“We are more than that,” he said.
“The militia will remain,” said Ilan, the Elder Chief, a man of venerable age. His eyes were bright, his skin thick and lined. His words were slowly placed but silence had descended upon the hut the moment he had spoken. “This is not a discussion about the removal of the militia. Mallon is a proud man and trains his warriors well but they are not to provide protection for the village. The Centon is the only protection we need.”
“That is not protection,” he had hissed. “It’s slavery.”
The other council members had gasped at his sudden outburst but the Elder Chief raised one hand and brought the meeting to order.
“The Centon stood before you came to this village,” he told Mallon. “It will stand when you are dust.”
Lena stood at the Centon. It was an unremarkable landmark within the village, made from wood, with rows and columns of boxes the size of a clenched fist. It was lashed flat to a broad stone by lengths of rope and the village name Dessan was carved into the front with a sequence of shapes. A single stone, heavy and darkly coloured, was wedged into one of the squares. She lifted it and advanced it forward by one square. The base of the final square in the Centon was coloured purple. She felt a shiver as she looked at it and the hair rose on her arms and the back of her neck.
She spun round to wave at Mallon again but he had turned his back on her and was talking with his men.
She sighed, and then her forehead rippled and she pointed at the forest.
“Look,” she said, though nobody could hear her.
Mallon glanced back to see Lena loitering next to the Centon. He could not believe she was testing his patience this way. Her attitude could earn her a purple ribbon if she was not careful and he would never wish that upon a child. Only a man should wear the ribbon. Not a woman. Not a child. Only she wasn’t testing him. Something had taken her eye and he followed her line of vision beyond the boundaries of the village toward the forest where a motley group of men and women had emerged. Mallon raised his shield and pointed his spear. The group began to walk along the red clay road dotted with footprints and clumps of grass breaking through the soil, moving slowly in a loose formation.
“Lena,” he shouted, and her heart skipped a beat. “Quickly, back to the village. Now.”
In a whirl, beaming brightly, the young girl ran as a bell began to ring out from a watchtower. Work ceased on the construction of the wall, cooking was abandoned, forging weapons, picking from trees, working the ploughed fields, everything stopped as the bell continued to ring. The villagers hurried to the bridge, many of them still holding work tools or carrying babies. Some took a moment to fetch weapons, machetes and swords, but many were empty handed. There was a loud babble of voices and the villagers observed two men and three women dressed in rough clothing. Some showed bruises and several carried weapons.
Mallon raced his militia to the bridge, each man fast and strong. He saw the rest of his men crowd past the villagers and form a defensive position; a crouched wall of shields, bristling with spears. A second row of men stood behind them with bows and crossbows.
The strangers stopped.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Black feathered ollish birds scampered and clucked in a pen near the river and a woman set down a sack of feed. She slowly brushed her hands against a long apron she wore and began to walk toward the bridge. She was tall, plain, flat, angular. Her hair was the colour of corn, her skin flawless, lightly browned from the sun. Her eyes sparkled green. The archers parted as she walked onto the bridge but the spearmen kept the shield wall intact and did not budge.
“I am Justine,” she said, her voice calm. “This is Dessan of the Eastern Villages.”
She gestured behind her, then placed her hands on her narrow hips, smiling warmly at them.
“Can we help you, strangers?”
A bald headed man was about to speak but a slender blonde haired woman stepped before him. Her face was bruised and a holstered pistol hung at her waist.
“I’m Nuria,” she said. “We’re not here to attack you.”
“You’d be foolish to do so,” said Mallon, tightly gripping his spear.
One of the two men was tall, sweating beneath a long coat. A rifle was strapped to his back, an ammunition belt worn across his chest, a revolver sticking out of his belt. He was the one they were watching the most. He had a rakish beard and hard eyes that simply stared. Mallon was yet to see him blink. The second man, round faced and bald, appeared less of a threat, and seemed to be in engaged in a deep conversation with himself.
“We’ve tracked a long way. We’re just looking for some shelter,” said Nuria. “Maybe a small amount of food and water, if you can spare it.”
She glanced down at the fast flowing river, the water clear, sparkling beautifully in the sunlight.
Licking her dry lips, Nuria left the heavy question dangling in the air between them. It was a great thing that she asked. This was Gallen, a mostly scorched landscape where so little existed, billions reduced to thousands, survivors somehow grinding out a meagre existence through the dark centuries after the Cloud Wars, the extinction period that saw the end of nearly all animal and plant life, founding a future for the generations to come and nothing was ever given freely, not then, not now.
“Do you have anything to trade?” asked Justine.
Nuria glanced back at one of her companions. Her eyes settled on Emil, a slight girl with brightly copper coloured hair, a patched right eye and scarred skin.
“We have nothing to trade,” she said.
Justine nodded and glanced over her shoulder, as the men and women of the village grew restless.
“At least you are honest,” she said. “We are building a wall. We need more workers. Men and women.”
“We can all work,” said Nuria.
She tapped her crouched spearmen on the shoulder and the men rose and parted, allowing her to step across the bridge. Mallon and his three warriors gathered about her as she approached the group.
