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

by Moore, Laurence

  “I should have killed him.”

  “We did the right thing that night.”

  He saw himself beat the man and plunge him into the fire, scorching his skin. He rolled the Cleric onto his back, the air thick with the smell of cooked flesh. The Cleric shook with fever and screamed in agony. He was dying. Then Emil emerged from the dark and crouched to heal him; poor Emil, who’d witnessed the Cleric slaughter her people one by one. Emil, a Pure One, a healer from birth. She saved him from infection and fever, deliberately leaving his body scarred and his skin rippled, now considered an outcast by his people.

  “Death was too easy for him. He deserved to suffer. To look like the people he’d spent a lifetime killing.”

  Stone wiped his hands over his face.

  “I caused this. This is all happening because of me.”

  She grabbed his arms.

  “Don’t you fucking do that. You’re not responsible for that man. This is not your fault.”

  His hand went to his revolver.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “Now we know. And he knows you’re here as well. Nothing has changed. We go to Kiven and we kill him. But not just for Clarissa. For Tomas. For Emil. For all of them. We kill him, once and for all.”

  He gazed longingly into her blue eyes. His hands curled around her neck. He tilted her head toward him. His lips pressed against hers. Nuria gasped, shocked at the kiss, shocked at the moment. Her pulses hammered. She could taste his scratchy lips, his tongue against her teeth, his saliva mixing with her own. Then he broke apart, too fleeting, her mouth naked without his, wanting him from that first moment, knowing there was something different about him, something that electrified every fibre of her. But he stared at her, startled at his primal response to her words. She searched for his brooding eyes in the gloom. She tried to speak, to find the right words, but she had none and he had none but they didn’t need any. He pulled her close a second time and kissed her more savagely, his arms holding her tight, his grip firm, her body shaped against him.

  As they broke, his beard tickled her nose and her mouth curled into a tiny, lop sided smile.

  She laid her head against his chest. He held onto her.

  She said, “We have to go.”

  He peeled away from her. Her cheeks were flushed. A few of the soldiers were watching them.

  “Check on the vehicle,” he said.

  He disappeared into the compound and strode past Boyd and Quinn. He went straight for the two men guarding the stairwell and struck the first one in the jaw, a crunching right handed punch, rocking him from his feet. He chopped the second one in the throat, and then flashed an elbow into him, putting him down. He crouched, wrestled the keys from them and unlocked the door. Boyd howled at him. Quinn grabbed her crossbow.

  There was the sound of a scuffle as he floored the jailers.

  Duggan stood outside the cottage. There was a stiff wind, cutting right through him and chilling him to the bone. He reached inside his tunic and took out his pipe. It saddened him the way he’d spoken to Quinn, to all of them. But they were making him look and feel useless and the laws he believed in unimportant. Without law, there would be chaos. How would that help anyone? He scratched his chin and put the pipe away. It wouldn’t be the same without her. He walked on, sword swinging from his belt. He looked around the village, blanketed in darkness. He saw his men on the hill, four of them, protecting the beacon. No message had arrived from Touron. He was inclined to tear it down. But Boyd had a plan of his own to execute so for now it stood.

  His boots kicked up loose chunks of mud. How long it would be before they attacked? Were they going to wait an eternity for the beacon? Surely not. Then again, what did he know about Shaylighters? They had been no more than a pest through his lifetime, even during the war, conducting food raids on villages weakened by men taken away to fight the Kiven. Duggan could smell the oncoming war. He knew his sons would be conscripted. He had already lost Devlan. He could not bear to lose any more. But would it really come to that?

  He didn’t trust the trade agreement or the man who’d presented it. Rondo was like no emissary he had ever seen. He had the look of a soldier.

  He passed one of the patrols.

  The singing was over. Now he could hear the muffled tones of Father Devon. What was the priest playing at with the Map Maker? In the morning, he would need to have a conversation with the Holy Man.

