

A Fractured World

(The Wasteland Soldier Book 1)

By

Laurence Moore
Copyright © 2015 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2015

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.
**Also by Laurence Moore**

The Wasteland Soldier Series

A Fractured World

Escape From Tamnica

Drums of War

Men of Truth

The Atlanta Mission

The Kina McKevie Series

Wiping Out Guilt

Chasing Answers

### Contact

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>
About The Author

Laurence Moore has been writing since the 1970s. He enjoys fast-moving books with complex main characters taking the lead.

The Wasteland Soldier series is set in a post-apocalyptic America and features Stone, a no-nonsense fighting man looking to restore balance in a dangerous world.

The Kina McKevie series is set in modern-day London and features an ex-convict turned investigator, getting elbow deep in crime solving.

For Alex

Thank you ...

PART ONE

ONE

Adam watched her in the rubble strewn street below, hands tightly gripped around the worn binoculars.

"Is she one of them?"

Hugo was asking the question. He was fidgeting, hopping from one foot to the other. He blinked up at the blue sky, ripped with streaks of crimson, the hot wind whipping around them on the sloping rooftop, tossing dirt and grit in every direction. The only sound was the relentless wind and Hugo hated it. He wanted this finished so he could return home. He was tired, hungry, and irritated with a hunt that had stretched into so many weeks that he had now lost count. The payoff would be good, incredible, in truth, but this was torturous. He missed his bed, his _life partner_ and his children. There had been four of them at the beginning. Now there was only three. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to Bramble.

Six foot tall, he was the largest of the three men and bristled with an array of weapons; a curved wooden club across his back, a selection of blades hanging from the belt around his narrow waist, a rifle slung over his shoulder. His clothing was scruffy and worn, thick with layers of dirt. He wore a helmet, scratched and scarred, and a pair of rubber goggles pushed down over his eyes.

"Adam?"

Hugo scratched his unshaven jaw, waiting for a response.

"Adam. Are we sure?"

They had spotted her at dawn, the sun rising across a landscape blistered and forgotten. For several hours they had tracked her through the city, a place of no name, a dead city, abandoned to the scavengers and bandits. She had picked her way through the remains of a world no one remembered, or cared to, buried beneath centuries of dust. She had moved silently from building to building but there was nothing to be found. No food, no weapons, no supplies, these places had mattered once but not now; memories had faded, they were husks, choked with debris and bones.

"I think so," said Adam.

His voice was coarse from the dry heat.

He studied her further.

A slender frame, little more than five foot tall, she skipped lightly across the fallen rubble. A brightly coloured scarf covered her face, goggles concealed her eyes, and a hood was drawn over her hair.

"What's she looking for?" asked Rafa. "Nothing left."

His voice was little more than a menacing growl, even when he was devoid of aggression. The youngest of the three, he struggled with words, often suffering from a blaze of redness as he painfully formed sentences. Out here, he felt less judged, free to speak and ask questions – though no one volunteered any reply.

The wind sent another shower of grit through the air, causing Hugo and Rafa to duck. Adam remained unmoved, his gaze never faltering. He saw the wind flick at her hood and glimpsed dirty copper-coloured hair. She stopped to straighten it, then adjusted her face scarf and lifted her goggles to wipe her left eye. In that briefest of moments Adam gasped as he witnessed the scars that criss-crossed her skin, saw a black patch covering her right eye, and then her head turned and lowered and Adam smiled thinly.

"She's what we've been searching for," he said.

She was a Pure One. There could be no mistake. The disfigured skin. The one eye. Female.

_She was the rarest of rare things._ _A miracle for the land of Gallen._

"Then let's go," said Hugo. "Come on, Adam, we need to get down there before anyone else spots her."

"No one around," muttered Rafa. "Us and bones."

He had a choking laugh; it was as if he needed to clear his throat.

"Shut up," snapped Hugo. "Adam?"

"Wait," he said, lowering the binoculars, slipping them into his pocket.

"What are we waiting for?" said Hugo. "The most valuable thing in Gallen is walking around down there."

He drew his rifle, and shook his head with frustration.

"She's young," said Adam, drawing a curved sword from his belt. "And I reckon she's fast."

"Fast," snorted Rafa.

"I bet she can outrun all three of us," continued Adam. "And what will you do then, Hugo? Shoot her?"

Hugo raised his goggles, confusion filling his dull-coloured eyes.

"Who's she going to heal dead?"

Adam waited. Hugo nodded, slowly at first. Then his cracked lips spread into a broad grin, baring yellow and brown teeth. He switched his rifle to one hand and clapped Adam on the back with the other.

"That was why we scouted ahead this morning," he said. "We keep tracking her. You know what you're doing. This will all be over soon."

Adam led the two men across the pitted roof and back into the building, jogging along gloomy corridors where shafts of sunlight punched through gaping holes in the brickwork. They climbed down stairwells with twisted metal rungs and dropped into a large open room scattered with broken furniture, buried beneath dirt. The air was foul and they coughed repeatedly until they emerged through an open loading bay into a narrow street. The road surface beneath their boots was a sea of dust-coated bricks studded with twisted metal poles.

The three men moved carefully through the debris.

* * *

She stopped abruptly, her skin crawling.

Slowly, left hand clutching the front of her hood, right hand reaching for the gun in her pocket, she turned quickly and looked behind her, sweeping the gun in a wide arc. There was no one around. The street was deserted. All the streets had been deserted. Her pale green eye, hiding behind the goggles, flicked from left to right. Still no one. She scanned the upper stories, gaping holes in the walls with metal poles jutting out, twisted and jagged, but still she saw no one.

Last night, she had stumbled across a scavenger, curled asleep, slow-witted and easy to steal from. He had been alone and that had troubled her because scavengers moved in large packs, nomadic communities, strength in numbers, far easier to overpower and kill drifters. She had believed it a trap, at first, to lure her in, but she had been born in the wasteland and spent the last eight months alone and was not that easily tricked. The scavenger had been alone, there was no trap, and she had stripped his pockets and a battered satchel whilst he snored and twitched and drooled. The haul had been a meagre one and already she had consumed the wrapped food the man had stolen himself.

An uneasy sickness filled her stomach. She was lost, hopelessly lost in this city, miles from anywhere, miles from anyone.

She stared down the street for several more seconds, her single good eye narrowed; she was convinced she was being tracked.

With no alternative, she turned away, almost shrugging, throwing little more than a final glance at the buildings with giant holes blown through them, and then she gasped at what she saw – three of them, moving like whispers, parallel with her, now gone from view - but they were there and they had been there all along and she knew she had been right from the minute she had broken camp this morning.

She _was_ being tracked.

* * *

"She's seen us," shouted Adam.

The three men ran towards an alleyway, the rusted brown hulk of an ancient car slewed across its mouth. They vaulted across it and sprinted after her as she raced along the street, arms and legs pumping furiously, bearing to the right, then cutting back left as she found nothing but collapsed buildings and mountains of rubble. The sun beat down and the wind howled banshee like, tossing back her hood, revealing grubby hair tied with frayed lengths of string. She reached another blocked street, angrily shook her head, and was forced to double back.

The hunters were much closer now, her wrong turns had cost her precious seconds. They yelled out for her to _stop_ and _don't run away_ and _we're not going to hurt you_ but she was a _Pure One_ and she knew the power they sought so she kept running. She had been cursed since birth and told the stories of what her value was in the world of Gallen. Chett had outlawed hunting Pure Ones, they had told her. Chett had vowed that the capture and use of Pure Ones was punishable by death, they had told her - but the walls of Gallen's first and only city were a long way from here and their laws were meaningless in the wasteland.

She grabbed a large chunk of debris and hurled it at the nearest hunter, a hulking monster of a man, several years older than her. It struck him in the chest and he stumbled backwards, losing his footing, the broken ground beneath him causing him to fall more than the blow she had inflicted. He began to clamber to his feet as a second man drew close, wildly swinging at her with a rifle. She ducked, rolled, and shot out her boot, catching him hard below the knee, causing him to cry out in pain. The first one was on his feet once again, lunging at her, a weighted net in his huge fists, hurling it suddenly through the air. A third was coming up behind them, shouting orders at them both, a long curved sword in his grasp, a furious look across his face.

She ducked the net and it sailed harmlessly onto the ground. Panting, sweating, she fled into the darkness of the nearest building.

She sucked thick dust and the stench of rotting bodies into her lungs. Her foot twisted and she lost her balance, righting herself quickly and cursing as the men spilled into the building. She afforded a fleeting glance at them and then sprinted across the rubble. She sprang over a wall and scrambled up a slope of bricks, gritting her teeth as she ripped the skin on her left palm. She kept climbing, legs aching, head pounding. It was becoming darker as she moved higher and higher, almost impossible to see. She was wheezing as she collided into a ceiling. Frantically, she searched for a way through and breathed a deep sigh of relief as she clasped her hands onto the rough edge of an opening. She tried to lift herself up but her energy was draining rapidly. Months of limited food and poor sleep were taking their toll. She could hear them behind her, closer than ever, debris sliding everywhere as they climbed towards her.

"Stop running," panted Adam. "We won't hurt you. We promise."

Grunting loudly, fear pushed her up through the ceiling, into a smaller area with barely any light.

Her left hand was a bloody mess. Hurriedly, she unwound her face scarf and tied it around the shredded skin. She looked around, her nose twitching at the faint smell of a recent fire.

"We know what you are," called Adam. "We're not going to hurt you."

Rafa was the first to emerge through the hole, the net slung across his broad shoulders.

"Gone," he said.

Hugo followed, looking around and complaining. Finally, Adam found himself in the confined space, the light poor, the air thick. She was nowhere. He pushed past his companions, sword held out, sweeping it left to right, heading near blind into the gloom. Dust floated in the grainy pockets of daylight that slanted through the cracked roof. Outside, the wind howled and the building rattled and groaned. Deeper and deeper they went, passing several blocked corridors. The room began to curve to the left. There were heavily rusted metal boxes and broken tables and chairs. Had she found a way back past them? Had she not gone through the hole?

And then a shallow cough echoed from the darkness.

Excitedly, Adam quickened his pace. Hugo and Rafa fanned out either side of him. There was no escape for her.

Floor space and walls took shape as the light improved. She was hiding in the shadows, amongst fallen bricks, shattered tiles and splintered beams. Her back was pinned to the wall, a pistol in her right hand, a blood soaked scarf wrapped around her left. Her grubby hair was loose and tumbled onto her shoulders. Her pale skin was heavily-scarred. Her goggles hung around her neck. Rafa and Hugo grimaced at the sight of her.

"You're too valuable to hurt," said Adam.

She aimed the pistol at him. It looked old and flat, with an odd-shaped handle and slim barrel.

"You don't need that," he said.

He stepped closer to her, easing his sword back into his belt, offering his empty hands to her.

"I'm sure it's empty. Not many have guns. Even fewer have bullets."

