Yet, in these last few days his rage had simmered, as she had become more compliant, tolerant, adventurous even. She said nothing as he ranted about the Tamnicans and cursed a man he called the Thinker, labelling him weak and spineless. She said nothing as he laboured against her and poured his filth into her. She said nothing and waited for him to grow sloppy, to overlook small things, to begin to underestimate how dangerous she might be. She rushed back upstairs, empty bucket in one hand, a basket of meat and biscuits in the other.
“I need to recruit more men,” he had said, bitterly, one morning. She was face down. He had just finished with her. She was sore. He dragged on his pipe, the smoke curling toward the crumbling brick ceiling. “That bastard, Stone, and you, you fucking bitch. You were there, weren’t you? You fuckers. Laying an ambush for us. Do you know how hard it is to find good fighting men? I’ve got boys now, likely to piss their pants soon as some fucker waves a sword at them. They’re not men. They’re not fucking Collectors. Not yet. I’ll have to whip the fuckers into shape. Make fucking men out of them.”
He was pulling on his shirt as she came back into the room. She set the food down on a large wooden table with several chairs around it.
“We leave tomorrow at dawn,” he said, tightening his belt. “Do I keep you here or bring you with me?”
He glared at her and Justine lowered her eyes from his scarred, bearded face. Did he know about the tablets?
“If I bring you with me the men will all want a piece.” He grabbed a handful of food, chewed. “Suits me.”
He strapped his long sword to his back, and slammed the door behind him, remembering to lock it.
Justine popped the tablet from her ear, fetched the pouch she had hidden and began to grind it into powder.
“Why is he still alive?”
Floran wiped the sweat from his brow and shifted nervously on his feet. They were alone in a large room with barred windows and grubby walls. A fire blazed in the hearth. Darrach could see the pathetic man was trembling.
“You useless snivelling fuck.”
“The Warden told Julen not to touch him. The Thinker wants him kept alive. He has plans for him.”
Darrach grabbed Floran by his red armband.
“You think this means shit to me? You know what this tells me? You creep around and gain a position above them but you’re still one of them, Floran.”
Floran muttered an apologetic reply. His teeth were chattering. Darrach was right, the Warden had seen Floran was ill suited to long days of labour when he had first arrived at Tamnica, five or six years ago. He began passing information to the Warden, feeding him details on planned escapes or attempts on the lives of any Cuvars. The Warden had seen the potential in Floran and elevated him beyond the cell block and into his role of … Floran wasn’t really sure, he didn’t have a title, he was just here, stripping the prisoners of their clothes and possessions, allowing Captain Niklas first choice of the women for the price of a few tablets that took him to a very special place. What many of the men here could never understand was that beyond Tamnica, out in the forests and across the wastelands, he had been a nobody. Here, he had responsibilities, influence, power. He had no wish to ever leave this place.
“What do you want me to do? I gave the order to Julen but by then the Bald One was already dead.”
“Stone killed the Bald One?”
Floran nodded.
“He bit off Tolly’s ear, the day they were brought here?”
Darrach clenched his gloved fists.
“What does the Thinker want with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Darrach slammed him against the wall.
“I don’t care what the Warden says. Tell Julen I want Stone dead.”
“What’s that all about?” asked Stone.
He was sat at the back of the cell block, leaning against a damp and crumbling wall, barred windows high above him, his body aching after a day of hard work. It was black outside and the hard floor was striped with pale moonlight. Stone was cocooned in the shadows, his legs stretched out, the sound of low and sporadic conversation through the cells and along the balcony above. Since killing the Bald One he had anticipated a swift and bloody retaliation but there had been none. He was glad. He was tired.
