The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (6 page)

She eased her palms against the table, closed her eyes. Her skin tingled from the fire.

She wanted to be reborn in Ennpithia.

“Nuria?”

She opened her eyes.

He was looking directly at her. He seemed calmer. He wanted to say something but he didn’t have the words.

She nodded, smiled at him.

Stools scraped as the two men finished at the bar. The older man reached for the door. The younger one hesitated, angry eyes glaring at Stone and Nuria. His companion leaned toward him and tried to pull him outside but the younger man refused to budge. His dark eyes bored into Nuria. She stared back at him, unblinking. Stone eased back in his seat, watching.

Boyd, standing at the bar, looked on.

The young man’s spirit faltered. He stamped from the inn, slamming the door hard behind him.

The portly merchant wandered back to the table.

“Who are they?” asked Nuria.

“The older one is called Dobbs. The younger one is Farrell. Swordsmen for hire. No one you need to concern yourself with.”

Boyd settled at the table, unflustered, as Bertram carried over bowls of mutton soup, bread, hard cheese and mugs of beer.

“I’m Benny Boyd,” he said. “And you’re most welcome.”

“I’m Nuria. This is Stone. Why did you claim to know us?”

“I do. Sort of.” He grinned, tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth. “You’re both Gallenese.”

“First we’re Kiven. Now we’re Gallenese.”

“Oh, you’re not Kiven. I know that much about you already.”

“Does Kiven mean outsider?”

Boyd thought for a moment. “I suppose it does. In a way. Kiven are the people from the Black Region. Across the Place of Bridges. They live in the old city and the shanty towns. But you’re not from there. You’re from Gallen. Gallenese people are from Gallen. I was born in north Gallen. In Belsont. I recognise the look in the three of you.” He paused for a moment. “Where is your companion?”

“He was curious about the Holy House.”

Boyd reached to his chest where the wooden sign hung around his neck.

“What is that sign?”

“Sign? It’s a cross,” he said. “It’s a symbol of our faith and our love for the Lord in the Above. He even watches over Gallen, despite the brutality of that land. One day His Light will shine there.”

The two of them looked at him blankly. He drank, partly amused at their ignorance.

“Please, tuck in. You both look hungry. I know Gallen has no faith and I shouldn’t mock your lack of knowledge.” He fell silent for a moment. “My family were traders and had a shop in Belsont but my father sent us away when we were young. I had two brothers and young men were going missing in the area.” He patted his round stomach. “I haven’t carried this around all my life. I was fit and strong once.” He smiled, somewhat fondly. “We salvaged a boat and sailed here. Ennpithia. The promised land. The land of green fields. That was a long time ago now. We built a business and we thrived. I learned, years later, that the disappearances our father had saved us from were connected to a place called Tamnica. It was some kind of slave camp.”

Stone leaned across the table, eyes narrowed, lip curled.

“What do you want?”

“Ah, you do talk then?” said Boyd. “I want you to eat and drink. And then I want you to work for me. Because this is Ennpithia, not Gallen, and here men and women work.”

Nuria peered across the rim of her mug.

“I’m a travelling merchant. I leave tomorrow morning. I trade at all the villages and settlements through western Ennpithia. Mostly we hug the coastline. We’ll be gone for ten weeks. I saw how you dealt with Sal Munton and you were not intimidated by Captain Duggan. I’m a very good judge of character.” He nodded toward the closed inn door. “Dobbs and Farrell were supposed to be Quinn’s replacement. Quinn is my usual escort and my friend. She recommended them but I would prefer to hire you two. You see, a merchant requires protection on the road.”

“From who?” asked Nuria?

“Bandits. Thieves. Touron law will hang a man for robbery but there are no Churchmen soldiers on the roads to make any arrests.” He saw the questioning look upon their faces. “Touron is the central town in Ennpithia. The high council that meets there create the laws by which we all live.”

Stone smiled thinly. There was only one law he lived by.
Survival, at any cost.

“I pay well.” Boyd set a plump leather bag onto the table. Neither of them touched it. “I see you carry only swords. Quinn can provide you with ranged weapons. You might need them.”

Stone loosened the bag, reached in and scooped out a handful of metal coins.

“What are these?”

“The economy of Ennpithia is different to that of Gallen.” said Boyd, burping loudly. “Gallen is built on trade and theft. Here, if you want something then you pay for it with coin. That’s a large amount of money I’m offering you both. There are men who would give their right arm for this deal. But they wouldn’t be of much use if they did.”

Unsmiling, Stone tipped the coins back into the bag.

“That was a joke,” said Boyd.

He knotted the bag, glanced at Nuria. She realised he wanted her to decide.

“How important are these things? Truthfully?”

Boyd smiled at them. It was like explaining numbers to children. He shifted in his seat.

“Coin will put food in your belly. A roof over your head. A woman … or a man in your bed. As I told you, this isn’t Gallen. You can’t walk around killing and stealing with no consequence. There are laws here and the law will pursue you if you do. This is the new world. This is why people try to make it to Ennpithia. Coin is everything. Coin is how you survive.”

Nuria took a deep breath, nodded.

“We’ll work for you.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands. “Now, eat before this food grows cold.”

Stone lifted the bowl of soup and sniffed. A rich smell filled his nostrils. He saw the look of disapproval on Boyd’s face and the merchant offered him a wooden spoon. Nuria tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it into the hot food and stirred it around. She smiled across the table at Stone and was about to take a bite when the inn door creaked open and Farrell stepped back inside.

“I’m not happy with the new arrangement, Boyd,” he said, standing in the open doorway. His voice was calmer, his face resigned. “Quinn said you’d give us work and I need that coin. I’ve made promises on earning that coin.”

