The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS)

by Moore, Laurence

  “How? By introducing her to a life of crime? You should have placed her with the Holy House.”

  “The fucking Holy House,” spat Munton, jabbing the shotgun. “I’m going to even the score and slaughter your men.”

  “That’s not the answer, Sal.”

  “Shut up,” roared Munton, scuffed boots angrily stamping across the dewy grass. “Just shut up.” Tears spilled from his eyes, mingling with the lightly falling rain. “My poor kids. I take care of them, you know that. I never hurt them. Why did you do it? Why, you bastard?”

  “You know why, Sal. You started robbing again, sending them here to take from folk who don’t have much.”

  There were heckles from the villagers.

  “Kill them all! They make our life a misery! Thieving scum! Little bastards! What are you waiting for?”

  The children seemed unfazed by the cries. Duggan held up his hand, took a step forward.

  “You hold it right there.” Munton cocked the shotgun, finger curled around the trigger.

  The captain stared into the black muzzles. He had not faced a weapon of this type for ten years.

  “You’re the one who killed them, Sal. I warned you what would happen. I told you to stop stealing.”

  “What else can we do? You understand nothing about us.”

  There was growing dissent amongst the onlookers, noisily suggesting that the Churchmen should fire their bows at Munton and his grimy faced looters. Duggan could sense this was going to turn very ugly unless he found a solution. He could not bargain with a man like Sal Munton. There was no reasoning about rights and wrongs with a man who had lived an untamed existence for nearly forty years, ploughing that doctrine of chaos through generations of his extended family. Duggan knew Munton would happily murder the Churchmen he’d captured - even if that meant sacrificing his brood or himself. But he’d fought in the war to stop faithless men like Munton. He knew there was only one answer.

  He opened his mouth to give the order for his men to fire, knowing he was risking the hostages, but it was Father Devon’s voice that was heard.

  “Mr Munton, I understand your pain.”

  Duggan glared but remained silent. The priest was one of the most senior men in the village. Only the retired Father William was older. Father Devon glided through the wet grass, tall and spindly, clad in black. His darkened skin was testament of his passion for gardening. Watery blue eyes angled toward a curved nose and his lips were tight and bloodless, hardly moving as he spoke. His sedative voice was nothing like the fiery rage often brought to Reverence Mornings.

  “Our Lord has taken your two innocent children from the very soil on which we now stand. But there is always a reason.”

  “I know the reason, preacher man,” snarled Munton. “Duggan and his bullies are the fucking reason. They were only children, Father.”

  “Children who know how to rob and kill! It’s your fault they’re dead! Shoot all the little bastards!”

  Billy had turned white. He was panting, the arrow still lodged in him.

  “Do we all not carry the stain of sin?” said Father Devon, sweeping his arms toward the soldiers and the villagers. “We walk in a world that was shattered by our many sins. But the Lord forgave us and gifted us Ennpithia to begin again. Do we know better than Him when it comes to forgiveness and understanding?”

  He looked to the skies, made the sign of the cross.

  “There is no man, woman or child here free of sin. Our very souls are black with sin. This is why we pray.”

  The villagers muttered. Duggan flashed a look at his men, kneeling in the rain.

  “Mr Munton,” said Father Devon. “There is a Demon inside you right now and he is tricking you. He is trying to control you. Push away the Demon, Mr Munton. Push him out.”

  The priest thrust both hands forward, raised his voice and followed each word with the dramatic gesture.

  “PUSH HIM OUT!”

  The villagers gasped.

  “Ignore his words of anger and violence and revenge. Push him out, Mr Munton. PUSH HIM OUT!”

  He used the pushing out action a second time. It was pretty effective. Munton was transfixed by the Holy man and the crowd were becoming more subdued. Quinn, lurking at the edge of the crowd, peered along the shaft of her crossbow and idly wondered whether to swap her aim from Munton to Father Devon. The old priest made her skin crawl.

