The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS)

by Laurence Moore

  Nuria glanced across the hut.

  “He tried to get there,” whispered the Map Maker. “But he never even made it to the sea. The route is dangerous. That’s how he lost his leg.”

  “And what happens if you get hurt? There’ll be no one to help you.”

  The Map Maker stared at the pitched tent, alone amongst the trees. He sat on a cushioned ground of pine needles and eased his back against rough bark.

  What happens if you get hurt? There’ll be no one to help you.

  He drew the stolen pistol, began tapping the muzzle against his head.

  “Margaux,” said Emil.

  She spotted her carrying a basket of vegetables. She seemed distracted and almost failed to acknowledge Emil at first. She offered to carry the basket for her but Margaux laughed and said she could manage perfectly fine.

  “I’m going home,” she said. “Is something the matter?”

  “Not here,” said Emil.

  It took five minutes to reach her dwelling. There was old rubbish piled outside the mud hut and the walls were pitted and cracked. The wooden front door had a broad split in it and did not swing freely. Margaux set down the basket and had to lift the door to pull it open. It was gloomy inside and Emil sniffed a bad odour. She offered to light a fire and Margaux nodded, silently, carrying the vegetables into the gloom of the kitchen. She emptied a bucket of stale water outside and mentioned she needed to collect some more but made no motion to do so. The fire began to burn and Emil lit candles. A fine layer of dust had settled upon the furniture, which was mostly broken, and scattered haphazardly through two rooms. Emil saw unwashed bowls and there was a buzzing sound coming from the second room. The smell seemed worse there. She wished she had stopped Margaux outside and questioned her there. The hut was oppressive, dampening her spirit. She was astonished at how an attractive, clean and well groomed woman could tolerate living in such filth and there was no other word to describe it. The hut had looked filthy outside and was even worse inside. She brushed down a chair before sitting.

  “Mallon,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “I was wondering if you could tell me about him.”

  “I see. He has taken a fancy then. Oh, dear. Let me guess, has he asked you to spend an evening with him? Some food?”

  Emil was silent for a moment.

  “I asked him, I think.”

  “Oh,” said Margaux. “I’m surprised. After what I told you about him. He cannot be trusted.”

  Emil pondered her words.

  “You haven’t really told me anything about him.”

  “I must clean up,” said Margaux, finding a broom. “If you want to risk yourself with an overgrown and reckless boy like Mallon then go ahead.” She began to sweep, driving the dirt from one corner to the other. “I thought you were much smarter than that, Emil.”

  She propped the broom against the wall and sighed.

  “Did you say anything to Lena?”

  Margaux frowned.

  “How do you mean?”

  “About me liking him. Not that I do. I mean I don’t dislike him but I don’t know him.”

  “You seem all tangled at the mention of his name,” she smiled. “Emil, he really has you twisted in every direction.”

  Emil was confused. She seemed to be asking questions and hearing answers but the two did not match.

  “I’ll be careful around him,” she said.

  “Well, it’s none of my business.”

  Nuria asked directions to the tavern from the first villager she passed. The man curled his arm around her waist, grinned and pointed the way, offering to escort her. She brushed him off, as kindly as possible, and he continued on his way, dancing a jig, a half empty bottle in his hand.

  It was at the edge of the village, on a swathe of long grass, a rounded mud hut with pitted walls. Smoke curled from a large chimney. Conrad was waiting for her, facing the other direction and Nuria indulged herself in the moment as he paced, craning his neck to see further into the early evening gloom. He stopped, sensing her, and looked over his shoulder. He greeted her, a warm kiss on the cheek, and took a step back to admire her. Her skin was glowing, scrubbed clean. Her hair, recently cut into a short bob, was already beginning to grow again and she had knotted it into a short ponytail. Conrad smiled at her simple outfit of sandals, trousers and a tunic. He held open the tavern door and gestured for her to enter.

  A thick cloud of smoke lingered. Villagers sat at tables drinking and smoking pipes, engaged in loud conversation. A woman was singing and several men were clapping and rapping palms against the tables as musical accompaniment. They nudged through the throng of sweating bodies and ordered two mugs of the village brew. There was nowhere to sit so they loitered at the bar. Nuria raised the wooden mug to her lips and tasted apple and burnt wood. Conrad tried to talk to her but she could only see his lips moving. She pressed her hand against his mouth and gestured with her head to the door. He smiled and opened his eyes, looking very pleased with himself, but she playfully struck him and shook her head.

  Outside, on ramshackle seats, with a light wind on their backs, Conrad took out two pipes, filled them from a pouch and handed one to Nuria. He fetched a light and they both puffed and drank, listening to the singing inside.

  “Is every night in Dessan like this?”

  “All but one,” he said, licking his lips.

  He dragged his chair close to her. His warm brown eyes roamed her athletic body, a pale neck of delicate skin, a slightly twisted mouth, blue eyes set in a face that still echoed with faded bruises.

  “You are a beautiful woman,” said Conrad. “Truly very beautiful.”