Her hand was shaking. He stared into the black muzzle, the metal heavily-scratched. Hugo held his rifle waist high, finger against the trigger. Rafa began to swirl the net gently in his fists. Adam moved fast, much faster than she had expected, suddenly yanking the gun from her grip. He ejected the magazine and saw it was empty. He dropped them both to the floor with a hollow clatter. It was all over for her. It was all over for them all.

"I promise we won't hurt you," said Adam. "But you have to come with us. We have to take you..."

She flinched, let out a deep gasp. She'd sensed it, first, and now it was tangible.

There, from the corner of her eye, something hunkered down in the dark. Adam glanced back at Hugo and Rafa, suspecting they were gesturing or making silent threats behind his back, but both men had fixed their gaze in the same direction as the girl. Adam felt the hair on his skin tickle and his hand moved towards the hilt of his sword.

In a dark corner of the room, amongst the rubbish and debris, a long-haired and bearded man was staring back at them.

TWO

"Hey," said Adam.

Hugo raised his rifle and swung it towards the stranger. He didn't have a clear shot but he could fire off a warning round.

"You need to get out of here," continued Adam. "No business here for you."

The girl heard the snarl in his voice and shivered. Adam's eyes had turned ice cold and she watched him slowly draw his sword. Her single eye pierced the darkness. The bearded man had looked derelict and crumpled a moment earlier but now, as he eased from the patchy gloom, he seemed to unfold into a much taller man than she had assumed. He wore a narrow-brimmed hat, his hair long and unkempt, streaked with grey. His beard was thick and ragged, his skin leathery. A long battered coat covered his rumpled clothes. A rifle was across his back, an ammunition belt across his chest, a long barrelled revolver tucked into his belt.

She shrank further away and noticed that the three men had also taken several paces back.

Adam opened his mouth but never uttered another word. The bearded man's hand moved with incredible speed. His fingers curled around the revolver and there was a roar as the hammer powered a bullet along the barrel. Adam choked as blood erupted in his throat. He coughed, spluttered, his grip loosened on the sword. His face turned ashen, his knees buckled; he tried to speak, tried to cry for help, but he was falling, eyes wide, arms flailing.

Hugo was about to squeeze off a volley when he cried out in sudden agony. He toppled over, a crossbow bolt embedded in the back of his skull. The one-eyed girl screamed and scurried into the corner of the room as she saw a second man appear, this time from behind the men who had chased her. Only Rafa remained and he hurled his weighted net but it was a useless attack and the bearded man swerved it easily. He stomped forward, swinging his meaty clenched fists, ready to unleash a barrage of punches, but the bearded man calmly fired once and drilled a bullet into his heart.

The one-eyed girl coughed from the dust. She was angry for allowing herself to have been trapped in such a dead end building. She lifted her eyes towards the second man, the one with the crossbow. He was much younger than the bearded man, hair shorter and no beard. His clothing was filmed with dirt from scavenging in the city but these men were no ordinary scavengers. She had realised that very quickly. These were two very different men and as her heart beat faster confusion trickled into her thoughts; it was impossible to separate fear and relief, and maybe something else. It was then she realised they were paying no attention to her and seemed more intent on ransacking the bodies of the three men they had quickly slain. Both men worked in silence as they pocketed wrapped food bars, ammunition, weapons and personal items.

"I'm Tomas," called the younger man, strapping his crossbow to his back. "You hungry?"

Not waiting for an answer, he tossed one of the bars in her direction.

"All the way from the best place in the world."

Her stomach rumbled but she bit her lip, left it in the dirt.

"Your loss." He shrugged. "Anything else?"

The question was for his bearded partner who was pulling a battered leather wallet from Adam's inside coat pocket. Gingerly, he opened it and his lined forehead creased deep at the papers inside. Wordlessly, he handed them to Tomas, shaking his head slowly as he did so. Tomas gripped them tightly, the thin paper rippling between his fingers. His eyes scanned the words and his lips moved as he tried to sound them out. A look of concern filled his eyes and he screwed the papers into a ball.

"This can't be right," he said. He looked at the dead bodies. "Doesn't make any sense. Look at them. I mean, look at them."

The bearded man stared in silence.

"What doesn't make sense?" asked the girl. She stumbled to her feet, the food bar in her hand.

"We need to get out of here," he said. "All of us. You need to come with us. You can't stay here."

She stopped in mid-bite and looked at the two men who dwarfed her. How were these any different to the three they had killed?

"I've got a kit," said Tomas. He nodding at the blood-stained scarf. "Do you want me to fix your hand?"

"Do you know what I am?"

Her words were tiny but the question was not and the two men knew what she was asking and why she was asking it.

"We don't care what you are," said Tomas. "Come with us or stay here. You make the choice."

The bearded man picked up Hugo's rifle and headed deeper into the gloom, past where he had first been concealed. He clambered across shifting piles of rubble, not looking back, knowing that Tomas would soon be following.

"You with us?" said Tomas.

The girl looked into his face; his eyes were dark, brooding, but she also saw warmth there, too. In the few minutes she had known him he had shown her more kindness and mercy than she had experienced in all her days and nights of being alone. She nodded and removed the bloodied scarf, discarding it. Tomas glimpsed her slender hand and frowned at the clean, unbroken skin. He lightly shook his head, unsure, and then motioned for her to follow the bearded man – he would take up the rear.

"Got a name?" he called out.

She ignored him, at first, and followed the older man through the dusty gloom, keeping pace with him, putting her feet where he put his. The question was still ringing in her ears. At sixteen years of age only her kin had demonstrated love. They had taught her how the land of Gallen was made and how the people in it were shaped, bent with power and greed. Her father would tell her of how many hundreds of years ago, during the Before, billions of souls lived on Gallen. He called them the Ancients but in all that time, with all those billions of souls dead, little had truly changed.

Picking through the dirt and debris with these two drifters, none of it seemed important, but her father's words would always echo in her thoughts when she felt her defences lowering. She had trusted no one but her kin and now they were all gone and there was no one left to trust or care or love. She didn't want to answer his question. She didn't want him to know anything more about her. Though he already knew too much. Would one more piece really matter?

They reached a wide corridor that angled downwards, sunlight pouring in through gaping holes in the ceiling.

"Emil," she said.

"Tomas."

"I know."

They found an opening in the wall ahead, but the bearded man held up his hand and dropped to a crouch.

"Who's he?"

"Stone," said Tomas. "He has few words."

Emil suddenly pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her temples. A headache was unfurling in her skull.

"Those men," she asked. "Why did we have to run?"

Stone waved them on. _All clear_.

"Are you okay?" asked Tomas.

He reached out his hand to her. She flinched, pulled away from him.

"Sometimes, I get bad headaches."

Stone led them out of the building and down a steep bank of rubble, into the driving wind. The street was littered with debris, the road surface buckled and potholed. All around the outline of broken buildings was etched against the sky.

"I've seen bandits before," said Emil. "But those men, they were nothing like real bandits." She waited but no one answered her. "Bandits don't talk nice to you. They attack you quickly, kill you, take what they want. Who were they?"

"Soldiers," said Tomas, and Stone halted and looked back at them both. "Soldiers of the Red Guard. From Chett. The city of Chett. You know it? The great city in the whole miserable world of Gallen. The man with the sword had papers. He was a Captain."

Stone began walking once more, cradling the rifle he had taken from Hugo, his eyes roaming across every building ahead.

"Soldiers dressed as bandits," said Tomas. "Hunting a Pure One. Like I said, it doesn't make sense. They outlawed hunting and using your kind a long time ago."

Emil felt a coldness seep through her clothes and flesh, a chill brought on by more than the wind.

"A Pure One," she snorted. "You have stupid names."

Above, darkening clouds had drifted across the reddish-blue sky and tiny spots of rain began to fall.

"I don't care about names," said Tomas. He grabbed her arm firmly. "Names and things. What do they mean out here? Nothing. They mean nothing. You understand? All that matters is keeping up with each other. That's what matters. Do you get me? Stone knows. They have a name for him as well. They call him the Tongueless Man. A sick joke because he doesn't talk much. Names mean nothing. Where you are when you need to stay alive and put someone else in the dirt is all that matters."

"Let go of my arm," said Emil. Her single eye narrowed. "You need to let go."

"I don't know why soldiers are hunting you. I don't know why they dressed as bandits. The law says they shouldn't but who cares about the law out here."

He let go of her arm.

"And if there are more of them then we need to move fast. They hang you for killing Red Guard soldiers."

THREE

Chancellor Jorann sipped his tea and watched from his office window as thousands of citizens on bicycles streamed through the city streets.

Men and women, all ages and abilities, would soon begin the day shift at the production factories, the workshops, the recycling plants and the warehouses.

At sixty one years of age, now in his fifteenth year as Chett's ruler, he allowed himself a content and reflective smile. In all the years that had passed, enduring heart breaking personal loss and making tremendous sacrifices, the pride in leading this great urban community had never dimmed and he knew that it never would. He saw Chett as the leader of Gallen, its central city, a shinning beacon of hope. One day the boundaries would expand and new cities would emerge and the desert tribes would cease the bloodshed and unite. There was much to be optimistic for but he felt apprehension instead. He wasn't fearful of change, he felt he encouraged it, but he had sensed for a period of time now that something was awry in his beloved city. It was only a feeling, intangible, but it troubled him.

He finished his processed tea and set the cup down on a table wedged beneath the window. Tea was a much sought after commodity and only available to government officials and residents of Hamble Towers. He was fully aware it was traded on the black market. Operations had been shut down and criminals exiled into the wastelands but he knew it was impossible to completely stamp out. However, the black market was a low priority at this moment. Returning to his desk, he once more began to study the file that was of much greater importance. It had kept him awake through the night. It hadn't only been the file. And, if he was truthful, the smile he had enjoyed a moment earlier, watching his citizens head into the Worker Zone, was more to do with _her_ than any of _them._ She had stayed with him last night once again. She had stayed with him for two weeks now. So many years his junior. _Too many years, he mused._ The Chancellor knew she had touched his life in a way that only his _life partner_ had before the sickness had taken her.

Gingerly, he opened the file, a sheaf of untidy papers inside.

His office door was wide open, the corridor beyond lined with smaller offices where a core of ministers and administrators and clerks worked. There was a knock and he looked up to see his First Minister and General of the Red Guard, Gozan, standing respectfully in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged and invited inside.

"It's good to see you," said Jorann.

He rose and greeted the man with an energetic handshake.

"It has been a week since we spoke," said Jorann, take his seat and tapping the file. "What can you tell me?"

Gozan was silent for a moment, his narrow face betraying little. A long scar ran down his left cheek and over his jaw. His grey-streaked black hair was worn to the shoulders, neatly clipped. His clothes were immaculately pressed, though of less quality than his senior companion. Thoughts gathered, he sat, and leaned forward in his chair, crossing one leg as he did so.

"The SOT has no connection with our missing men," he began, his voice low, almost hushed. "I have questioned the troublemakers and core members we recently arrested. Their network of traitors and liars is exposed and we have rounded up the final numbers of their organisation. I believe no respectable citizen was ever truly interested in their rhetoric. They are figures of hate, Jorann. I also believe they were never a threat to our society, more an annoyance. The men and women we arrested are guilty of minor offences – vandalism, defamation, theft of citizen parcels - and all will be executed, naturally, but they had no involvement in this matter."

