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

by Laurence Moore

  The four of them could hear shouting in the forest. There was a burst of gunfire and the ground around them was raked with bullets.

  “Drop your gun. Now.”

  Stone chewed at his lip, cursed. With a second eruption of gunfire, he tossed his revolver onto the road.

  “And the rest of you. Weapons down.”

  Swords and crossbows hit the ground.

  “On your knees. All of you. Do it.”

  Figures slowly emerged through the coils of mist. Men wearing white masks, armed with crossbows and swords. Only one brandished an automatic weapon. Stone could feel Justine shivering next to him. Boots splashed through puddles. Crossbows were aimed and each one felt the tip of a bolt jammed into the back of their neck. A thin wire was bound around their wrists and tightened sharply. The four of them remained kneeling on the wet road. One of the men lowered his mask and let out a loud whistle. An engine growled into life and a large, faded green truck reversed out of the trees. Two men lowered the tailgate and Stone saw Conrad and Nuria bundled inside. Six men climbed in with them and sat on benches, keeping the two of them face down on the floor, boots pushed against their backs.

  Stone heard the scrape of a sword being drawn. He held his breath and waited. A heavy boot crashed into his back, smacking him against the road. He gasped, rolled, tasted blood.

  Darrach stood over him, sword in hand. The man kicked him in the stomach.

  “Enough,” said one of the masked men. “He’s property of Tamnica now.”

  “Do you know how many of my men he killed?” said Darrach, whirling round, brandishing his sword. “Where were you when this fucking piece of shit was cutting my clan down? Eh? Where were you then? I’m going to cut this fucking maggot into …”

  He raised his sword, eyes bulging.

  “Darrach, he belongs to us, not you. Remember who your paymaster is. Do not make an enemy of us.”

  The Warlord saw the weapons pointed at him. He hesitated, then roared with anger and lowered his sword.

  “Let me have the woman.”

  Stone struggled to his knees and tried to get to his feet but was clubbed across the back of the head with a crossbow.

  He hit the ground, his head dizzy, the sky and clouds and trees spinning. He could hear Justine crying.

  “She’s Tamnican property, Darrach. Talk to the Warden once we reach the facility.”

  “You Gatherers have no balls,” he snarled.

  His face loomed over Stone, sword blade glinting in the sunlight.

  “You won’t survive a night in Tamnica, I can promise you that.”

  --- Nine ---

  The punishment pits were sited on the outskirts of the village.

  Shivering, cursing, knee deep in rainwater, Margaux stared up at the wooden grating that covered the opening of the ten foot deep pit. It was held in place by a large weight. Cold and hungry, she looked at her aching hands, usually so immaculate, so well presented, now raw and caked with dried blood from where she had attempted to climb the smooth wooden sides of the pit. She blew on her sore nails. It had been a futile attempt. Even if she had reached the lip of the pit she would have never been capable of mustering enough strength to move the weight.

  Mum?

  Go away, Davide.

  As weak sunlight touched her skin, she let out an ear piercing scream. No one came rushing to the pit. No one paid her any attention.

  The pits were exposed to the weather and in the daylight she saw pieces of food floating on the surface of the water, dropped in by the militia last night, on their third and final check. She plucked an apple into her hand and opened her mouth to bite into it but then stopped when she quickly remembered she had been forced to empty her bladder during the night and it was more than rainwater in which she now stood. She mashed the sodden apple against the walls of the pit and it slid down into the water.

  Mum?

  I’m not talking to you, Davide.

  Mum, I’m hurt, I can’t move, Mum.

  I’m not helping you. Get up.

  I can’t get up. I’m scared, Mum, I’m really scared.

  No.

  She shook her head. Her clothes were soaked. She hugged herself to keep warm. She screamed again and punched her fists against the walls of the pit. She kicked at the water, sick with anger. Her hatred for Emil bubbled inside and she spat. Magic Girl, how dare they call her that! What about the magic she weaved for the children each and every day, sharpening their thinking and coaxing ideas forth? Helping to build a better future for them and for the village was real magic. And did they ever thank her? No. Was there ever any acknowledgement? No. Yet in strolls this scruffy, one-eyed runt and they fawn over her because of a so called special gift. The child was a freak, a bad seed.

  Mummy, read me a story.

  I am busy, go to sleep.

  I want a story.

  I don’t know any stories.

  You know lots of stories, Mummy; you tell the children stories every day at school.

  That is different.

  Why is it different, Mummy?

  Margaux, tell the child a story.

  No, not you, not you in here as well.

  She stared up at the grating and wondered how long Ilan planned on leaving her down here. He had once left a man in the punishment pits for twenty one days, for beating a young woman and forcing himself upon her. The isolation of the pit had unleashed demons within the man’s mind. A few days after his release, Mallon had discovered the man swinging from a length of rope in the trees, although Margaux always suspected Mallon had murdered him, the ultimate punishment. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts. The day had rolled into night and night into day and already there were splinters and cracks and she needed to escape from here or be released.

  She heard footsteps and her expression changed to one of anticipation.

  “Ilan? Is that you?”

  She saw a man loosen his trousers and squat over the pit.

