The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (10 page)

“You stay with the truck overnight. The stable hands will take care of the horses.”

He yawned, stretched.

“Stay alert. We set up for business before dawn.”

He patted his horses and strode toward the house where a tall and well dressed man with an angular face and thinning hair waited to greet him. Young stable hands emerged from the gloom and wordlessly unhooked the horses, leading them away to be washed down, brushed, fed and stabled. Two armoured men with swords and crossbows patrolled the grounds and nodded at them as they lingered beside the rusted truck.

Boyd disappeared into the house and the door closed with a heavy slam. The wind coursed around them, stinking of the sea, and they could hear the angry crash of waves against nearby cliffs.

Stone said, “I’ll take the first watch. You look tired.”

She patted him on the arm.

“I’d rather keep you company.”

He nodded.

“Besides, I can tell you all I learned about Mosscar.”

It was too dark to garden. But gardening took his mind off things. Scrabbling in the soil, snipping and trimming; it was a platform for inner peace and clarity, sometimes more than prayer offered. He was certain the Lord was not offended by his admission of such a thing. Surely that was why He had provided him with such a fertile plot of land to work with, surrounding a tumbledown cottage of stone and wood and thatch that served as a modest rectory. It made all kinds of sense. But the question was still gurgling around his mind. It had plagued him since the man’s arrival though Father Devon would stoutly resist answering it.

For the time being, anyway.

His brow furrowed as he pottered around tidying and organising things that were fastidiously tidied and organised. Why was the Lord testing him during his twilight years? Or was the appearance of the man a reward and not a test? He hummed simple hymns and folk songs. He studied his dry flower arrangements and a tapestry he had woven. He watched the moon and the stars. It wasn’t working. There was no way to fill his evening. His chores were finished. He had to confront the question. It was obviously a mistake. He had made it before. But he had read those words since childhood; they were a part of him now, as natural as prayer or taking a breath, and there was something about this man; he felt it in his bones.

No, he was not yet ready for it.

He sniffed his body and the smell was sour so he put the water on. Once boiled, he hung up his robes and bathed and now he sat before a blazing fire, clad in woollen garments and wrapped with blankets, and the question became fierce and angry. The priest shivered. It was not the question that brought on the sudden chill; he always felt the cold. Summer or winter his skin was persistently icy and tightly drawn around his bones. He wondered how many years lay ahead of him. His mind was bright and his body was reasonably agile for a man of his years but he was the second oldest man in the village and he did not know many men who lived far beyond his age. Death would stalk him. He poured wine, drank and the heat of the liquid engorged his throat and burned through his chest.

He eased forward in his chair, holding his cross, drawing strength and comfort as the fire crackled. He glanced around his simple home, shadows dancing over the stone walls. It seemed very empty tonight. His faith to the cross was unwavering but lately he had been troubled by an outpouring of feelings, of a life somehow unfulfilled. He had touched hundreds of souls and blessed hundreds of unions but at times Father Devon questioned how he would be remembered once he passed. Was his destiny that of simply another marker in the graveyard? Would there be no legacy to represent his lifetime of devotion?

He stared into the snapping flames, unblinking, thoughts idling.
You love her. You have always loved her. Her words have travelled time and found sanctuary in your heart. You have offered the space to no one else. He might be the one. He might be the legacy you seek.

Father Devon rose decisively from his chair and drained his wine. He knew the question was to be avoided no longer. He hurriedly pulled a heavy cloak around his shoulders and opened a chest beside his chair, retrieving a large bunch of keys, a chisel and a knife in a sheath. He concealed the items beneath his clothing. He was a man of the Lord and a man of faith but he was also a man of this violent world and only a fool wandered the night unarmed. He raised his cross and kissed it before stepping out into the night.