"Then this is all a little disconcerting," said Jorann. "Would you care for a drink? I have tea."

"Er, no, thank you," said Gozan, seeking a more enlightened response to his opening statement.

"It's delightful, Gozan."

"Later, perhaps."

Beyond the office windows, the dull sky erupted with rain. Giant plops spattered against the glass.

"Did you question the SOT prisoners yourself?"

"I was present," answered Gozan, easing back in his chair.

"I see. A little too old to be getting your hands bloody?"

A smile from Gozan.

"I think we both are," he said.

"It wasn't always that was for us," said Jorann. "Vassaron, Sandon."

"Indeed," said Gozan, hoping to steer his Chancellor back onto the more pressing situation of disappearing soldiers and not to relive, once again, a discussion on Chett and Gallen's history. He was about to say something else, a more direct question, when he saw that Jorann wished to explore the past - so he smiled politely and nodded and issued bland responses to his old and dear friend as Jorann recounted the days the two men had worn military uniforms, not ministerial ones. They had led soldiers into many skirmishes against the bandit settlements at Vassaron and Sandon; outsiders who threatened to destroy the city and return Gallen to the anarchy that had riven its lands during the early centuries. There was little known of this period, merely fragments, no records, only stories passed through generations. Even less was known of the Before, when the Ancients ruled Gallen in vast numbers. It was all speculation. All they knew, all that mattered was Gallen. Who the Ancients were, whatever they might have achieved, whatever they might have accomplished, was ashes now.

_Oh, you silly fool, thought Gozan, you silly old fool._ Oh, this _woman_ has made you wistful and lovesick. It was the worst kept secret within the offices and corridors and bedchambers of the House of Leadership.

"So we are safe from the SOT?" asked Jorann, finally.

"For the time being, yes. I am sure they will manifest once more. I have no doubt of it."

"That's a pity."

"More importantly, our missing soldiers are not being kidnapped and held by them," said Gozan. "Of that, I can assure you."

"Then what is the answer here? We are losing officers as well. Is this mass desertion?"

"No," said Gozan. "I don't believe so."

"Since we last spoke," said Jorann. "I have uncovered something quite interesting about the men. I believe the count is over fifty now. At first, we both thought there was nothing to link them but I have been digging through the duty rosters and ..."

"The duty rosters?" said Gozan.

"Yes, and all of these men, before going missing, or deserting, have recently returned from a Supply Expedition."

"What conclusion do you draw from that?"

"Well," said Jorann. "These men have experience of the wastelands. Perhaps something beyond these walls is luring them back out there. Something is making them turn their backs on us."

The two men fell silent to digest the information. Jorann rose from his chair and strode across to the window. The bicycles were gone and the street was slick with rain. A patrol went through. Four men of the Red Guard. Soldiers brandishing batons and round shields. He watched them head towards the Trader Zone where the market stalls would be open for business. Beyond the haggling and bartering he saw row upon row of identical apartment buildings spread for miles. His citizens had simple, basic lives; the daily work, the payment of a Citizen Parcel, food and supplies, the dream of a night or even a life at Hamble Towers, a necessary place of luxury, providing them incentive, hope. The SOT wanted to destroy his ordered society, dismantle and unravel what they had spent years fighting and working towards. He was the 27th ruler of Chett. He was the Chancellor. He was responsible for them all. He wasn't blind. He knew the grinding routine and strict laws strangled independence but the walls and towers, the gates, the patrols, and the laws was what had kept them alive for hundreds of years. And he feared change was coming.

"Which officer is in charge of selecting men for the Supply Expeditions?" asked Jorann. "The rosters did not tell me."

Gozan sighed, his mouth turned down.

"Major Nuria."

"Oh," said Jorann.

"Yes."

"You have mentored her from an early age."

"Yes."

"She will have to be taken in for questioning."

"I know," said Gozan. "I am disappointed. If she has betrayed us, I am very disappointed."

"There are rumours and whispers," said Jorann. "That these men are in the wasteland hunting Pure Ones."

Gozan joined his Chancellor at the window as the rain tightened its grip on the day.

"I will need to question the major first before I believe gossip."

Jorann clamped a hand on his First Minister's shoulder.

"I agree," he said. "Find the truth, Gozan."

FOUR

Theo opened his eyes to near darkness as a siren began to wail. It was the signal that the day shift had ended and Luna would be preparing to leave work.

The apartment they shared was close to the Worker Zone. Despite no longer owning a bicycle, she was a brisk walker and would be home in ten minutes or so. He stumbled off the sofa. It had been light when he had fallen asleep hours earlier and he hadn't intended to rest for this long. He fetched a lantern, lit it and bathed the room with a flickering yellow light. He saw a clutch of empty food bar wrappers on the floor by the sofa. Two bars were enough to sustain a man for a twenty four hour period before any hunger pangs kicked in, but he had gorged on more than half a dozen and the chemical overload had left his body feeling sluggish, his thoughts foggy.

Theo knew his excessive consumption was becoming a problem for them both. With his job gone they received only one Citizen Parcel, not two, half the rations and supplies; yet he was already eating _twice_ the normal amount, sometimes more, and though numbers was not his strong point, even he knew they were soon to run out. He would have to steal again. He had despised it but with so many apartments empty during the day it was tempting and straightforward enough. He would hang if captured and Luna could lose the apartment, even face exile from the city, if it was believed she had been complicit. He had even noticed that she skipped eating some days, so that he could have more, her gesture another noose choking at his throat.

Shaking his head, trying to clear the dizzy feeling and miserable dreams, Theo picked up the wrappers, screwed them into a ball and looked around for where to conceal them. It would be another two days before Luna brought home a fresh Citizen Parcel. Rations! The SOT used to stand on street corners and protest that there was no need for rationing.

What did they know? And where were they now? _Losers_ , thought Theo, stuffing the wrappers beneath the sofa.

He reached for his shoes, tugged them on and tied the laces. The street outside was noisy with conversation and the rush of bicycles as thousands of citizens spilled from the plants and factories.

Theo carried the lantern into the small bedroom. The bed was unmade, covers half on the floor, bottom sheet twisted; another broken promise. He went to a chest of drawers and dragged a folded satchel from beneath it. His heart was beating fast and his palms were greasy as he drew open the zip. He needed to get a move on before Luna arrived home. He looked around the bedroom and immediately bagged the wind-up alarm clock. He heard movement in the apartment next door. Quickly, he tugged open several drawers and picked out lingerie that had been a gift a year back. He felt the fabric between his trembling fingers and reluctantly tossed them into the bag. He spotted a hairbrush and a hand mirror and took both. He saw wisps of black hair tangled on the head of the brush and threw it back onto the bed. Satisfied there was nothing else, he returned to the living room, carrying both lantern and satchel.

He took two ornaments, hideous pieces with tiny chips and cracks. The ceiling above creaked with footsteps and a smattering of conversation passed the front door. He shot a look out of the apartment window. The street was less busy now. She would be home at any moment. He looked at the contents of the satchel and groaned. It wouldn't be enough. It was becoming harder and harder to find enough stuff to trade for one or two nights at Hamble Towers. The bicycle had been his last best trade.

"Have to do," said Theo.

He snatched his apartment key and yanked open the front door. Luna was at the top of the stairs.

"Theo?"

Her eyes glanced down at the satchel. She knew what he had done.

"Why don't you stay home tonight?" she said, coming towards him.

Avoiding her gaze, he left the apartment door open for her.

"Theo, talk to me, please."

He slowly raised his eyes to her and saw the weariness in her skin, the tiredness in her face, the frailty in her bones.

He tried to say something but couldn't move his lips. Sick with shame, he went past her and down the stairwell.

* * *

Throughout the day, and more so into the evening, hundreds of citizens would stream into the Trader Zone, a bustling and haphazard sprawl of makeshift stalls assembled on a stretch of hard baked dirt. Some of the merchants did not own stalls and bartered from blankets spread on the ground. It was jumbled, noisy and chaotic, piled high with furniture, clothes, weapons, bicycles, tires, and a vast number of oddities salvaged from the wastelands. A lot of the items on show were dirty, broken and unidentifiable, allowing the merchants free reign over creativity at what they were trading. They also had passes, kept out of sight under lock and key, offering one or two nights at the Towers. The area had a grimy and rundown appearance and fires blazed in iron drums as the temperature began to cool and the light faded. Not everyone was here to trade. Citizens often came just to engage in simple conversation; drink, eat and bemoan the wrongs of the city. Located on Chett's east side, it had been daubed the poor man's version of the Towers.

Theo knew many of the merchants but traded mostly with Bex. He was a former soldier, an ex-member of the Red Guard. His stall was lit by lanterns and crammed with rusty tools, a jumble of clothing and an array of black plastic items he claimed were from the Before and would make ideal ornaments in anyone's apartment.

Opening the satchel, Theo offered him the ornaments, the wind-up alarm clock and the hand mirror, holding back the shiny underwear.

Bex, a smiling, round-faced man with dark skin and beefy hands, shook his head.

"No, this is rubbish," he said. "No, no, no. Rubbish! Take this away, Theo, why do you waste my time?"

He closely studied one of the ornaments.

"This has a chip, and here look, look at this one, a crack glued back together. These are worthless."

"I got these from you a month ago," said Theo, as a group pushed past him. "They were a present for Luna."

"Then you have no taste," laughed Bex, in a series of tight stutters. "And nor does she."

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Theo, I can take the clock and mirror, but not for a pass."

A man stepped in front of him and offered Bex a box of wires and cables.

"Hey!"

The man turned slowly. His face was burnt from the sun, rough with a beard, a scar above his eye.

"Sorry," said Theo, lowering his eyes.

"These are very special indeed. How about a two night pass?" said Bex, trying to diffuse any trouble. "Here, my friend, a two night pass for you. Thank you, thank you very much."

The scarred man placed the pass into his pocket. He offered Theo a sour look before strolling away, whistling.

"Idiot," said Bex. "You don't put your face into someone else's business. Not someone like that."

"I have these," said Theo, pitching the lingerie.

"Ah, now these are not rubbish," he grinned, turning them over in his hands. He brought them to his face and sniffed them. "These are very nice, Theo, very nice indeed. They belong to Luna? Oh, I can take these. The ornaments, the clock, the mirror, the underwear, a one night pass."

"Two," said Theo.

Bex looked past him, into the crowd and suddenly shook his head. He handed everything back to Theo, the lingerie as well.

"I'm sorry, my friend. No trade, no pass."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No trade," said Bex. "Go, please, I have other customers."

"Okay, one night. Please, Bex, I need it. I really need it. We wore the same uniform once."

"I'm sorry, Theo, no pass."

"What is this?" reacted Theo, angrily, his voice attracting a few glances, even above the surrounding din.

