She crawled to her blanket, wrapped it around her body.
As Mallon commanded the search through the dark forest, Emil sat by the fire, stared into the flames and cried.
Mallon had tracked the footprints from the pit and now he spread his men into a loose line as they began to comb the woodland. Torchlight pierced the gloom. There was little conversation as the men foraged into the trees. Mallon signalled along the line; his men were too bunched up. Instantly, the gaps widened. Vision was poor. He swept his torch, glimpsing crushed leaves, a snapped branch. He kept his spear thrust forward, gripped tightly in his right hand. His breathing was even as he moved deeper into the forest.
There was a sudden cry from one of his men but word was quickly sent along the line; it was nothing, a false alarm.
The noise from the village began to fade. He saw pastures, distant hills. He hesitated, looked back and raised his torch. The ground had been disturbed. He called to his men and several came rushing to his side. He handed one of them the torch and picked at the ground with the tip of his spear. The undergrowth shifted and he saw a long stretch of tarpaulin covering a bulky shape. He knew instantly what it was. His men crouched with him and cleared the remaining branches.
Mallon pulled back the cover and saw Margaux lying in a shallow pit, bleeding from a blow to the head.
“Get her out of there,” he ordered.
As his men lifted her unconscious body, he took his torch and shone it over the ground. He saw scattered prints, going in circles. He knelt. The prints were not recent. He flashed the burning torch and spotted another pair of prints, much fresher, tracking away from the clearing but not toward the pastures or to the paths that threaded west and northwest from here.
The footprints led back toward the village.
In that moment, it all fell into place; Margaux had been freed as bait, to lure him and his men into the trees and leave …
“Emil,” he shouted, and grabbed his spear.
He ran with all his strength, his feet slapping against the forest floor, churning over the clay as he reached the road. He called her name again as he ran across the bridge. Smoke filled the air. He pushed himself harder. His arms and legs pumped furiously. He pleaded for her to be alive. He slowed as he saw the fire raging, flames licking the roof. People were calling for water and men ran past him with empty buckets, heading to the river. The guard he had posted was lying dead. His body had been dragged from the burning hut. The door was open and Mallon rushed inside, shouting her name. He coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. The heat was intense. His skin filmed with sweat.
She was gone.
He sprinted from the hut and ran through the village, yelling her name as people streamed toward the burning building, needing to contain the fire before it spread to nearby huts. Mallon ran to the stable and saw Tristan crouched over the body of one of the militia.
“Mallon, what’s happening? Shahenda is dead.”
He got to his feet, a dark expression on his face.
“This is your fault. A man is dead and all the horses have been set free. Is this the work of the Collectors?”
Mallon stared back at his hut, black smoke filling the sky.
“Give me your telescope,” he said.
Tristan frowned at him. Mallon grabbed him and wrestled it from his pocket. He opened it and trained it on the road out of Dessan. He saw a single horse, galloping hard north, a bald headed rider, a covered body draped over the saddle.
Emil!
He began to run.
--- Ten ---
He had lost all sense of direction.
The truck swept through the land making numerous stops. He had no idea how far from Dessan they were or how many settlements they must had driven through. There were more prisoners now. A young man with humourless eyes and an older woman whose black hair was cropped; drifters, pushing a wooden handcart laden with possessions along the broken highway, one wheel squeaking. The masked Tamnicans had taken them without any resistance. An old man, wandering with a broken musical instrument in one hand and a walking stick in the other. He wore a flat cap, had bushy eyebrows and a ragged grey beard. He pushed back against his abductors but was hit in the stomach and dragged onboard coughing and spluttering. Stone realised the vehicle was part of a larger convoy; another truck and three customised cars with ancient frames and grilled windscreens and mesh covered wheels. Darrach had called them Gatherers and the men themselves had claimed their identity as Tamnicans.
After the first day, they had been lifted from the floor of the truck and placed on the benches. At night, Stone plotted how to overcome the guards, but no opportunities ever arose. The Tamnicans were clearly organised and adept at handling volumes of prisoners. If there was a crack in their routines, he never saw it. On the morning of the third day he opened his eyes, licking his dry lips, and noticed a thin tear in the tarpaulin that covered the truck. He glimpsed churning grey water. He looked across at his companions. No one spoke. Conrad had made the mistake of asking questions halfway through second day. His good natured humour had left him with a cut lip and a blackened and half closed left eye. He saw the fear in their faces as the truck bounced along. He knew escape would only become much harder once they were taken from the truck. He looked from the corner of his eye. The white masked men with the crossbows were alert. He would have a bolt in his heart before taking a single step.
The trucks began to slow and rumbled over something in the road. The water was fading from view. They must have traversed a long bridge. The trucks turned left, then right and stopped, engines running. Stone saw past the truck behind and realised the three escort cars had remained on the other side of the water. The number of men had been greatly reduced. This might be their only chance. He shifted in his seat but a Tamnican had been watching him and aimed a crossbow toward his head. He eased back against the bench and heard shouting and a gate being dragged open. They passed a high wire fence, topped with coils of barbed wire. He saw a wooden hut and rolling scrubland. The trucks stopped again and he heard a second gate opening, the grinding of iron against stone. The trucks edged forward and made their final stop. The masked men with the crossbows began yelling instructions; tailgates were unlocked and crashed down noisily, the prisoners were bundled from the vehicles and rounded up in a large courtyard surrounded by high crumbling walls. Stone looked up, a weak sun in his eyes, and saw a sun burnt and barely conscious naked man in an iron cage, suspended from a length of chain fixed to an overhanging stone beam.
