“He’s nice,” said Susana, and Lena saw a smile for the first time.
“I will talk to the class in the morning,” she said. “No one will tease you about how you look or anything else.”
“Thank you. I’d better go. My father will be wondering where I am.”
“Is Maizan like this?” asked Lena.
As Susana got to her feet, silently shaking her head, the village bell rang out. Lena saw Mallon swivel his head and sprint out of view.
“What’s that for?” said Susana, nervously, her face turning ashen.
“It’s okay,” said Lena, taking the girl’s hand. “Remember, we rang the bell when you arrived. Don’t worry.”
Susana thought of the cruel men in blue and white. Had they come here? Goosebumps erupted along her arms.
“Let’s see who it is,” said Lena, excitedly pulling her along.
Susana wanted to yank her hand free of the girl who had stood as teacher’s helper in the school filled with spiteful children. She had never experienced school before. There were no schools in Maizan. She did not know how to read or write. It seemed unimportant in Gallen. Her stomach flopped about and she thought she was going to be sick although there was nothing inside her. She had not tried any of the food since arriving here despite the mouth watering aromas that wafted through the air. She was afraid to try it. It might be a trick. Her brothers had gobbled down bowls of fruit but she was yet to see her parents eat anything.
Lena was bubbling with excitement as she tugged her into a deafening crowd of Dessan villagers who had gathered at the north gate. Susana wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.
The men on duty in the watchtower, armed with spears, yelled down.
“Open up.”
It took four men to lift the heavy draw bar that secured the double gate. Two stood at each end and hefted it into the air with collective grunts. They carried it aside and then two of the four men pulled back the left hand gate. There were cries of joy as Conrad stepped through, looking exhausted and somewhat sheepish, his clothes grimy, blood stained. Emil emerged at his side, a blood stained ball hammer in her right hand.
She stood twenty feet from him. Living. Breathing. Mallon discarded his spear and shield.
Stone had sent her back to him.
He walked to her, his feet leaving prints in the soil.
“Hello,” he said, heart racing.
Her single eye flashed at him.
“Hello,” said Emil.
“The Magic Girl has returned,” cried a voice, and a tumultuous cheer resounded. Lena jostled to the front of the crowd, pulling Susana with her.
“Conrad,” she said. “And the one-eyed girl.”
“How do you know them?” frowned Lena.
As Susana whispered her tale of the road from Maizan and the strangers who had offered them food, shelter and protection for one night, a hush descended upon the villagers.
Cristo stood before them, a mere shadow of the man who had once worn the purple ribbon around his elbow.
There was muttering as he raised an arm and pulled down his sleeve, revealing the ugly branding upon his skin.
“This is what they do to you,” he said, shakily, silencing them. “On the day you arrive. They beat you, strip you and brand you like a wild animal.”
He limped through the gate, his eyes burning, intoxicated with hate, a machete dangling from his fist, the edge of the dull blade caked with dried blood. Mallon nodded at him men and the militia edged forward, weapons ready. Whispers passed through the villagers as they recalled who he was and how he had been taken a long time ago. The sun beat down on him as he paced back and forward, glaring at them, watching them lower their eyes in shame.
“You all watched and let them take us. For years you did nothing.”
Mallon was about to give the signal for his men to grab Cristo when he noticed the crowd begin to part.
He spotted one of the refugees, a woman who had distanced herself from them on arrival. She had spoke with no one and kept her face hidden. Mallon had assumed she had endured terrible hardship on the road and merely wished to be left alone.
“Two hundred and forty one days,” said Emil.
Mallon looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
The woman unwound her scarf as she drew closer to Cristo. The machete slipped from his grasp, thudded to the ground.
Tears filled his eyes as he curled his arms around her.
Dani pressed her hand against the wall. She glanced up at the thatched roof. She sniffed the air.
“It stood empty,” she whispered. “All that time.”
Cristo eased himself onto the dusty floor. He uncorked a bottle and drank.
“Does it have a name?” she said, smiling at him.
“I don’t care about that,” he said.
She took the bottle, wrapped her lips around it, tilted her head back, gulped it down.
“I thought he threw you into that pit of bodies.”
She shook her head.
“After the first escape, he kept me tied up. He made me watch as he chopped that man’s hands off.”
“He’s still alive,” said Cristo. “Going north. Trying to find Ennpithia.”
Dani snorted, drank some more.
“One of Basile’s men took pity on me. He left me untied and accidentally left the apartment door unlocked. I ran, Cristo, I ran harder than I’ve ever run before. I joined up with the refugees and kept travelling with them.”
“If you hadn’t mentioned the days I was gone.” He clenched his fist, shook his head. “I would have never found you.”
She clutched his arm.
“You would have. We love each other.”
She looked up.
“Do you know there are holes in the roof? We’ll need to fix them. Before the rains come.”
Cristo shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Alone, he stared down at her simple, unmarked grave, near the birds, clucking and jumping about beneath the warm sun.
“Conrad?”
He ran a hand through his head, wiped his eyes.
“Hard to believe she’s dead. Tamnica killed her, Mallon. It killed so many of our people.”