  “What are doing? No, stop that, you bastard. Ilan will hear of this. You will end up in here.”

  There was laughter he finished defecating.

  “The militia have brought you breakfast, Margaux.”

  The smell was revolting. She threw up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

  Damn that child, if she could free herself, she would take great delight in slitting her throat wide open.

  “Hey.”

  She refused to allow tears to find her. She would not give them the satisfaction. They could shit through that grating every day and she would not give in.

  “Margaux.”

  Her constitution was founded in iron. They would not break her. Nothing would break her.

  “Are you fucking deaf?”

  She blinked, tilted her head, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

  “What do you want?”

  The Map Maker grinned at her.

  “To get you out of there.”

  “I’ll be busy all day,” said Mallon, to Emil. “Will you be okay?”

  Yesterday, during the ride back to the village, he had asked her to move in with him. He lived alone and wanted her with him all the time. He told her he had felt deep shame that he had allowed the Collectors to take her. He explained how he had destroyed the Centon in anger and gathered companions and weapons to fight the Collectors on the forest road. She had hesitated at his question, her arms wrapped around him, as the horse jolted across the ground, the rain hammering down at them. She liked him but the relationship was a tentative one. He understood her silence and reassured her he would sleep on the floor so she could have his bed. Emil had laughed and told him to bring her bed from the hut Justine had given them. She suddenly thought of Sadie, alone now that the Map Maker had left, an outsider like her. She resolved to make more of an effort in getting to know her.

  A large number of villagers had cheered as the horses and wagons had appeared on the rain swept clay road, Mallon and Emil at the front, the bearers of the purpl
e ribbon safely returning home. The people had stood in the pouring rain, listening to the sounds of muffled gunfire, and now they wanted every detail of what had happened. From his saddle, with the rain and wind buffeting him, Mallon told them the story of a man who was not one of them but had bravely stood to fight for their freedom and that even now he was still fighting.

  “The Collectors will not be back,” he said, raising his spear. “And if they do come back we will fight them again.”

  Ilan had looked on, his rain streaked face black with rage. Tristan had led his father back to the deserted council hut and lit a fire.

  “Will you?” whispered Mallon.

  She held him tight.

  “Yes.”

  That morning, he had attempted to reconcile his differences with Ilan but the meeting had descended into a bitter argument in which Tristan advised Mallon to return the following day.

  “So will you talk to Ilan again?”

  Mallon pulled a shirt over his head and slipped on sandals. He had men to enlist into the militia, new weapons to be forged at the blacksmith and a wall to build - Ilan could wait.

  “I should go and help at the school,” said Emil. “Who is going to teach the children now Margaux is in the pit?”

  “Let them have the day away from school. They will probably do nothing more than ask you questions about what happened.”

  “I feel guilty just sitting here.”

  “Then heat up the water and bathe, I think you deserve it.”

  She nodded.

  “Can I see her?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose, she was so nice to me. I don’t know why she was so nice to me, Mallon, and to then do that.”

  “She’s a hateful woman, Emil; I would stay away from her.”

  After visiting the blacksmith, Mallon tracked down Sebastian and ordered that work was to recommence with the wall.

  “Are you sure?” said Sebastian. “The Collectors told us to pull it down. Are they really all dead?”

  Mallon nodded.

  “I think so.”

  “Will they come back? Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “If they do,” said Mallon, clapping him on the back. “We’ll need that wall up. I know you can do it.”

  “Well, the rain has stopped,” said Sebastian, shrugging.

  As the daylight began to fade, Mallon returned home, finding Emil asleep on his bed. He smiled down at her and placed another blanket over her small frame. He boiled water, peeled off his clothes and began to wash himself down. She stirred and he quickly pulled on his trousers. She yawned, stretched her arms and smiled at him.

  “You look clean,” she said.

  “Did I wake you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve been awake for awhile.”

  His eyes met hers.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded and he cooked potatoes, mushrooms and strips of halk meat seasoned with the juice from apples. They talked as they ate, idle chat, stories of his life, stories of her life, eyes gleaming, laughing, drinking. Afterwards, he held her in his arms and Emil had never felt so safe, so content. She thought of her family and imagined her father smiling at her, nodding his approval that she was happy. She told Mallon of Stone and Tomas, how they had rescued her in the wasteland and how Tomas had died fighting a man who wanted her kind dead.

  “Gallen is not for you …”

  Mallon asked her what her kind meant and she took his hand and pressed his fingers against her rippled skin.

  She kept hold of his hand and drank.

  Margaux peered up at the dark sky, feeling the chill of the night. The militia had completed their final check, throwing down food at her. The rainwater had seeped away and the half eaten food had landed on the muddy floor of the pit. They shouted at her to pick it up and tuck in. She ignored them and ignored the food. She had already knelt earlier in the day and dug a small hole to bury the excrement. The militia continued to taunt her. Then one of them exposed himself and urinated into the pit. She cursed him. Ilan would have never tolerated such behaviour. His power must be hanging by a thread. She, too, had heard the distant shots and assumed the tall stranger had led an attack against the Collectors. She knew he had fucked Justine, that skinny bitch with her sweet ways, always attempting to placate, frustratingly nice and kind hearted. She would be another one in the Mallon camp. She feared that if Ilan lost all power she would rot down here.

