Huddled down in the bracken, wrapped in a blanket, eyes wide, she felt miserable and alone. It was a rotten feeling. She had never been alone before. Not alone like this. There had been her family and then there had been Brian. Her shoulders, arms and hands were heavy and trembling. She listened as the two men stomped through her slovenly home; furniture was pushed over or kicked aside, their boots raked muddy trails across the floor. Her insides sparked with anger as their intrusion squashed raw fear and replaced it with a more useful emotion. She narrowed her eyes as their voices carried on the wind.
“She’s gone.”
“Fucking little bitch.”
The two men stepped from her house and looked around. A man weaved by, singing a gentle tune, interrupting it with a resounding burp. Farrell tucked the hammer into his belt and Dobbs drew his sword, the iron scraping loud against the scabbard. He twirled and swished the blade, cutting through thin air.
“Let’s take a walk round the village.”
She could never go back there and it was an awful admission to make. She wanted to confront Deacon Rush; his polite manner and his calm voice and his caring eyes had ruined her life even more. She wanted to smash his face to a pulp and claw out those eyes. Bastard. The Holy House had deceived her again. She thought or running away to Touron, to meet with Brian. But that posed a more complicated problem. To expose the deacon would be to expose her own attempted betrayal and Brian would never forgive her.
Or would he?
No, his hatred for the Holy House burned. His devotion to hating them was as resolute as their belief in the Lord. She didn’t hate them. She wasn’t even angry. Not really. No, she was only sad, a deep sadness that the Lord had denied what He gave to every other woman she knew. Why had He made her this way? Why had He given her the gift but robbed her of using it? It was sadness that dulled her life and coloured her daily thoughts; there were moments of anger, naturally, flashes when her blood cycle damned her childless, but no fervent hatred and no desire for violence and death. She had done nothing wrong. She had followed her husband and yet here she was, driven from her home and hunted like a wild beast.
The road east stretched into nothingness; long days and nights on foot along rutted and winding tracks, through low foothills and gorges and forests. It would be an arduous journey. She thought of the crowds and noise of Touron, hundreds of buildings pressing down on her. She wasn’t going anywhere near the town. She needed family and her family was in Great Onglee.
Shauna watched Dobbs and Farrell melt into the gloom. She picked up her satchel and carefully picked her way through the dark.
She had to reach Great Onglee.
Nuria set down her crossbow and eased onto a hay bale, her eyes fixed on the young girl.
The old barn creaked. Lamplight still showed in the house. She imagined the Earl was drinking. She imagined his wife was cursing. Kaya shuffled around, languid strides, kicking at the ground and tugging at her unkempt hair. Nuria was beginning to recognise this behaviour from her. She waited patiently and watched her with open blue eyes. She possessed her father’s handsome features but the poor girl’s voice had shrivelled to nothing. Gone was the mischief. She was afraid. It was simpler when no one believed her. This was far more terrifying. Now people were getting involved and wanted to help and she would have to face the awful truth.
The sight of Kaya’s unblemished back had sown doubt and raised her temper but even then Nuria knew the girl wasn’t lying. The girl was her own reflection. She stifled a yawn. She was exhausted. She had barely slept since reaching Ennpithia and the confrontation with the Hardigan’s had sapped more energy than she’d realised. She couldn’t even muster the strength to think of Stone as she sat in the draughty barn, listening to the wind, springing her eyes wide open, waiting for Kaya to open up with much greater detail. Tamnica rushed from the dark and seized its opportunity, uncoiled its barbs and flicked away at her. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists as memories of her own suffering in that terrible prison flooded into her head.
Kaya turned her back and stared out into the night. Her voice was slow and numb and little more than a whisper.
Nuria listened with tears in her eyes and when Kaya finished she wrapped her arms around the girl and cried with her.
“Jorge.”
The boy opened his eyes and almost fell from his chair. Father Devon smiled fondly at him.
“I wasn’t sleeping, sir.”
“It’s not even dawn. You should be sleeping. How has he been?”
Jorge stumbled onto his sandaled feet and hurriedly straightened his clothes and black hair.
“He needs a lot of help. He can’t do much.”
“You’re a good boy.”
“Thank you, Father Devon.”
“Mrs Renshaw is awake. She has a fire going. I imagine food and a hot drink are not too far away.”
The eight year old boy smiled as the priest gestured for him to leave. He trotted off toward the kitchen. Mrs Renshaw was nearly sixty and her seven children were grown and working in Brix, Touron and Great Onglee. In the past few years she had turned a rambling and deathly quiet home into a small enterprise. Her boarding house was usually full this time of year but, thankfully, she had been able to accommodate one more guest.
The Map Maker was snoring. The candles had burned down. The window was shuttered.
Father Devon stood and watched him for a moment. Was he right? Was he right this time?
