It was a nightmare.
“You hate the Holy House for what it did to Clarissa and Daniel.”
She said nothing.
“Talk to me. Please. I can get them to spare your life if you join us. They’ll listen to me.”
It was a primitive and roofless prison, a cage constructed from heavy beams lashed in place with rope with a single gate held tight by a length of chain. She was one of four prisoners; another woman and two men. Climbing out would be easy but the Shaylighters were no fools and her wrists were bound tight, the rope burning her skin. There were also three roaming guards and they carried fearsome looking slingshot carbines and leather ammunition bags. She’d never seen Shaylighters with anything more than spears or axes or daggers. They had only ever operated as a roving band of thieves. But this was a thriving community of men, women and children – this was an army hiding inside a diseased city, hiding within Ennpithia’s borders.
“Mosscar didn’t kill her.” She looked into his eyes. “Tell me how you did it. How did you make Clarissa sick?”
“I didn’t.”
“It had to be poison. Did you put it in her food? Did you try and have sex with her and she refused?”
“No, she was my friend.”
Quinn slowly shook her head.
“They’re going to hang you, Jeremy. For killing her. For killing all my family. For killing those soldiers this morning. You’ll shit yourself when they put that noose around your neck.”
“I never touched Clarissa. I swear.”
She pressed her face against the bars of the cage.
“Stop with the lies.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then it was your best friends, the Shaylighters. How long have they been here? Like this?”
“The Shaylighters have existed here for centuries,” he hissed. “Long before the Ennpithians came, throwing up villages and buildings and worshipping an even bigger lie than Mosscar.”
“What do you know of the past?” She snorted. “What do you know about anything, stupid boy?”
“You would rather believe in a man nailed to a cross, would you?”
“You killed my family.” She spat at him. “You bastard.”
It dribbled down his face. He wiped it away on his sleeve.
“Quinn …?”
“Go away, Jeremy.”
“Annie …?”
“Run off and play, little boy.”
She turned her back on him; the boy she had nurtured, watching him alongside Clarissa. She was strong but her heart was breaking. Her mother had toughened her to life in the most horrific of ways but, here and now, in this awful place where certain death awaited her, she felt that inner strength crumble. She wanted to curl into a ball and sob. She wanted someone to put their arms around her and hold her tight. The boy she had cared for had aligned himself with the very tribe she had spent years fighting and killing on the road. It was a twisted irony and a terrible betrayal. She thought of Boyd, in Great Onglee, drinking with his friend, Earl Hardigan, reflecting on a good day’s takings, unaware of her fate. He knew she was here but would not come looking for her. The two newcomers knew she was here but they would not come, either, not to a city of death. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered now. The secret would die with her. The truth would be lost in the mist.
She wheeled around.
“I hope the Lord punishes you for your sins in the most painful of ways. I hope you burn in the Below.”
“I do not believe in Him,” he said, angrily slamming his hand against the bars. “Nor do you, Quinn.”
She sneered. “You used to bore me to death with it. Are you no longer dazzled by His light?”
“I told you, Quinn, you just had to pretend. I kept telling you but you wouldn’t listen.”
She nodded.
“You did. You told me.”
A loud hammering forced Quinn to glance over her shoulder. A space had been cleared in the middle of the camp and wooden stakes were being driven into the ground. Female Shaylighters beat them into the soil with large mallets. She realised, numbly, that she had never seen the female counterpart before tonight. They bore the same long hair, knotted down the back and, although their chests were painted with the inverted cross, a strip of cloth covered their breasts. The women wore face paint, angry strokes and sharp lines, looking more ferocious than any of the men. It dawned on her, pointlessly, why the noise box had failed to detect any sickness. There simply was none. It might have existed, once, decades or even centuries ago, but not now, and the painted freaks had hidden in the only place every Ennpithian feared to look.
“I’m a non-believer,” said Jeremy. “I hate the Holy House. I attended so as not to draw attention. I’m not the only one.”
