The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) (29 page)

The five prisoners were crumpled on the floor of the pod, faces contorted in agony, nothing but pain, terrible pain.

Cooperman had children of his own. He could no longer look.

“No, no,” said Omar, licking his lips. “Open your eyes, Cooperman. This is how the League will deal with its enemies.”

He tossed the last bone into a tray, took a long drink of water.

“Who burned you, Omar? Was it the Ennpithians?”

“Them? No.” He touched his pebbled skin. “This happened to me far from here. In a place I once called home.”

He stared into the pod; there were smears of excrement, vomit, blood.

“I was once a Warlord, a mighty leader of a centuries old tribe, ruling the vast wastelands. No Alliance, Cooperman, no protocol. One man. One voice. A hundred years of tradition. A hundred years of progress.”

Adina listened, intently. He had spoken so little of his past to her. He had tactfully avoided all her subtle and not so subtle questions. She was disappointed he had chosen this moment to reveal something.

“You’re an abomination, Omar. The Ennpithians have spies. They will uncover your crimes and you will hang.”

Omar wagged his finger. “Now you bite, Cooperman, but all too late. I am dissolving the Alliance. Here, tonight. There will be no Ministry of Progress, no Society of Souls. Your factions will surrender to the League of Restoration. They will surrender to
me
and I will be the ultimate ruler of Kiven with the ultimate weapon. And we will go to the Place of Bridges and the …”

“The Marshals will slaughter you,” said Cooperman, as Nichols continued to weep. “Six to seven hundred veteran soldiers, Omar, not raw recruits like the Churchmen. You roll one tyre or place one foot on the Bridges and you’re finished.”

“I think the Marshals will be busy elsewhere. A plan has many parts, Cooperman, and an Engineer never forgets to connect them all.”

“The Shaylighters? Is that your big secret plan?” Cooperman nodded, vigorously. “Yes, I know what you’ve be doing, Omar. I know all about the weapons you’ve smuggled out.”

Omar hesitated. “Yet you stood by and did nothing.”

“I have no love for the Ennpithians. I wanted to see how far you would go with this. Your plan is for the Shaylighters to use our superior weapons and stir up chaos, isn’t it?”

“Omar, he’s trying to save himself,” said Adina. “Watch him.”

“And then the Marshals are deployed to deal with them,” said Cooperman. “It’s a devious plan, I’ll give you that, but it will fail.”

“Kill him, Omar; he is trying to trick you.”

He raised his hand to her and she turned her head, stung that he had silenced her in such a way, as if she were a common soldier.

“The Ennpithians are not stupid. The Albury’s will never allow the Marshals to abandon the Place of Bridges. Do you honestly think a trade treaty makes us all friends? They will never fully trust us. No matter how peaceful we appear to them.”

“I do not except them to abandon it,” said Omar, walking toward the pod, staring down at the bodies. “Only weaken it. You see, we do not have enough fighting men or weapons to defeat the entire Marshal Regiment.”

“What is the gas?”

“It has sat untouched for a long time, Cooperman. You never had anyone intelligent enough to recognise and unlock its potential. I had heard great stories of such weapons.”

He leaned toward the man and whispered, “The stories were all true.”

“Try spraying the Marshals with it. Their arrows will cut you down in seconds.”

Omar laughed. “Arrows?” His men laughed with him. “We should fear arrows. No, we will not fear their arrows.”

He paced as he spoke. Adina chewed her lip.

“Surely you, Governor Cooperman, the master tactician that you are, can see how we will defeat them, can you not?”

Cooperman swallowed, glanced at Nichols. Her head was lowered and she was whimpering, in short bursts.

Omar nodded to one of his men; the soldier stepped forward and shot her. She slumped forward in her chair.

“Continue, Governor Cooperman. How will we defeat them?”

Her blood dripped onto the floor.

“You see, we will not attack them. It is them who will attack us. We are not planning on crossing the Bridges, only defending them.”

“You murdering bastard.”

“Ennpithia will die screaming, Cooperman, and the dead will rot and turn to dust and their world will crumble.”