It was a humble room with stark furnishings; a wooden bed with a straw mattress, a chair, a sideboard with a basin and jug and a large cross hanging from the white washed walls. Father Devon set down the package and lit the candles. The narrow flames flickered in the draught that whispered from beneath the door. The Map Maker muttered and grunted as he stirred from the deep throes of sleep. Easing into the chair, Father Devon crossed his legs as he carefully removed the book. He noticed the Map Maker’s clothes piled in an untidy heap on a dyed rug. He clucked his tongue at the mess and the bald man woke, startled.
“Who? What are you doing here?”
“I have consulted with Father William.”
“You have what? With who?”
He sat up, blankets slipping to his waist. He rubbed his head with his wrists.
“Who’s Father William?”
“He was priest when I was deacon. A long time ago. He retired from the work of the Holy House and now enjoys a more serene life; one of fishing, afternoon naps and wine. Though I imagine the wine precedes the afternoon naps.”
He chuckled, nervously.
“It’s still dark.”
“It will be dawn in an hour. There is no time for sleep. We have to talk. We have to prepare you.”
“Prepare me? For what? I follow my own path, Father Devon. I am my own law. No one dictates to me.”
Astonishingly, Father Devon lowered his head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you. It is hard to separate you from mortal form.”
“From what?”
He blinked, peered into the corridor and saw Jorge was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is the boy?”
“He is taking an early breakfast.”
“But I need him to help me dress.
“I can help you.”
The Map Maker nodded. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, yawned, and wiped an arm across his face.
“You are so normal.”
“What?”
“You are so like us. You have taken our form perfectly.”
The Map Maker frowned. Mortal form? Taken our form perfectly? Once dressed, he loitered beside the window as Father Devon took the chair.
“I have spent considerable time with Father William. He is a very honest and wise man. I had two issues to discuss with him. The first was to confess a terrible sin. Why are you shaking your head?”
“You people do not see the colours of this world the way I see them. You have to lift this mantle of sin, Father. Life is to be lived.”
“You died for our sins,” said Father Devon, crossing himself. “And I have perpetuated an awful sin by concealing a relic of the Before.”
The Map Maker glanced at the book in his lap. “Books are not a sin. I have read books before.”
“You can read?”
“Of course. I can read, I can write, I … I used to be able to write. What is that book?”
Father Devon hesitated. “A voice. A beautiful voice. A glimpse into what once was and how we reached where we are now. It is a diary of hope, strength, courage and truth.”
The Map Maker noted how the priest caressed the cover. He could no longer hold his maps with such affection.
“Before the Cloud Wars, Map Maker …”
He no longer heard the priest. The voice was inside his head, soft tones gliding from his subconscious.
Your time has come, my son. You are walking amongst them and they believe in you. The priest will bow down before you. They will all bow down before your might.
“Before you judged us, Lord. Before you punished us for our sins.”
He dropped to his knees and set the book on the floor. He lowered his head, gripped his cross.
“I beg your forgiveness, oh Lord, I beg your forgiveness for my sins and the sins of Man.”
“What?”
The priest raised his arms and wailed, “It has been foretold you will rise and come again.”
You are different, my son. Your knowledge has marked you out. I am so proud of you. I have waited too long for your return. It is time for you to put the pieces back together. It is our time.
“A millennium has passed since you laid judgement upon us and the world plunged into darkness.”
The Map Maker stared at him.
“I am here to put this world back together,” he said. “I see the world through my maps. I always have. I can see us together once more.”
“Yes,” said Father Devon, his voice waking the tenants of the boarding house. “Forgive us, oh Lord, flood the world with your Light. Save us.”
The Map Maker spotted Jorge in the doorway, mouth hanging open, a cup in one hand, the contents trickling over the rim.
They will fear you, my son, and you will rule over them and they will follow you, my son, they will obey you.
“This coming Reverence Morning, on the day of the Summer Blessing, we will present you to the Archbishop and your Light will travel across Ennpithia and the land will know peace and Mankind will be saved from the Dark. It has been written. The Before has spoken. You are our Lord. You have risen. You are the Second Coming.”
Jorge dropped his cup.
Shauna froze.
The sword glinted in the dull light. His hair was long and hung loose around his bearded face. He was motionless, branches overhead, morning dew clinging to broad leaves.
Farrell.
Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw’s boarding house.
The road out of Brix was heavily travelled but it was too exposed and she might easily stumble and twist her ankle its many grooves and ruts. She was certain that would happen. She was obviously cursed because it seemed the more she attempted to do the right thing the more the Lord punished her and sent trouble her way.
She had hugged the forest, the tall trees wreathed in light mist, but still they had tracked her.
And snared her.
Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw’s boarding house.
Pockets of light began to touch the horizon. She had once loved the dawn light. Now she would hate it.
Cattle groaned. Shauna blinked away tears; there was no room for sentiment, no point to it.
Her breath caught in her throat. Men had failed her. She had trusted in them and they had failed her.
“I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”
“You were going to tell the deacon,” said Farrell.
“I wasn’t.”
“You fucking were,” said Dobbs, behind her. “You lying whore.”
She pleaded. “I was worried about Brian.”
“No one can know,” said Farrell.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Dobbs slapped her. “Too late for that.”