He lowered his voice.
“Where was the Lord when my father beat me night after night? I prayed and prayed and no one answered me.”
The female Shaylighters bound rope from stake to stake, creating what was obviously a fighting arena.
A lump ballooned in Quinn’s throat.
“Please,” he said, seeing the realisation in her eyes. “It’s not too late. I can talk to Essamon. He will listen to me. He will spare you.”
He slipped his hand through the bars and touched her arm.
“Will you join us?”
“You said you weren’t the only one.”
“I’m not.”
“Who else is there?”
“Fight for us and you can meet them.”
“I fight for my family. But my family are dead and you killed them. Daniel was a cripple, Jeremy, a ruined man. And Clarissa had so much to live for.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then I’m begging you, let me have the truth before I die. We both know it wasn’t the city.”
“She should have stayed away.”
“Then you do know what happened?”
“They didn’t know who she was.”
“So these long-haired bastards killed her? Was it Essamon?”
“No, it was nothing to do with him.”
“Then who was it, Jeremy? There’s no one else here.”
The arena was finished. He chewed his lip.
“You don’t know him. It’s too late now,” he said. “I’m sorry. I always …”
His voice was drowned out by a cacophony of cheers and roars and whistles and loud banging.
Essamon had arrived.
He emerged from a long tunnel that pierced one section of the stands. His arms were raised. He carried the black box in one hand. The hat of feathers was wedged onto his skull and his eyes were concealed beneath goggles.
He strode into the crowd.
Fists pumped the air. Spears were rattled. Warriors screamed.
Quinn looked into his eyes. It was coming. She could see it. She’d worn him down. He was going to tell her.
Then a group of rowdy Shaylighters bundled him forward. He cast a baleful glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the throng of cheering warriors. She shook off his betrayal and looked at her fellow prisoners; they were shaking with fear and little more than useless. She ran her eyes over the ground and spotted rocks dotted amongst the tangled grass. The warriors guarding the cage began to shift forward, rising on tiptoes. The noise from the centre of the stadium was deafening.
Quinn dropped to the grass and sifted the rocks. In no time at all she found one with a sharp edge.
She wasn’t dying this way.
Frantically, she began to rub the ropes against it.
Lying flat on the roof, blasted by the cold wind, Stone swept his binoculars around the stadium.
He saw the cage of prisoners down below. Quinn was engaged in an angry confrontation with a boy that looked out of place amongst the bare-chested warriors. It was Jeremy, the nosy boy from Brix. She had trusted him and he had betrayed her. Further away he saw a fighting arena staked out and knew this was only going one way tonight. Time was running out. He looked down at the cooki
ng fires. He could creep down there and spread fire onto the wagons, set loose the animals, create panic and chaos. He grimaced. It was a reasonable plan but there were too many warriors; he wouldn’t even make it to the fires before he was spotted.
Frustrated, he trained his binoculars on Essamon. The freak held his arms aloft and silenced the rapturous cheering. He began to address his people, his gnarled words carried on the buffeting wind. Stone studied the man’s shoulder. There was no axe wound.
“Shit,” he muttered. He’d worry about that another time.
He flashed another look at the cage and surrounding area. There. A few paces away. In the shadows. That was it. A way in. A way out.
Possibly.
He scrambled from the roof and began to climb back down the stadium toward a vast sea of rusted cars, crammed across a large stretch of cracked black asphalt. His boots echoed as he dropped to the ground. He listened. The wind whistled through the dark, stirring centuries of dust and ash.
Clinging to the shadows, Stone edged along the outer wall of the stadium, gauging his location. He was bristling with weapons; the slingshot carbine on his shoulder, a revolver tucked in his belt, a sheathed sword at his waist, a leather bag of steel balls across his chest, the rapid fire crossbow in his hands. He counted on needing all of them to get Quinn out of this. He’d taken a few pot shots with the slingshot on his way through the deserted city. It was a fine and accurate weapon. The Shaylighters were more advanced and with greater numbers than Quinn or Boyd had thought or suggested. He’d need to worry about that another time as well.
