The women plodded forward through the driving rain until one of the Cuvars threw up his hand and ordered them to stop. They had reached the edge of the cliff. The ground was patchy grass, wet and slippery. He circled the area with his lamp, a weak yellow glow behind smoke stained panels of glass, and gave a signal. The first body was hurled out into blackness. Nuria heard a distant splash as it broke the surface of the churning sea. The women who threw the second body were weak. It toppled from their grip, hit the ground and rolled off the edge. One of the Cuvars peered over and saw it lying on the rocks below.
Nuria intended to swing the body back and forward to create momentum, so it would be propelled well beyond the edge of the cliff, but the woman carrying it with her had other ideas. As Nuria pulled back the woman pushed forward and the body twisted and dropped onto the ground. Unlike the second corpse, it stayed there. Nuria felt a searing pain across the back of her legs. She cried out, dropping to her knees. The other woman was hit as well and glared fiercely at Nuria. Picking herself off the ground, Nuria and the other woman lifted the body and threw it clear over the edge.
It sailed down toward the sea.
On the walk back across the farm, Nuria spotted a Cuvar standing outside one of the barns, sheltered from the rain. He stopped the line of prisoners and spoke with one of the men. The Cuvar who had hit her walked toward her and grabbed her by the collar. He held onto her as the remaining five prisoners were marched back inside the prison building.
“I’m sorry I dropped her,” she said. “It’s the first time. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
He dragged her off the path and shoved her into the barn. The other Cuvar joined them. She felt straw beneath her feet. Pigs snorted at the sudden interruption. The rain lashed the roof. Nuria felt her stomach lurch. Where was Cathy’s protection now? The two men looked her up and down, grinning, and then stepped outside, easing shut the barn door. She saw one of them light a pipe and they fell into conversation. She blinked. Her heart was thudding. Her hands were trembling. The pigs stared at her. She gasped as she saw the outline of a man in the shadows.
“Stone.”
He emerged from the gloom, wrists clamped in iron. She ran to him, threw her arms around his chest and sobbed.
“What kept you?”
She was lying next to her, naked beneath the blankets, body stiff, tight, unresponsive.
Nuria told her about throwing the bodies off the cliff and how she had dropped her one and been hit by a Cuvar.
“So what did he do to you in the barn?”
“What do you think he did?”
Cathy nodded.
“Fucker, I’ll talk to Niklas, made sure he doesn’t touch you again.”
Nuria gulped. Her lie would be exposed. She rolled onto her side.
“Forget about it, it doesn’t matter. I’m with you now, right? I don’t want you talking to the Captain.”
“You’re giving orders now?” said Cathy.
Nuria fell silent. The cell they were in was at the far end of the block. The front three cells, on both floors, had been abandoned since the collapse. The Warden and Captain Niklas had briefly toured the rest of the block and agreed it was safe. There had been a flare of angry protests from many of the women but the Warden had simply unhooked his whip from his belt and things had quietened down.
Cathy stroked Nuria’s hair. She leaned across her and took an object from one of the other women.
“You want to tell me who you met in the barn?”
Nuria froze.
“Turn over.”
“What?”
“You fucking heard me.”
She rolled onto her stomach.
“I didn’t …”
Her scream resonated through the block. A few women wondered if another ceiling had fallen in but there had been no distinct crash. Cathy asked her again and this time Nuria confessed to meeting with Stone, one of the men she had been captured with.
“Did you fuck?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She screamed again. Cathy handed the object back to one of her cronies and told her to clean off the blood.
“I didn’t do anything,” sobbed Nuria. “I didn’t know I was going to meet him. I thought the Cuvars were going to attack me in the barn. He was chained up, in hand irons. Nothing happened, Cathy, I swear. We didn’t fuck.”
“Then what did he want?”
“I can’t, I can’t tell you.”
Cathy dragged her across the cell, to where the chair with the bucket was, and shoved her onto it. She whistled at one of the other women who tossed her a pair of scissors.
“Your last fucking chance, blonde.”
“No,” begged Nuria, as curls of blonde hair tumbled onto her trembling shoulders.
As further punishment, she was placed outside the cell for the night, forced to sit on the cold floor.
She wept, openly, not caring who saw or heard her tears. She wanted to die. She couldn’t tolerate seeing another face or hearing another voice. This was her world. This was her reality. And she wanted no part in it. She wanted it to end. Her stomach crawled. Her heart beat fast. She wanted it all over. There was nothing beyond this point. She had held onto him so tight and told him how she had convinced herself he was dead – “It was the only way I could survive.” – and that she had never been more relieved than to see his brooding eyes and stoic face. She whispered him everything that she had endured and in that moment, with the rain falling from the skies and her white lights watching over her, his arms were around her, the iron chains pressing into her back, and Nuria knew that she couldn’t and wouldn’t spend another moment without him.
“Stay close to her,” he told her.
“After all I just told you.”
“She’ll keep you safe.”