  He heard stumbling footsteps and a low voice. He looked around and saw the Map Maker. Duggan frowned. Had he just emerged from Quinn’s cottage? He was supposed to be inside the Holy House. Wasn’t he the one who’d suggested the Reverence Evening?

  The captain watched from the shadows, hand on his sword. He saw the bald headed man shuffle toward the hill, turning his head and muttering, as if talking to someone, but he was clearly alone.

  Duggan kept watching.

  Albury could hear shouting. He saw a smear of blood from the stairwell to where Stone held Rondo by the throat, the barrel of a revolver pushed against his cheek. The Kiven man was weeping. It was agony to stand but he had no strength to fight back. Albury saw his guards curled on the floor, writhing in pain.

  “Is this how you conduct yourself?” he said, fuming. “I will not tolerate this type of behaviour, Stone.”

  “Tell him,” said Stone.

  But Rondo sobbed and remained silent.

  “Tell him about the Cleric and the sickness weapon.”

  There was a flicker in the man’s eyes.

  “What weapon?” said Boyd.

  “Who is the Cleric?” asked Albury.

  Armed Churchmen rushed the hall but he held up his hand.

  Stone cocked the revolver.

  “Your last chance, Rondo.”

  His finger went to the trigger.

  “The sky will fill with Metal Spears,” said Rondo, coughing blood. “You’ll die screaming.”

  Stone hesitated.

  “What?”

  His head began to drop.

  “Where are they? Where are the Metal Spears?”

  Rondo muttered, dribbling blood.

  “Bastard.”

  The shot was deafening. The back of his head exploded in a shower of blood and tissue.

  His body slammed onto the floor.

  Stone lowered his weapon. “Evacuate. Right this minute. Everyone. Drag them out of their beds. Get everyone out of the town.”

  There was stunned silence. The wind curled around the building. Rondo’s blood leaked across the floor.

  “You have to get everyone away,” he growled. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  Albury took a few paces forward, looked down at the body.

  “He has a sickness weapon,” said Stone, as the sound of bowstrings stretched behind him. He saw the questioning look on Albury’s face. “I don’t know what else to call it. He killed Quinn’s daughter with it.”

  “It’s true,” said Boyd. “Sickness killed her. We thought she’d contracted it from Mosscar but we now know that to be untrue.”

  “This man has the ability to infect your people,” said Stone. “How many live in Touron? How many?”

  “Thousands,” said Albury. “But how? How can he do that?”

  Stone kicked Rondo’s corpse.

  “That piece of shit just told you. Metal Spears. I didn’t think it was possible. I mean, they’re just stories, handed down through generations. But you have no idea of the man you’re dealing with and I do. In Gallen, he’s wiped out villages and tribes, murdered hundreds of innocents. And if he has Metal Spears then he’ll do the same here.”

  Nuria came through the double doors.

  “Only thousands will die, not hundreds. He’ll turn your world to ash.”

  Still no one reacted.

  “This Omar, the Engineer, the Cleric, it doesn’t matter what he calls himself,” said Stone, his voice becoming enraged. “He’s determined, stubborn, and utterly ruthless.”

  Still they looked at him.
/>   “He doesn’t see the world the way you do. He believes everything he does is right.”

  Albury cleared his throat.

  “Are you describing Omar or yourself?”

  He stiffened as the words escaped his lips. It was an acute observation, but a touch vindictive, or defensive, he wasn’t sure which. He was not a man of violence, his words to Stone had been truthful; he ruled from the head and from the heart. Boyd had vouched for this man and, though by appearance alone he was no different to one of the many thugs who loitered in the darker recesses of his town, there was an edge to him that those men did not possess; a verve, a passion delivered through ragged words and broken sentences. He was not an educated man, Albury could tell that, but his knowledge appeared unrivalled; he was possibly the most intelligent man in the room at that moment, standing with his legs apart as blood seeped around his boots. He was savage, brutish, and capable of hideous outbursts of violence and Albury knew he would have ordered any other man cut down in a hail of arrows; but there it was, once more, that naked honesty in him.