Loud cheers rang out from the cavernous bowl of the enormous building. He was glad of the noise. It masked his approach. He glimpsed fires ahead, wood ablaze in metal drums. He could hear low murmurs. He dropped into a crouch. A knot of Shaylighters were prowling the front of the stadium. Several were lazing on rusted vehicles, wheel arches stripped of tyres, the rubber sliced and diced into armour and footwear. Stone counted six men; all bare-chested and long haired. Conversation drifted between them with sporadic bursts of laughter.
Stone was preparing to line up his first shot when a sudden pain jabbed into the nape his neck.
It was the tip of a spear.
“E a chur sios,” hissed a voice.
The prisoners paid her no mind as she scraped her bonds against the rock. One of the men prayed. Quinn listened to his mutterings over and over again. Apparently, he had not given up, either.
Lord, give me the courage to face the Demon Soldiers. Please forgive my sins. Show me the light and save me from these heinous monsters.
Quinn worked at breaking free. No mythical hand was going to swoop down from the Above and scoop them out of this hellish place. They were alone. She froze at the rattle of the chain, averted her eyes and stared down at the tangled ground as warriors spilled into the cage. The other woman began to sob and shuffle away from the bare-chested men. The man praying was on his knees, head bowed, voice loud, making the sign of the cross, over and over again.
“Shut up,” whispered Quinn. “Just shut up.”
His faith had fuelled their choice. The Shaylighters jabbed with their spears. He cried out, tears erupting down his face, a dark stain appearing at his groin. The warriors laughed and dragged him from the cage. The man shook violently as he was pushed through the gate. The last warrior stooped to lift the chain. The rope around Quinn’s wrists split and she raised her head sharply. The Shaylighter saw the flash of movement and reached for his spear but he was too slow and she was too fast. She barrelled toward him, her hands gripping his skull, her thumbs curling toward his eyes and driving through the slick texture. He screamed and thrashed as she blinded him. She climbed from his body, snatching his spear.
Shaylighters whirled around but Quinn was free and a spear was held in her gore spattered hands. She plunged the jagged tip into the chest of the nearest warrior. He grimaced as the steel tore skin and wedged against bone. She yanked it free and whipped the shaft into the face of another warrior, putting him down in the dirt. Legs apart, fists clenched, she howled at them, enraged; the bloodlust had descended, fear and betrayal had turned her primal. She stabbed at them, dying the way she chose to, as a warrior, rendering them the powerless ones.
An axe swooped at her and Quinn rocked back on the balls of her feet as the steel edge swept inches from her nose. The remaining two prisoners looked on with stunned expressions, too terrified to flee through the open gate. The Shaylighters were snarling and hacking at her, edging her back toward the open-roof prison. A carbine was fired and a steel ball whizzed past her ear, smacking into a wooden pole behind her. She went low and thrust upward with the spear, twisting it with gritted teeth, jerking it free, blood spattering her face. She lashed out with one leg, taking down a pair of ankles, and drove the spear down into a ribcage. She pulled hard and swore aloud as the spear jammed in his bones.
“Fuck.”
Hands grabbed her. Fists and weapons clubbed her. She punched, kicked and scratched but there was too many of them now. She was smothered by bare-chested men. Her bruised face was pressed into the mud. They sat on her and tied her wrists a second time, punching her repeatedly. They rolled her onto her back and beat her until her face was crimson.
“Shabhail don reimse,” bellowed a voice. Quinn peered through a half-closed eye, blood streaming down her face.
It was Jeremy.
“Essamon will be furious if she dies before the arena.”
Slowly, Stone lowered the crossbow. It scraped against the hard ground. He began to stand, widening his arms, opening and flexing his hands, showing he was unarmed, the spear tip pinned against his neck.