He had never envisioned a life beyond avenging the murder of his family, a blood vengeance he had, through the long years, believed would never be fulfilled. Chance had presented him with a name, a name he had kept locked in his thoughts since childhood, and he had tracked the name to the man and the man was now dead. Meeting Justine, growing close to her, he wondered if there was any future there for him. There had been women in past, meaningless couplings, but he had never allowed anyone beneath the surface. Once free of this place, he could imagine Justine back amongst the fields and mud huts of Dessan but he couldn’t quite summon the image of himself there. When he had seen Nuria for the first time, in the city of Chett, something had resonated within him, a confusing and troubling mix of feelings. How could he act on them? He had no future to offer any woman.
He realised Conrad was speaking to him. He had missed much of what the young man had said.
“That is my people,” he concluded, with a wry smile. “That’s who you risked your life for.”
Stone had managed to fashion a weapon; a slim, flat piece of metal, sharpened to a point at one end, and it remained with him through the night. In the morning, when meagre rations were delivered to the block, he would use this distraction to conceal the weapon in the wall, behind a loose stone, near to the holes where the buckets were emptied. It was an area used frequently but with little close examination.
Once more, he glanced at the Dessan villagers, gathered around a cluster of lit candles, nodding, muttering and chanting words in a language Stone did not understand.
“The tongue of the Ancients,” said Conrad. “Passed down to my father through generations, if you believe all that kind of thing. They’re the words Ilan uses when he condemns his people to this place.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes glazing with sadness. “Mathias, the one who spoke to you earlier, he memorised the words. He had heard them many times before being wrenched from his family.” He could see Stone was confused. “It’s a ruse, a meaningless ceremony to make every one think they’re crazy or have magic powers. Julen doesn’t trouble them. It works.”
A man trudged by and emptied his bucket down the hole. The smell made Conrad grimace.
“Why do you sit here? Mathias has said you’re welcome to share the cell with us.”
“I like it here,” said Stone.
“It’s dark and smells of shit.”
Stone nodded.
“Nuria was right about you. She said you can land yourself in some pretty bad places.”
He thought back to the cells of Chett.
“She said you once killed a lot of people. Why?”
Stone said nothing.
“How are we going to get out of here? I mean, you’re planning on getting out of here, aren’t you?”
Conrad leaned towards him.
“I really want to get out of here. These clothes stink and I miss the tavern.”
“I’ve got a few …”
Stone cut himself short and Conrad saw a frown crease the older man’s forehead. He followed his line of vision and spotted two of Julen’s men moving toward them, inching through the gloom, one to the left, one to the right. The cell block king stood, arms folded, watching from a distance.
Swiftly, Stone was on his feet, the flat blade in his right hand.
“Would you like some help?”
He looked at the younger man.
“Yes.”
Stone took the first man in the stomach with three quick jabs of the blade. The man shrieked in pain, reaching for his wounds, blood coursing over his shaking fingers. He staggered backward, loosening his grip on his own weapon, the metal blade clattering
loudly on the stone floor. The second man flashed a similar piece of jagged metal at Conrad but he wrong footed his snarling attacker, timed his moment and lunged with a volley of sharp punches, the crunching sound of his fists echoing through the cell block. The surrounding prisoners looked on grimly as Conrad put the man down in a shower of blood and teeth.
Stone marched toward Julen but then a group of Cuvars appeared at the gates, led by Floran, and Julen and his cronies melted back into the cells. Stone quickly tossed the blood smeared weapon as the guards spilled into the block, gesturing with clubs. One swept a lamp through the block, casting circles of yellow light amongst the prisoners, most of whom were now feigning sleep.
Floran pointed at Stone.
The Cuvars clamped him in iron. The gate was slammed shut and Conrad watched Stone disappear along the tunnel.
These were the tiny moments.
Alone in Cathy’s cell, Nuria stared at the white lights in the sky, marvelling at them. They had fascinated since childhood. In military school, she could often be found outside in the freezing cold, long after classes and drills, staring up at the night sky. She had heard them called stars, planets, meteors and a host of other names, but she was fond of her name for them - white lights - and felt there was something poetic and more hopeful in that name. She smiled as spots of rain struck her face. She had never realised the beauty of a rainfall until she had seen it through iron bars. It hissed from the clouds, enraged, yet when it reached the ground it transformed and gently caressed the soil. She saw great puddles spread and delighted as more rain splashed into them.