  Nuria had never been serious about men. There had been a few admirers and casual encounters but all had worn a uniform. Since leaving the city, a desire that had festered for years, she had already become aware of a subtle change within herself. The uniform had become a dark burden, teeming with regret, self loathing. Now she could breathe once again but her attention seemed to be drifting toward Stone. She wondered where he was and what he was doing and why she was thinking of him instead of Conrad.

  “Do you tell Mary and your child how beautiful they are?” she said.

  “Mary?” He drew on his pipe. “Mary is my aunt and a widower so, no, I do not compliment her in such a way. And I tell Ambre how beautiful she is every day. She is a bundle of mischief.”

  It had been a long time since a man had made her laugh. She raised her mug and supped contently.

  “Your aunt? You’re trying to convince me that Mary is your aunt? She is younger than me.”

  “My uncle like his women at least half his age … I can assure you I have no designs on my aunt, although she does possess a quite full and amazing …”

  “That’s enough,” said Nuria, holding up a hand.

  She thought of Stone once more, lurking somewhere in the village, no doubt alone and introspective. He had not returned to the hut after working on the wall. She really didn’t want to think about him right now. Here was a refreshingly handsome and charming man who seemed engaged with her every moment and she wanted to distance herself from the man of few words.

  “All of a sudden you are a lifetime away,” said Conrad. “Your eyes. You say much with your eyes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She leaned into him, drew on her pipe.

  “Are you Saacion Conrad or Conrad the Saacion?”

  He chuckled.

  “What an odd question. My father would say I’m Conrad the failed son. Most would say Conrad the drunk. I’m no Saacion, Nuria. I cannot heal a man. I can clean a wound and stitch but no more. Your friend is the one with magic. I was too drunk to remember anything from that night. Except you, of course.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “My brother would be dead without her.”

  He raised his drink.

  “Do you have a more sensible question?”

  She met his eyes.

  “Why should we leave?”
r />   “Because if you don’t,” he said, quietly. “You will learn about the one night Dessan falls silent.”

  “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “A day of sadness and shame,” said Conrad.

  “And this is why you warned me we should all leave?”

  “I can leave with you, if you like?”

  “Ah, I see. This is just an elaborate ploy to lure me off somewhere with you.”

  “Would you come?”

  “You don’t need to try so hard.”

  Nuria paused.

  “Tell me about the Collectors.”

  Conrad fetched more drink, and then curled his arm around her and spoke in whispers, explaining everything. For a long moment, she said nothing, and then looked across the village, a haze of smoke above the scattered huts, men and women and children enjoying the cool evening with food and laughter. She raised her mug and drank, swirling the apple and wood flavoured brew around her tongue.

  She looked into his eyes and then her hand was against his face, her nails raking his skin and she moved toward him to taste his lips.

  She had concealed a knife in her boot but it was still there. Emil strolled away from Mallon’s hut, beaming, leaving him alone in the candle light, a large table covered with food stained bowls and empty cups. The drink had made her head spin. Her cheeks were flushed red. He had talked and she had listened, her chin cradled against her folded hands. She had smiled and sometimes even laughed. And then her thoughts had clouded and she had seen Tomas lying dead in the sand. She knew he was gone and her gift could not bring him back and Mallon was here. He saw beyond her one eye. He saw beyond her mottled skin. He had held her hand, squeezed it. He remarked that she was the only woman in Dessan with copper coloured hair. She countered his compliment by stating she was the only one-eyed woman in Dessan with copper coloured hair. He had laughed and told her the blacksmith was one-eyed, although he was not a woman and his hair was most certainly not copper coloured.

  “And he has a long beard,” said Mallon. “Your beard is not so long.”

  She had laughed. Laying down his spear and shield had taken the sternness from his face. He had surprised her with a collection of pictures he had sketched, of the surrounding landscape, a tattered book he was attempting to read, square and made of board, with faded pictures of a dog on each page – “Hot … dog … c-c-cold … dog.” - a rickety table he had whittled, a set of beads his mother had handed him before passing, a melted black object he had unearthed in the forest with curious buttons that were unresponsive when you pressed them.

  Lena had been right, thought Emil, there was a lot to like about Mallon. She couldn’t understand why Margaux was so concerned. There was no hint of seediness about him. He had not been suggestive or lurid in his conversation or actions. Incredibly, he was quite shy.

  The bunched fist flew out of the blackness, driving into her stomach, forcing the wind from her. She doubled over and reached for the knife but her attacker was fast and the fist slammed into her kidney. She cried out, gasping for air. She was grabbed and punched square in the mouth. She lost her footing and saw the sky and the white lights flash before her.

  Pinned down by her attacker the blows came fast, one after the other. She tasted blood and blacked out.

  Emil opened her swollen eye, the world upside down. The ground beneath her was cold and damp. She rolled onto her side, wincing. She could feel the blood trickling down her face. She must have been out cold for only a few seconds. Her attacker had vanished into the night.

  Gritting her teeth, refusing to cry out for help, she thrust out a hand, finding the wall of a hut, and dragged herself onto her knees.

  The jolt sent waves of pain lancing through her face. She took deep breaths and spat.

  Slowly, she staggered forward, one step at a time. She found the path and began to shuffle home.

