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

by Moore, Laurence

  “No? So is it the Wasteland Soldier now? You are known by so many names.”

  “Something we have in common, Governor Omar.”

  He laughed. “But Omar is my birth name. Can a fighting man like you even remember his real name? Because it certainly isn’t Stone, is it?”

  Stone said nothing.

  “Tomas is a good name. Perhaps you should have used that one.”

  “Where’s your famous tribe, Cleric?”

  “This is my new tribe and my new war machines.”

  “No more role of Cleric within the Blood Sun?”

  “I was cast out. As you knew I would be. You turned me into a disgusting mutant.”

  Stone spat on the ground. “I improved you. But we should have ended you that night. We won’t make the same mistake today.”

  “You people have made countless mistakes.”

  “It was a clever plan,” said Stone. “I’ll give you that much.”

  “It still is.”

  “Do you really have Metal Spears?”

  “The correct term is missiles. That is how the Ancients fought, Stone, with missiles. How can an old man like you know so little about history?”

  “And you’ve loaded them with the sickness?”

  Omar nodded.

  “I have never known the Tongueless Man to be so talkative. Are you trying to delay me, Stone? It won’t work. You are out of options. There is nothing you can do to stop this. It is inevitable. It always was. You disfigured me and left me alone in the desert. You set this in motion that night. You are the cause of this. You cannot destroy the missiles, Stone; you cannot shoot them from the sky with your revolver. A thousand arrows from the Marshals will not harm them. Your people are without hope. You chose the wrong side of the bridge.”

  He looked around.

  “We are not so different, Stone. It might not be too late for you to be on the right side of the bridge.”

  “I don’t kill innocents for fun.”

  Omar clapped slowly.

  “No? What about Chett? Were they all truly guilty? You take life easy enough when it suits you.”

  “Do you really want to do this?” said Stone, almost pleading. “Isn’t the world shit enough?”

  “No, the world isn’t shit, it’s beautiful. I see the desert wastelands where nothing grows, the cities and the highways and it makes my heart beat faster. I am making the world a better place.”

  It was Stone’s turn to clap.

  “There can only be Gallen,” said Omar, slapping his chest. “Where I am feared and I am worshipped. Look at the weak Ennpithians. You talk sickness? They already have it. They wear it on their armour, carry it on a chain, kneel before it, speak to it, and sing to it; they are infected with a sickness far greater than the one I will deliver to them. It is a blind and ugly sickness. And it will die with them. It will die.” He pointed at the bridge. “Here. Now. And when I am finished and you are dead and Nuria is my whore then I will return to Gallen and track down Emil, the one-eyed freak, and I will gut her and no magic healing will ever bring her back.”

  “Where are the missiles, you lunatic?”

  “I think you have delayed me long enough. Whatever your plan was it failed.”

  “Do you remember Clarissa?”

  Omar frowned.

  “Who?”

  “Yeah,” said Stone. “That’s what I thought.”

  He dropped. It was the signal. Quinn squeezed the trigger. The single shot rang out from the tower, echoing across the valley. It slammed into Omar, hitting him square in the chest. He stumbled, a shocked expression on his face. It was not possible. It could not happen. Stone scooped up his revolver. Quinn looked through the telescopic lens and fired a second time, straight for the heart. The bullet punched him to the ground. Stone came up firing. He took out the gunner with a head shot, ripping a hole through the gas mask. Then he fired at the driver. The windshield shattered, glass sprayed. Stone fired again and the driver’s head rocked back with a splatter of blood. There was a deathly rattle as bullets raked the bridge. He heard engines roar into life. Vehicles emerged from the undergrowth and ruins.

  Omar was dead but his war machines were on the move.

  THIRTY

  Stone stood over Omar and whispered.

  “For Clarissa. For Tomas.”

  But he saw it too late. Bullet holes and no blood. Omar’s eyes shot open. His hand grabbed Stone’s ankle and yanked him down. The revolver spun from his hand and he hit the bridge with a loud grunt. A fist smacked into his groin. He winced, lashed out with his boot. Groggy, Omar pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He hurled himself at Stone, pounding with his fists, mouth stretched with rage. Stone’s head rocked from the blows. Blood trickled into his eyes. He saw the rippled face of Omar loom above.