He saw a patrol of Red Guard soldiers emerge from the crowds, walking with purpose, body armour and helmets, shields and batons. He felt his insides crawl. Were they coming for him? Had his crimes been uncovered? Was he to be arrested? He tried to calm his breathing, not make eye contact with them. The soldiers gave him a passing look, no more, and then melted deep into the throng. Theo took a deep breath and shook his head at Bex. Without saying a word, he scooped up his belongings and stuffed them back into the satchel.

"Maybe you should have kept your job," said Bex. "All you had to do was make checks."

Theo stamped away from the stall, cursing.

"And you couldn't even do that right," called Bex.

He watched Theo disappear into the crowd and turned to woman watching his stall.

"Happy?"

* * *

No one troubled her as she strode through the citizens, following Theo.

He stopped at stalls he never used, attempting to obtain a coveted pass into Hamble Towers, but her presence alone was enough to temper any dealings with him. Her straight blonde hair flowed behind her, trailing down her back, fixed with a decorative clasp. Dark glasses covered her eyes. Her polished black boots kicked up dirt as she followed him beyond the market.

His pace had slowed to a dejected shuffle, head down, careless, guilt rolling off him in waves. He collided with a woman who shouted at him but Theo seemed oblivious to the cries. And then he bumped into a rough-faced man who drew a blade on him but Theo didn't even flinch. He stared blankly at the knife-wielding man who simply laughed before sheathing his weapon.

The crowds thinned and the noise receded as Theo approached the river where empty buildings looked out across the choppy black water and white lights blinked in the night sky above.

He hurled the satchel into the water and then punched his fist against the side of his head before allowing tears to fall from his eyes.

She emerged from the shadows, softly calling his name several times until he turned around, regaining his senses, shock that his name was being called and being called by a woman, a woman who wasn't Luna.

"We need to have a conversation," she said.

Theo was dumbstruck; his brain was unable to process anything. A moment ago, he had been standing at a stall trying to trade his life partner's underwear for a night of luxury. He felt ill with disgust. He was contemptible. Bex was right; a checker's job at the recycling plant was an easy position to have and he had managed to mess that up and men were dead because of his ineptitude. It was the only job he had held since leaving the Red Guard and he had fouled it up. He had thrown the bag into the water and, if this woman had not appeared, would have tossed himself in as well. And then it would be finished. At last. Because every child knew the truth of the river. The river kept man. The river ended man. Man could not survive the river. The river gave water but to raise the anger of the river by entering it, by defiling it, and your life would be forfeit. Every child in Chett knew this. This was the answer. This was the only answer. He knew it. Bex knew it. Luna knew it. _Why didn't this young, athletic and beautiful woman know it?_

"I can repair your life," she said, her voice firm, but sympathetic at the same time. "Life passes for you and Luna. A life pass, Theo. Do you realise how difficult it is to obtain a life pass?"

There was an authority to her tone. He felt he should salute her. In his scrambled thoughts he realised she was military and important military because she had to have power and influence to offer a life pass.

"I know of your past. How good a soldier you were. How good you still can be. One final operation."

"No one will miss me, do you not understand? If I'm gone no one will miss me. The river ends man."

The woman eased off her glasses, revealing large blue eyes.

"I know you," he said. "Major Nuria."

"The river is not the answer," she said.

She handed him a package from inside her jacket. He accepted it without hesitation or question. He knew he would complete whatever task she set.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Chancellor Jorann's assembly. Progress Square. This is what I want you to do."

She leaned forward and spoke into his ear. He could feel her breath. Became dizzy on her scent.

Blankly, Theo stuffed the package into his jacket.

FIVE

Stone kept watch as Emil and Tomas slept. The only sound outside the building was the wind.

Emil had dozed, with her back against the wall, but was finding deep sleep impossible to come by. Earlier, Tomas had made a small fire, the flames now dwindling, and they had shared boiled water seasoned with tiny leaves that Stone had emptied from a pouch. They had eaten slices of dried halk, one of the few breeds of wild animals on Gallen; hunted and skinned for meat, fur and hide. She was tired, unable to stop yawning, but desperate to stay awake. She knew the protection these two men offered was something not easily discarded but she had no trust for them. They had killed the men who had hunted her and probably had their own motives for doing so - _no one helps anyone in the wasteland -_ but neither of them had asked anything of her and they hadn't forced her to travel with them and they had willingly shared food and water. Perhaps they pitied her.

She suddenly thought of soldiers dressed as bandits and confusion gathered in her thoughts.

"Stone?" she whispered.

He looked slowly at her, rifle in one hand.

"Why are you ...?"

He raised a single finger to his coarse lips and turned his back on her to continue watching the streets below. They were on the second floor of a corner building where three roads converged, all choked with debris and the twisted metal husks of vehicles from centuries before.

Tomas had said Stone had few words, but despite his grisly name, the Tongueless Man, he certainly had a voice. He was obviously not comfortable using it. Her father has said she used hers too often and then he would hug her and tell her to never stop using it; never stop talking and never stop fighting. She wished he was here. She wished they were all here. She didn't want to remember that day. She blinked away a tear and looked at Tomas, snoring lightly. Had he known a life like her one?

There was hardly any light in the room and she was cold as the night crept in. The air was stale and the wind continued to whistle through the gaps in the walls. With a blanket draped over her shoulders, she pushed herself onto her feet, shivered and gingerly stepped around the dying fire. Stone's head shifted, acknowledgement that she had moved, but he didn't turn to look at her. She eased down alongside him and followed his line of vision. She saw nothing on the streets below but he seemed very tense, his dark eyes active.

"Thank you," she said. "For today."

She waited for a response from him but there was none.

"You both saved me."

Nothing.

"Tomas says you have few words. I mean, how does that work? Can you talk but you don't like to?"

He nodded.

"Why do they call you the Tongueless Man? Did someone try ...?"

Stone let out a mildly frustrated sigh and she stopped. Emil could sense he was uncomfortable with her conversation. He was probably used to long spells of silence between them both and now she was here disrupting it with questions. He pointed to her patched eye and then at himself. It took her a moment to understood what he was trying to tell her.

"I'm a Pure One. That's what they call me." She smiled at him. "It's just a stupid name. Like with you, the Tongueless Man, another stupid name."

He nodded and in the gloom she thought his mouth, hidden in that ragged beard, had curved upwards. Though maybe not. Then she realised how bad he smelt. His clothes reeked. His hair reeked.

"Is Tomas your son?" she asked, settling down with him, pulling the blanket tight around her.

Stone shook his head.

"I thought he might have been. I mean, kin look the same and you don't look the same, but he speaks to you the way a son speaks to a father. The way my brother spoke to our father." Her eyes became glazed as the memories flooded in. "They killed all my kin. Killed everyone in our village. Arrived in cars, on bikes. A tribe, the Blood Sun. The man who led them called himself the Cleric. Gallen is not for you, that's what he told them, Gallen is not for you. He butchered everyone. My father helped me escape. So now I'm all alone. Only me. And you two."

Emil stifled a yawn. Tomas stirred, muttered and then turned over.

"Do you have any family?" she asked. "A woman? A child?"

He suddenly picked up his rifle.

"Where are you both heading?"

Became more and more agitated.

"Somewhere quiet," said Tomas, opening his eyes. "Can you get all the questions out of the way so I ..."

Stone gestured frantically with his hand and Tomas sprang to his feet, alert to impending danger but the warning had come too late. A shower of arrows whistled up through the darkness and peppered the room. Tomas yelled in agony as one ploughed into his chest and slammed him to the floor. Emil screamed as an arrow thudded between her ankles. She pulled the blanket over her head as they continued to fall all around them. A powerful beam of light poured into the confined space, illuminating them. Stone aimed his rifle and opened fire. There were agonised cries as he took down three of them in rapid succession.

There was another deadly hissing sound as a second wave of arrows was unleashed. Stone ducked. Three arrows lodged into his backpack. Tomas screamed as one drilled into his thigh. He fell to the ground. The light swept across the room in a wide arc and there was shouting on the street. Stone fired until Hugo's rifle clicked empty. He quickly discarded it. On his feet, he lightly kicked Emil, who tossed aside her blanket. He grabbed Tomas by his collar, the younger man screaming with two arrows stuck in him. His chest and leg were bloody. Stone dragged him into the bowels of the building. Emil followed behind them as a third volley of arrows splintered the now empty room. The search light swung across the face of the pitted building, hunting them down.

Under the cover of darkness, the bandits put down their bows and ran inside, clutching spears and axes, black markings covering their faces. Emil felt the world spinning as her ears filled with the cries of the men chasing them. Were these more soldiers? She saw the ashen look on Tomas's face, Stone yanking him through the building, dropping him when he needed to fire off a few rounds from his revolver. They crashed through a door into a large room of round tables thick with dirt. A wall into another room and half the ceiling were missing. A spear wielding bandit on the floor above drew back his throwing arm but Stone stooped and fired twice into his stomach. The man toppled and hit the floor. Another burst into the room, swinging an axe with each fist, and ran at them, his face filled with rage. Stone whirled round and squeezed the trigger, drilling a hole in his forehead.

Stone found a closed back door that led out into an empty street. Clearing the building, he dropped Tomas to the ground, flicked open the chamber of his revolver and slotted in six bullets from the ammunition belt across his chest. Tomas was drained of colour and tears began to roll down his cheeks. He could see the white lights in the black sky above. He was leaking blood. He was shaking. He was dying.

Three bandits emerged from behind them, yelling and jabbing with spears. Stone fired until his revolver was empty and the three were dead, chests patched with blood. He tucked the empty revolver into his belt and snatched up one of the spears. He hurled it into the darkness and heard a cry and the sound of a body dropping. Emil shouted at him but he couldn't hear a word she was saying as he hefted debris across the back door and wedged it shut.

Stone knelt down and looked into his companion's delirious eyes. Tomas clutched at him and tried to speak but no words came, only shudders and tears.

"I can help him," said Emil. "But you need to get the arrows out of him."

With the back door blocked, and the street clear, Stone reached down and slid the arrow from Tomas's chest. His friend cried through gritted teeth. Emil immediately plugged the wound with a ball of cloth torn from Tomas's shirt. Then Stone pulled out the second arrow and once again Emil stemmed the flow of blood.

"Keep them back," she said, breathing hard.

Stone nodded and reloaded his revolver. He could hear the bandits running through the building, still hunting them in the darkness, but another sound was drawing much closer now and this was troubling him even more. It was a series of deep guttural snarls. In the distance, he spotted a dozen small lights approaching, bobbing up and down. Emil leaned over Tomas, her hands moving across his wounds. Stone watched her, for a moment, caught in the fascination of what he was witnessing, but then it was gone and he was running down the road to the corner, the roar of engines deafening in his ears.

He counted at least eight bandits on foot, loitering by the search light that had flooded the upper room.

Then a swarm of dirt bikes burst into view, single headlamp beams criss-crossing the rumble strewn street.

