The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (35 page)

“There’s no need to be that suspicious,” said Boyd, once the wagons had passed without incident.

“You don’t like the way we work?” said Stone. “You can always go back and hire Dobbs and Farrell.”

“Not you,” said Duggan, blocking the doorway. “I don’t want Gallenese in here. I’m sick of you people.”

“Do you understand who I am?”

“I know who you’re claiming to be and it’s laughable. Get out of my sight, Map Maker. Or they’ll be a banishment order for you as well.”

The man’s eyes were blazing with anger. Shauna looked at the Map Maker and nodded.
Duggan slammed the door as he trudged away, disconsolate. He went to the Holy House and dropped onto a wooden pew.

He stared at the man on the cross.

Was it him?

I know who you’re claiming to be and it’s laughable.

He was a
fragment of Sapphire Johnson’s fantasy. That’s all. How long ago had those words been written? A thousand years ago? Two thousand years? Father Devon was convinced he knew the timing of the Cloud Wars but no exact records existed and only small stories still circled of the decades of winter and the shifting of the lands when the Before collapsed. But it was all speculation. The man of faith was desperate to believe in anything and anyone and the Map Maker had foolishly obliged and indulged him. The moment he’d read the word
dogs
he knew he was being mocked. How could Father Devon have been so cruel? Dogs didn’t exist. They hadn’t existed for billions of years. Or thousands of years. Or however long. It didn’t matter. The diary was made up nonsense. He would return the book and find a horse and leave this place.

There was nothing for him here. Not even Shauna.

“I’m laughable.” He lifted his stumps. “If you’re there, really there, why did you do this to me? Why?”

You are special to me. You do not understand how long I have waited for you to hear me, my son. Many of my children die. You survived. You have outlived them all. I am so proud.

“Proud of what?” said the Map Maker, aloud. “I was stupid for even believing it. Father Devon is an old fool.”

He is misguided, my son. His time is soon to end. He needs you to bring substance to his decades of service at the feet of a false Lord. Real men believe in warriors, my son. Father Devon has been brainwashed by the Holy House. But soon his time and their time will finish.

“When I was a child you were just noise. A horrible noise. Then I realised you were a voice but I could never make out your words.”

You might not have understood the words, my son. But you have always understood their meaning.

I have called to you since the day you were born.

“I like talking to you. I feel safe. Are you from Chett? From the city?”

No, and you were not born there, my son, you were born here, in the arena of our people.

“You were born in Mosscar.”

He sat forward. “What?”

The voice had come from behind him; the hackles rose on his neck, his mouth hung open.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“I am your blood mother. I placed you here forty years ago. I crossed into Brix under the cover of darkness and planted you as a seed. It has been our way for centuries.” Her voice was clean and smooth. “I left you on the steps of the Holy House. Your tiny eyes sparkled at me. Your tiny hands thrust toward me. You were a beautiful baby. But that night, as I left, raiders came and you were one of the many things stolen. I called to you. I have always called to you. Now you are finally here with me.”

The Map Maker shivered.

“You’ve always known you never belonged in Gallen. Your path had begun elsewhere in this world.”

“But how was your voice in my head? I don’t understand.”

He began to turn, slowly, and glimpsed a figure in a hooded cloak, head turned away.

The old world left gifts for the new one.

The Map Maker stared. “But you’re half my age. You cannot be my mother. That’s impossible.”

“I have many gifts.
And I have watched you since your arrival. That first moment you walked into the Holy House I was there. My name is Lannast. I am
Cailleach
. For generations I have planted our children amongst them.”

“But I’m older than you.”

“We do not see the world that way, do we? We see the world in different shapes and colours.”

The Map Maker gasped. “Then, then I’m a Shaylighter?”

“Your birth name is Harron.”

“I … I have a name? Harron?” He blinked. “Harron, Harron.” His eyes were wet. “Is that my real name? Harron?”

“Listen to me,” said Lannast. “We do not have much time.”

You will instruct Father Devon to call another congregation for tonight. There will be prayer and song. During this time you will light the beacon. Essamon and Soirese are dead and Callart and Oxron will not come to Brix unless the beacon is lit. That was the Engineer’s plan. Callart and Oxron will wait.