  “That was uncalled for,” said Albury. “My apologies.”

  Stone grunted. “You have to understand this man has manipulated you all.”

  Boyd frowned. “How? We’ve seen through him.”

  “The trade agreement is a smoke screen,” said Albury, gesturing at his men to lower their bows. “We know it’s a lie.”

  “But the bastard knew you would see through it. Don’t you understand? He counted on it. He didn’t want you to trust him because he was already one step ahead of you, smuggling weapons to the Shaylighters and stirring them up. He’s probably promised them Ennpithia. Or parts of it. And he knew you’d contemplate pulling men from your border. Which you’ve done. But he also knew you’d fear fighting on two fronts. He was forcing you to choose between the Shaylighters and the Kiven and the warlord in him knew you’d stand against the oldest of enemies first. He didn’t want you to weaken the front line so he would have fewer men to fight. He wanted you to move the Marshals here so they’d be in one place. Four hundred of your best fighting men in one town.”

  “We’ve done exactly what he planned,” said Albury. “Haven’t we?”

  Stone nodded.

  “One target.”

  “Why do we have spies, Benny, if I have to hear this from a stranger?”

  Boyd lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Omar has boxed you in. He even took the time to trap me by sending Rondo back here.”

  He shook his head.

  “Before noon look to the skies.”

  “There are only ever clouds in the skies, Stone,” said Albury, skirting around Rondo’s body.

  “Not tomorrow there won’t be.”

  “Then the burden is on me. I can’t imagine we can evacuate thousands of people that quickly. And where would they all go? Can we stop these … Metal Spears? Can you stop them?”

  “I don’t even know what they look like.” He paused. “But you’re in luck because the three of us were leaving at dawn to kill Omar anyway and I think we can manage to set off a few hours early. Unless you need to arrest me for something?”

  Albury smiled. “Unlike Captain Duggan, I can’t think of any laws you’ve broken. But it’s more than a day’s ride to Kiven.”

  “We have a solution to that,” said Nuria.

  Stone cornered Boyd. “You’re coming with us. We need a secret way across the Place of Bridges.”

  “We have a rat run you can use,” said Boyd.

  “And we’re low on ammunition. You must know someone here who peddles in illegal weapons.”

  Boyd’s head recoiled, he clasped his cross.

  “I hope the Lord can forgive me for dabbling in this business.”

  Stone patted him on the arm. “I’m sure he’ll keep a seat for you.”

  I will hurt the girl, Harron. I see how you look at her. You care for her; you want her to be yours.

  “Leave her out of this,” whispered the Map Maker, as he shuffled toward the hill, the cramps in his stomach growing worse.

  Light the beacon and she will be yours. I promise you. I will allow you to keep her. She will not he harmed.

  She walked beside him, her long robes flowing, the hood raised, her youthful, ageless skin, her dark eyes. He knew she was lying. He had to get her out of his head. There was only one way. A pain flared in his chest as he reached the foot of the hill and saw the soldiers gathered around the beacon.

  Light it, Harron. Summon our people and let us crush them. Striking the Holy House here will hurt them.

  “Enough,” he shouted. “I have no hands. I cannot light it.”

  Get to the beacon. I will help you once you are there.

  The pain was too intense. His veins felt they were going to burst from his body. His head, his stomach, his throat. He lunged with his stumps, swipe after swipe, clubbing her, battering her from side to side.

  She said, “You cannot hurt me.”

  The Nearly Men. It came back to him. Crossing the sands of Caybon, a desert of lost souls, they had encountered the Nearly Men, warriors unable to be hurt by any weapon. Stone and Nuria had seen them, fought with them. In the days that followed Stone had dismissed it as a hallucination; his mind rejecting the experience. But Nuria had been less sceptical. She had seen her sword blade cut through a man and for that man to remain unhurt.

  But the Nearly Men had let them pass.

  “You’re one of them. Like the Nearly Men. I cannot kill you.”