As Stone sprinted from the corner a man emerged out of the blackness, swinging an axe. Stone ducked as it skimmed close to his head. He drew a blade and lunged at the man, driving upwards, but the bandit saw the move and clubbed Stone with the axe handle, sending him sprawling and the blade flying from his grasp. Emil was crying out for help and Stone glimpsed bandits moving towards her. The axe swung down overhead and crashed against debris. Stone bunched his fists and launched a flurry of punches. He swerved and ducked as the axe came at him again, now with less cohesion. Leaping on the bandit, he drove his head into the man and let the dazed attacker drop to the ground.

He took his rifle, looked down the barrel and fired twice, dropping both bandits and spinning them away from Emil and Tomas.

"Stone," she cried.

Single beam headlamps swept the devastated street. Painted men were shouting and screaming, brandishing weapons.

Rifle in hand, Stone edged backwards to Emil, who was sobbing as she cradled Tomas's head.

"I can't," she choked. "I can't do it."

Stone reached down and squeezed her shoulder.

"Save him," he rasped. "Please."

He turned to face the wall of dirt bikes, engines snarling, wheels churning up the dirt. Laying down his rifle, as they tore towards him, Stone calmly reached into his coat pockets and pulled out two grenades. Yanking out the pins with his teeth he hurled them both at the rampaging bandits. He threw himself over Emil and Tomas as there were two deafening bangs and a bright flash that scattered bikes and bodies into the air. A shower of metal and flesh and rubble came raining back down. And then Stone was up, grabbing his rifle and moving quickly along the street, picking them off, one at a time; shooting the ones who came at him, shooting the ones who ran, shooting the ones who clawed at him with bloodied limbs as they lay dying in agony.

Rounding the corner, he saw a handful of bandits flee on foot and bikes, abandoning the dead, the dying and the search light.

He fired one last shot, and shattered it.

SIX

The sun rose, insipid warmth spreading from a feeble blue sky slashed with deep ravines of crimson. Dry thunder boomed in the distance and twisted grey clouds scudded in the light wind.

They had walked all night and as dawn had come they were still walking and waiting for the bandits to return. Stone had wounded them but that wound would need to be avenged and a violent reaction was something he knew and understood only too well. He had led them through the final miles of the city, along rubble filled streets littered with rusted and scorched vehicles, past the shattered buildings whose dark openings were akin to soulless eyes. The hours stretched until they had reached an iron bridge spanning a waterless river bed. Edging past long forgotten barricades, they had slowly traversed it.

Stone led from the front, cradling his rifle, goggles over his eyes, battered hat pulled down onto his head, blood stained long coat flapping in the wind.

Clear of the dead city, a weak sun touching skin, they trudged along a pitted and potholed road, slicing its way through a blistered scrubland, a land of parched canyons and blackened hills dotted with stunted dead trees. Exhausted and battered, Stone urged them off the road and into the brush, the ground hard and stubbly underfoot. He looked back once, checking that Emil and Tomas was keeping pace with him. The city behind them was a grey smudge, an ugly pile of broken concrete. He kept walking, eyes scanning, always alert. Emil was calling to him but he ignored her. She was an outsider, like him, belonging nowhere and to no one. In the years of crossing the wasteland, drifting from settlement to settlement, he had heard of the Blood Sun tribe, but had never encountered them. She had lost everything to them and, last night, he had almost lost Tomas but his friend was still here and he had no words for the strange girl with the strange powers - so he kept walking, breathing, surviving and waiting.

Walk. Breathe. Survive. Wait.

Walk. Breathe. Survive...

"Stone," said Tomas. "I need to rest."

She had healed his wounds but he was still limping. She had told them that she had never healed a man with such terrible wounds before. She had kept him alive and the blood was gone and scars showed on his skin but she knew it would take time for everything to be right once more. Stone had watched her vomit several times after healing Tomas, curious if the sickness was a punishment for her odd ability. Scouting ahead, he located a depression where they could rest out of sight. He took up position away from them, in the brush, and kept watch, sweeping the empty landscape with his binoculars, rifle on the ground next to him.

"How are you feeling?" asked Emil.

"Sore," said Tomas, stretching. "The leg still hurts. Chest not too bad."

He reached into his pack for a bottle of water that he had boiled last night and allowed to cool.

"Thirsty," he said, gulping it down, drops spilling over his chin. Sheepishly, he offered it to her. "Would you like some?"

She took a few sips before handing the bottle back.

"I thought, you know, thought I was dead. Everything got fuzzy. I kept blacking out. You saved my life."

"You saved mine," smiled Emil.

Tomas smiled back at her. He thought she was the most beautiful person in Gallen. Her ragged and dirty copper hair hanging bright around her face, her single green eye red rimmed. All the scars and markings across her skin, her face and neck, a trail of stories to be told, no more. She was so beautiful. She was so very beautiful. He was intoxicated, had never experienced this inner surge, never been touched in this way; the complete and overwhelming longing to hold and protect. There was an ethereal connection between them now, a spark that could not be seen. They were taller than any building. Stronger than any storm. They could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone.

"You get sick, don't you?" he asked, stumbling with his words. "When, you know, you do it, when you heal."

"It's because I'm young," she said, turning away from him, the wind snapping at her blood streaked hair. "Old healers, they don't get sick. Last night, I couldn't, I couldn't heal you, not at first. I was so scared. I was more scared than when they killed my family. Who were they last night? More of these men you killed yesterday? Disguised as bandits?"

"No," growled Stone, creeping back into the depression.

"You're all talkative now," smiled Emil. "He spoke last night, Tomas, begged me to save you."

Stone grimaced and bit into a food bar. His eyes glazed and he stared blankly.

"Why do they call you Pure Ones?" asked Tomas, quietly.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe it's a sick joke. Look at me. I'm not pure. I'm deformed. I'm an ugly mutant."

"I don't see that. What I ..."

Stone raised his hand and they fell silent, puzzled. He tilted his head, strained to hear. And then they could all hear it. The distant snarl of bike engines once again. The roar of other vehicles. Growing louder. Taking his binoculars and rifle, Stone crawled from the depression and across the rough ground until he could see the road sloping out of the hills. Emil felt her heart thump. Tomas loaded his crossbow and drew alongside her. A silence fell between them. He looked at her and she looked at him.

Dirt bikes and customised jeeps swept down towards the city, burning rubber in a shower of dust and grit and noise. Stone wondered where their fuel supply was. He and Tomas had walked for years. The black energy had run out first. And then the horses had died out. And then the tyres on the bicycles had worn away to nothing. The vehicles skidded to a sudden halt and a large number of bandits sprang onto the road, clutching weapons.

A bulky man climbed from one of the jeeps. His face was painted black. Dark glasses obscured his eyes.

"I know you can hear me," be bellowed, standing at the edge of the city. "You can't have gone far on foot. I'll kill you for what you have done."

He paced the road, a machete swinging in his gloved fist.

"I'll hang your body from the highest tree and the lands will turn red with your blood."

Stone could hear him loud and clear. Emil clamped a hand over her mouth.

"I know who you are, Tongueless Man. I'll hunt you across every..."

The bullet blew a hole in his forehead and tossed him against the jeep. There was a stunned silence amongst the bandits as he slid down onto the road, the machete clattering next to him. Stone immediately swung his rifle, looked through the scope and fired again, hitting a man brandishing a spiked club, sending his body tumbling. The bandits yelled at each other and dived for cover. They fired off a volley of arrows towards the depression but were hopelessly out of range.

"Why did you do that?" said Emil, and Tomas glared at her. Crouching low, he jogged towards Stone and lay down beside him.

"Better dealing with them now?" he said.

Stone nodded and fired again, clipping a man in the shoulder. He aimed again, squeezed the trigger and this time hit him square in the chest. Six bandits were back on their bikes, turning off the road and roaring onto the rough open ground. The bikers bounced and swerved and fired crossbows as they came towards them. Stone rose to one knee and kept firing, picking off two of them, bodies spinning into the air, dirt bikes flying out of control.

Men crowded around the dead leader of the bandit gang and lifted his body into the back of one of the jeeps. It reversed and drove away, followed by several dirt bikes. The second jeep bumped off the road and began to sweep around to the flank. It had faded streaks of brown and yellow paint down its side. Wire mesh covered the tyres and front window and men were piled in the back with spears.

Stone nudged Tomas and pointed at the move. The younger man crawled away, laid down his crossbow and reached into his jacket. He drew out an automatic pistol and ejected the magazine to check it was loaded. He threw one final glance at Emil, sitting in the middle of the depression, knees drawn up to her chest. The bandits swept towards them, bikes cutting across the ground, the jeep curving in from the right flank. Stone kept firing until his rifle was empty. He yanked the revolver from his belt and unloaded three bullets into the chest of another rider, sending him sprawling from his bike.

The jeep powered towards Tomas and he hurled himself out of its path. He opened fire, unleashing a deadly volley of shots, one after the other, loud rapid bangs as he took out two men in the back of the vehicle. The jeep swung round again but the two surviving bandits fired arrows instead of driving straight at him. Emil fled into the dense brush.

Gun empty, Stone yanked a knife from inside his coat and wrestled with a bandit who had abandoned his dirt bike. The two men grappled and rolled to the ground as another bandit tried to jab at Stone with a spear. His head exploded as Tomas fired off a single shot at him before racing after Emil, a hail of arrows ripping the ground around him. His leg throbbed but he ignored the pain and had no intention of being shot again. The two bandits from the jeep gave chase on foot, shooting wildly at Tomas's fleeing form.

Stone lunged into the man he was fighting, driving the knife into his stomach and pinned him to the ground.

He yanked it free, blood spurting up his arm, as another bike roared towards him. He rolled, grabbed a spear from the ground and jammed it through the bike's front wheel as it went past him. The rider was thrown from the saddle and the bike flipped over. He ran at the man, lying dazed on the ground, and pinned him there with the spear.

He looked back to the road, where he had shot the bandit leader, and saw the rest of the gang had scattered, tiny dust clouds on the horizon. Quickly reloading his revolver, he ran after the last two bandits. Tomas was crouched behind a low ridge, shielding Emil, firing at them. He clipped one in the thigh and dropped him to his knees. The bandit cried out and clutched his leg. The second man heard Stone approaching and began to run. Stone aimed, squeezed the trigger, and finished him with a single shot. The wounded man on his knees threw aside his weapons and raised his hands.

"Please," he said.

Emil looked into Stone's face. There was nothing there. The gun went off and the bandit slumped into the dirt.

"The jeep," he said.

* * *

"Where are we going?" asked Emil, as the jeep bounced across the rough terrain.

"North," replied Tomas.

"What's north?"

"Not here," he said.

"What kind of answer is that?"

"Chett is east," said Tomas. "We killed Red Guard soldiers and you're a Pure One. We go north."

Stone was in the back of the jeep, cleaning his rifle and revolver. He had helped himself to a pair of brown leather gloves that were a perfect fit and fresh boots. Weapons cleaned and reloaded, he rested his hand on Tomas's shoulder and pointed into the distance. A new road cut across the land. Nodding, Tomas steered towards it. He glanced at the gauge; half the black energy was gone. It had been a long time since he had sat behind the wheel of a vehicle and he was attempting to enjoy every second of it but the plan was nagging at him, spoiling the moment, turning his mood foul, and although he knew he would go through with it, the emotion he was experiencing was an uncomfortable one, one rarely felt, one he knew must be guilt.