“And what about your friends the Shaylighters? Will they burn as well?”

“I have promised them the land of their ancestors and they will have it. But it will be a paradise. A hundred years from now, a thousand years from now, I will be immortalised in poems and songs and stories and my name will be whispered with fear. I will be the new Lord. Not the man on the wooden cross.”

“The lowly Engineer who made Governor. An incredible story.”

“Thank you, Governor Cooperman.”

“Not that anyone will remember it. You’re a speck on our history. Nothing more than horse shit. You’re not the first mad man to try and seize control of Kiven and Ennpithia. No one remembers them and no one will remember you.”

“I will fill the sky with
Metal Spears
and history will remember me.”

Cooperman snorted. “Those weapons don’t exist.”

“I told you before. You lacked the right man to recognise what lay discarded beneath the factory.”

“Release me.” He looked around at the soldiers. “You have to stop him. Do you not realise what he’s planning to do?”

Omar nodded. There was a second gunshot. Cooperman toppled over, blood pouring from his skull.

“History will remember me.”

TWENTY TWO

The night was filthy.

A light drizzle had grown steadily persistent until sheeting waves of thick rain formed a cold wall of grey. It had taken two hours along a rutted and rain swept trail to reach the deserted hamlet of Winshead. They spotted a barn on the outskirts of the settlement and took shelter.
It was gloomy, damp and stank of mouldy vegetables. The roof was leaking and panels of wood creaked in the whistling wind. Rusted saws and cleavers hung from hooks; there were broken shovels, a broken plough, broken wooden crates and forgotten hand tools thick with dust.

They hurriedly tied the horses and wrung out their clothes. They began to survey the surrounding land and saw a scattering of dilapidated buildings and winding lanes that curved toward a green where weeds grew rampant around a solitary, rain lashed cross, forlorn and abandoned, its stone discoloured. A narrow waterway snaked through the hamlet, arching and dipping past a half-collapsed water mill, the wheel still in place but no longer turning, its wooden blades green and mostly snapped. The waterway found stubborn resistance as it reached the green. A fallen tree had created a dam and the water foamed and bubbled, flooding the ground.

“How did Quinn react when you told her?” said Nuria.

“She didn’t.”

“Too much to take in?”

“She’s had a long few days.”

“Are you certain Clarissa went there to kill herself?”

Stone rested his hand on his horse. He could feel the warmth of the beast. His eyes glazed over.

“She was being abused and it’s a city that kills.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Farrell’s dismissive voice was in his head. He became suddenly exhausted, spent.

“What about them? Sure, we took them. What does that matter? Who cares about some kids?”

He wanted to channel the sadness and anger and disgust into words but there was no time and he really didn’t know how to. Nuria could see it in his eyes and he could see it in hers and words were no longer important; all that mattered was to inflict pain against the Predator and whoever else waited for them at the farm. There would be no trial in Touron, no court of law, no reading of crimes, no deliberation, no he said, she said. Only shocking and bloody violence for a man who had chosen innocents as his prey.

The guilty would die and they would die screaming.

Nuria had absorbed Kaya’s terrible story of the men who’d abducted her and passed her on to another man, handing her over as a thing and as they stood in the cold and the damp, the rain falling, the wind howling, they were both filled with the knowledge that Quinn’s niece –
Quinn’s daughter
– had suffered the same fate. They had never known her or any of the other children.

Apart from Kaya, they were only names.

“Do you sometimes wish we’d gotten lost on the mudflats?” he said, staring at the carbine in his hands. “And ended up back in Gallen?”

She went to him. “I did. But not now. Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Who cares about some kids? That’s what Farrell said to me.”

“He’s dead now.”

Stone nodded. “He is.”

She took a deep breath. “This has become very personal for you.”

“I’ve hurt children before, Nuria; smashed in heads, strangled, stabbed. How am I any different to this Predator?”

“You were a child yourself at the time. You had no choice. You never took pleasure in it. You killed to survive.”