“I’m sorry,” said Boyd. He appeared sincere. “I have to pick the best to protect my business.”

Dobbs appeared behind him. He had the same resigned look on his face. Neither man could afford to back down.

“I want you to reconsider hiring us, Mr Boyd,” said Farrell. “I’m giving you a chance to change your mind.”

“I don’t want any trouble in here,” called Bertram.

“Then we’ll take it outside,” growled Dobbs.

Stone hurled the soup bowl into Farrell’s face. He howled as the hot liquid soaked him and flailed blindly for his sword. Nuria sprang from her chair and jabbed her fist into his throat. She slammed him against the table, scattering mugs of ale. She grabbed his wrist and bent his arm behind his back until he cried out. Dobbs flashed his blade. Stone wielded his sword against him. The ring of iron against iron was loud in the confined space of the inn.

“Enough,” shouted Bertram, aiming two pistol crossbows at them.

Dobbs looked into Stone’s eyes. There was nothing but coldness. He kept throwing his weight behind his sword.

“No more,” bellowed Bertram, taking a step forward.

Stone could see the crossbows out of the corner of his eye. Farrell, pinned to the table, whined as Nuria jammed his arm further up his back.

“I swear to the Lord I will drop you both,” hissed Bertram.

Stone took a step back and reluctantly lowered his sword. Dobbs mirrored him, maintaining eye contact.

“Put your swords away. Now.”

Slowly, both men sheathed their weapons.

Bertram let out a long sigh. His shoulders relaxed.

Stone took him, hands moving fast, nearly a blur. He snapped Bertram’s wrists back and snatched both crossbows. He widened his arms; trained one on Dobbs, the second on the innkeeper.

“Nuria, let him up.”

She released Farrell’s arm and backed away, half-drawing her sword. Farrell came up from the table, smeared with blood and squashed vegetables. Shaking with anger and embarrassment he stormed from the inn, barking at anyone who dared even look at him.

Boyd pushed back his chair.

“I never made a deal with you, Dobbs,” he said. “Understand that you were only a recommendation. And a piss poor one at that. This ends here.”

Dobbs nodded. “Yeah.”

“Out,” said Stone.

He waited until the door was closed before twirling the pistol crossbows around and offering them to Bertram.

Boyd smiled. “I think I’ve made an excellent choice.”

The Map Maker stepped through an arched doorway and stood perfectly still, waiting, listening.

Despite the dampness of the building, warmth surged through him and tears surprisingly moistened his vision. He had never experienced such serenity, witnessed such inner calm; it was truly overwhelming,
a sensation more potent than any of his maps or any of the women he had ever known; even Sadie, who carried his child back in Gallen. But then his skin tingled and the hairs on his neck stood on end and a new emotion engaged him. He took several steps forward across a stone floor. He had walked this floor before. A long time ago. Far into the murkiness of his past. Even further back than that. The footsteps were no longer his. He did not know who they belonged to.

But that was impossible.

He was yanked, roughly, with such tremendous force that breath escaped from his body.

Confused, the Map Maker looked around. A few villagers were clustered on benches, heads bowed, hands clasped together, muttering quietly.

What was wrong with him?

His feelings blurred, overlapped. He could not unscramble them. He swayed, dizzy. It nibbled at his skin, clawed into the depths of his soul.

I am frightened, he thought, I have been frightened all my life.

But I have been here before.

Walked this very floor, stepped through this very dust. No, no, no!

He was tired, hungry and dehydrated from the expedition across the Metal Sea. He had never journeyed beyond the shores of Gallen and there were no Holy Houses in its arid wastelands.

He had not been here before.

Yet still the turmoil raged in his head. He swivelled around once more, this time slowly absorbing every feature of the building’s interior; its tall windows of glass overlaid with metal crosses, its white washed stone walls that climbed toward a pointed wooden ceiling supported by many beams, its rows of wooden benches to his left and right, its faded carpet that led toward a broad altar draped with a green cloth edged with gold trim. He studied the altar further. It bristled with tall candles and ornate goblets and three large crosses; two of wood flanking one of shiny yellow metal. There was a curved wooden podium to one side of the covered altar. It was empty and the Map Maker had the sudden urge to climb its steps and stand inside, imagining himself holding sway over hundreds of eager and devoted listeners.

He smiled.

But then the noise was back in his head, metal scraping metal. Faraway, then closer, penetrating him, guiding, swirling inside.

Look …

He tilted his head back, saw the carving. It was a solid wooden cross, quite possibly ten feet in height, perhaps taller, but unlike any of the crosses he had seen since arriving in Ennpithia; this one bore the shape of a man upon it, his face contorted in pain, a crown of thorns upon his skull, his legs bound, nails driven through his hands.

The Map Maker stared, mouth agape. The clarity came to him. The lines joined together. The shapes snapped into place.

You have been here before. So long ago. In a way they will never understand, never believe, and never accept.

The Map Maker blinked, looked frantically around. The voice had been distinct, as if whispered in his ear. He could see the villagers at the back of the building, hunched over. They had not budged.

Then a tall figure emerged from the shadows. It was Deacon Rush. Footsteps echoed as he walked toward him.

“One of Mr Boyd’s friends,” he said, politely.

The Map Maker did not respond.

“It is a shame you did not arrive earlier. You missed our Reverence Morning service.” He paused. “Father Devon delivered one of his most powerful sermons. It was very uplifting.”

“Who is he?” asked the Map Maker, nodding at the crucified figure.

“It is the Son of our Lord.”

“Where does your Lord live? In the village?”

Rush frowned, raised his eyes. “Our Lord is in the Above. He watches over all of us.”