The road was buckled in places but flatter than the terrain they had crossed. The bandit gang were a long way behind now and Stone doubted they would come across them again. They drove straight through a landscape that was patchy green and brown. Mountains rose on the horizon. There were no buildings or people anywhere. The thunder had long passed but the wind whipped at them as they flew along the open road, swerving now and then around a long abandoned vehicle or gaping hole in the surface. Stone ran his hands over his face and scratched his hairy chin. Reaching into his coat he took out a thick wad of papers. Carefully, resting them on his knees, he began to unfold one of them.

Emil turned in her seat, frowning.

"Is that a map?"

Stone ignored her question and traced his finger across the crumpled page.

"What's north? I mean, where are we going?" she asked. "Is this all you do? Wander around out here?"

"Lucky for you we do," said Tomas.

She glanced at him, sitting alongside her, hands curled around the steering wheel, looking dejected. She was confused by his sudden change in attitude but chose not to push him on it. The road disappeared beneath her and the landscape flashed by at an incredible speed. She had only seen moving vehicles once before but that was a time she was trying not to think of. There were stories that during the Before, when the Ancients ruled Gallen, the land was filled with moving vehicles and the black energy powered everything but all that had disappeared now. She didn't know if any of it was true, and it was thousands of years ago, but here she was, moving faster than at anytime in her life, and it was thrilling. When the Blood Sun tribe had attacked her village, with the Cleric ordering his warriors to murder her family and friends, they had arrived in cars and on bikes. The thought dampened her sudden joy and the sullen look across Tomas's face saw it evaporate completely. He was right, though, she realised, it had been lucky for her that they had been wandering out here. Imagine if she had run into any other building yesterday morning. She would now be a captor of the three soldiers who had dressed like bandits to hunt her. She had been lucky. _She had been incredibly lucky._ A frown pinched her forehead and she scratched her squat nose, fragments in her thoughts, not yet ready to take shape.

"Do you know where we are?" she asked. "Stone? Stone? Do you know where we are?"

"Yes," he grunted, reluctantly showing her the map, so she could see its lines and words.

"Where did you get that from?" she gasped; the only maps she had ever seen had been formed in the dirt with a wooden stick.

"The Map Maker," said Tomas. "It's one of his."

Stone unfolded another section and smoothed out the creased edges.

"He came to our village once. When I was young. My father was afraid of him. He said he was a sinister man."

"The city," said Stone, pointing. "No place we'll return to."

"What's this part?" she asked, tapping the blank parts of the map.

"More of Gallen," said Tomas, easing the jeep around a tight bend and over a low hill. "Places the Map Maker never got to. That's where we're heading, Emil, north, away from Chett."

"They don't like my kind in Chett."

"That's why we're not going there," said Tomas.

A light smile touched her lips.

"Thank you."

He glanced at her, and she saw a smile on his face.

"You're welcome," he said.

She turned to Stone.

"Why did the Map Maker give you his maps?"

"He didn't," said Stone. "I took them."

SEVEN

Chancellor Jorann leaned towards his microphone.

"We have beaten hunger," he said. "No one in our city goes without."

He paused for a moment before continuing. It was a bright morning with only a gentle breeze and his voice carried easily.

"We have heard the stories of livestock and fertile lands but they are not here, not here in this corner of Gallen, and not here in our city. For hundreds of years our processing plants and our men of intelligence have made sure that no one feels the pangs of hunger."

Jorann placed his words carefully. He was an experienced public speaker, knowing exactly when and what emotion to induce from his people. He knew how to control them, turn them frenzied or rein them slowly in. He had learned much from his father on making speeches and had honed his skill through years of office and rule. He addressed them from a raised platform in Progress Square, a broad paved area with dirt roads leading in from all directions and apartments buildings all around. Hundreds of faces lined the windows and thousands more gathered before him. A physical barrier of Red Guard soldiers stood between him and his citizens. His men wore full body armour and carried shields and batons. They would not be needed today; the crowd were compliant and responded with nods and low murmurs of approval.

"We have homes," he said, lifting his eyes from his speech cards. "All of us have a bed that is our own. Some of you are fortunate to have a life partner _._ Some of you are unfortunate enough to have children."

Laughter rippled through pockets of the crowd and he smiled warmly at them. Shoulder to shoulder, they obediently waited.

"No one is left behind. No one is useless," said Jorann, beginning to wag his finger from time to time. "You all have a part to play. You are all a vital ingredient in what makes our ordered society work." He nodded firmly. "Our workers, our merchants. Our stewards, our managers. Our ministers, our military. You all make our city a place of peace, a place of calm, and a place of safety." He discarded his speech cards, a rehearsed and dramatic gesture. "And you are safe. Every single one of you. Let me assure you. You are safe. You are safe on the streets and you are safe in your homes. We have made Chett a safe place for you to live." Cries of approval grew louder. "You are safe from the scum beyond our walls. The scavengers, the bandits." Citizens punched the air in agreement. "Safe from the drifters, the savages." He had stirred them effortlessly. "Safe from the deformed, the disfigured. Safe from those who would take what you have, what you have worked for and would kill you for it without a care or thought." Beads of sweat popped onto Jorann's brow. "We have kept you safe."

And with that, the crowd roared, a sea of smiling, joyful, relieved faces. A few SOT sympathisers began to heckle but a knot of soldiers moved in, rapidly, and scooped them up, with the crowd hardly aware. It had been three weeks since the last assembly, a dour meeting of information only where the Citizen Parcel had been increased by one eighth instead of one sixth, due to a lack of raw materials from recent Supply Expeditions, and others matters concerning recycled water. Yet, when the bells rang out this morning, formally announcing today's assembly, it had been a sweet sound for the citizens; rousing words and an unexpected break from the routine of work. In the plants and factories the machinery was still and even the floor stewards were here, absorbing every word. The dirt roads leading into Progress Square were thronged with hundreds more men, women and children, eager to get closer.

"Your fathers kept this city safe. Their fathers kept this city safe. And we will continue to keep this city safe."

The crowd roared again, but Jorann took off his eye glasses and motioned with his hands for calm and silence.

"However, a bad seed continues to grow. A bad seed that needs to be eliminated once and for all. That needs to be trodden into the dirt and ground into dust. The SOT. Yes, the Seekers of truth. What truth? We offer everyone the truth. There are no lies here. Chett was built on truth! Built on hard work! Built on keeping all of you safe!"

First Minister and General of the Guard, Gozan, smiled and clapped loudly, delighted with the speech he had provided Jorann. He was seated at an angle to the stage, with the eleven other ministers from the House of Leadership, a curved line of Red Guard soldiers offering protection.

"The SOT believe they are above the law. They are not. They believe they can rewrite the law set down by our fathers and their fathers and the men and women who carved out a life here in this city. They cannot. They are very wrong."

Gozan frowned. This was _not_ part of the speech he had prepared. The Chancellor was drifting once again.

"The law I speak of, citizens," said Jorann. "The law I speak of is, sometimes, a difficult law for us to understand or accept. It is the law that forbids the use of Pure Ones. That forbids us to go into the wastelands and hunt them down and bring them here."

He shook free a handkerchief, mopped his face and allowed his words to be digested.

"We have all lost loved ones. We have all lost friends. To sickness, disease, violence, old age."

The crowd became subdued, raucous applause now one of muted reflection.

"It is the greatest mystery of our society. How do we heal? How do we mend a broken body?"

A handful of men and women began to weep, only to be comforted by strangers close by.

"I lost my life partner to the sickness. I watched her die a terrible death. I watched our children die from the same wretched illness. You have all lost loved ones. You have all suffered. But we must be strong and we must resist the temptation to use these creatures. They have been banished into the wasteland to live with their own kind – the kind that want to take what you have and will kill you for it. Pure Ones will not keep you safe. We will keep you safe."

Theo slapped the palms of his damp hands together as the crowd erupted with wild cheering.

"Chancellor Facundo," began Jorann, and the mood turned ugly with hissing and booing. "Calm, please. Yes, they were dark days. Facundo repealed our ancient laws and allowed the use of Pure Ones. He fixed a bounty on their heads and we lost hundreds of citizens who went into the wasteland to hunt them down. Production suffered. And what happened once they lived amongst us? What happened? Anarchy. Violence. Blood. Betrayal."

Theo began to edge closer to the stage, a little nudge here, a gentle push there, threading past men and women, enraptured with their leader.

"Greed," said Jorann. "At first, Facundo healed everyone. No one was sick. No one died. Chett was a paradise. But then greed was spawned. A price had to be paid. And the price grew higher and higher and greater and greater. And ugly betrayal showed its face as citizens began to trade anything, including the lives of others, to be healed. This is why we have the law. This is why we have to survive without them. This is why you must not allow the SOT to bring these ..."

The bang was deafening; a single shot, the gun jolting in his hand, the bullet spiralling towards the platform. Theo saw a man go down. He squeezed the trigger again. The sound roared in his ears. Soldiers swarmed onto the stage and the crowd screamed and backed away. Hundreds began to flee Progress Square but there was no way through, the side roads were heaving with people. A crush ensued and panic began to set in. There was shouting all around. Theo dropped the gun. It clattered loudly against the hard stone underfoot. He felt his energy drain as soldiers ran towards him. He raised his hands and placed them on his head but then a succession of shots rang out.

Nuria, leading the troop of men, lowered her weapon, smoke curling from the muzzle.

Theo's eyes were open. A pool of blood spread beneath him. She knelt and collected his discarded pistol.

"The Chancellor," she said. "Quickly."

The crowds in the side roads had dispersed, horrified at the shootings. With the bottleneck uncorked, citizens were able to flee the square. The Major holstered her sidearm as First Minister Gozan emerged from the cordon of soldiers around the stage.

"The Chancellor is unharmed. His bodyguard, Osborn, is dead."

"Throwing himself in front of a Chancellor," remarked Nuria. "A brave man."

"Not really," said Gozan, looking down at the body on the ground. "The assassin had a poor aim."

He crouched and searched the man's pockets for his papers.

"That was impressive shooting, Major," he said, not looking up. "You killed the man who attempted to assassinate the Chancellor."

She rested her hand on the butt of her gun, her other hand balanced against her hip. Her long blonde hair was knotted down her back.

"Is there something you wish to say, Gozan?"

He got to his feet, studying Theo's papers.

"That would be First Minister Gozan and General of the Red Guard Gozan. Please remember that, Major."

Eyes met.

"I imagine it would be now quite impossible to investigate a Red Guard Major who has just saved the life of the Chancellor."

"I'm not sure I understand you, First Minister," she said, as the square rapidly emptied.

"I think the people have seen enough excitement for one day."

"I agree," said Nuria. "And I would recommend that the Chancellor is removed from the House of Leadership and placed into safety at Quinto."

Gozan patted her arm.

"I would agree with that recommendation, Major."