  Lines speared across her face, zigzagging over her chin and cheeks and nose, turning her skin grey. He took a step back, his mouth falling open. Her eyes sunk into her skull and blazed. Her hair crumbled into dust and blew away in the wind, exposing a scalp covered with blotchy folds of skin.

  She shrieked into his mind.

  You will give us back Ennpithia. Light it, light it.

  He screamed and the soldiers on the hill looked down at him. He could taste sweat and tears on his lips. Father Devon still spoke to the congregation. That could have been him. That should have been him. The priest had believed in him. Shauna had believed in him. Even some of the villagers had begun to believe in him. But he was not their saviour. He had not been called to mend the people of this world. He had been called to mend the people of her world. She was screaming at him. He had lived a long life, longer than many. His child would be born knowing only its mother. It was time. It was his time. He had survived the Nearly Men. He did not want to survive Lannast.

  He ran onto the hill.

  “Kill me,” he shouted. “Cut me down, I’m going to light the beacon. I’m going to summon the Shaylighters.”

  “What are you doing?” growled Duggan, signalling to him men to hold off firing.

  “I …”

  “Hasn’t there been enough blood today?”

  The Map Maker stared at the bearded soldier, the large cross on his armour.

  “I’m one of them. I have to end it. She’s in my head, telling me to do it. But I won’t.”

  Duggan frowned at him. One of the soldiers jogged down the hill.

  “Look at her. I can’t kill her.”

  “Look at who?”

  The Map Maker whirled around. She was gone.

  “No, you must have seen her. She was with me. She was here.” His voice began to break. “I swear it. How could you have not seen her? She was walking with me. You have to believe me, Duggan. They put babies with you. In the villages. They’re patient.”

  Duggan took him by the elbow. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  “She was here,” said the Map Maker. “I’m not crazy. I’m one of them. She made me one of them.”

  Within an hour, the four of them were in the buggy, speeding east along a darkened road. The engine growled, the exhaust snarled. Stone kept the headlamps off. Nuria sat upfront, the cold wind tossing her hair, a concentrated look in her eyes. She tried not to think of the kiss; the warmth of his breath, the fee
l of his hands on his skin. She cleared her head. No distractions. She patted the heart piece in her pocket. There would be time afterwards. She took out her pistol, checked the magazine, slammed it home.

  Boyd and Quinn hung on in the back, dirt and grit swirling all around them.

  “Just … keep … going … east,” stammered Boyd, as the lightweight vehicle bounced and rocked.

  All at once the road filled with soldiers. Hundreds of men marching in full armour. Stone swerved onto the verge. The vehicle was adept at such terrain. He switched on the headlamps. The twin beams cut across the ragged landscape. Nuria turned her head and stared at the long lines of Marshals. She saw men with scars and men with grey beards and men missing limbs. There was the crunch of boots, the jangle of weapons and equipment, the rumble of horse drawn wagons. The long line of Marshals snaked across the black landscape for miles. Even Stone glanced across at the impressive looking fighting force.

  “They should turn back,” said Nuria. “We should warn them.”

  Stone’s foot remained against the accelerator.

  “If we can stop the Metal Spears they won’t need to,” said Boyd, head turned. “Besides, the choice isn’t ours.”

  “All those lives in the hands of a few men,” sighed Quinn. “What has happened to Ennpithia, Benny?”

  Boyd righted himself in his seat, held on as the buggy crashed over rocky ground.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s always been this way.”

  Duggan eased the man onto a bunk and tossed a blanket over him. The Map Maker’s eyes were wide open, unblinking, and he was muttering to himself, words inaudible. Duggan passed a hand across the man’s face but there was no response. He appeared catatonic. He’d seen this kind of reaction during the civil war, when the fighting grew bloody and bitter and men hacked at men to stay alive, no longer fighting for any noble cause or religious doctrine, fighting only to breathe for a few seconds longer. But the Map Maker was no soldier and no veteran of the battlefield.