He forced a half-smile, nearer to a grimace than anything else. She saw a tear in his eye.

He said, “I needed you in Mosscar. It was too close with the Shaylighters.”

“I’m here now.”

Her hand floated loosely at him, seeming to neither pat nor stroke him, finding an awkward motion somewhere in between.

He stepped toward her. Her blonde hair was plastered to her skull. Her cheeks were pale and cold.

“I seem to need you more and more.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I think so.”

She put her hand against his face; his beard scratched against her palm, her grubby nails touched his scarred skin.

“Let’s put this right. It’s what we do best together.”

Then she took her hand away and the tear was gone from his eye.

“What are we going to do with the healer?” he asked.

“We kill her.” She cranked the crossbow. “We kill everyone up there.”

Quinn had told them the hamlet had been deserted for numerous years and the old farm was located at the north end. It had belonged to a family with the name of Engell but there had been a complicated dispute over ownership of the land and then it transpired the land never belonged to them in the first place. She didn’t really know the full story except that a lot of coin was owed and the animals were sold off and the wages of the local men were halved and then they were let go and without work the families moved away to Brix and Great Onglee and Featherun and the hamlet was eventually abandoned.

Stone fished out his binoculars, wiped the scratched lenses clean. There were no lights showing anywhere. Water gushed along muddy trails, sweeping past half-collapsed buildings with missing front doors and folded in roofs. Trees swayed and shook in the wind.

“I think that’s the place,” he said.

He handed Nuria the binoculars.

The ground at the north end of the hamlet dipped away. She saw broken fences, weed covered plots, low sheds, a shattered well, broken wagons and a shuttered farmhouse.

There was a backdrop of foot hills fringed with lonely trees.

“Did you hear that?” she said.

“Horses.”

“Do you think he’s alone in there?”

“No.”

They stepped into the pouring rain, ignoring the main lane through the hamlet that led to the green. Nuria carried her crossbow, Stone carried his carbine. They had agreed to keep their firearms concealed for now; they needed silent weapons until they had a better idea of how many they were going up against. Kaya had described only one man and the healer. But there might be any number of lookouts and guards paid to fight. And in this weather they could barely see ten paces ahead.

Drenched, they edged along the back of a haphazard row of buildings, half-crouched, moving slowly through the wild grass, eyes left and right, heading in the rough direction of the farm. Nuria tasted the rain on her lips. They pressed forward through the torrential downpour. The ground was black and slippery and Stone swore under his breath as his boot went into a water filled hole.

A metal sound filled the air. They dropped, listened, tried to track the noise. Stone pointed at a rusted weather vane.

They crept forward once more.

Rain pebbled the waterway. The sound was hollow. The water pushed against the stationary wheel of the watermill.

They sloshed onward and tensed as they cleared the muddy bank, certain they had spied movement through the rainy gloom. Nuria glanced at him and he nodded toward a nearby building. The door was missing but the roof and walls appeared intact. He slipped inside and swept the room with his weapon. It was empty. The wooden floor groaned beneath his weight. His muddy boots left prints as he crept past the abandoned furniture toward an open window. He peered along the main lane of the hamlet. No movement there.

Nuria remained outside, keeping watch, crossbow ready, face streaming with rainwater. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly threw herself into the grass as several steel balls passed overhead.

Stone sprang to the doorway.

“Are you hit?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“I’ll cover you.”

There was no need for silence now. He slung the carbine over his shoulder, yanked out his revolver, took a deep breath. He rolled around the doorway, dropping to one knee and began firing. The gun was shockingly loud, punching great holes in the endless drill of rain. He swept the low ridge with bullets, carefully squeezing the trigger, spreading the fire, pinning down the two or more men Nuria had seen.

She crawled toward the doorway, through the mud and rain and filth, counting the bullets. A lone steel ball whizzed by in retaliation. She scrambled inside, put the crossbow on her back and drew her pistol. She leaned around the doorway and opened fire as Stone flipped open the chamber on his revolver and dropped in six more hand made bullets.

