The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (8 page)

Brian set down his wheelbarrow, arched his shirtless back and let out an exaggerated yawn.

He was nearly twenty years old with a ragged and patchy beard that crawled around his narrow face. It wouldn’t grow right and he was conscious of it all the time, forever tugging or fingering it during conversation. It really looked as if he had gathered locks of shorn hair and stuck them to his annoyingly youthful skin. He had once cracked a man’s head open for poking fun at his beard. Bertram had barred him from the inn but thankfully not reported the attack to the Churchmen. The man had been passing through and left the following morning, bloodied scalp wrapped in linen. Brian now picked up his drink from Antolly, who brewed his own and charged less.

He went to the well, cranked the handle and raised the bucket. Clear water sloshed over the rim. He drank, gulping it down, and then poured the rest over his sweat covered face and torso.

Soaked, his beard looked even worse, like a half-drowned rodent festering beneath his nose.

“Fuck, it’s getting hot,” he said, loosening the scarf around his throat and squeezing his crotch.

Jeremy, loitering a few feet away, said nothing. His vision was fixed on Quinn’s cottage at the bottom of the low hill.

“Really getting hot.”

He leaned back against the well, dark eyes scowling at the bustling village. He squeezed himself once more.

“I’m leaving with the Churchmen convoy in the morning. They’ve put me in charge of the horses. A few measly fucking coins in my pocket.”

Jeremy waved his hand.

“Who the fuck are you waving at, boy?” said Brian.

“It’s Quinn,” he muttered, smiling down at her. “She’s seen me. Wave at her. Act normal.”

Brian peered toward the cottage. He saw the blocky figure of Quinn and spat.

“I'm not fucking waving at her. I don’t even like the bitch.”

He tossed the empty bucket into the well. It hit the water with a loud splash. He tugged at his crotch.

“You’re wasting your time with her. She ain’t into cock. Have you ever seen her with a fella?”

Jeremy’s face reddened. “That’s just nasty gossip.”

Brian snorted. “What’s she doing?”

“Saddling her horse.”

He paused, glanced at Brian.

“The three strangers are inside the Holy House. Make sure you pass the names and descriptions of them to the emissary.”

“I will. I know that. You don’t need to keep reminding me,”

“It’s important he knows.”

“I fucking know all that. Stop going on, Jeremy.” He stamped around. “You know I could easily drown you in the well.”

“Sure.”

He swaggered toward Jeremy, bumped foreheads.

“I could smash your fucking face in until you wet yourself and then take over. You understand me, you little prick?”

“You don’t scare me, Brian.”

“I do scare you, Jeremy. Look at you, the big man, shaking like a fucking girl. You got a cunt between your legs or something?”

A sickly grin covered Jeremy’s lips. “How are you with languages, Brian? Maybe if you could learn their tongue then you
could
take over. It’s a shame you’re such a fucking inbred retard.”

The young man lifted his fist, then lowered it and picked at his beard. “Is Quinn going to be a problem?”

Jeremy swallowed before answering. “She’s meeting with someone to buy a piece of Ancient tech. I don’t know who and I don’t know what it is she’s buying. Then she’s going to Mosscar. She says it can help her survive in there.”

Brian chuckled. “What the fuck are you doing about it?"

“I’ve tried stopping her but she’s determined to find out why Clarissa ended up there.”

Jeremy paused.

“She shouldn’t have gone in there.”

Brian trudged back to his wheelbarrow.

“If you can’t stop her going,” he said. “Then you need to give her a reason to come back.”

He pulled at his crotch.

“See, that’s a good idea, ain’t it? Find a reason for her to turn around and come back. Not bad for an inbred retard, right?”

He looked at Jeremy sternly.

“You can’t let her get inside Mosscar.”

“I’m staying,” said the Map Maker. “This is where I belong now.”

Nuria’s mouth curled.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“But you hate staying in one place.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“We’ll be moving from village to village. You’ll see a lot of new places.”

“I’ve travelled all my life. This is where I’m going to stop.”

“Why couldn’t you have picked Dessan as a final place to stay?”

The Map Maker remained silent.

“You left behind a woman carrying your unborn child. You might have been happy there. I know Sadie would’ve been.”

He stared forward at the man on the cross. “Dessan is not here and here is where I need to be.”

Nuria shook her head. Despite their differences and his increasingly odd ways, she was uncomfortable leaving him behind.

“Will they look after you?”

“I can hear her clearly now,” he replied, ignoring the question. “This place has brought clarity to the noise. I never imagined it was a voice. I’d hoped it was but often I thought it was a punishment. Now I know different. Her words are inside me. This is where it begins for me. For all of us.”

Nuria frowned. “Who can you hear?”

Stone shrugged and walked away. The enigmatic man had made his decision and another piece of his rag-tag family was lost, albeit an edgy and dysfunctional and sometimes unwanted piece, but a piece nonetheless. The Map Maker had chosen his place; surrounded by strangers with a curious belief in something intangible. For a fleeting moment, he envied the man and wondered what it felt like to arrive somewhere and know, in that instant, it was where you belonged. There had been a place like that for him during childhood. Slowly, though, he believed such a place existed now.

Though not here in Brix, not exactly.