He nodded toward Emil, who was talking with Sadie, her stomach ready to explode. He guessed she was telling her about the Map Maker. Conrad watched the pregnant young woman slowly nod but shed no tears.
“I’m glad you arrived back today,” said Mallon. “The leaders of Agen and Le Sen will be arriving tomorrow.”
Conrad frowned.
“Why?”
Mallon reached for him, gripped his shoulder.
“I think the day has come for my friend to truly escape.”
It had been a long time since he had read to his son.
The prison had consumed his days and nights, working hard to restructure the damage Stone and his companions had inflicted. He now owned a mere fourteen male and nine female prisoners. The Cuvars had been weakened. The Rats had been murdered. The Gatherers had not returned to the forest and surrounding lands since the escape. Morale was rock bottom, rations were being slowly depleted. It was a vicious circle they had fallen into. He did not have enough prisoners to maintain the facility. He did not have enough weapons or ammunition or men to reclaim new prisoners. Deals had soured. No one was trading with them. They still retained a large supply of black energy but it might as well be canisters of thin air if no one was willing to trade. Nothing was going out and nothing was coming in. His economy, underpinned by blue tablets, was crumbling before his very eyes. He was growing deeply concerned. He was the Thinker. He knew the end game and it terrified him. He would end up brutalised and placed in the cage as anarchy and rebellion took its grip. He had told Floran that Stone was the most dangerous man inside Tamnica. He had been wrong. He had been far more dangerous than that.
He needed a new Warden, a man fearsome enough to drive his men forward, to intimidate them,
but his ranks were woefully short of such a man. He would have to take the role upon himself.
For now, though, the Thinker needed to become Alba and spend time with his family.
It might be the final time.
Snug was curved in Laia’s arms, his beautiful eyes bright, alert. Alba slid the book from the bookshelf, recognising the faded cover of his son’s favourite story, the one with the boy and the duck.
Cross legged, upon a thin layer of dust, Alba read slowly to his son’s empty bed, his voice hitting high octaves as the tension of the story grew, the drama of a little boy who had lost his favourite toy, his most favourite of all toys, a much loved cuddly duck.
Laia flashed smiles at him as he read, drawing whoops and grins from their son. Alba recognised the smiles and the promise they held. Warmness caressed his body.
“Again, Daddy,” said Snug. “Again.”
Once more he read the tale. Once more his voice rose and fell with the story. He could hear shuffling footsteps on the landing. He set the book down and eased open the bedroom door.
“Why are you up here?” he asked.
His housekeeper lowered her head.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said, noting the empty room. “There is something you should see.”
“What is it?”
“You should come at once, sir.”
“Can’t you simply tell me what it is? What has happened?”
“There’s a fire, sir.”
The words stung him. He nodded and closed the door. Alba walked to his son’s bed and settled him down for an afternoon nap. He kissed Laia and told her to stay with him, to rest.
“Be careful,” she said.
He knew he would never see them again.
He stepped out of the bedroom, gently closing the door so as not to disturb them. His housekeeper waited at the top of the stairs, gesturing for him to hurry. He could smell the smoke, seeping through the cracks in the walls. He trotted down the stairs and out into the overgrown garden. Great plumes of smoke filled the air, wafting across the river, shrouding the bridge. He followed the path to the prison and entered through a concealed side gate. He strode across the courtyard and rushed up the stone steps onto the battlements where his men stood nervously, brandishing crossbows and bows.
“Here, sir,” said one of them, handing Alba a pair of binoculars.
He raised them to his eyes and saw a terrible fire raging through the Gatherer’s compound. He ground his teeth as the flames licked walls and spread over the roof, relentlessly consuming every thing in its path. All the vehicles were ablaze. He swept his vision to the men at the foot of the bridge, preparing to cross. More than a hundred on horse and easily a hundred more on foot. Heavily armed with shields, swords, spears and bows. Bright colourful banners fluttered in the wind. Purple for Dessan. Yellow for Agen. Blue for Le Sen. Red for Siense. Alba recognised the long haired man carrying the Siense banner.
A solitary horse trotted forward. Alba saw a dark haired man with a flat face and slanted eyes. He wore armour and carried a spear and shield.
“The Collectors are dead, the Centons have been destroyed and the united Eastern Villages have come to reclaim our people,” called Mallon. “We are offering you the chance to surrender. This is the only chance you have to live. Drop you weapons and open the gate.”
He calmed his horse, stroking her mane as thick smoke curled around them.
“If you do not surrender we will take the prison by force.” He gestured with his arm at the small army behind him. “We outnumber you. We have more weapons than you. We have more reason to fight. If you do not surrender I promise you that no Tamnican will be spared.”
Alba lowered his binoculars and glanced at his house, located beyond the prison walls.
“We will erase Tamnica from Gallen’s history,” roared Mallon.
The militia from the three villages cheered and clattered their weapons loudly. Alba saw the overgrown garden where Laia and Snug were buried. He took a deep breath as the tears fell from his eyes.
“Open the gate,” he said. “Put your weapons down.”