EIGHT

Quinto, considered the finest house in the city, despite what buildings and luxuries Hamble Towers offered.

With its clean white walls, ornately shaped rooftops, tall windows, arched doorways and courtyards of stained coloured stones, it was a masterpiece of architecture, a place of serene beauty, surrounded by an undulating spread of uninspiring structures. The property was ringed by high walls, now topped with spiked iron railings and coils of razor wire. A triple locked black gate covered the driveway. There were two front facing gun towers and a fully armed military detail. The house had been the original town hall of Chett but, as the population had grown and more ministers were required to manage the logistics of feeding, clothing, housing and educating thousands of citizens, the building had eventually become unsuitable.

The House of Leadership, a dour and functional building, had been chosen to host the city's government. It had a series of floors that featured many offices and bedchambers and washrooms and basements. It allowed the city officials to work and sleep in the same residence. There had been suggestions that Quinto be transformed into a library, the only one of its kind, but so few books existed in Chett and across Gallen that the idea was promptly abandoned. It was muted that a museum should be housed within, to chronicle stories of the past to future generations, but once again the idea was rejected as so little was truly known and no one really had the spirit or ambition to complete such a project.

Facundo, the most hated of recent Chancellors, had seized the property for his own and the house had become a place of luxury, a den of vice, where only the most important and powerful men of the city were to be entertained. Unwittingly, he had created the blueprint for Hamble Towers, the enclave of luxury apartments on the south side of the city. Hamble had been conceived to offer hope and a goal for the citizens to strive for in a world of burned lands and roads filled with death. Jorann had despised Facundo's schemes and motives but he admitted to himself that the concept of Quinto was an inventive one. Yet he intended to elevate the plan for all rather than a select few and would, eventually, introduce the pass system. Once Facundo had been shifted from his position and exiled for his many crimes, Jorann had initially abandoned Quinto but, in recent years, he had ordered the property be renovated and used in times of crisis, though he had never foreseen once such as this.

As he passed through the gates, under heavy escort, he watched the sun dip low on the horizon.

Bolted and secured, he was rushed into the main lobby. Servants scattered through the property, lighting lamps, preparing rooms and locking window shutters. There was activity all around him and the attention was making Jorann feel uncomfortable. He was missing her deeply. She would not share his bedchamber here. He pushed her from his thoughts. He was still in shock that someone had tried to kill him. He believed, whether it naïve or not, that the people loved him, most of them, and if not adoration then, at the very least, respect.

"This is the work of the SOT," he said, bitterly.

Outside, Major Nuria organised her men within the walls, reminding them of the drills they had gone through.

Standing in the open doorway of the building, First Minister Gozan watched her keenly in the dwindling evening light; her long flowing blonde hair, clean and perfectly straight, shaven at the sides of her skull, firmly clasped halfway down her back; her athletic figure, her unwavering authority as she calmly issued orders to the men and women beneath her, pointing at key areas of the wall and the gate and the grounds at the rear of the building.

"Major Nuria," he called.

She crossed the driveway towards him.

"General Gozan, sir."

"Is everything organised?"

"The Chancellor will be well protected here. A strong gate. High walls. Enough soldiers."

"That is good," he nodded, glancing back into the house, a bustle of noise and activity. "Walk with me for a moment."

She fell into step alongside him as he began to walk along the side of the building, glancing up at the walls, noting the soldiers on duty.

"Can you feel the chill? The nights are changing. Do you notice how the sky darkens quicker at some points in our lives?"

"Yes," she answered, hands clasped behind her back. She tilted her head towards the twinkle of lights reflecting back at her. "What do you suppose the lights mean?"

"In the sky?" said Gozan. "I have no idea. Those questions are beyond me, I'm afraid."

"And where do they hide during the day?" she said.

They reached the back of the building. All the rear window shutters were locked. Faint light glowed behind them.

"Some things are adept at hiding in plan view," said Gozan.

"I thought the Chancellor's speech was very stirring," said Nuria. "Despite the outcome."

"Indeed, he lays the blame for everything at the feet of the SOT and the people hate them." He lowered his voice. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. We have to accelerate everything. Time is against us."

She reached for him, squeezed his arm.

"I won't let you down, sir. I haven't yet."

"No," said Gozan. "You haven't. You've been perfect."

* * *

Casual throwaway conversation drifted from the kitchen in the early hours of the morning as several men stopped for a snack and a cold drink. Laying down batons, peeling off helmets and loosening body armour, they sat around a heavy wooden table discussing the chaos of the day. There had not been such fervour in the city for a very long time, in truth. Even the rumblings from the SOT were nothing compared to today's assassination attempt.

"Do you think the SOT was behind it?" asked one.

"Who else?" said another. "A lot of them were arrested. Gozan claimed we had wiped them all out."

"Maybe we didn't."

"How can you know either way? They don't walk around with a sign on their head."

"But they've never tried to kill a Chancellor before. The worst crime they do is petty vandalism."

"You sound like you're sticking up for them. Are you one of them?"

Sudden laughter, the perfect tonic for a long shift as the hours dragged.

"That's rubbish, but some of what they say makes sense to ..."

"What was that?"

"What?"

"I thought I heard..."

The bullet hit him square in the forehead and he fell backwards towards the table. The other men began to reach for discarded weapons as two figures emerged from nowhere, black clothes, black masks, automatic weapons fixed with silencers. In seconds, the men lined the floor, bleeding and twitching from multiple gunshot wounds.

Nuria closed the trap door as Gozan took point in the kitchen doorway. Two soldiers had heard the disturbance and were jogging along the corridor to investigate. Both were brandishing batons. Dropping to his knees, Gozan swung round and fired upwards, bullets slamming into both men. Nuria moved quickly past him into the dark lobby, dropping to a crouch. Courtyard lights at the front of the building offered enough patches of illumination through the heavy iron door and window shutters to see there were no more guards here. She fanned out into the room, sweeping her pistol towards the open stairwells and broad landing. A bobbing flashlight revealed another guard. She crept up towards him, went low, aimed, fired, took him down instantly. Gozan was combing the ground floor rooms. She heard bodies tumble as he shot four sleeping servants.

None of the guards inside the house were carrying firearms. She had been specific with this instruction and no one had questioned it. Only the men in the grounds were armed and, with the property locked down and no alarm, they were oblivious to what was unfolding inside. Osborn, Chancellor Jorann's bodyguard would have remained armed but Theo had removed that threat earlier today. Osborn was not from Chett, a drifter, a sharp shooter who had arrived in the city five years before and had been employed by Jorann for his exceptional skills with a gun. It had always been her intention to have him shot by Theo. There had never been any reason to execute Jorann at the assembly. The citizens now saw her as a hero. She had killed the Chancellor's would be assassin. Any suspicions would be safely deflected. Her reputation would remain untarnished. The plan was to have the Chancellor moved here, to a place no killer or group of killers could penetrate, unless they knew of the underground tunnels. It would be a massacre that would send ripples of fear through the city.

Gozan joined her on the upper floor and they both moved swiftly along a corridor towards the Chancellor's chambers.

Two guards rounded the corner. Gozan fired, hitting one in the leg, dropping him to the floor. Nuria shot at the other one, clipping his shoulder, flesh and blood showering from the gaping wound. The impact spun him around and he stumbled back out of sight, almost losing his footing. She cursed and rushed along the corridor, planting a bullet in the skull of the other guard as she passed him. As she rounded the corner he threw himself at her, swinging his baton. She ducked and it slammed against the wall. She fired at his leg. He yelled with pain and recoiled from her, swinging wildly. The baton struck her hip and she grimaced, momentarily losing her balance. Gozan burst around the corner and emptied two bullets into the guard and he slumped dead on the floor.

They could hear voices now, calling from other rooms. They ran the length of the corridor and found the Chancellor's door locked.

Nuria shot through it as Gozan slotted a fresh magazine into his pistol.

"Watch the corridor," he said.

The door creaked as it opened and the room beyond was in darkness. Gozan could feel the sweat on his face, beneath the mask. His heart was beating loudly as he edged forward, the pistol held in both hands.

Jorann swung at his masked intruder with a baton and Gozan was hit. He howled, and then punched back using the butt of his pistol. Despite his age, Jorann reacted quickly and Gozan hit nothing but air. He had not been able to sleep and the noise outside had drawn him from his bed. Gripping the baton with both hands he swung at Gozan and smashed into his hand, knocking the gun to the floor.

Outside the room, a guard emerged at the end of the corridor and Nuria opened fire on him.

She could hear the front door being unlocked.

"Gozan," she yelled. "Finish it."

She reloaded her pistol and ran down the corridor, back onto the landing, firing off a shot to her left as one of the last guards inside the property loomed into view. The bullet hit him in the neck and sent him crashing back down the stairwell. Throwing herself onto her stomach, she lined up the shot at the guard attempting to unlock the front door.

Calmly, she squeezed the trigger and drilled the bullet through the back of his neck. He staggered and fell to the floor.

Jorann stared at the masked man in his room. He had heard the name.

"Gozan?"

His First Minster rolled up his face mask and revealed the dark eyes and heavily lined skin.

"Why?"

Gozan snatched the gun from the floor and pointed it at Jorann.

"I ... you would have been the next Chancellor ... why, Gozan?"

"Time's running out, Jorann. A new man is needed. New laws. Or do I mean old laws?"

"After all we've been ..."

Gozan squeezed the trigger once and the Chancellor stumbled backwards. Blood bubbled over his shaking lips.

"You ... were ... always ..."

Gozan fired twice more.

NINE

Tomas eased his foot against the brake pedal. The tyres squealed and the jeep shuddered to a halt.

"What do you think?"

Stone took his binoculars from his coat pocket. He steadied them at the scattering of buildings several miles ahead, sweeping his gaze over a single floor house with boarded up windows and a large barn at the back, wooden frame rotting, corrugated iron roof rusting. The final building featured a long row of boarded up windows with a metal panel door hanging open. Several abandoned cars were out front and dotted on the surrounding threadbare brown grass he spotted shredded tires, empty plastic crates, a burnt mattress, a pile of broken bicycles, several iron drums and a wheelbarrow lying on its side, its single wheel missing.

"Waste of black energy to circle it," said Tomas, tapping the dashboard. "We could camp for the night."

Stone nodded sourly.

"I'll signal," he said.

Feeling the blow of cold air on his face, he lowered his goggles across his eyes, pocketed the binoculars and unstrapped his rifle from his back. He jumped down from the jeep and disappeared into the brush, keeping low, moving fast. Tomas turned off the engine and looked around. He stretched his arms and yawned. It was dark and the thin breeze rippled the surrounding landscape. He looked for Stone but could no longer see him.

"You okay?" he asked Emil.

She nodded but wouldn't look at him.

"You're quiet," he said, jumping down from the vehicle. He reached for his crossbow. "What is it?"

Wrapped in a heavy blanket, dirty hair falling around her pale face, the patch over her right eye grubby, she shook her head.

"Is this what it's like for you and Stone?" she said, her voice quiet, dry. "Killing everyday to survive?"