The village was peaceful. The lanes were empty and black. A sprinkle of stars blinked at him. He walked sprightly toward the Holy House, the building a foreboding smudge in the darkness, like a giant thumb. Clouds drifted above. Cattle groaned. Father Devon experienced a peculiar sensation of being observed. He stopped, in the middle of the lane, and looked around. The stone hovels stared blankly back at him. Thin smoke was caught in the grasp of the wind. A shiver rippled his spine. His eyes pierced the gloom but he saw no one. He waited. His mouth was suddenly dry. He curled a hand around the handle of the knife, narrowed his vision.

A door was thrust open revealing a column of candlelight and he clenched. A man spilled into the night, unsteady on his feet. Father Devon recognised the outline of Antolly. The wiry man rocked from side to side as he relieved himself.

The priest let out his breath.

He locked the doors behind him and knelt at the altar for a short prayer. He lit a candle and carried it to a wooden door with iron banding. The room beyond was dark. He set the candle down, revealing a large trapdoor. He pushed a heavy iron key into the lock and turned it.

He hesitated.

The old words saddened him, penned in a barbarous world of greed and unfettered brutality.

She had died in that world. Probably at the hands of cruel men. He could change nothing of the past.

But could he now shape the future?

He followed the steps into the basement where he hurriedly lit more candles, taking solace in the bright glow.

The air was moist and Father Devon was cold. A long chest rested upon wooden supports. The priest could feel his heart beating faster as his sandaled feet glided across the stone floor toward it. Oddly, at that moment, he thought of Sal Munton and his many children. Within a few days they would arrive at Touron. The trial was a matter of formality and they would be condemned to hang. The question rattled violently within him and forced him to unlock the long chest.

Who was the stranger? Who was he really? Was it possible? Was it deception? Was it a test?

The priest laid down the knife and the ring of keys and used the chisel to prise open the lid of the chest. A musty smell assailed his nostrils. He propped the lid against the wall and placed the chisel on the floor. The chest was deep and contained books from the time of the Ancients. No books had been made in his lifetime. Nor in that of his ancestors. Only the Ancients had bound pages. In Touron there were letters and documents, thousands of them, but no printing presses and no books. His fingers glided over the volumes with battered covers and torn spines and tanned pages.

He cast his gaze upon the Great Book and pressed his palm to it. There were only two in existence, one here and one in the Holy House at Touron. Its leather bound cover was adorned with the cross and beneath it laid hundreds upon hundreds of pages, thousands upon thousands of words. It was frustrating that much of the lettering had faded. Yet his ancestors had summoned the courage and conviction to forge belief in the Lord and the Above with so few words at their side. They had not failed. Nor had he and nor would he.

With his hand on the Great Book, Father Devon hesitated beside the deep chest brimming with history.

It was always the same. Whenever he came here he never failed to be confounded by the paradox of his life. It was forbidden to embrace the past, all Ennpithians knew that, yet his faith was in a religion that had its
roots
in the past, a past blasted by shocking clouds that had absorbed the glittering landscapes. And if the Kiven were sinful to reach into the past, to live within its ruins, then surely his faith made him sinful, too. The Lord’s Son had died to save them from their sins but still he damned his parishioners on Reverence Morning for their sin ridden lives. So had the Lord’s Son perished in vain? And if his parishioners lived lives of sin were they only sinners because of their faith in a religion from the Before?

His head ached. Faith was complex and confusing. Prayer helped. And a certain amount of gardening.

Father Devon sighed, suddenly regretting his brusque tone with Deacon Rush. He was fond of the bright and energetic young man but he could not allow him to grow cynical at such an age.

He leaned into the chest and began moving the books, creating a tall stack. It was none of these he was interested in. Including the Great Book. He cleared the right hand corner, brushed away the dust, and picked up the chisel once more. He carefully removed a discreet panel, uncovering a shallow compartment.

Gingerly, he lifted out a slim book.

He closed his eyes, brought it to his lips, and held
her
for a few seconds. As a boy she had been his friend. As a young man she had become his lover. Now, at such a venerable age, she was a long lost daughter. She had played many roles through his life and she had always been his secret.

Father Devon eased into his chair and set the book upon his lap. The candles flickered.