“They slaughtered the villagers in Great Onglee,” said the Map Maker. “Surely you don’t want that to happen here?”

“These are our lands,” hissed Lannast. “Do not fail me, my son. Feel the surge of Shaylighter blood within your veins. Help us take back what they stole. For centuries we have hidden within the ruins, in the dirt. They sent us there and we died in our thousands until the disease killed us no more. Once we rode free beneath the sun. Once there were no walls around us.”

Ennpithia belongs to us, my son. Now the Engineer has given us weapons that are superior to our enemies and promised us our lands back. You have grown into the most powerful of all our seeds. The Ennpithians trust you, Harron. They believe you have risen from the wooden cross to walk among them and wash the sins from their bodies.

Let them believe, Harron.

And then we can finally destroy them. The Map Maker is dead; Harron lives and Harron will lead us.

TWENTY SEVEN

The road shifted northeast, taking them away from the coastline and into hilly country, fiercely blasted by the wind.

The sea became a dark smudge between the green of the land and the reddish blue of the sky. After long hours in the saddle they reached the lonely looking hamlet of Featherun where they stopped and purchased vegetables from children tending the gardens of the Holy House. It was a more modest structure of wattle and timber with a thatched roof and a large wooden cross over the doorway. The priest was a short man dressed in black with a large shiny cross around his neck and Boyd addressed him as Father Ames. It was late in the afternoon and the children were tired after a long day but they perked up at the sight of visitors and eagerly plucked at the cucumbers and lettuces and tomatoes.

Nuria dug out a large handful of coins and dropped them into a dish carried by the eldest child. She had paid too much and the child shook his head and tried to hand half of it back but she patted him on the head and told him to keep it. She had no fondness for the metal currency and the children’s faces blew away the cobwebs. Even Stone cracked a smile at the infectious bunch. As they prepared to leave Father Ames blessed them for the journey ahead but only Boyd responded. Quinn stared at the man with a numb expression.

The children waved them off with bright smiles. Further down the road, Boyd explained they were orphans.

They pressed on through the hills, the road dropping into a long gorge and then cresting a meadow of bright red flowers swaying in the wind. The horses kicked up clods of dried mud and the late sun beat down on them. Stone saw an abundance of ambush spots but there were no threats. Boyd carried two forbidden pistols, concealed within his clothing; he didn’t need protection, reasoned Stone, he no doubt had plans for them.
But Stone wasn’t really bothered. He was glad to have left Brix. Pretan was dead and at least the children of Ennpithia were safe from the nightmare that was the Predator, although the truth behind Clarissa’s death still eluded them, or so he knew. The Map Maker soured his thoughts further. He knew he would have to go back and collect him. He couldn’t abandon him there with Duggan around.

“Touron,” said Boyd.

Nuria detected a tinge of pride in the announcement as the town spread before them. Thatched rooftops were tucked behind high walls of wood and stone, fortified by watchtowers and ringed by a deep ditch bristling with thousands of wooden spikes. Armoured Churchmen soldiers roamed the battlements. A huge wooden drawbridge was lowered and the gates were open but manned by a cluster of sentries with swords and pikes.
Men and women toiled in the fields outside, stopping to wipe the sweat from their brows and glance at the four riders in the distance. Beyond the south wall dense woodland surrounded a large lake, its rippled surface glinting with fading sunlight. There was a bustling lumber camp and the methodical chopping of wood rang in the air.

Boyd presented himself at the gates. The sentries knew him; he was the portly trader with the colourful neck scarves, always ready with a story or a joke or a bit of local gossip, and they recognised Quinn, his ever faithful escort, though she appeared humourless and distant. They studied Stone and Nuria but there was no challenge and they ushered them through into a wall of noise.
As they trotted forward, Stone saw one of the sentries catch Boyd’s eye. The plump man leaned from his saddle and listened. Whatever the information was the sentry received a handful of coins pressed into his gloved fist.