  Jeremy appeared beside her, colour slowly returning to his face.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Please don’t buy Ancient tech,” he whispered. “I know you and Duggan are friends but he won’t …”

  “Shut up,” she hissed.

  Father Devon was talking again, inching closer and closer as he spoke. “You are a strong man, Mr Munton. You are stronger than the Demon. Let the Lord’s Light into your heart. Feel His love, Mr Munton. Feel the love of the Lord inside you. See the good He can bring you.”

  Munton’s face was streaked with tears. The shotgun was wavering in his hands.

  “Your children are with Him now, Mr Munton. They sit beside Him in the Above and they will wait for you.”

  Once more, he made the sign of the cross.

  “But it is not your time to join them. Please, Sal, discard the sinful weapon of the Before, the weapon of the Demon.”

  Duggan narrowed his eyes and peered around Munton into the trees. Had he just seen movement in there?

  “I think you got it right, Father,” said Munton, calmly, a crooked smile forming on his lips. He raised the shotgun at Duggan once more. “It ain’t my time for the Above but I reckon it’s his.”

  There was rustling and a sudden blur and the flash of twin sword blades. Munton gasped as cold steel was pressed against his throat and neck.

  “Drop it,” growled a voice.

  Munton unclenched his hands.

  FIVE

  Stone sheathed his sword, picked up the shotgun and clipped the stock across Munton’s face.

  He went down howling, blood gushing from his nose.

  “Stay down,” said Stone.

  The child thieves took one look at the bearded stranger with the long scar and the slender woman with the sword pointed at Munton and fled for the trees. Arrows whistled after them. Duggan rallied his men to pursue and swords were hastily drawn. Nuria worked her way along the line of prisoners, sawing through the ropes. The soldiers got to their feet, rubbing their wrists and thanking them both. Stone leaned the shotgun over his shoulder.

  A few villagers began clapping.

  “Hand it over,” said Duggan.

  Stone took a measured look at the grizzled man. He saw the sign on his tunic and the sword at his waist.

  “It’s empty.”

  “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Nuria looked up. Stone took a step toward him, almost nose to nose, and pressed the shotgun into the man’s chest.

  “It’s empty.”

  As he walked away, Duggan cracked open the firearm. There were no shells in the barrels.

  “How did you know?”

  Stone said nothing.

  “You always know,” said Nuria. “You can see it their …”

  Duggan turned his back on her and called to Stone.

  “I’m Captain Duggan of the Churchmen Regiment,” he said. “Who are you people?”

  “Dead,” snarled Munton, as he was dragged to his feet, blood coursing over his chin. “That’s who they are. They’re fucking dead. And you, Duggan. I’ll gut the lot of you knee benders. You bastards. My poor kids. You don’t know what you’ve done. You have to let me go. I can find him and kill him.”

  “Shut up, Sal,” said one of the Churchmen, as he clamped Munton in chains. “It’s the barracks for you.”

  “I can’t go to the barracks,” shouted Munton. “I need to protect the kids. You can’t put me in there.”

  “What will happen to him?” asked Nuria, but she realised the captain was ig
noring her for a second time.

  “He’ll be taken to Touron,” said Father Devon. “He’ll stand trial in a court of law. I’m Father Devon of the Holy House of Brix. You’re not from here, are you?”

  Duggan saw his men begin to return from the woodland, having swiftly rounded up Munton’s gang.

  “Who are the children?”

  Duggan, having no problem hearing this question, snorted at her. “Children? Thieves, rapists and murderers. Not children, miss.”

  He marched away. Father Devon smiled apologetically. The soldiers chained the boys and girls and the villagers began to hurl abuse. A clot of mud was thrown, striking one of them; it was the catalyst, anger and frustration poured out and the villagers pelted missiles at the children. They buckled as they were repeatedly hit. The Churchmen dragged them back onto their feet and herded them toward the barracks.

  Father Devon and Deacon Rush hastily attended and their words began to soothe and disperse the unruly mob.