Sapphire Johnson.

She had shaped her name into an arch and used different colours for each letter. They were mostly faded now but it was discernable that each letter had, at one time, been unique.

Her effort had been rewarded, even after this time.

My diary. Age 13.

She had altered her writing implement and had penned these words flat and horizontal, without flourish or thought or imagination.

PRIVATE KEEP OUT.

She had laboured long on the final three words, perhaps regretting the blandness of the previous ones. Each letter had been placed at a different height. He trailed a finger along them.

“Now I discover your truth, Map Maker.”

Slowly, he began to read.

EIGHT

“You’re an improvement on Quinn.”

Their names were Kevane and Maurice. Nuria wasn’t sure which one of them made the comment but it really didn’t matter because it was good natured and she laughed with them. The two men took breaks through the night, sharing food and drink and stories. Maurice carried a flask of wine that was surprisingly hot and flavoured with fruit and Kevane carried numerous parcels of wrapped food rations tucked into a multitude of pockets. Stone’s grim face cracked a smile as the liquid warmed through his bones. A misty rain tipped from the clouds, turning orange in the glow of lamps from the large house. It was past midnight before the lights were extinguished and the building sat in darkness.

“Festival starts tomorrow,” said Maurice, chewing on a stick of rolled meat. “Is this your first time in Onglee?”

He was the taller of the two guardsmen, a long dark ponytail neatly tied with red ribbon, a perfectly trimmed beard and smart though not ostentatious attire. His companion was the polar opposite, shabbier, much more dishevelled; he looked how he no doubt lived with wild hair and a tangled beard and clothes that were ill-fitting and mismatched. Though glaringly different in appearance, both men were armed with long swords and crossbows and the interlocking nature of their conversation indicated they were long time friends.

“Hmm,” nodded Kevane. “Two days of good times. The kids love it. Plenty of entertainment.”

“What happens at the festival?” asked Nuria.

Maurice, unsurprisingly, was the more serious of the two and delighted in explaining the background to the festival. It was a two-day event, conceived by their employer, Earl Hardigan, whose land they stood on. His family had resided in Great Onglee for centuries and he was considered the unofficial head of the village. The festival was held during the peak of the summer when the Earl opened his land to a host of merchants and entertainers. It was formally known as Earl Hardigan’s Festival of Great Onglee though most simply referred to it as
the festival
. There were other fetes and fairs this time of year but Great Onglee appeared the most popular and financially successful.

“Earl Hardigan charges a levy on the traders,” said Maurice. “People travel long distances and a lot of coin is spent.”

“You know people have fun as well,” said Kevane, rolling his eyes. “It’s not all about business.”

“Some of the Earl’s profits are donated to the Holy House and a portion is paid in taxes to Touron but the festival has made him and his family wealthy. I mean, look around.” Maurice tapped the side of his head. “He’s clever in business. The festival is getting bigger and busier every year.”

“Some people come from Touron,” said Kevane. “As if there isn’t enough to see and do there.”

“What about the Shaylighters?” asked Stone. He swigged the flask of hot wine. “Do you have any problem with them?”

“No, they would never attack the festival,” said Kevane. “It would be suicide. They don’t have the numbers. Besides, those knee benders can be a tough fucking lot.”

Nuria arched an eyebrow. “Knee benders?”

“The Churchmen,” he said, grinning.

“I thought all Ennpithians were knee benders?” said Nuria.

“Maurice and I are not what you call
regular
knee benders.”

“Always something else to do.”

“He’s politely trying to say we’re sinful bastards.”

The two guards laughed. Nuria smiled at the young men, warmed by wine and relaxed conversation. Perched on the truck, she looked across the dark rooftops of the village and all at once exhaustion rolled over her in waves and she felt her eyelids droop. She whispered to Stone she was going to get some rest and he nodded. She excused herself and climbed into the rear of the vehicle, hemmed in by Boyd’s wares. She set down her crossbow and unfurled a blanket and lay for a moment, listening to the muffled voices of Kevane and Maurice. Now she was absent Stone would be forced to chip in. She knew he was uncomfortable with this kind of conversation. She drifted asleep with him in her thoughts.