She gritted her teeth, preparing her body for the intense flare of pain, the rupturing of flesh and bone and organs; but the two men sheathed their swords as they closed toward her and the hammer remained tucked in Farrell’s belt.
Something cold and nasty crawled around her stomach.
“Deacon Rush doesn’t want you dead,” said Farrell.
“That’s right. You’re Brian’s bitch.”
“And we need the retard focused on the plan. He has to burn the beacon.”
“Don’t call him that.”
Dobbs grabbed her arm.
“Shut up. Time for you to learn a lesson.”
Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw’s boarding house.
FOURTEEN
The metal hatch scraped loudly as Stone nudged it open.
He clambered from the coach storage compartment, followed by Quinn, and they dropped onto the asphalt, carbines ready. They fanned out, taking cover amongst the rubble, watched and listened. The street was eerily silent; the only sound the rustle of vegetation. The concrete city appeared deserted. Stone beckoned with his head and they moved fast.
“No more patrols,” he whispered. “Not since we heard that horn. I reckon it called them back.”
They hugged the shadows of an open square ringed with tower blocks. Blackened windows peered down at them. They hesitated at the sight of a small fire burning amongst a pile of old debris but still they saw no one.
They kept going.
It was Quinn who broke the silence. “Jeremy killed my brother. He was supposed to take care of him.”
Stone nodded. “Why?”
“To keep me from coming in here. He didn’t want me to discover the Shaylighters. He must have hoped Daniel’s death would make me go back to Brix. He really doesn’t know me.”
“Is Jeremy one of them?”
“No, he was born in the village. His father and his father before were born in the village. They’re Ennpithians, through and through. But he knows their language and they trust him.”
She shook her head.
“No one has ever seen more than ten or twenty Shaylighters at the same time.”
Stone was silent for a moment.
“How many soldiers are in Great Onglee?”
“Why?”
“How many?”
“Do you think they plan to attack?”
“They have a small army.”
“They’ve had a small army for a long time by the look of things. Why would they attack now?”
“Because now we know where they are.”
They reached the outskirts of the city. Jeremy had missed her pack and weapons. She winced as she slipped her arms through its loops. She slung the carbine onto her shoulder and tucked the pistol into her waistband. Her horse, Blissful, had been taken but Stone discovered his still tied to a tree. Quinn curled her arms around his waist as they rode through the trees, pushing hard, streaks of light on the horizon.
She said, “Onglee has a garrison of forty to fifty men.”
“What other villages are nearby?”
“Lower Fallon and Hallington are roughly a day’s ride. Boxmere is probably a day and a half away.”
“How many men?”
Quinn’s hands tightened at his waist. “The Shaylighters have never attacked a village before.”
“The lie is over. There’s no need for them to hide now.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
Her thoughts dipped into a pool of blackness. Was the land about to be plunged into war again but against a new enemy? The Shaylighters had been a nuisance during the war with the Kiven, lurking in the background; the war had never touched them. They had observed and thrived in the
chaos, picking at the leftovers, exploiting weakness, but had they always numbered this many? Had she kicked over a rock and exposed a nest of beasts? If Stone was right then the blood of hundreds would soak the grass. He had to be wrong. He had to be.
“I was scared in there, Stone. I thought I was going to die.”
He glanced over his shoulder, nodded.
“Only an idiot doesn’t get scared.”
“When I first met you I spoke to you like shit.”
“I’m not easy to talk to.”
She laughed, surprising herself.
“Why did you do it? I can see the blood on your clothes. Why did you risk your life?”
He tried to answer but didn’t. He didn’t know how to shape the words. Tracking through the scorched wastelands of Gallen with Tomas, then his only companion, the two men had spoken only when it was needed. He had watched Tomas grow from a boy into a man. Tomas the man knew how to talk. He knew the right words. He knew what to say and when to say it. Especially with women. Stone acknowledged he was not that man. Sometimes he wished he could be. But only sometimes. Men of words puzzled him. A man like Boyd asked but ordered. How was a man capable of that? He shook his head. Nuria understood him. That was all that mattered. She accepted him. Quinn would have to accept him. She was safe and Rita was dead and she should reflect on that and nothing more.
Quinn waited and realised he wasn’t prepared to answer. Or didn’t know how to. She wondered if he wanted that from her, as a reward, but she was certain he didn’t and he would be sorely disappointed if he did. She could normally smell that desire on a man - she had smelt it on Jeremy, even at his age - but there was no scent of it on Stone. He seemed motiveless. She curled against his back, holding on as he galloped from the city. She was disgusted at her admission of fear to him. She was not afraid to live in this world. She would not meekly lower her eyes and timidly accept the raw hand that was dealt. She stiffened her back and broadened her shoulders against any man or woman and had never been afraid to carry the fight. Quinn realised, horribly, she had crumbled inside that cage, beaten and bound. She had believed she was going to die. In some perverse reality she had wanted to die. She did not want the burden of Daniel’s death and Jeremy’s betrayal. The weight was too much.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 17
