t force them to heal. The power comes from inside them, I think.”

Nuria turned to Kaya.

“You need to tell us everything about the Predator; what he looks like, when he takes you and where.”

“Do you all believe me now?”

The Earl wiped a hand over his face and nodded, glumly.

“I don’t understand it, Kaya, but I don’t think you’re lying.”

He looked around the room.

“Can you help, Boyd?”

Nuria saw a flash in Boyd’s eyes. He seemed incredibly perturbed by the question. She watched the portly merchant from the corner of her eye. Then Kaya grabbed her arm, distracting her.

“I want to tell you alone. I don’t want every one listening.”

Dobbs forced open the front door whilst Farrell kept watch. The streets of the village were relatively empty with only a few men and women drifting home from the inn. Shauna could see he was trying to make as little noise as possible but the door was old and as he leaned into it the wood splintered beneath his weight and he crashed through into a gloomy room lit by a small fire.
They carried swords buckled at the waist and wore masks to obscure their features but they shouldn’t have bothered; she easily recognised them. Besides, there were very few men in Brix capable of threatening or beating or even killing a woman. She saw Farrell holding a hammer in his gloved fist and shivered as she imagined it shattering her bones.

She had purposefully left the fire burning. She had assumed Rush would send someone to intimidate her further. She wasn’t as stupid as he thought and now knew for certain that the deacon planned to harm her. They had both assumed that only Jeremy was involved but now she wondered many others were part of this murderous plot? It would be impossible to trust anyone now. She couldn’t go to her neighbours or the barracks or even Father Devon. They might all be pieces of the conspiracy.

Huddled down in the bracken, wrapped in a blanket, eyes wide, she felt miserable and alone. It was a rotten feeling. She had never been alone before. Not alone like this. There had been her family and then there had been Brian. Her shoulders, arms and hands were heavy and trembling.
She listened as the two men stomped through her slovenly home; furniture was pushed over or kicked aside, their boots raked muddy trails across the floor. Her insides sparked with anger as their intrusion squashed raw fear and replaced it with a more useful emotion. She narrowed her eyes as their voices carried on the wind.

“She’s gone.”

“Fucking little bitch.”

The two men stepped from her house and looked around. A man weaved by, singing a gentle tune, interrupting it with a resounding burp. Farrell tucked the hammer into his belt and Dobbs drew his sword, the iron scraping loud against the scabbard. He twirled and swished the blade, cutting through thin air.

“Let’s take a walk round the village.”

She could never go back there and it was an awful admission to make. She wanted to confront Deacon Rush;
his polite manner and his calm voice and his caring eyes had ruined her life even more. She wanted to smash his face to a pulp and claw out those eyes. Bastard. The Holy House had deceived her again. She thought or running away to Touron, to meet with Brian. But that posed a more complicated problem. To expose the deacon would be to expose her own attempted betrayal and Brian would never forgive her.

Or would he?

No, his hatred for the Holy House burned. His devotion to hating them was as resolute as their belief in the Lord.
She didn’t hate them. She wasn’t even angry. Not really. No, she was only sad, a deep sadness that the Lord had denied what He gave to every other woman she knew. Why had He made her this way? Why had He given her
the gift
but robbed her of using it? It was sadness that dulled her life and coloured her daily thoughts; there were moments of anger, naturally, flashes when her blood cycle damned her childless, but no fervent hatred and no desire for violence and death. She had done nothing wrong. She had followed her husband and yet here she was, driven from her home and hunted like a wild beast.

The road east stretched into nothingness; long days and nights on foot along rutted and winding tracks, through low foothills and gorges and forests. It would be an arduous journey. She thought of the crowds and noise of Touron, hundreds of buildings pressing down on her. She wasn’t going anywhere near the town. She needed family and her family was in Great Onglee.

Shauna watched Dobbs and Farrell melt into the gloom. She picked up her satchel and carefully picked her way through the dark.

She had to reach Great Onglee.

Nuria set down her crossbow and eased onto a hay bale, her eyes fixed on the young girl.

The old barn creaked. Lamplight still showed in the house. She imagined the Earl was drinking. She imagined his wife was cursing. Kaya shuffled around, languid strides,
kicking at the ground and tugging at her unkempt hair. Nuria was beginning to recognise this behaviour from her. She waited patiently and watched her with open blue eyes. She possessed her father’s handsome features but the poor girl’s voice had shrivelled to nothing. Gone was the mischief. She was afraid.
It was simpler when no one believed her. This was far more terrifying. Now people were getting involved and wanted to help and she would have to face the awful truth.