  Nuria’s bullets pinged off the truck. There was shouting all around. Omar rolled from him and went for the loose revolver. Nuria ran along the bridge, both hands on her pistol, trying to pick him off. She was followed by a large number of Marshals, arrows notched. An armoured car bounced onto the bridge at the other end. It was fitted with a cannon and there was a deafening boom as a projectile whipped through the air, struck the bridge and erupted. Jagged pieces of metal exploded in every direction. Limbs were sliced clean off. Nuria and the surviving Marshals threw themselves flat, lying panting amongst the dead and the tortured screams of the wounded.

  The pickup truck was slewed across the bridge, blocking the way forward, but the Kiven had no intention of taking the armoured car any further. This was a rescue mission, not an assault. Armed men in sleeveless black armour and gas masks spilled out and rushed forward, firing carbines and crossbows and handguns, keeping them pinned down. The Marshals loosed a volley and one of the Kiven soldiers was peppered with arrows. Nuria cracked off two shots and another soldier tumbled from the bridge, body spinning like a rag doll.

  Omar fired off a shot. Stone rolled around the vehicle, hiding from his own revolver. He licked his lips. He desperately needed a firearm. He sprang at the nearest Kiven soldier, knife in hand, and slashed his throat, hastily wrestling the carbine and ammunition bag from his corpse. Nuria, lying on her belly, kept firing, bullets streaking the bridge, cutting down one more of the Kiven. But she couldn’t nail the Cleric. Omar was surrounded by his men. He yelled, angry and defiant, eager to break free and finish Stone, but they bundled him into the armoured car; the Engineer was to be preserved, those were Adina’s orders. The driver cranked the gear stick into reverse and the car began to wind back along the bridge.

  There was a deafening explosion and Stone wiped blood from his eyes to see the tower erupt. Giant stones tumbled, pulling at the roof and upper storeys. A second shell whistled across the valley and it was hit again. There was screaming as the tower went down in a cloud of dust. Stone glimpsed Commander Eddis, shrouded in smoke, shouting orders at his men. Flags were waved furiously at the nearby towers. Marshals were being summoned. Stone had no time to think on Quinn and Boyd. They were dead or alive and he wouldn’t know yet. He rolled around the truck, fired at the retreating car, pumped the carbine, fired again; but both steel balls careered off the grilled windshield and bounced harmlessly away.

  Nuria’s pistol clicked empty. She ejected the magazine, slammed home a fresh one. She went on knee, firing at the retreating armoured car, the wind howling against her, dirt and sweat on her face. Then she felt it. Through her boots. A familiar and terrible vibration. She blinked. Shells, bullets and canisters whipped across the canyon, tearing up the ground. Men bellowed and fired arrows. There was the crack of gunshots. The air was wreathed with smoke. She got to her feet. It was getting stronger. Her stomach lurched. She looked for Stone. She saw him yank open the driver’s door of the pickup, shove aside a body and crank the vehicle into reverse.

  “Stone,” she shouted, as the vibrations rippled strongly beneath her. A gloved hand grabbed her arm.

  “It’s coming,” shouted a Marshal. “You need to get off th
e bridge.”

  Nuria shrugged the grim-faced soldier aside. She wasn’t prepared to lose Stone. No, no, no.

  She sprinted forward but strafing gunfire forced her back. Stone saw her through the splintered windshield as he pursued the retreating armoured car. He could see her mouth moving but he had no idea what she was saying. For a few seconds he held her gaze and a pain knifed his heart. But he could look at her no longer and his eyes flicked to the rear view mirror. Breathing hard, he swerved the pickup left and right, grinding the tyres close to the edge of the bridge, spraying showers of loose rock into the canyon. Sweat trickled down his face. His pulse raced. He matched the armoured car, snaking back across the bridge. He couldn’t shake Nuria’s face from his thoughts. He had to focus. Anything else would see him dead.

  The cannon on the armoured car boomed and a canister flew over the pickup truck and struck a group of retreating Marshals.

  Stone saw men shredded by metal.