“Are you willing to toil in the sun for a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs?”
“Yes,” Nuria.
“Then you are welcome,” said Justine, smiling.
A few cheers sounded from the villagers as she uttered the words. It had been a long time since strangers had come to Dessan and settled but their curiosity was to be short lived as the militia ordered them to clear the road and herded them back. People scattered; watching, pointing, muttering, and then slowly drifted back to work, in the fields and the kitchens and the groves. The bowmen marched away toward a large mud hut that served as the village armoury. Two men stood outside a doorway covered with a sheet of tarpaulin. They pulled it back and the column of men ducked inside, quickly hanging up their weapons. Justine led the dishevelled group over the bridge and past the Centon. She saw the tall man frown at it. The village opened before them, mud huts and winding paths, ploughed fields and trees with shiny fruit.
“Where have you travelled from?” she asked, as they walked, escorted by Mallon and his warriors.
Nuria hesitated at the question and glanced at the tall man. He gave an imperceptible shake of the head.
“The wasteland,” she lied. “We’ve been moving through it for a long time. We’re looking for somewhere…”
“I’m Sadie, I’m from Ford,” said the other woman in the group, blonde haired and stocky. “It’s a small town. In the Southern Deserts.”
Justine shook her head.
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “I’ve never been to that region. The nearest settlements to us are Le Sen and Agen. We make up the Eastern Villages.”
She paused outside a medium-sized mud hut with a thick thatched roof and a small chimney. The walls showed cracks.
“You can share this one. It will need cleaning. It has been empty for sometime. I’ll have some food brought to you. Later, I will present you to the village council. The Elder
Chief will want to hear your story.”
Justine cast her eyes across the silent members of the group and focused her gaze on the tall man. “All of your stories.”
It was cool inside the hut. There were several low beds with straw mattresses. Daylight filtered through cracks in the walls and slanted down from gaps in the roof. A blackened pit was beneath the chimney opening. There was rubbish and old clothing, broken spears and boots with worn soles. Stone propped his rifle against the wall and took off his pack and long coat. He eased himself down onto one of the beds and drew his revolver, emptying the bullets from the chamber. He opened his pack and took a wrapped cloth from it. He tipped out the contents of brushes and tools and began to clean his weapon.
Emil sat next to him. She had seen him clean it many times. She had seen him use it even more.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she scratched her eye, arched her back, yawned and said, “They seem friendly.”
The bald headed man, known through Gallen as the Map Maker, sat down on one of the other beds, Sadie next to him. He ran a hand over his smooth pate and took out one of his maps. Carefully, he unfolded it. They were on the edge of the unknown regions of Gallen. No knowledge existed of this territory. There were no maps, no whispered stories, no rumours. This was the place he had never reached. He had spent a lifetime mapping. Born in a cell, given no name and having no memory of his family, he had shown from an early age a keenness to draw. His masters had put this ability to good use and his youth was spent mapping his home city of Chett, the only city in Gallen, deep in the Southern Deserts, where the land was burnt and blistered and cratered. He had marked on his papers all its roads and apartment blocks and factories and had even unearthed a network of underground tunnels, and then he had been dispatched from his home and sent into the wastelands. He had found buckled highways and devastated cities but he had also discovered small towns and settlements like this one, blossoming with life.
Yet had never found a place to settle. His spirit was restless. Only once, in a town called Ford, had he stayed for any length of time, cleaning a bar to earn food and lodgings. He glanced at Sadie, who was silently watching him. She had owned the bar but now she was here, with him, by his side, complicating all aspects of his life. She was nearly twenty and he was easily twice her age. He looked across the small living space at Stone and quickly put his map away. The man had stolen his maps once. He would not allow him to do so again.
“Why did you lie?” asked Sadie.
Nuria looked at Stone, who continued to clean the grit from his revolver.
“I don’t think they should know we’re from Chett,” she said.
The Map Maker grinned.
“What did you do there, Stone? Who did you kill?”
“What does it matter to you?” said Emil.
She was sixteen and fire burned in her tongue. She had lost so many loved ones and Stone was the only one left that she felt safe with. He was not family or a loved one, but a drifter, a wasteland warrior, a man driven from one corner of Gallen to the other, spending a lifetime hunting down the man responsible for butchering his family when he was a child. His vengeance had been exacted but he had lost a close friend and now he was alone. Yet he had vowed to protect her, to keep her safe, for she too had lost Tomas, and that was their bond. She kept with Stone and Stone would keep with her.
He raised his eyes and smiled at the Map Maker, saying nothing.
“We could stay,” said Sadie, not sure where her voice fitted in. “It beats sleeping in a tent.”
She looked around the hut.
“This could work, if we stick together. I could clean this place up, get some more beds.”
“I don’t like staying in one place.”
“I think Sadie’s right,” said Nuria. “I think we should stay. Work hard for these people and benefit from what they’re offering.”
No one responded.
“We could do a lot worse than here.”
The Map Maker pushed himself to his feet.
“Why are you deciding stuff? I missed the part that made you important and put you in charge.” He slapped and scratched at his bald head, his fingers raking the skin. “When did that happen? When did you get put in charge?”