“What do you know about Mosscar?” Stone asked, as the two men returned from a routine patrol of the Earl’s grounds.

Maurice shrugged. “What’s to know? It’s a death trap. That’s it. You stay well clear of it.”

“It’s definitely not a place to take a woman.” Kevane nodded at the truck. “Or maybe it is if you need to break up with her.”

The two men laughed. Stone offered a thin smile.

“Is it an old city?”

“Who knows?” said Kevane, spreading his arms wide. “Can you tell I’ve never been there?”

“I’ve been there,” said Maurice, a sombre edge to his tone. “It’s a city from the Before. You can tell that much about it. Last year I rode near it and stared from a distance. It’s a place a thousand times the size of Great Onglee but all ruined and covered in foliage. It sent a chill through me just looking at it. I mean, when you really stop and think about it, our ancestors once lived in there and they must have died in there, too.”

“You really know how to sour a good night, Maurice.”

“Well, he asked, so what am I supposed to tell him? It’s a terrible place, Kevane. Mosscar is no joke.”

He shook his head.

“Why do you want to know?” Maurice asked. “Is this about Quinn? We all heard about her niece. Has she gone there?”

“She wouldn’t be that stupid.”

Maurice crossed himself. “Quinn believes her niece was murdered but that doesn’t make any sense. If you want to kill a child you slit their throat or smother them. You don’t take them into Mosscar. And if you do then how do you survive? I think she’s an emotional wreck. She can’t come to terms with it. That business with her brother as well. I lost my uncle in the war but I don’t spend my life blaming others and making up stories. You have to accept things and get on with your life.”

Kevane dipped his head, saying nothing. Stone could tell he wasn’t in full agreement with Maurice’s point of view but it was obviously something they had clashed over before and he had no intention of raising it again.

An awkward silence grew. The wind bent through the trees and the sea broke against the rocks. It was then the two men saw Stone’s expression change. He sprang to his feet, snatched his crossbow and raised it to his shoulder.

Kevane and Maurice dropped to half-crouches and fanned out “What did you hear?” whispered Maurice.

Finger on the trigger, Stone studied the ground, noting faint depressions in the soil. The three of them had become so absorbed in drink and stories they had allowed someone to get close. Angry, he signalled toward the prints and then made a hand gesture at the truck. Wordlessly, the two guards circled the vehicle, crossbows ready.

Stone dropped flat on his stomach and aimed his crossbow. He glimpsed a bundle of limbs and a clump of hair.

“Out,” he growled.

He heard a shocked gasp. It sounded like a girl but it was too dark beneath the truck to be certain. It was definitely a child, though. Reluctantly, the figure crawled out into the moonlight and Stone saw it was a plain looking girl with untidy waves of thick brown hair cut at the nape of her neck. She wore mud stained boots, woollen trousers and a fleece with a pack on her back.

“Kaya,” hissed Maurice. “Not this nonsense again. You have to stop it. Your father will be furious.”

“I don’t care.”

Stone grabbed her by the ear and she whimpered and stumbled as he yanked her toward him.

“I’m being paid to protect this vehicle and everything it in. I never want to see you near it again.”

“You don’t frighten me,” she said, her voice wavering as she turned away from his hooded eyes and terribly scarred face. “Let go, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Let her go, Stone,” said Maurice. “She’s the Earl’s child.”

“I don’t care who she is. I’ve seen children younger than her put men in the dirt.”

He flicked her away from him.

“Do you know who he blames when you get out?” said Maurice, sternly. “Us, Kaya, that’s who. We’re supposed to be guarding your father’s land. Not his bloody children. But we get the blame.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, though Stone saw the half-smirk on her pale lips and the hint of mischief in her brown eyes and reckoned she was a long way from sorry.