  She wished a thousand illnesses upon them and their loved ones. The stink of the pit filled her nostrils and she gagged but there was nothing to bring up. She had not eaten since being thrown in here yesterday morning.

  Mummy, why are they doing that?

  Have you done something bad?

  Why did they put you in the pit?

  “I’m going to kill you, Emil.”

  She paced, one step, turned, one step, turned, back and forward, waiting for the round faced man to return.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  The minutes stretched into hours.

  “Kill you, kill you, kill you, kill you.”

  She sank against the damp floor of the pit, drawing up her knees, and rested her eyes for a moment.

  “Margaux?”

  She must have dozed. There was a scraping sound as he dragged the weight clear and then lifted off the wooden grating. It was open! Was she hallucinating? Was she escaping? One night in the pit had seemed liked twenty and she could now believe there was a way out. She stretched her arms and reached up as he threw down a length of rope, the other end tied around a tree. He looked around. The militia had not long left and it would be sometime before they returned to this area. The pistol was in his pocket and he was not afraid to use it. Margaux gripped the rope and began to scramble up the side of the pit. The Map Maker thrust out a hand and helped pull her out. His strength surprised her.

  “Quick,” he said, taking her hand.

  She ran with him, across the stretch of grass and waded through the river, gulping air, leaving behind the noisy celebrations of Dessan.

  She stopped in the forest, soaked, resting for a moment, hands on her hips, and looked back. She had never seen the village from the trees before. She realised she would no longer be part of what happened there. The sun would rise each day and life would continue but her crime of violating the traditions of the Centon and disobeying Ilan would see her banished. Her name would no longer be mentioned and the children would be taught by Emil or maybe another adult would volunteer. Sadness enveloped her, drained her last strands of energy. Davide was there. Would she never stand by the spot where she had scattered his ashes?

  “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know …”

  “Move.”

  They weaved through the dark forest, the heavy trees blocking out the white lights in the sky above. The Map Maker stopped in a clearing, where a tent was pitched and a large hole had been dug. He could see the short sprint had taken the wind from her. She was panting, fighting for breath.

  “What happens now?”

  She saw the hole in the ground and her eyes opened wide.

  “You stupid bitch,” said the Map Maker, and struck her across the head with his pistol.

  She tasted his lips, felt the tickle of his tongue. Her heart was racing. What would he think of her?

  “Mallon,” cried a voice, suddenly. “Mallon. Mallon, she’s escaped.”

  He leapt off the bed and went to the door of his hut, opening it quickly. His militia were gathered outside.

  “Someone freed her.”

  He said nothing and reached for his spear. Emil slid off the bed, a worried look on her face.

  “I will have a guard outside,” he said. “She has no weapon and will not come for you.”

  “She will come for me, she hates me.”

  “She was seen running for the forest,” said one of his men.

  “This will not take long
,” said Mallon, pulling Emil to him and kissing her. “I will be back soon.”

  He closed the door and Emil heard him order one of his men to remain. She heard them running up the road and then all she could hear was singing coming from the centre of the village. She did not move, rooted to the spot with fear. She called out to the guard and asked him if he was still there and he instantly replied he was and would not be going anywhere. She poured herself another goblet of drink and downed it in one. She cleared away the bowls and blew out the candles. The fire cast her shadow over the wall. She called out to the guard again and he reassured her he was alert and she had nothing to worry about.

  Smiling, Emil filled her goblet once more, pacing as she drank She could hear drumming. She glanced at the hut door, shivered. She pictured Mallon leading his men through the forest, carrying spears and flaming torches, hunting down the vile woman. Before dawn, Margaux would be back inside the pit, of that she was convinced. She took a long deep breath. Her head was pounding. She blinked as her vision doubled. Her goblet was empty and so was the bottle. Emil rummaged for another one, momentarily losing her balance. She tugged free the cork, poured and drank. Her limbs were floating. The tips of her fingers were numb. Her shadow danced across the walls of the hut. She dropped the blanket from her shoulders and peeled off her clothes, draping them over the back of a chair. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She drank some more and stood naked by the fire, waiting for him to return, wanting to share his bed.

  The hunt would soon be over. Margaux would soon be caged and then she would lie with Mallon and feel the warmth and hardness of his body and he would be her first. Her skin tingled at the thought. She threw the last of her drink down her throat and looked around for the bottle. She stumbled across the hut, tripped, sprawled onto the floor. The guard called in and she answered that she was fine. She noticed her speech was slurred and wondered how that had happened. Sitting cross legged, rocking back and forward, she giggled. The room was spinning. She closed her eye but that made it spin more violently. She saw the bottle, lying on the floor, but found it impossible to stand. She looked down at her legs, puzzled why they were not responding. She glimpsed her short body of pale damaged skin and grimaced. She looked away. He would be repulsed by her. No man would want her. Not Mallon. Not Tomas. She was a scarred lumpy head, a one-eyed monster, a freak.