Nuria cleared her throat. She had once been a General. Now she was an exile, wanted for conspiracy, treason, murder. Taking hold of situations would never leave her.
“I don’t know you,” said The Map Maker. “I don’t know any of you. And I don’t trust you, especially not Stone. And you, what are you supposed to be?” He focused his gaze at Emil. “They didn’t seem to know what you are, did they? Maybe I should tell them what you are. Fill them in on what you can do. Maybe I’ll get a place on the council. I can be a village elder. Can you imagine me as a village elder, Stone? Stone? Can you? Are you listening to me? Why are you ignoring me? Listen to me. If you had left me and my maps alone then…”
Stone dropped six bullets into the chamber of his revolver and snapped it back. He kept the muzzle aimed loosely at the Map Maker.
“Sit,” he said.
Sadie gently held his arm and guided him back onto the bed, whispering into his ear.
“Let’s see how things work out,” said Stone, glancing at Nuria.
“I need some air,” said Emil.
She stood outside with her arms folded, listening to the bustle all around her, savouring the fresh voices. It brought a smile to her face. She tried to forget the tension inside the hut. Stone made her feel safe but she couldn’t imagine spending one night under the same roof as that bald headed weirdo and she had no affection for Nuria, either, a stray they had picked up escaping from Chett. Her nose twitched with a blend of sweet and sharp aromas and her stomach growled and lurched at the thought of the food being prepared all around her. They had survived on scraps for days. She wondered how long it would be until they would eat. Justine had assured them they would be fed and Emil had no reason to doubt her word.
She kept smiling. She was trying, she was trying so hard to adjust, to adapt, to continue as normal, as if nothing had happened, as if no one was missing, but it had and they were and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her chest burned. The air had been robbed from her lungs. She closed her single eye and wished the ground would open and swallow her whole and end the unfair pain that tortured every word, every look, and every moment that she lived and he did not. Her eyelashes grew wet but she forced the tears back inside. She was in the middle of hundreds of strangers and had no desire to break down in front of them. She did not want their care. She did not want their sympathy. She did not want to tell her story. She wished she could hear his voice again, see his brooding eyes, feel his fingers intertwine with her own.
She wanted to leave this place. Leave right now. Run and run until her calves ached and she could run no more.
“Lumpy face,” said a voice. Emil blinked her eye open and looked around. “Lumpy head.”
Emil was barely five feet tall, a tiny part in a huge world, but the two children who stood before her made her feel giant-sized as they barely reached her waist. She looked down at them. One was a boy, wearing grubby red shorts and a frayed cap. His partner in crime was a girl, of similar height and age, shorts smeared with clay, sandals loose and a threadbare vest top. Her hair was black, twisted and tangled down her narrow back. Her knees were dirty and she had a bruise on her left shin. Her hands were thrust against her bony hips and her face jutted toward Emil with a sour look in her eyes.
“You can’t stay here,” she said. “You’re a lumpy head. We don’t want any lumpy bumpy scar heads here.”
“One eye,” said the boy. “One eye. We gonna call you one eye. You have to go, one eye smelly lumpy head.”
Emil was speechless, unsure whether to laugh or cry, but before she could react a hand clipped both children hard about the head. The two little ones spun round to face a much older girl with long blonde hair. Her skin was rippled and her head disfigured. She glared a
t the two children and raised her hand again. They ran off down the path, kicking up red clay, laughing and making faces and shouting names, all of which Emil had heard a million times before.
“I’m Lena,” said the girl. “Don’t let them bother you.”
Emil shook her head.
“Nothing I’ve not heard before.”
“They hear it off the big kids. They think it’s funny.” Lena stared after the children. “They don’t realise it can hurt.”
“They call you names?”
Lena nodded.
“All the time. Sometimes it makes me cry. You’re pretty short. I’m as tall as you. I’m twelve. How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” shrugged Emil, not really quite certain.
“I’m almost as old as you,” grinned Lena. “Do you want me to show you round the village?”
Emil glanced back at the mud hut.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
“I can do this later,” said Lena, propping a broom outside. “What’s you name?”
They started walking along the path.
“Emil.”
“That’s a nice name. A girl in our school is called Emily. Is Emil short for Emily?”
Emil frowned.
“I don’t know.”
Two heavily sweating men rolled a cart past them, laden with freshly picked fruit. Lena swiped two apples.
“I bet it’s short for Emily,” she said, handing one to Emil. “You get names that can be different but they’re the same. Do you understand what I mean? Where are you from? Le Sen? Agen?”
“No,” said Emil, biting into the apple and groaning at the sweet taste. “Oh, that is good.”
“So where are you from?” asked Lena.
“I was born in a village far from here. It’s gone now. Men came and destroyed it. Killed every one.”
Lena stopped at the Centon.
“That’s horrible,” she said. “That kind of things doesn’t happen here.” She gestured at the wooden box lashed to the stone. Emil gave her a confused look. “I’ll explain all that later. Anyway, let me show you the best thing in Dessan.”
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 3