He glanced around the Holy House, noting the trappings of the Ennpithian faith. Quinn was right. There were crosses everywhere.
He thought of the branding on his arm. Was this cross truly any different to the shapes scorched into his flesh? Was this mythical deity observing him and tapping into his rambling thoughts this very moment?
Was he plotting the places men and women stopped and had picked the Map Maker to stop here? Were choices not really choices after all? Stone grimaced. No deity was choosing his path. He was a free man. One foot after the other. But had the deity chosen for him
not
to choose? Should he stay here out of defiance or would that defiance be the deity’s choice, too?

No wonder the villagers looked miserable. He’d only been here for one afternoon and his head was already aching.

He stepped outside, the sun on his face, the wind in his hair. The boy hiding behind the well had gone and Quinn’s cottage looked still. The workshop doors were closed and her horse was missing. Crossbow over his shoulder, sword buckled at his waist, he set the box of ammunition on the ground, placed his boot on it, and closed his eyes.

“How was your business with Mr Boyd?”

He’d already heard Duggan’s approach. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The man wore armour and his leathery face was squashed beneath an iron helmet. He carried a bag of coins; similar to the one Boyd had offered them in the inn, though noticeably smaller.

“This belongs to you.”

He tossed it in his gloved hand.

“It’s the reward for the capture of Sal Munton.”

Stone looked into the man’s eyes; he saw frustrated tolerance.

“Well, it’s yours.”

He threw the bag. It hit Stone in the chest and dropped to his feet, landing with a clink.

“You might not be Kiven but I don’t trust any of you.”

Stone glanced at the cross on the man’s armour.

“You’d rather trust that?”

“It’s not too late to place you in the barracks. I don’t leave until the morning. I’m sure I can think of a reason to arrest you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

Nuria stepped into the warm sunshine. “He’s adamant he’s staying …” She stopped as she saw Duggan.

“Who’s staying?” said Duggan, nose twitching.

“Our friend.”

“That stupid man calling himself the Map Maker? What’s his real name? Why does he hide it? Is he wanted?”

“He doesn’t have a name,” said Stone.

“Not everyone starts life the same way.” Nuria folded her arms. “Besides, Father Devon asked him to say. It seems his word carries a lot of weight in this village.”

Duggan turned away from her.

“Make sure Boyd enlists some new help on his trip,” he said. “I don’t want you two back in Brix.”

He bent, picked up the bag from the dirt, and chucked it at Nuria. Instinctively, she caught it.

“Enjoy it. Women are good at spending coin.”

He walked away.

“Prick,” said Nuria.

Stone looked at her and smiled.

“You frighten him,” said the Map Maker, joining them on the steps. “Look at these people. They live in fear. All of them. Fear of the Lord and the Above and the sins they are guilty of. It has been drummed into them from birth. How the sins of their ancestors created this awful world. How their sins perpetuate the evil we face. These people are abused in a way I have never seen before. Not through weapons or brute strength. But in here.”

He tapped his wrists against his bald head.

“Then why do you want to stay?” said Nuria.

“Have you not been listening to me? A part of me has been missing all these years. I first discovered it when I met Sadie and she gave me a map from the time of the Ancients. It opened up a doorway to the past. And it’s here. The rest of me. It’s all here. My true purpose.”

He gestured toward the old stone building. Stone grunted, stooped for the ammunition box.

“I don’t like leaving you behind,” said Nuria.

“Last chance,” said Stone.

But he was no longer listening, only talking. He was going to lead the people from the dark and into the light. He was going to do this and do that. His mouth moved and the words came out and little of it made any sense. They had fled the murderous gangs of Gallen and tossed him off the edge of the world and Stone realised the mercurial man had never seemed more content that right now. He was eager to leave with Nuria. He was looking forward to the road. There was nothing he liked nothing about the village; except Quinn. He thought about her dead niece and wondered how she would survive in Mosscar.

Maybe they could detour?

Stone edged into the shadows, leaving Nuria stranded with the Map Maker. She threw him a sideways glance –
thanks a lot
. He watched her for a long time, soft pale skin, dirty blonde hair tied into a ponytail, and that sense of belonging touched his murky soul.

“Nuria,” he called.

She eased the talkative man onto the steps of the Holy House and told him to rest.

Hands on her hips, she leaned toward Stone, lips curled smile. “I think he’s staying.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Would you ever consider staying?”

“Here? No.”

“No, not here, but somewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked into her bright blue eyes and saw the humour had gone. He plucked the bag of coins from her palm.

“Shall we go back to the inn?”

She realised he wasn’t going to answer.

“Sure.”

As they walked through the village, Stone said, “What kind of a person bundles an eleven year old girl into a city stricken with sickness?”

“You don’t think she went in there alone?”

“Quinn doesn’t.”

“It’s too horrible to think about. I just want to get drunk.”

“How do they survive but the girl doesn’t?”

They stopped outside the inn.

“We’re working for Boyd,” she said.

Stone scratched his beard. “I reckon we can do more than one thing at a time.”

It was the season of long hot days and short warm nights. It was the season when Shauna slept naked with her husband.

Not that he was there to appreciate it.

She woke abruptly, a film of perspiration on her face, the fourth night in a row it had happened. Her dreams had grown messy. She sat up, blankets slipping to her waist. Patches of grey moonlight slanted into the room. The wind ached. The cattle groaned. The dream had faded. She licked her lips. Her throat was dry. She had taken to bringing a half-filled cup of water with her at night. She reached for it, drank too quickly, set it down gasping.