The Shaylighter was talking to him but once more; it was a blunt language, spoken fast. Stone had no idea what was being said but it didn’t matter because in a few seconds he’d gut the man. He stretched his body. He was at least a foot taller than the warrior behind him. The spear was now levelled into his back, poking against his spine. There was a new flurry of words, accompanied by rapid jabs with the spear, the gesture for Stone to move. He took a step forward, measuring his breathing. The six guards were only forty yards away but he still had the element of surprise as the hundreds of Shaylighters roared within the stadium to the words of Essamon.
He whipped around, moving fast, the Shaylighter startled by the quickness of the older man. One hand circled the shaft of the spear and gripped it tight, pushing away the deadly tip. The Shaylighter saw a knife in the bearded man’s right hand. Stone thrust forward, stabbing the blade into his captor’s throat, releasing the spear and clamping his free hand across the man’s mouth at the same time. A muffled cry rasped against his rough palm. He jerked out the knife, the blade coated with blood and jabbed it into the man’s stomach, a trio of rapid thrusts.
He cradled the falling body, one arm around his back, easing him down toward the ground.
Breathing hard, he cleaned the knife blade and picked up his crossbow.
He peeked around the corner of the stadium. The six warriors were gathered before narrow openings with rusted and faded metal signs above each one. Stone fired, his aim true, the first warrior toppling over with a bolt lodged in his head. He cranked the lever, began to move, firing and taking down another. The warriors scattered and carbines were lifted and steel balls whizzed through the air. Stone broke cover, firing repeatedly, spitting out bolts, the deadly crank of the lever. A steel ball whistled over his head and buried itself into the metal door of a car. He kept moving, weaving through the cars, boots kicking up dirt.
The remaining Shaylighters cried out in their native tongue. A spear went past him and clattered into a truck.
None of them had sent a runner to raise the alarm. They were confident of capturing or killing him themselves. Stone sprinted in a new direction, momentarily losing them. Then he burst into view, firing rapidly, the handle cranking, the bolts shooting fast across the maze of rusted cars. A warrior screamed, shot in the chest. His legs buckled and he disap
peared from view. The Shaylighters continued to chase the bearded man though three of them were now dead and they had not even grazed him once. An order was barked and Stone saw one of them peel away and begin to run back toward the stadium to raise the alarm.
He ran hard, lungs burning, zigzagging across the cracked black asphalt, vegetation curling through open fissures. A steel ball went past him. He kept running and firing and then pain tore through him like fire. His hand dropped to his hip. The ball had ripped through flesh, right above where he had once been shot. He grimaced, raised a bloodied hand and kept firing until he heard another warrior cry out. He swept across the front of a car, scrambled onto the roof, aimed and fired, the bolt drilling into the throat of the last chasing Shaylighter, slamming his back against a crushed car.
Stone swivelled his head, grimaced from his wound. He saw the runner reach the dark openings of the stadium and raised the crossbow.
The Shaylighter hit the wall of the stadium. A low guttural cry slipped from his mouth. His arms flailed, fingers scratching against the pitted brickwork, and then he slumped to the ground, the crossbow bolt embedded in the back of his skull
Stone limped back through the graveyard of vehicles. He unclipped the magazine from the crossbow and saw it was empty. He discarded the weapon and winced at the pain in his hip. He peeled down his trousers and saw the flow of blood. He took a cloth and wiped it clean but the blood continued to seep. He reached into his tunic and drew one of Quinn’s knives. He placed the blade in the flames of one of the fires and looked around, seeing no one.
Inside the stadium, the crowd was cheering. He was in no doubt that a fight was underway in the arena. He had seen the state of the prisoners, weak and broken. He hoped it wasn’t Quinn who had been chosen first. He reckoned the Shaylighters knew who she was. She was the warrior who’d fought them on the roads of Ennpithia, denying them the bounty on Boyd’s truck and killing their warriors. She would fight last in the arena.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 14