“So I should do as I’m told. Is that what you’re doing? I can’t imagine it. I want to kill her.”
She caressed his skin.
“I’m going to get us all out of here. I promise.”
“How is Conrad?”
Stone nodded.
“With me.”
It was all she needed to hear.
Tereza, a thin woman in her late thirties, often racked with fits of coughing and sneezing, inched toward her, attempting to pass her a blanket, but Cathy shouted at the woman and told her she would be next if she wasn’t careful.
Nuria drew her bare legs towards her chest and balanced her chin upon her knees. She was no longer bleeding below. She had never experienced anything as painful and disgusting as that. She washed her hands over her tear stained face and picked at her shorn scalp, odd clumps of hair remaining. Women whistled down at her from the balcony, making gestures, laughing.
“This is what happens,” bellowed Cathy, sauntering through the cell block. “When you fuck with me.”
She looked around at them.
“I run this fucking block, you understand? Nothing happens without my permission.”
The laughter trailed away. It had been a long night. Heads went down, eyes closed, the block filled with snoring.
Nuria glanced into the cell. Cathy and her cronies were fast asleep. Dawn was only a few hours away.
Darrach rode back through the gates of Tamnica, thirsty, hungry.
He had finished his business with the clan, the Collector’s settlement located on the far shore, away from the Tamnican stronghold where the Gatherers kept the metal vehicles. He had recruited new men and now the horses and wagons were being readied to leave at dawn. The village Centons would soon be complete and he would attempt to collect the levies once more. He still despised the Thinker’s methods. He would round them all up and lead a giant convoy back to Tamnica and let them breed there but the Thinker was absolute in his belief that this was the more productive way.
“How do you pick fruit from a tree?” he had once asked Darrach. “You delicately pluck
it from the branches. You do not take an axe and fell the tree. Do you understand this?”
He understood, he wasn’t a damn fool, but he still thought the Thinker was a spineless fuck who lacked guts, cowering behind Centons and coloured ribbons and real men. He would be more suited severed in two from the blade of his sword. He shoved the thought aside as he ducked out of the pouring rain into the candle lit tower. He stamped downstairs to the kitchen. The air was thick with pipe smoke and noisy conversation from a large number of Cuvars sprawled on benches. He took food and trudged up a long flight of winding stone steps. Finally, he arrived at his bedchamber and unlocked the wooden door. A fire glowed meekly in the hearth. Justine was beneath the blankets, eyes open, staring at the shuttered window, slithers of moonlight filtering through warped pieces of wood and streaking the hard stone floor.
He locked the door behind him and dropped loudly into a chair. He called for her to take off his boots.
She glided from the bed and crouched before him. He let his eyes travel her narrow body.
“I don’t want to go tomorrow,” she said, quietly. “Can’t you leave me behind? It’s not like …”
He smacked her across the head, the blow knocking her sideways. He climbed from his chair, silent and brooding, as she tried to pick herself up. He smacked her again, backhanded, his knuckles cracking against her face. She tasted blood. He clenched his fist and slammed a punch into her stomach. She gasped, doubled over, collapsed. He scooped her from the floor with his arm and pushed her face into to the bed. When he had finished with her, he lifted a bottle from the bedside and drank. Justine curled into a ball, sobbing.
“Shut that fucking shit up.”
He took off his armour, one piece at a time, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took another drink from the bottle. His head was already swimming. He peeled off his shirt and rolled off his trousers. His skin was on fire. Justine wiped the tears and mucus from her face. He stood before her, his hairy body thick with muscles and old wounds and dripping with sweat. His pitted face glared at her and he appeared unsteady as he reached for the bottle once more and drained it.
“Now you can suffer, you bastard,” whispered Justine, sliding from the bed.
Darrach sensed something was terribly wrong. He staggered after her. His arms thrust out, grabbing for her, but his movement lacked any strength or coordination and she sprang past him, hastily snatching a dagger from his belt. She whirled round and stabbed at him, slashing his arm and chest.
“What have you done?” he choked, his speech slurred, eyes bloodshot and rolling.
She reached for the empty bottle, the cocktail of powdered blue tablets now raging violently through his body. She dangled it between her fingers and he realised with horror that she had poisoned him. Killed by a whore? His outstretched hands snatched at her once more but he was sluggish and flailed thin air. She howled at him as she plunged the dagger into his stomach, twisting it with all her strength. She yanked it free and was sprayed with blood. She drove it in a second time, screeching into his face.
He lost balance, grabbing her hair as he toppled over. Justine felt her feet leave the ground and they slammed against the hard stone floor. She thrust the dagger into his side, wedging the blade between his ribs. His body was going into spasm. Blood and white liquid gushed from his mouth. She crawled from beneath his suffocating weight, stabbing him for every time he had abused her, every time he had rode into Dessan and taken her people. She kept stabbing until her arm was numb and she collapsed over his back, soaked in his blood, a hammering sound in her head.
Within seconds, she realised the sound was not in her head – it was coming from the door.