  “That’s Reverence Morning for you,” said Quinn, lowering her crossbow.

  Jeremy smiled, playfully, but said nothing; he was too busy staring at the two strangers. Then a third emerged from the trees, a man, bald and plump, arms thrust beneath his tunic.

  “What’s happening?” said the Map Maker.

  He paused.

  “They don’t seem very appreciative.”

  Stone didn’t care what was happening or whether their actions had been appreciated or not. The past few days had been terrible; he wanted food, drink and a decent fire. Gallen was behind them and if this was Ennpithia then he didn’t think much of it. He began to trudge toward the village. The air was damp and wreathed in fine rain. The lines on his face hardened. His mouth twisted into a snarl. Nuria and the Map Maker hastily fell in step alongside him.

  “I don’t think we should mention the men we killed at the river,” said Nuria, her voice hushed. “The man we disarmed is heading for trial. They have laws here, Stone. Better we appear to stick by them. At least for now.”

  “I don’t care about their laws.” His face grew sterner because he knew she was right.

  Duggan spotted the three of them on the move. He strode through the grass, opened his arms wide and blocked the way forward.

  “I’m only going to ask once. Who are you people and what do you want in Brix?”

  Nuria said, “We saved your men. Have you already forgotten that?”

  “You interfered,” said Duggan, pointing at her. “The situation was under control. We can enforce our own laws.”

  “You do that,” said Stone.

  “I want names. Or you go to the barracks.”

  “What is that building?” asked the Map Maker, suddenly, nodding toward the Holy House.

  Duggan was silent for a considerable time. A deep frown creased his weathered face.

  “It’s a Holy House,” he said, finally. “It’s the first Holy House of Ennpithia. How do you not know what it is?”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “You knew that weapon was empty,” he said, turning to Stone, “and I saw the way you handled it. You three are Kiven.”

  “We’re what?” said Nuria, her heart beginning to race. She licked her lips as a cluster of bowmen advanced and gathered around them, bows raised. Had they left behind one crazy world for another? She couldn’t understand the hostility.

  “We’re from Gallen,” said the Map Maker, nervously. “His name is Stone. That’s Nuria. I’m the Map Maker.”

  Duggan let out a low whistle. “Now I find that very hard to believe. Few men find their way here from Gallen.”

  “Us men seem to have made it just fine,” said Nuria.

  Stone let his hand drift toward his sword.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said the captain, taking a step back. “I’m placing you in the barracks. Surrender your weapons or we take them.”

  “Captain Duggan,” said a voice, pushing through the knot of bowmen. “Captain Duggan, please.”

  Stone observed a tall slender man with freckled skin. His scalp was covered with a fuzz of blond hair. He wore black, from head to toe, with a white sign emblazoned across his chest, identical to the one the soldiers’ wore. Hands clasped together, he presented himself to Duggan and said, “Mr Boyd claims knowledge of this party. They are here at his request.”

  All heads turned toward a portly man with a shock of grey hair, standing on the edge of the village.

  “Deacon Rush, with all respect, I do not place tremendous faith in the word of Mr Boyd.”

  Rush smiled. “I cannot imagine that Mr Boyd would spin a lie on Reverence Morning, Captain. He’s an honest, hard working man.”

  Duggan chewed his lower lip. He glared at Stone.

  “You know Mr Boyd?”

  Stone and Nuria remained silent. Bowstrings strained. A few villagers began to wander over, intrigued by the stand off with the newcomers.

  “Mr Boyd states he can vouch for these people,” said Deacon Rush. “I think his word should be good enough, Captain.”

  They didn’t know him but it appeared everyone else did; there were vigorous handshakes as Boyd led them through the village, firm hugs, waves, slaps on the back and a plethora of polite nods, all accompanied by a warm and genial smile.