A noise above broke her concentration and she glanced up at the ceiling. Cathy would be back soon. She was roaming the block with her gang, harassing the other women, giving instructions, ordering those who were not pulling their weight to do so or face a beating. She was in charge and that was never going to change and Nuria cursed herself for not having seen it earlier. She had been drawn in by the woman’s conversation and interest in her. A place such as this spawned only monsters. She had been naïve. She was at Cathy’s side, almost all day, like a pet. She woke with Cathy’s arms around her, stale breath filling her nostrils. She watched her piss and shit. That wasn’t so bad because then she was tasked with emptying the bucket, alone, and that was another of her tiny moments, that long walk to the back of the cell block, untroubled and unmolested by anyone. Since being with Cathy not even Captain Niklas had taken her.
She wondered how many days had passed. She was losing count. Was it twenty? Twenty five? Thirty?
More?
She thought of Stone, Conrad and Justine less and less. A day felt like a hundred and when it passed she realised none of them had entered her thoughts. She was losing them. She had already lost herself. She pushed her hand through the bars, catching the rainwater on her palm. The air was shockingly cold. She wondered if snow would soon fall. She remembered thinking about snow when they had first arrived in Dessan. She had never imagined that she might glimpse it for the first time from a prison cell. It all seemed a long time ago now. Her eyes lowered as gloomy thoughts crowded her head.
Cathy swaggered back into the cell with the Mutterer and two other cronies, laden with extra food. There was little conversation. The four of them appeared tired and began to settle down. The Mutterer blew out the candles as Cathy ordered Nuria into bed.
She crouched down and pulled back the blankets.
“No, take it off. Everything.”
Nuria stared at her.
“What?”
Cathy twisted her hair, suddenly, and forced a blue tablet into her mouth.
“Don’t make me fucking tell you again, blonde. I’ve been patient.”
The other women in the cell kept silent.
“Do it.”
Cathy hurriedly peeled off her own shirt and trousers, the only garments any prisoner wore. Nuria saw the white scar, gleaming in the moonlight. She fumbled with her clothes, goosebumps erupting across her skin. She lay stiff beneath the blankets, Cathy’s body tight against her, hands roaming. She felt an uncomfortable spasm and there was a moment of nausea that quickly passed. Cathy’s voice whispered in her ear but the words seemed far away and she couldn’t understand any of them. She experienced sudden panic, blurred sensations, her body rushing forward, at incredible speed, yet feeling smothered. Her breathing accelerated, her heart was a loud drum, Cathy’s lips were on hers, hands between her legs. She couldn’t fight her off. Her body was drenched in sweat. Her limbs were immobile. She had escaped one monster for another.
She gasped, saw the rotting ceiling above, spinning circles, giant cracks appearing, breaking apart before her eyes, falling …
“Fuck,” shouted Cathy, yanking Nuria clear, as large chunks of the roof caved in and a prisoner from the cell above smacked against the floor, the ugly crack of bones breaking.
The woman shrieked in agony, her leg bent at an impossible angle. Laughing, Cathy pulled Nuria to her, wrapping a blanket around her.
There were screams and shouts through the cell block as more ceilings began to give way.
Women ran to the gate, yelling for the Cuvars. Nuria jerked away from Cathy and threw up.
Stone flexed his hands, stared at Floran. They were alone. Cuvars loitered in the corridor outside, talking in low voices. Stone recognised the room. He had surrendered his clothes and possessions here when they had released him from the infirmary. Afterwards, he had been branded and the memory caused him to study the symbols burnt into his arm. He levelled his eyes at Floran and tried to discern what the Rat wanted. Floran’s arm bore the branding, too, but he was less of a man, having slimed his way out of the cell block.