The Tamnicans herded the twenty or so prisoners into the middle of the courtyard, pushing and shoving. Stone saw the gate was wide open but he had weapons pointing at him from every direction. There was no way he could run. He simmered with rage as he watched the two trucks turn around and drive back out along the road toward the first gate. The masked crossbowmen went with them. The vehicles clattered across the rusty old bridge, stretching out across an empty river. On the distant shore he saw a compound of scattered buildings and then his vision was obscured as the gate was shut with a loud metal clang.
There were several wooden doors leading from the courtyard. One of them opened and a large number of men came through, holding wooden clubs. They wore black clothing. He would learn, over time, that the prisoners recognised them as Cuvars.
“Line up, you fucking rabble.”
Stone counted ten guards. The odds were stacked poorly in his favour. He knew his companions would fight but he could not count on anyone else showing a slither of courage. With no weapons, he frustratingly chose to fall in line. The Cuvars spewed insults as the prisoners hastily stood shoulder to shoulder, some trembling with fear. One man soiled himself and was clubbed to the ground, the ugly sound of wood striking flesh echoing around the courtyard. The humourless young man who had been ambushed opened his mouth to protest but before he could phrase a single word he was struck across the back of the legs. He dropped to his knees, wincing in pain. His older travelling companion looked down at h
im, eyes rimmed with tears.
Wrists bound by wire, Stone felt his fists clench.
“Something you want to say?”
One of the Cuvars thrust his club against Stone’s chin, titling his head back.
“Spit in out, you shit.”
Stone remained silent.
“That’s what I thought.”
The Cuvar moved along the line, looking for someone easier to provoke. Stone’s nose twitched with the stench of raw sewage and excrement, carried on the light breeze. He could hear machinery and distant voices, footsteps and slamming doors. The dirt covered cobbles seemed to vibrate beneath his boots. At the other end of the courtyard he saw wooden wagons, handcarts, barrels, boxes and canisters. The stone walls surrounding them were ancient and pitted with cracks and gouges. The heavy gate had once been painted but that had cracked and bubbled and was covered with swathes of brown rust. There was a stone watchtower with a pointed wooden roof. Three men stood inside, casually leaning on a fearsome looking weapon, a giant ballista. Wide stone steps climbed to the battlements, indented beneath the jagged tops of the walls and a wooden walkway connected to a large tower of crumbling grey stone with narrow windows and armed men high up on the roof. Beyond the courtyard sprawled larger buildings, the stonework old, discoloured. Row upon row of barred windows leered back at them.
Stone felt tiny spots of rain on his skin and glanced up at the washed out skyline as a door set in the base of the tower opened and a tall, broad shouldered man emerged. The wooden walkway creaked as his strode purposefully across it, a long sheathed sword hanging from his belt. He wore a thick coat of fur and pieces of armour. The wind blew his long, dark red hair. He carried a coiled whip in his gloved hands. Rigid blue eyes glared down at those assembled below him and his face deepened with inexorable contempt. He hawked and spat on the ground. The man dangling from the wall let out a pathetic whimper.
“This is Tamnica,” he said, his voice hard and loud. “I am the Warden. You are now the property of the Thinker.”
Slowly, he began to descend from the wall, his heavy boots scraping against the stone steps.
“Forget your name. Forget where you came from. Forget your loved ones. Forget your family.”
He took his whip and cracked it. The prisoners jerked back a step and the Cuvars laughed. They had witnessed this routine many times. The Warden slowly wound back the whip as he walked along the line.
Nuria stood a long way from Stone and Conrad. She could feel it, the threat, permeating in the aged walls, clinging to the stones; her heart filled with dread, pure evil had been summoned and manifested itself before her, sucking her through the cracks, tearing her screaming from Gallen. Streams of perspiration ran down her face. Her fingers were trembling.
“Tamnica is your world. You will never leave here. You will work until you die. When you die your body will be thrown into the sea.”
Stone heard a gasp. The Warden reached the end of the line, turned, and walked back.
“You will be given somewhere to sleep and you will be fed. Some of you will work on the farm. Some of you will work in the factory. All of you will work until you die.”
He stopped, stretched the whip.
“If you try to escape, you will be punished. If you attack a Cuvar, you will be punished. If you do not work hard, you will be punished.”
He gestured at the naked man in the cage, groaning pitifully at the sound of the Warden’s voice.
“If you disobey, you will be punished.”