  He felt a jolt as the truck crashed over the lip of the bridge. He was on Kiven land now, amongst the enemy. He saw masked men and customised vehicles fitted with weapons and armour. He slammed on the brakes, threw the gear stick and stamped hard on the accelerator, spinning the wheel. He swept around and raced forward in a swirling cloud of dust and dirt, driving straight at the armoured car and ramming it head on. Metal crunched, headlamps shattered. He glimpsed the dark eyes of the Cleric. He put the truck in reverse, ploughing into two men, swatting them away with bone crunching smacks. Steel balls peppered the cabin as he lined up another charge toward the armoured car.

  Omar was speaking into the walkie-talkie.

  Stone hit the armoured car a second time, catching it on the wing, gnarling the vehicles in a loveless metal embrace.

  He sprang from the cabin, firing with the carbine, taking down masked men. He leapt onto the flatbed, dropped the slingshot and went for the bolt gun. Kiven rushed the truck. He angled the weapon and began cranking the handle, round and round, clank, clank, clank, mouth tight, eyes drawn, cutting them down in a hail of iron bolts.

  Then he heard a deafening roar from above and what he saw would live with him forever.

  Nuria heard a terrible crack and saw a black line appear on the bridge. She pitched forward, arms pumping, sheen of sweat over her face. This wasn’t happening. Not again. But then she saw more cracks and it really was happening and he was going to be stranded across there by himself. She couldn’t make it. It was already too far. She wheeled around and ran back, heart thumping in her chest. Black lines riddled the bridge. She stumbled onto the balding scrubland. The bridge shattered like a child snapping a biscuit and disappeared into the canyon.

  She got to her feet. Her trousers were torn, knees scraped raw. Shells and canisters still fired across the canyon. Pieces of metal whistled past her head. It was nearly impossible to stand with the ferocity of the quake. Violent and venomous, it punctured the land. The quake was beyond angry; it was insanely furious. Fissures erupted along the Place of Bridges. Sheets of rock crumbled and fell away. Towers creaked and groaned and toppled. Men were flung into the canyon, death cries filling the air. On the other side Kiven vehicles tumbled after them, twisting and turning in mid-air, exploding into great fireballs.

  She ran along the edge of the valley, the dry soil shifting beneath her. Smoke and dust blinded her. She reached the demolished tower. Dead Marshals littered the rubble. The rooftop ballista lay smashed.

  She cupped her hands. “Quinn? Boyd? Commander Eddis?”

  She ran further, called again.

  It was Eddis who emerged from the wreckage, grim-faced.

  “Stone’s stranded over there,” she said. “What’s the nearest bridge?”

  The roar of the quake filled her ears. She realised he mustn’t have heard it.

  “I have reinforcements coming,” said Eddis. “We have to clear the rubble so we can access the rat run.”

  “It’ll be quicker to ride to the next bridge? Where are your horses?”

  He stared at her, slowly shaking his head.

  “We didn’t just lose Abigail. We lost them all. We’re cut off.”

  Gunfire cracked; the ground continued to shake.

  “We have to wait until the tremor passes. We can do nothing right now.”

  Nuria swallowed. Her face was ashen. “I’m not waiting.”

  “You can’t do it by yourself. You need help.”

  She rushed back to the ruined tower and was stunned to see Boyd kneeling amongst the dead, head bowed, blood running down his scalp. She circled him. His hands were clasped in prayer. He rocked from side to side as the quake showed no sign of letting up.

  “I beg of you, oh Lord,” he said. “Claim no more souls. Forgive us our many sins and save us from the Devil in the Below who challenges your Light so we can continue to serve you in this life.”

  Nuria stuffed her pistol into her waistband, crouched to pick up the first stone. She could barely lift it. Her arms strained, her stomach clenched; she finally hefted it aside with an audible grunt. The quake tossed her backward. She stumbled forward in defiance, curling her grimy fingers around another piece of rubble. Boyd’s words stopped. He opened one eye, then the other. He watched her, for a moment, grimacing and sweating, features etched with relentless determination. Her soul belonged to Stone, his soul belonged to her. He had seen it that first morning when they disarmed Sal Munton. He was astute at reading people. The man she loved was across that valley, pitted against impossible numbers and nothing was going to stop her getting to him.

  Boyd crossed himself, rose from his knees and came to her aid. She said nothing and together they lifted the stones. Commander Eddis rallied his men and ordered them to assist, despite the quake.

  “Keep at it,” he bellowed.

  Agonised screams pierced the billowing clouds of black smoke. Eddis fetched a telescope and scanned the far side. The remaining Kiven were pulling back. He scanned the bottom of the valley and saw a trail of metal machines, each one a blazing inferno.