“What do you want?” said Stone.
Floran gulped.
“Darrach wants you dead.”
He waited for Stone to respond but there was nothing. No words. No gestures. Nothing.
“The Thinker wants you alive.”
Still nothing.
“The Thinker is going to meet with you. He knows who you are, your reputation beyond these walls.”
“Who is he?”
The old man slipped off his glasses, cleaned them.
“He’s the ruler of Tamnica.”
“Why have you brought me here?”
Floran set his glasses back upon his nose. The fire behind him crackled. Outside, the rain fell.
“You’ve been asking questions. I heard a name I recognised.”
“Who?”
“Lucas, you were asking about him, when you were in the infirmary. Did he make it?”
“He made it.”
“I knew he did. The Warden told the prisoners he had been captured on the bridge and thrown into the sea as punishment. I never believed him. I wonder how he made it out. He used to work with me. Did you know that? He wore the red armband.” He gestured to his sleeve. “Where did you find him? What’s he doing?”
“In the wasteland,” said Stone. “He was going home.”
“Home?”
“Back to Chett.”
He saw a sparkle in the old man’s eyes. He could not have cared less about Lucas escaping from Tamnica. All he wanted was information, fresh information, and now he had it, another slice to hand to his master, to continually cement his position of usefulness and cling to his token of power.
“You’re a man who hears things,” said Stone.
“I hear many things.”
Stone nodded.
“You can always trust a man who hears things. What does the Thinker want with me?”
“I don’t know, but he knows who you are. You’re the man who killed the bandits at Sarrone. You and another mercenary.”
Stone had not thought of the town of Sarrone in a very long time. A simple place of honest and hard working people strangled by a rampaging bike gang. He and Tomas had killed them all and filled the sky with the smoke of burning corpses.
“The Tongueless Man. That’s what they named you. Never spoke a word. Killed them all a
nd burnt the bodies and said nothing. The silent murderer. I was there, before I was stupid enough to end up in this place. I saw you kill them all.”
“You were at Sarrone?”
“That’s right. Watched you cut those fuckers down with your gun.”
Floran leaned toward him.
“Lucas found a way out. There have been others, too, Shelly, Ragnar, Cristo … they all found ingenious methods to break out.” He waited and saw no response from Stone to any of the names. “I know you’re planning to escape. You can’t stay in a place like this. I hate it here, what it has done to me. I’ll watch your back, Stone, if you give me your word to take me with you.” He paused. “I’ve helped you already. Told you about Darrach and the Thinker. So, do you give me your word?”
“I give you my word.”
He smiled at the Rat. When the time comes, Stone thought, you’ll be one of the first to die.
“But there’s something I want you to do for me.”
--- Fourteen ---
Three dead, seven injured.
The rain lashed the women as they trudged along the footpath, carrying the bodies. The wind swirled around them, blowing dirt. The Cuvars carried lamps and led them through the farm, neat black rectangles at night, the animals mostly sleeping, only a few bleats from the barns as the weather persisted to disturb them. Nuria was at the back, struggling to keep her grip around a pair of ankles. She could hear the throb of generators nearby. Her sandaled feet squelched in the mud, sloshed in and out of puddles. She was glad to be out of the cell block, away from Cathy. This could be one of her tiny moments, she reasoned, hauling a dead body.
The Cuvars escorted them to a gate in the wall where a watchtower manned by crossbowmen looked out to sea. As they pressed along a narrow and winding path, feeling a gentle slope, Nuria was pleased her head was beginning to clear, the effects of the tablet evaporating. Perhaps witnessing the ceiling cave in from above had shocked it from her system. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the prison against an angry black sky littered with white lights. She wondered if they were on an island or a long peninsula. She recognised she was a long way from where they had been brought in, across the bridge. She wondered why she was filling her head with the layout. This was her world. This was her reality. She would never leave this place.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 17