Kevane shook his head. “If you do this again the monster under your bed will eat you up.”

“How old do you think I am?” Kaya rolled her eyes. “There’s no monster under my bed.”

“Of course not. Look, he’s here.”

He pointed at Stone and laughed. Kaya couldn’t help but join in. Stone, the butt of the joke, looked suitably mean-faced, whether he intended to or not.

“Don’t encourage her,” said Maurice, wheeling the girl around and marching her back toward the house.

She looked over her shoulder at Stone.

“I’ll look for you under my bed tonight.”

He watched her trudge toward the house, gangly and awkward.

“She’s harmless, Stone, she wouldn’t have stolen anything. I don’t think so anyway. She keeps trying to run away. She would’ve stayed hidden under your vehicle until the festival had finished and gone wherever you were headed. You know, the whole monster thing was only a joke. I say it to her all the time.”

Maurice hammered at the front door and it was several moments before a grey haired woman answered it, holding a lamp. Stone watched her smack the girl across the face and drag her back into the house.

“That’s Lady Hardigan,” nodded Kevane. “She’s a tough old cow. You know the type. Come up from nothing. Now has an image to uphold. That’s one bitch you’d want to take up to Mosscar.”

Stone slung his crossbow over his shoulder. The fog of drink had cleared from his thoughts.

“Why does she want to run away?”

“I wouldn’t know. The Earl has six children. They’re well fed, looked after. Kaya is the only one who tries to run.”

Stone leaned against the truck. “How old would you say she is?”

Kevane shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten, eleven, something like that. I think she’s too young for you.”

“Same age as Quinn’s niece?”

“I reckon she is.”

“Let’s do our rounds,” called Maurice, walking back to them, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Stone narrowed his eyes at the dark house as the two men walked away.

He was snuffling like a pig and Jeremy prodded him awake with his boot. Daniel flinched and opened his single eye. The cottage was dark, the hearth unlit and the cold pinched at his exposed folds of skin.

Jeremy sat on the bed, youthful face half-hidden in the gloom. Daniel shivered violently and reached for his blankets but the boy held onto them, knuckles whitening as his grip tightened.

“Give them to me.”

The wind blasted around the old cottage. Rainwater trickled through one corner of the roof.

“I’m … so … cold … please.”

He sensed danger and hissed at the boy. He wanted Annie back. He wanted Clarissa back. He wanted the strength to make a fist and thump the boy into next week.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” said Daniel. He was hoarse. “Cold, so cold.”

“I’m sorry this has to happen.”

Daniel’s teeth began to chatter.

“I kept asking her not to go but she’s so stubborn. Annie, she’s so stubborn. She never backs down.”

He let go of the blankets. Daniel dragged them over his body.

“I need water. Fetch me water, Jeremy. You’re supposed to take care of me. I need a drink.”

He began coughing.

“Get me some water. Please, Jeremy. My throat is so dry. I’m thirsty.”

“None of this had to happen, Daniel.”

“Water.”

“I kept telling Quinn not to go up there.”

“Water.”

“Now she’ll end up dead. Like Clarissa.”

“Jeremy ...”

“I’m not getting you any fucking water. It wasn’t supposed to happen.” His voice grew angry. “They didn’t know she was important to me.”

Daniel hesitated.

“Who didn’t know?”

Jeremy was about to answer and then stopped himself.

“Quinn was right about you; you’re not that helpless after all. You smart bastard. I used to like you, Daniel. Once. Before you looked like this.”

“What did you do to my little girl?”

He tried to get up but Jeremy shoved him down.

“What did you do, boy?”

“I didn’t do a thing.”

“You lying shit. You killed her. I know you killed my Lissa. You’ll pay with your life.”

He lunged at Jeremy but the boy grabbed him by the throat. Daniel began to cough.

“Quinn shouldn’t have gone there. You’re our last chance.”

“No.” The voice came from the shadows. “If you strangle him it will leave marks. No more suspicious deaths, Jeremy.”