He jogged back to the window and peered out into the lane once more. Now he could see movement.

“Shaylighters,” he whispered. “Three of them this side.”

He took the shot, sent the first one sprawling into the mud, the man’s painted chest erupting with a dark smear.

“What the fuck are they doing here?”

Nuria leaned around the doorway and cracked off a few shots.

“I’ve still got two or more this side.”

A steel ball flew past Stone and thudded into the wall. He spotted one of them crouched behind a rickety dwelling, firing his carbine. Stone cracked off three shots and the long haired warrior ducked from view.
He had no idea where the third one was hunkered down. He moved from the window and began to poke at the ceiling. He dug away at it with his bare hands. Nuria’s pistol blazed. A distant cry echoed on the wind as she took down one of the warriors.

“I was hoping we wouldn’t see these bastards for a bit,” she shouted.

Steel balls peppered the building. Stone handed her the revolver as he scrambled onto the roof. He crawled forward, keeping low. Nuria picked her shots, pistol and revolver, door and window. He reached the edge of the building and sprang onto the next roof. He was halfway across when his foot when through the roof and caught. He swore as he tried to wriggle free.

Nuria had gone silent. The Shaylighters sensed she was reloading and began to move. He glimpsed two moving toward the window, three more crossing the long grass. His face was soaked with rain. He tugged at his boot, gritting his teeth and wrenched it free with a laboured grunt. Nuria was still silent. She must have reloaded at least one of the handguns by now. He rolled to the edge of the roof as two Shaylighters crept past. He lined up the carbine and fired. The steel ball whipped from the muzzle and hit the warrior in the back of the skull. He screamed; dropped to his knees, slumped forward. The second warrior spun round, looked for Stone, spotted him on the roof. Nuria leaned from the window and hammered two bullets into his back.

She winked at him. Stone pumped the carbine, drawing tension into the slingshot. He rolled across the roof, hearing it groan. Nuria went back to the doorway. The Shaylighters were streaking through the long grass. She took a breath and opened fire with both guns, muzzles flaring in the sheeting rain. Stone hit them from above with the carbine and the three warriors were cut down in seconds.

She handed him his revolver as he dropped from the roof and they dashed ahead toward the farm.

“What are they doing here?” she shouted.

“It has to be the healer.”

Stone lifted his arm, fired into the gloom. A Shaylighter jerked backward, carbine flying from his grasp.

“Fuck, this is why they think Essamon can’t be killed.”

Nuria twisted her mouth angrily. “I put an axe in the bastard’s shoulder at the riverbank and he never had a scratch on him in Great Onglee.”

“Next time stick it in his head.”

They were clear of the dwellings and hovels. Bodies of Shaylighters were sprawled in the mud, the rain already washing away the blood.

“Is Essamon the Predator?” said Nuria.

“The freak has to be.”

Stone stopped to refresh the ammunition bag he carried. Ahead the ground fell away, dotted with bushes and wildflowers, tangled and swaying. The scattered farm buildings were shrouded in darkness. Faces raw, clothes soaked, splashed with mud, they pressed forward. The wind drove the torrential rain at them, another obstacle, another defence. They skirted giant puddles and tools dull with rust and large piles of sodden timber and a trough thick with algae.

A collapsed greenhouse, its clear sheeting flapping and billowing noisily in the wind, was pinned against the soil by a rickety metal frame. The rain lashed it and the sound distracted them, momentarily. They fanned out; Nuria sweeping left, toward the outbuildings where a clutch of horses were stabled, Stone looping right, toward the flank of a weather beaten farmhouse.

A warrior appeared from the corner of a building and opened fire at Nuria. She jerked aside and the steel ball gouged a hole in the timber behind her. She cracked off a shot with her pistol, cupping the weapon with her left hand, but the bullet whistled past the warrior. He pumped his carbine, and fired for a second time.
She folded into the mud and the ball whipped over her back. She could feel her boots sinking. The Shaylighter charged into view, weapon raised, and she fired through the rain, the bullet angling from the muzzle and blowing a hole clean in his throat.