  The hut was empty.

  She sank onto her bed and placed her palms against her skin.

  Justine spotted Stone on the bridge, staring into the fast flowing river below, the water shimmering with moonlight. The wind was strong, the cloud low. Angry spots of rain warned of an impending downpour. He glanced at her as she approached but said nothing. She stood alongside him, holding onto the rail, the frothy water rushing beneath them. She turned her back on the waterway, swept a hand through her hair.

  “Do you have another name? A softer name I can use?”

  He picked at the railing of the bridge. The militia on the edge of the village glanced at the two of them.

  “Some people know me as the Tongueless Man.”

  “That’s a horrible name,” said Justine, half-laughing. “It’s not a soft name.”

  He said nothing.

  “Would you care to walk with me?”

  “No,” said Stone. “I came here to try and think.”

  He gestured toward the village, the air ringing with laughter, the repetitive thump of primitive instruments, halk hide stretched over round wooden tubs.

  “Is that all you came here for? You’re here every night. Close to where I live and sleep.”

  She waited.

  “Our people work hard all day, they enjoy a good night.”

  “Especially tonight,” he said. “What happens tomorrow when the Collectors arrive?”

  She turned away from him.

  “I heard the levy is four. Tristan’s words.”

  She sighed.

  “The Centon counts the days. When it is complete, you make a wish. You wish not to be chosen.”

  She took his rough hand, thick and meaty, between her slender fingers, and sniffed the skin.

  “The smell of a working man,” she said.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “The tradition has been part of the Eastern Villages for decades; my first memory was at the age of seven. My mother was chosen. I never saw her again.”

  “I could end it,” he said, as she continued to caress his hand. “Ilan was right. It’s what I do. I don’t chop trees and build walls. I put people in the dirt.”

  She squeezed his hand tightly.

  “You don’t understand, Stone. You’re not from these parts. This affects us all. Dessan, Le Sen and Agen.”

  “You all pay the levy,” he nodded.

  He broke free of her warm hands and walked to the Centon. He crouched before it and studied a sequence of symbols carved into the front, next to the word – Dessan.

  “Did the Collectors give you this thing?”

  “The Centon? Yes, one for each village,” said Justine, nodding. “It is our protection.”

  “It’s just a box and a stone,” he said, tracing his fingers over the symbols. “I’ve seen these markings before.”

  “Where?”

  Stone crouched next to Lucas and frowned at a series of markings burned into his arm. A sequence of shapes. He had never seen anything like it before.

  “A man who was recently killed,” he said. “These were burned into his flesh.”

  Justine lowered her eyes.

  “I don’t know what they mean.”

  “They mean he was branded. They mean you allow your own people to be marked as someone else’s property.” She could see the rage in his eyes. “I could smash this to pieces right now.”

  She stalked toward him, hands on her hips, as the rain began to fall.

  “Do you not think I haven’t dreamed of it? You’re not the first mercenary to stroll through our village, Stone. And I have twenty five well armed militia spearman and bowmen. We could easily kill the Collectors. We outnumber them. I could lay a trap for them tomorrow morning and cut them to nothing on the road. Darrach might take more than that. He is the leader of their clan, deadly with a sword.”

  “One bullet will end him,” said Stone, grabbing her. “Understand this, Justine. Men who take never stop taking. Not until everything is gone.”

  Her hair was drenched, clothes sodden, face streaming with rainwater. The clay path became s
oggy.

  “The tradition cannot be broken. Do you see any rampaging marauders stripping us of our food and belongings, taking away the women and children? We pay the levy and we are kept safe. No one troubles our village, Stone. There is no carnage here or in any of the Eastern Villages.”

  He drew a knife from his soaking wet long coat and held it against the ropes lashing the Centon to the rock.

  “I can end it all for you,” he said.

  She reached for his wrist but his grip was firm. One of the militia called across the bridge and she waved him away.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Why not? Is this why you allowed us to stay? Are we tomorrow’s levy?”

  She pulled away from him.

  “No. You’re not. I don’t know.”

  He thrust the knife back into his coat.

  “So tomorrow they walk into town and choose who they take.”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Justine. “They don’t choose who to take.”

  She stared at him through a sheet of rain.

  “We do.”

  He shook his head.

  “How can you live like this?”

  “Siense,” she said.

  “What?”

  Lightning flashed across the landscape, thunder rumbled

  “Siense,” she repeated. “Quickly, we need to get inside.”

  They dashed between the huts, slipping in the deluge, the water drilling all around them. People rushed by, taking cover, the weather ruining the evening, silencing the music and singing and dancing, spoiling the final night before the Collector’s arrival. They ducked into Justine’s hut. Stone closed the wooden door and drew across a heavy curtain. A small pool of water seeped beneath it. It was the first time he had been inside having only walked her home the previous nights. He found himself in a small room, with two archways. A curtain was drawn across one of them. She went through the open archway and returned with a bottle of drink and two wooden goblets. She set them down on a low table as he began lighting a fire.

  “What’s Siense?”

  She peeled off her wet dress, her naked body long and flat. “It was the fourth of the Eastern Villages. It is gone now.”