They rode in single column through crowded streets, hemmed in by buildings of wood and stone. Stone could feel the heat from his horse and she snorted impatiently as they were reduced to walking pace. Wagons rumbled by. People threaded back and forth. Cattle bleated, white feathered birds clucked. They reminded him of the black ollish birds found in Gallen. Nuria focused her gaze on the Holy House in the centre of town. It dwarfed the surrounding buildings, grey stone with towers and sloping roofs and spires and statues and crosses. Boyd told her it was the largest and tallest building in Ennpithia, though not the oldest. For some disconcerting reason it caused a shiver to dance her spine.

Stone glimpsed a tannery where red-faced villagers in aprons boiled and stretched animal hide. Children weaved about them; shouting, laughing, playing, brawling, stealing. There were solemn men in black robes and solemn men in brown robes, all bearing wooden crosses around their necks. And wherever they looked they saw groups of soldiers in full armour. It was clear that the messengers from Brix had arrived;
Touron was prepared, aware that the Shaylighters were an imminent threat to the peace and stability of the land and that the Archbishop, the pinnacle of the Holy House, had been targeted. But the Archbishop had remained here and the beacon was unlit and the insidious plot was crumbling.

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” said Stone. “There are plenty of soldiers here. Why not send them to Brix?”

“Many of these men were boys when war erupted with the Kiven. What do they know of fighting hundreds of men? Nothing. The Marshals are hardened veterans, Stone. They’ll rid Ennpithia of the Shaylighter menace once and for all.”

The balmy evening caressed the town with a dusky veil as the sun unshackled itself and began to flee. White and grey clouds drifted slowly in the wind, feathered at the edges, tinged with red and orange. The farmers were trudging back through the gates, aching and sweating, looking to head home and clean up and pluck the youngest child onto their lap as hot broth was ladled into a bowl; others sought the nearest watering hole for cheap drink and cheap food, a hand of cards or a game of dice; some found their way into the back rooms and back alleys where the young women and young men were available at a price.

Fires were lit and Stone could taste wood smoke on his lips as they entered a large square. They saw beggars and fools and bullies and addicts. Dirt encrusted hands thrust toward them and were ignored. There were shouts and gestures and they were also ignored. A triple gallows, stripped of rope, creaked loudly. They reached a walled compound where numerous banners and flags fluttered from the rooftop of a large building. Boyd studied them and nodded to himself. The sentries on the gate were armed with pikes and carried swords. He addressed them briefly and ordered for their horses to be stabled. He.

“This might take a few hours,” he explained, and pointed in the direction of a nearby inn.

“What did the soldier tell you when we first arrived?” asked Stone. “

“That both riders I sent arrived safely.”

“What else?”

He hesitated.

“Sal Munton and his gang were hanged this morning. I’m sorry. Look, this man Munton was no innocent. Nor were his child thieves. They were guilty of murder and robbery and possibly even a rape. I know the man felt he was on a mission to protect these children but he should have come forward.”

“Kaya’s own parents didn’t believe her,” said Nuria. “No one would have believed him.”

Boyd shrugged. “Pretan’s dead. That business is over. Are we going to argue about this?”

“Over?” said Nuria. “Not for those children. It’ll never be over.”

Quinn looked at her and saw the pain in her blue eyes.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” said Boyd. “They’re dead.”

He took out a leather bag of coins, tossed it to Stone.

“Payment for your escort.”

“There’s no point brooding over the hangings,” said Quinn. “Benny’s right about Munton. He was a proper bastard. But the children …”

She left the words hanging, sitting with her hands in her lap, shoulders hunched, thick ropes of hair hanging around her bruised face.

“We still don’t know what caused your daughter’s sickness,” said Nuria. “We know
why
she went into Mosscar but it wasn’t the city that killed her.”

Quinn reached for her mug of ale, drank and said nothing. Stone watched her closely but had little else to add. Nor did Nuria, in truth. So the three of them drank and lit pipes and ordered food and passed the time listening to the conversations all around;
bloated stories of the civil war, long winded jokes about a man with three wives, a discussion of faith and the rights and wrongs of the written word, excited chatter about the opening of the town’s first bank, bits of gossip about a pair of well-known sisters who belonged to a wealthy family and
frequented a male whorehouse. Few spoke of the Shaylighters. None spoke of the massacre at Great Onglee. They appeared detached from the problems in the west. Boyd had told Stone that Touroners, as he called them, were a different breed; it was all about the moment with them.