  He looked north and south along the canyon. A tear found his cheek. His bridges were gone.

  On the cusp of the Black Region, Adina stood on a rocky outcrop, still wearing the flowing skirt slashed to the waist, bare legs gleaming in the early dawn sunlight. The walkie-talkie was pressed to her ear. She listened to Omar’s frantic and static filled instructions. A mile from the Place of Bridges she had watched nervously as the confrontation unfolded with the scarred stranger her lover called the Wasteland Soldier.

  She turned to her men, dotted around the truck, and nodded.

  The vehicle was in a depression. The missile battery was concealed on the flatbed beneath tarpaulin sheets. As they began to loosen the ropes and slide off the covers, she took one final glance behind her, toward Kiven; the half-ruined city slumped beneath thick clouds of pollution. She looked back at the missiles, primed with the lethal gas.

  Baltan stood at the controls. He was the smartest scientist in the League, second only to Omar. He had been the one who’d discovered the bunker, unearthed the military treasures of the past, but Omar had been the man to connect the pieces of the jigsaw.

  The scientist looked at her, seeking final approval. She gave it, without any hesitation.

  The truck rolled backward as the missile erupted from the battery and streaked into the sky, long and sleek and grey.

  Omar hung from the armoured car, walkie talkie in his hand, head tilted toward the sky, mesmerised as it passed overhead.

  “They will remember my name,” he whispered. “I will live forever. I will live forever.”

  Ennpithians and Kiven alike were awestruck, imprinted with the event; the missile cleared the canyon and the flaming vehicles and the dying men and the crumbling towers and the shaking scrubland and vanished into the horizon, heading for the town of Touron.

  Stone jumped down from the pickup truck. Omar was still bathing in the glory of his missile. The ground shook. Stone lined up his shot and fired. The s
teel ball smacked into Omar’s shoulder, dropping him from the armoured car. Blood poured from the gaping wound. Stone pumped and pulled the trigger but the slingshot was empty. He sprinted up a low bank, thick with stunted trees, reloading the carbine as he ran, the bag of steel balls jangling as he dropped in each one. He had to find where the missile had come from.

  Crossbow bolts and single bullets whistled after him. He kept low, weaving left and right. He pumped the carbine and but the tension went out of the weapon. The slingshot had frayed; the weapon was useless.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He tossed it, kept running, holding onto the ammunition bag, climbing all the time, losing his footing numerous times as the tremors surged through the land. He looked over his shoulder and counted at least six men from the League of Restoration in rapid pursuit.

  All armed.

  Stone reached the top of a ridge, tumbled down a slope clogged with dead bushes and pieces of brick jutting through the ground. He crashed against stacks of old and bald tyres. He clambered to the top of them and spotted the missile battery on a flatbed. It was close. But the soldiers had his scent and they stood between him and taking out that truck. He looked around and saw the tyres were piled against a mesh fence topped with coils of rusted razor wire. It ringed a junkyard of metal machines; hundreds and hundreds of dirt encrusted vehicles stacked four or five high. Beyond a single highway curved through a land of rock and lifeless fields toward the sprawling Kiven city. It was a far greater city than Mosscar, that much he could see at once, but where Mosscar was mostly consumed by rampaging foliage, Kiven was a city of grey and black and silver.

  He leapt from the tyre pile, catching the wire on the way down, snagging his fleece and ripping flesh. He hit the ground with a thud. The tremor was subsiding. He winced, gripped his arm, wet with blood. His nose wrinkled at the smell of black energy, old and stale.

  He was tormented by the vision of the missile, trailing fire as it surged through the clouds. He had known all manner of weapons his entire life but had never witnessed such a shocking thing. His father had told him during childhood of how great a race of people the Ancients were and how they had constructed a tremendous machine with interlocking parts, each functioning to perfection. Wide-eyed, freckle faced, he’d looked around the shanty town they lived in, placed in the middle of a desert wasteland, wondering where the Ancients were now. He’d asked that very question and was told that men needed to mend machines that were not broken. Deeply confused, he’d fallen asleep in his father’s lap, his sister curled against him. A month later childhood abruptly ended and he’d learned that evolution was a uniform and a sword blade.