Halfway across the bridge, with the gate ahead wide open, Mallon halted his column of horseman as a body was shoved over the wall. Conrad rode swiftly forward, red banner streaming behind him. A man lay in the grass, a cluster of crossbow bolts protruding from his crumpled body. Was this the Thinker? He dropped down from his horse and planted the pole he carried into the ground, watching the red banner unfurl and blow in the wind.
A group of grim faced Tamnicans appeared at the gate, hands placed upon their heads.
Slowly they began to walk forward.
Deep into the night, beyond the forests and into the deserts, across the wild lands of Gallen, tiny settlements who had never known the word Tamnica pointed at the sky and questioned the orange glow bathing the horizon as the fires continued to rage and the ancient prison was reduced to ash.
Then they would hunker down for the night, weapons ready against the scavengers and the roving bandits.
--- Twenty Nine ---
“Caybon,” said the Map Maker, beaming, as they scrambled toward the summit of the sun baked hills.
Nuria was exhausted. Her stomach was rumbling, her throat barren. She looked at Stone. He looked as bad as she felt. Endless days had elapsed since the car had become exhausted of black energy. The nights were cold, unforgiving, the days unbearable, like walking through a furnace minute after minute. Once the sun broke on the horizon she would peel off her tunic and cover her scalp with it, protecting her head and shading her face. She wore a sleeveless shirt beneath it and the breeze felt cleansing on her skin as it rushed against her. Halfway through the day, though, the coolness of the wind evaporated and it transformed into hot air. Dripping with sweat, she acknowledged this was a more terrible place than the Southern Deserts they had crossed to reach Dessan but here there was no forest or river on the horizon. In truth, as they continued north, painfully lifting each foot across the unrelenting terrain, there was no sign of anything.
The three of them stood in the swirling wind, seeking the bustling community of Caybon, hoping to spy an expanse of sea, only to find a parched and empty landscape of brown sand, rugged dunes and low foothills in the distance.
“There’s nothing here,” said Nuria.
“But this is Caybon,” he said, adamant. “It has to be here. I don’t understand.”
The Map Maker frowned. He looked around a spotted a crevice, down the hillside, offering a moment of respite from the intense heat.
“Where is it?” said Nuria, collapsing.
Stone licked his cracked lips. The water had run out days ago.
“If there’s a town or a settlement around here then we should hear something. Are we lost?”
“No,” said the Map Maker, vehemently shaking his head. “We’re not lost. Show me the map.”
For the umpteenth time, Nuria unfolded the crumpled map and laid it across his lap.
“This is Caybon,” he said, squinting. He raised his head and looked around. “Where is it? Unless it’s over those foothills.”
“What if it had been destroyed? Like the Maizan city?”
“There should still be something here. Ruins, remains, fragments to indicate it had once existed.”
They both fell silent for a moment.
“It’s as if Gallen has sucked it below the surface.”
Stone looked at him.
“Is the map wrong?” he growled.
“No, no, it’s not wrong,” said the Map Maker, holding up his arms, a pitiful sight without his hands.
“You’re putting a lot of faith in a map that doesn’t show Gallen.”
“But it does,” said the Map Maker. “You don’t understand. I should have more patience with you both. My maps of Gallen match this old map from the Before. Except for this region. I’ve never been here but we’re in the right place. I’m convinced of it.”
“How can you be so certa
in?” said Nuria, shaking her thin shirt free of sweat. “We could have easily lost our bearings. We could be tracking east or west or any variant of north.”
“The map is right,” snapped the Map Maker. “And we are heading north. Maybe we’re a day behind. Come on, we need to keep going.”
The deep blue sky, stricken with red tears, stretched cloudless above them, strong rays burning them as they forged over long drifts of sand and low hard dunes of rock. Stone caught his boot and stumbled. He looked back, frowning. He dropped to a crouch and swept away the sand, uncovering a rib cage. Nuria stood over him, casting a shadow as he drew his sword and used it to rapidly swept clear layers of sand, revealing more bones.
He stopped as Nuria placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“Stone,” she whispered.
Slowly, he raised his burnt, scarred face. He counted twelve of them, forming a loose circle around them, clad in black, from head to toe. How had they not seen or heard their approach? It was if they had dug themselves out of the ground. Fear sprang across the face of the Map Maker. He squeezed between Stone and Nuria as they stood back to back, rotating slowly. Nuria’s sword scraped as she pulled it from its scabbard. The men appeared unarmed. Wordlessly, they circled them, waiting for the right moment, sensing when to move forward.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” barked Nuria.
Stone could not see their eyes. Even as they moved closer he could not see any of their features.
“Please don’t hurt us,” shouted the Map Maker. “We just want to find Caybon.”
“Shut up,” said Stone. “Don’t show them any fucking weakness.”
“We don’t have anything,” he blurted out. “No food, no water. We just want to find Caybon and make it to Ennpithia.”
“Quiet,” yelled Stone.
Frustrated, he whirled his sword in front of him, tired of endless of walking, ready to work up a sweat the old fashioned way. The black robed men drew closer, tightening the knot around them. The sun blazed down.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 33