The hours drifted and the table grew cluttered with food stained bowls and plates. The inn was full. Men and women lined the bar and stood in groups. Outside, the streets turned dark.

It was left to Nuria to finally break the edgy silence.

“What else happened with Jeremy last night?”

Quinn lowered her pipe.” He killed Kaya. He tried to kill me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But there was something else, wasn’t there?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you trust us? Stone rescued you. We want to help. We’re on your side.”

Quinn bit her lip, fiddled with her thick hair.

“I do, I mean, I do trust you both, especially after Mosscar. But it’s hard.” She looked at them both. “You have to understand that I don’t trust people easily. When I told you about Clarissa being my daughter it was because I was exhausted, my mind was shot. I just wanted someone else to know, not just Benny and Daniel.”

She leaned forward, lowered her voice.

“Jeremy told me the Engineer killed Clarissa, this man Omar, the one Benny has been looking into.”

She retold Jeremy’s story of the experiments inside Mosscar.

“How do you inject sickness into someone?” said Nuria. She frowned. “Is that even possible?”

“Clarissa’s dead. It has to be possible.”

“Then this Omar is more dangerous than Boyd realises,” said Stone. “This isn’t just about arming Shaylighters with weapons.”

“I don’t care about any of that. I’m leaving in the morning. I’m going to Kiven and I’m going to find this Omar and kill the bastard.”

She paused.

“Will you come with me? I know how good you both are in a fight.”

“What about the treaties?” said Nuria. “If you kill this man it will be seen as an assassination – an act of war - it could easily spark a second conflict between Ennpithia and Kiven.”

“Then we’ll need to be far from there once it’s done. I know little of the world beyond Ennpithia. But you two know plenty of it.”

“We want to help you, Quinn, I promise, but think about it; killing this one man might cause hundreds or even thousands to die.”

Quinn slammed her fist against the table.

“The bastard murdered Clarissa. My little girl. She’ll never be my age. Do you understand that? She will always be eleven. Always. All those years were taken from her by this animal. We made Pretan pay. We’ll make Omar pay. I’m not scared to face him and the League. I don’t care about Ennpithia or Kiven but I can’t go after him by myself. I need your help. Will you come or not?”

Stone plucked a piece of cold meat from his plate, popped it into his mouth, chewed slowly.

“I walked into Nuria’s home city to kill a man and avenge my murdered family. I didn’t think about the consequences and I didn’t care about them. I’d carried that hate for more than thirty years and it ripped me apart inside. I was a man of hate, burning with it, barely talking, only hunting, year after year. Tomas and Emil followed me into Chett and it didn’t matter who we killed or how many. Then he was dead and I still felt nothing. But …”

He placed a hand on Nuria’s arm. She closed her eyes.

“But it helped me. It freed me and gave me a new purpose in a way I never expected it to. We have no idea what happened to the city once we left and we probably never will. Nuria is right. You have to think this through.”

Nuria opened her eyes and whispered, “Clarissa deserves to be avenged. Despite all I said.”

Quinn nodded.

“I can’t bear life without her. I have to do this.”

“We’re going with,” said Stone. “How important is this man in Kiven? In real terms. Who is he?”

Quinn explained of the three factions that governed the half-ruined city and how the Alliance was constructed to act as one voice.

“Omar is governor of the League of Restoration. The oldest and most hostile of the factions. They were the ones who sparked the war. The other factions simple followed. But Omar is not Kiven by blood. I know that much. Rumour is he only came to Ennpithia last year.”

“That’s a short amount of time to gain power,” said Stone, easing back in his chair.

“So if we march in there and kill him,” said Nuria, “there’s no guarantee it would trigger a second war.”

“Only if they suspect it was Ennpithians.”

“We’re not Ennpithians. Remember?”