  Nuria whispered to Stone but he had no answers for her. Boyd had saved them from the barracks and for the moment that was good enough. He was in no mood for any further slaughter, having only reached the shores of Ennpithia, and despite the bodies in the canyon, he wanted his sword to remain sheathed, at least for now. If they had been taken to the barracks he would have been forced to resist and kill all the Churchmen and would have done so without hesitation. He had lived a long and bloody life. In the wastelands of Gallen they had many names for him; the Tongueless Man, the Wasteland Soldier, to conjure only a few. But they knew him and feared his violent wrath. Here, he was a stranger and for now the anonymity appealed.

  Glances lingered for a few seconds longer as Boyd walked them through a bustling and hard working community. The village had stood for many centuries, a post Cloud Wars settlement, that much was obvious. The inhabitants had ritually observed Reverence Morning with solemn reflection but now, with the sideshow of Munton’s arrest over, the rest of the day would unfold into labour, and little else.

  Stone could hear the groan of cattle. Beyond the humble dwellings he spotted fields of black and white beasts, chewing grass, tails swatting away flies. He could see long necked white creatures with orange beaks and recognised them as gleff, tasty but vicious things, very rare in southern Gallen, where he was from, but more common in the north. Later, he would learn they named them geese here. There was hammering and sawing and stitching and cooking and tending and gardening but despite the hum of activity, despite the loud chatter and the occasional burst of song, Stone could feel tension, almost as a physical thing, like a heavy cloak, pressing down onto his shoulders. There was a down trodden nothingness to the lives of these people, an oppression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Boyd’s affable nature was the only respite from the suffocating mood. Stone wondered what position the man held in the village. The man’s boots, though mud spattered, still looked clean. His clothes were neatly tailored, well presented, and colourful scarves were knotted around his neck, concealing fleshy rolls. His eyes were dark, scrunched tight, with half moon shadows beneath them, and his hair was a curious shock of grey set atop a smooth scalp, curling shaggy and untamed onto a deeply rippled forehead. He was easily ten or fifteen years older than Stone, though the vivacity in his step belied his age.

  He took them to the village inn, at the end of a rutted lane. A faded sign creaked in the wind. Inside, the ceiling was low and stale pipe smoke lingered in the air. A lit fire blazed in a large stone hearth, despite the mild temperature outside, and filled the room with warmth. Stone smiled but then noticed a wooden sign nailed above it. The sign seemed to be everywhere; on buildings, on the uniforms of men – even
on Boyd who wore one on a chain around his neck.

  A bald headed man stood behind a long wooden counter and looked up as the three of them entered. He was in his thirties and wore a brown apron over a heavy woollen shirt with the sleeves rolled back, revealing thick arms covered in wiry brown hair.

  He smiled at Boyd, a near toothless grin, and cast inquiring looks at Stone and Nuria.

  “Good morning, Bertram,” said Boyd. “Food and drink for the three of us, please.”

  Boyd asked them to sit. It wasn’t a request. His voice was friendly but there was a firmness tucked neatly behind his words. It was no wonder he had persuaded the village authorities to release them to him. He was a man who got what he wanted with a smile, not a sword or a fist. He politely excused himself to speak with two men slouched on stools at the end of the counter, sipping from large mugs.

  Stone sat opposite Nuria, his back pressed against a rough wall, and carefully studied the two men. One was older, a gnarly face, grey hair, dark beady eyes; the second one was half his age, hair brown, blistered and patchy skin. Both men wore studded leather armour with heavy boots and strapped down swords. Whatever the nature of the conversation Stone knew the men were looking more and more displeased by it. Boyd spread his arms and shrugged. The older one nodded, turned away and raised his drink to his lips, shaking his head with disappointment. The talk was over, as far as he was concerned, but the younger man was not letting the matter lie; he jabbed a finger at Boyd, his face contorted with fury.

  “Did you see the way they handled the shotgun?” said Nuria, the warmth of the fire on her back. “They were terrified by it.”

  She drummed her fingers against the table.

  “Why did the captain call us Kiven? Have you ever heard of that word before?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you think it means outsider?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. He paused. “They don’t look too happy.”