“Darrach? Darrach? What the fuck’s happening?”
She peeled herself off his body and sprinted to the window, picking up her dress and pulling it over her head as the door shook.
She unlatched the window shutter as a boot was driven against the locked door. It shook in the frame and she heard the wood splintering.
Squeezing through the narrow window, a blast of wind tossing her blood streaked hair, she emerged onto a narrow ledge. She was high above the battlements and the courtyard. It was too far to jump; she would shatter every bone in her body. As she balanced herself her left foot slipped. She gasped and grabbed for the window. The dagger sailed from her hand and landed below with a dull echo. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself upright as the bedchamber door crashed open.
Digging her nails into the ancient brickwork, Justine shuffled along the ledge, hair billowing, dress soaked. The foul night raged at her, showing no mercy. She edged further away from the window, feeling the ledge curve slowly with the natural shape of the tower. Her eyes were rimmed with rainwater. A head thrust from the window as she disappeared from view. She had no idea if he had seen her.
She moved further around the tower, looking for a window to climb through or a ledge lower down that she could drop onto but saw nothing. Her fingers scraped across the hard stone and her heart beat fast. She suddenly felt a crawling sensation and turned her head toward the watchtower by the gate.
A crossbow was aimed at her. The bolt hissed through the air and thudded into stone next to her.
She almost lost her balance. Her trembling fingers clung to the crumbling stone tower. There were footsteps in the courtyard below and armed men were pointing up at her. Her bladder loosened and warm urine streamed down her leg, dripping onto the ledge.
“Get in here, you bitch,” yelled a Collector, from the window.
--- Fifteen ---
Alba could hear birds.
His eyes fluttered open. He lay motionless in bed, listening to the chirping and calling, gentle yet insistent, his mouth curved into a content smile, a calmness washing over him. Laia curled against him, her body warm, drifting slowly from the throes of a deep sleep, dreams fragmenting, scattering, senses beginning to energise. She murmured, clinging to those last few moments before opening her eyes and drawing the room into focus.
Her hand danced across his bare chest, fingers delicately stroking the skin, nails twirling in a thin field of torso hair. He leaned to her, kissed her hair draped forehead, tangled strands platted across her blue eyes.
“Where’s Snug?” she asked, her voice hoarse. She always woke dry-throated. “He’s normally here by now.”
“Still sleeping.”
“Hmmm.”
“He’s sleeping longer now, isn’t he?”
Laia yawned.
“Still feels like the middle of the night.”
“Not when you hear the birds,” he said.
“This must the best time of the day. Those precious minutes before the toddler who rules your life wakes up.”
“You can lay here and reflect on things,” he said. “Lay here and think.”
“Maybe we can do more than reflect.”
He lifted her hand away.
“I just want to hold you.”
She sighed.
“Are you working today?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have to?”
He turned, looked at her.
“I work every day. You know that. You know why.”
A dull grey light filtered through the drawn curtains. There was the sound of movement from the next room.
“Mummy? Daddy?”
There was a hammering at the front door of the house. Alba opened his eyes once more. He could still hear the birdsong, now punctured by the noise from downstairs, but the room was empty. He swung his feet off the bed and pulled on his boots. He switched off the silver disc player and the chirping chorus ended abruptly. He watched the disc continue to spin for a moment longer before it gradually stopped. His fingers hesitated against the machine, lightly caressing it. He stopped outside Snug’s bedroom, Laia in a rocking chair, back and forward, back and forward, his son in her arms.
As he laid a hand on Snug’s warm scalp the memory faded.
Floran was waiting for him, standing at the heart
h, warming his hands, a box at his feet. Dust motes danced about him in the weak rays of sun filtering into the room. There were empty wooden shelves coated with a thin layer of dust and bare iron hooks in the walls.
“Good morning, sir.”
Alba nodded a muted greeting. He went through into the kitchen where his housekeeper was pouring him a hot drink. He did not know her name. He had never known it. It was quite possible she no longer remembered it, either, having resided within Tamnica for more than two decades. She had lived with him for several years now. Since the sickness had taken them. Floran had recommended her, citing her as a hard working and dependable woman. She had never rebelled or attacked a Cuvar or attempted to escape. She did not partake in illicitly brewed drink or smuggled tablets.
At first, he had her returned to the cell block at night, but she would arrive back the following morning bruised, a punishment issued for serving him, despite the numbing reality that they all served him. She would confess that the bruise was an accident, naturally, a wrong foot in the dark, nothing more, and would never name any of her fellow prisoners as the aggressor, despite his threats. Floran had suggested a wiser move might be to allow the woman to take one of the spare bedrooms. Hesitantly, Alba had agreed so now she only saw the prison from the outside.
He took his drink, easing the kitchen door shut behind him. Floran bowed once more and picked up the box.
“Some real good finds for you, sir.”
Alba peered into it. He set down his mug, steam rising, and poked through a collection of items, many dirty and broken. He fished out a bulky package of silver discs.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 18