The Warden cracked the whip once more and nodded at his men. The Cuvars surged into them, clubbing them to the ground. Stone’s ears were tortured. He saw his companions take blow after blow, hands still bound, unable to defend themselves, shoved into the dirt, rolled and dragged, kicked and stamped on, beaten viciously and repeatedly with the clubs. The rage overflowed inside him. He drove his head into one the guards and cracked his nose. The man howled and Stone sprang on him, clamping his teeth to the man’s ear and ripped off half of it. The guard screamed, blood gushing from the side of his head. Two guards lashed into Stone and beat him to the ground. The clubs rained down on him. He cried in agony as they beat him and tried to crawl away but they dragged him back, the ugly smack of club against flesh, over and over again.
“Enough,” shouted the Warden. “The Thinker will be displeased if you damage his property beyond use.”
The Cuvars stood over the bloodied prisoner, breathing laboured, faces filmed with sweat.
“Warden,” yelled a familiar voice, from the tower.
The Warden saw Darrach climb down from the battlements and approach, his long sword drawn.
“This is the one,” he said, and kicked Stone hard in the ribs. “He killed my men. Butchered them on the road here.” He kicked him again. “Ambushed us and freed the levy.” He cracked the hilt of his sword across Stone’s blood smeared face and dropped him to the ground. “Let me sever this bastard’s head.”
Stone lay slumped in the dirt, unmoving.
“He is the property of the Thinker, Darrach. You were told this in the forest when he was first captured. You cannot have him.”
“I want his fucking blood,” spat Darrach. “I have lost nearly all my clan.”
He gestured at two Collectors who stood by the tower, grim faced men in armour with swords.
“The Thinker said I could take one prisoner, a paltry fucking payment for what I lost. I want him. I’m going to gut him.”
“No,” said the Warden. “Look at him. He’s strong and we need strong men here. And he’s filled with hate.” He lifted Stone’s dazed head with the tip of his boot. “We’ll delight in breaking him.”
He nodded at the rest of the prisoners, curled on the ground, groaning, sobbing, begging not to be punished anymore. The Cuvars hovered over them, clubs at the ready.
“The Gatherers told me you wanted one of the women. Help yourself.”
Blood streamed into Stone’s eyes. He saw Darrach stamp towards Justine, yank her from the ground.
“Remember me?”
“Darrach,” called the Warden. “I’m warning you, do not kill her.”
“Fuck off,” said Darrach, taking her into the tower.
Stone tried to lift himself from the dirt, struggled desperately to break the wire that bound his wrists, but it was hopeless. He had no strength. His body was broken. The Warden raised his whip and lashed him with it. His face burned. His vision began to spin as blood filled his eyes. He could feel vibrations beneath his back. A voice was shouting at him but the words bloated in his head and he could not make them out. The world was losing shape, the sky was turning black.
Nuria watched several guards drag Stone’s unconscious body from the courtyard and through a large wooden door. The one with the severed ear went with them and she observed him kicking Stone until they disappeared from view. Darrach had taken Justine into the tower and she knew would what happen to her but the relief at not been chosen streaked her with pangs of guilt.
Hastily, the Cuvars marshalled them through double doors into a long and gloomy tunnel with an arched ceiling. The pale walls were peeling, revealing dark stones beneath. She heard voices, echoing back at her, loud and angry conversations, words overlapping. The guards pushed and harried the prisoners through the tunnel. Her ribs ached, her arms were stinging, her face was raw from the beating.
The tunnel opened into a large room that reeked of sweat. She passed a group of men, long haired and bearded and wearing red armbands, who were loading food into wooden handcarts, overseen by black uniformed Cuvars. The prisoners were shoved into another long arched tunnel lit by burning torches. The floor was thick with dirt. Ahead, a large grilled door, aged and rusted, hung open and they filed through the doorway into a room with a domed ceiling. The stone walls were grubby. Light filtered through high barred windows. There were several wooden chairs and a large wooden table. A fire blazed in a hearth and Nuria could hear the hum of a generator outside. Her nose tickled with th
e smell of excrement. The prisoners were pushed into the centre of the room to stand before a narrow faced, rough skinned man wearing glasses. Was this the Thinker? He wore loose clothing and a red armband. He looked in his fifties, maybe older. He drew a knife and stepped toward them.
“I am Floran.”
Nuria’s heart pounded so loudly that she was certain every one in the room must be hearing it. He moved behind them, where a row of Cuvars stood, slapping clubs into open palms. A few days before she had stood in a similar line, in Dessan, and Ilan had chosen her, but Emil had bore the purple ribbon. The madness of such a tradition had hurled her into this vile place. She thought of Justine and her heart broke for her, taken by that brutal man, Darrach. What would have really happened if I had stayed in Chett and not left with Stone? She had no answer to the question. He had wiped out the city rulers and though the military and other powerful and influential men had remained her crimes would have surely seen her dangle from the end of a rope. It all seemed very far away now.
Hot breath feathered her neck and then Floran’s hand jerked and the knife slit the restraints binding her wrists. At once, she massaged them.
He stood before them once more and put the knife away.
“All your possessions and clothes on there,” he said, pointing at the large table.
Nuria blinked at him. No one moved at first.
“Now, you fucks,” shouted one of the Cuvars.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 13