"You didn't have a problem when killing saved you," he said, swinging the crossbow onto his shoulder. "You can get out and walk away anytime you want. You got no ties to us."

He turned his back on her, the words stinging him.

"It's not the killing," she said, her voice tiny. "I mean, I understand it, I really do. Does it turn you sick inside?"

Tomas could hear the sadness in her voice. He felt his breath shorten and his heartbeat increase. What was this he was feeling? He was confused and he understood how confusion could cost him his life. He rubbed his tired eyes, ran a hand through his short hair and glanced at her. She was staring along the dark road. She looked miserable. There was no signal from Stone. Tomas imagined he had only reached the cluster of buildings and would now search them room by room. He circled the jeep back to Emil.

"I want you stay with us," he said. "I don't want you to go off on your own. We can keep you safe. You must know what it's like out here. Stay with us. I like, I like you being around."

She looked at him.

"You know what you're worth to them all," he said.

"I just don't like it."

"You don't have to like it."

"You and Stone seem to."

He shook his head.

"Especially Stone."

"You don't know anything about him."

"Then tell me about him. Tell me about you. Tell me about the both of you."

* * *

There was no one around.

Stone strapped his rifle across his back, drew his revolver and torch. He switched it on and shone the beam across the back door of the house. A wooden board had been nailed across the top half of the door, covering where a window had once been. He inspected the ground and saw no trap or wire or anything set to signal he was about to enter. The buildings creaked in the wind and the door matched the sound as he eased it open. Darkness and the stench of a rotting body caused him to grimace and recoil.

" _Stone was eight when my father found him. Seven or eight. Wandering around out here. He had a knife and tried to stab my father. He was skinny, hungry and frightened. He was covered in bruises. My father tried to talk to him, calm him down, but Stone was wild. So my father left him where he was and kept walking. My mother and sister were there and they tried to reason with him but my father said the child could not be helped. As they went on, Stone began to follow them, from a distance."_

The room had been a kitchen with tables and chairs and a pantry cupboard, the shelves stripped bare and thick with dust. There was a rusted sink with two rusted taps and dirty and broken crockery. A body was slumped in the corner and the smell was unbearable. Stone covered his mouth and nose with his left arm, hand still clutching the torch. He stepped into the next room, edging past pieces of worn and dusty furniture. The room was gloomy. He swept the torch beam around the floor and walls. There was nothing here of any use. A single door led into another room. Revolver gripped in his right fist, he pulled open the door.

" _That night my family made camp. A small fire. Cooked food. Hot tea. My father carried a rifle and he heard footsteps approach. He called out but no one replied. And then Stone came out of the darkness, grubby face, skin and bone. He looked at my family and sat a distance away from them. My mother took him some food and he snatched it from her and ate. It was like this for a few weeks. He would follow behind them and then my mother would feed him at night. Eventually, he sat at the fire with them but my father said he never spoke a word."_

The room beyond was a hallway with large black patches of damp on the walls and ceiling. The stench was vile. To his left, Stone saw the front door, heavily barred. There were more two doors here, both open, a bedroom to his left, a bathroom to his right. He stepped into the bedroom and saw another body, stretched out on the bed, rotting. He fanned the torch around the room and saw dozens of framed photographs hanging on the wall. He frowned at them. He had seen photographs before but not this many. They were relics from the Before. He set down his revolver, lifted one from the wall and shone his torch at it; a group of people, a family, a man, a woman, an older woman, small children.

" _They found him clothes. His bruises began to fade. My father taught him to fight, to shoot, and to survive. It was years before he spoke. My sister was dying from sickness. I never knew her. No, no, I wasn't born yet. Stone had become a man. He was a son to my father. They looked different and they had a different voice and different words but they were family. My father began to piece together what had happened to Stone. He learned he had been born in the wasteland. His family had been part of a small community. Then men came on horses. They burned, killed, it must have been terrible. My father said Stone watched his family die. He managed to escape. Fled into the hills with some other children but they never had enough to survive and in the end they fought each other for the food. Stone was the only one to walk away. My mother died having me. I was Stone's age when my father passed. The sickness."_

Stone smashed the glass frame with the torch and shook free the photograph. His lips curled into a smile as he rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. He backed out of the room and spun the torch beam along the hallway and into the bathroom. The house had been looted months ago and there was nothing here except dead memories. He crept back through the kitchen and out into the dark night, the wind whistling through the rotten timbers of the old barn and banging the corrugated iron door on the second building. Switching off the torch, Stone sprinted towards it. He burst into a large empty room lined with booths and tables and chairs and a long counter thick with dust and mould. The smell was bad and filled his lungs. He coughed, spat, and flicked on the torch.

" _Stone raised me. Taught me what my father had taught him. He wasn't much of a talker but he showed me everything I needed to know. I'm still here now, thanks to him and thanks to you. Stone still hunts the men who killed his family but we've never found them. They must be long dead by now. Look, it's the signal."_

Stone had flashed the torch three times. Tomas climbed back into the jeep, turned on the engine and pressed down on the accelerator. The engine growled in the stillness of the night as he swept down the sloping road and turned onto the hard ground, crunching stone and gravel. He nosed the jeep behind the old barn and hoped it would be unseen from the road.

Killing the engine, he grabbed his pack and crossbow and led Emil towards the building where Stone had signalled from.

She grimaced as she stepped inside.

"It smells disgusting."

"The back door is blocked up," said Stone. "Windows boarded."

Nodding, Tomas set about making a small fire and boiled water with ground powder stirred in. Stone eased into one of the booths and took out the maps. He spread the map of Gallen across the table, once again tracing his finger across it. The fire crackled and spat. He then opened another map, a more detailed one, straight lines, rooms and corridors. He stared at the map for a long time, only breaking his attention to take a mouthful of hot drink. Emil watched him across the rim of her drink, thinking of the story that Tomas had told her. She looked into the bearded man's sunken eyes and no longer saw the cold death she had first seen. All she saw now was pain.

"More?" offered Tomas.

She shook her head.

"Sleep," said Stone, not looking up. "I'll take the first ..."

He stopped. They all heard it. The sudden roar of a bike. Stone shifted back a piece of board covering the window he sat at. He glimpsed the solitary headlamp of a motorcycle coming down the road. Tomas stamped out the fire and rolled across the long counter, dropping behind, crossbow pointing at the door. Emil scrambled behind the row of booths, out of view. Stone went to the doorway, removed the wedge holding the door in place and stood in the corner, in the shadows.

The sound of the bike was a deafening roar and it wasn't passing. The engine was slowing. The tyres were churning up the hard soil. It sounded as if it was about to crash through the door and roll up to the counter; but it stopped outside and the rider climbed from it, his boots crunching loudly on the ground. There was a scraping sound and the door was gingerly nudged open and the biker stepped inside, a crowbar in his black leather gloved fist.

"Hello," he called out.

TEN

"Drop it," said Tomas.

The biker didn't react. He was an older man, wearing faded blue denim and black leather stretched over a round stomach. He had thick arms and legs. He peered through brass coloured eye glasses perched on a squat nose and was still weighing up the crowbar in his hand against the crossbow pointing at his chest.

"Just you?" asked the man.

Stone pinned the steel barrel of his revolver against the base of the biker's neck.

"Drop it," he said.

Wordlessly, the crowbar clattered to the floor and Tomas sprang over the counter to scoop it up. Stone nudged the man towards the nearest booth.

"Sit," he said. "Hands on the table."

The biker carefully followed the instructions and rested his gloved palms on the dusty table top. His face was grizzled and he had a straggly grey beard. Tomas leaned his crossbow against the wall and dipped outside to inspect the bike. He glanced around, saw no one and wheeled it into the building.

"You take care with that," said the biker. "You don't ..."

"Shut up," said Tomas, walking back to close the metal door and wedge it shut.

He snatched up his crossbow and pointed it at the man's head. Stone backed away to the counter and lifted a stool to sit on. He kept his revolver level with the stranger. Emil poked her head from the back of the room and the biker looked at her, showing no reaction to her scarred face and patched eye.

"Who are you?" asked Tomas.

The man reached for something in his top pocket and Tomas leaned into him, the tip of the crossbow bolt pressed against a rough cheek.

"Easy, old man."

He seemed unflustered by the weapons pointed at him and slowly produced a black comb. Tomas eased back and frowned as the man calmly dragged it through his thick grey hair and beard.

"I used to come here years ago," he said, popping the comb back into his pocket. "Some people tried to open it up. Make it into a diner. Like it was during the Before. That's what they called them. Place you could eat, have decent conversation. But some guys came and shot the place up."

He nodded at the bullet holes that riddled the counter and back wall.

"A name," said Tomas. "Not a history lesson."

"Lucas," he replied, grinning. "Just looking for somewhere to sleep. Not looking for any trouble, son."

"You alone?" asked Stone.

Lucas turned in his seat to answer.

"I am, looks like you're not," he replied, leaning from the booth to smile at Emil. "Evening, miss."

"We could cook you and eat you," said Tomas, a flash of anger in his eyes.

"I don't think you're the type," snorted Lucas. "You want this place, fine. Let me take my bike and I'll be on my way."

"Tie him up," said Stone.

Tomas fetched a length of rope from his pack and eased Lucas from the booth. The man placed his hands behind his back and did not struggle as Tomas tied his wrists together. Stone watched the biker very closely. The man had years on him, which meant he had survived for a very long time in the wastelands. It was rare to see older men in Gallen. They would all need to be careful. Tomas thrust him down on the dusty floor, next to his bike, and bound his ankles. Lucas shuffled around and leaned his back against the counter.

"I've slept in worse places," he said, untroubled.

Emil took a seat at the counter and stared at the round bellied man on the floor.

"He eats well," she said, her voice hushed.

"He doesn't seem afraid of us," whispered Tomas.

"Should I be afraid of you?" asked Lucas, staring ahead at the door.

Stone pulled on his long coat and hat. He thrust his revolver into his belt and picked up his rifle.

"No one out there," said Lucas, watching him head for the door. "Might as well stay in here in the warm."

"We'll let Stone decide."

Lucas let out a low whistle.

"That's Stone? The Tongueless Man? Thought it was him. Let me get a look at the legend."

The only look he got was Stone's back. Tomas fixed the door once more.

"How do you know him?"

Lucas shrugged.

"How do you know anybody these days? Always find someone who claims to have seen him kill a lot of people."

Emil studied Lucas for a short time more then slid off the stool. She walked across to where Stone had been sitting and saw the maps he had forgotten to pack away. She glanced at Tomas, at the counter, right hand resting on his crossbow, staring hard at Lucas. She eased into the booth and saw at once that Stone had stolen more than one map from the Map Maker. She tried to picture the man who had ridden a horse into her village years before but she couldn't draw his features in her head. She could only remember the words her father had spoken of him, describing him as an odd and disturbing man, but brilliant with a pen, a mind sharper than any on Gallen. Her hands touched the coarse paper and she allowed her thoughts to dwell on Stone, out there now, roaming in the dark, looking for a trap, scouting for an ambush. She thought of his broken life and found it impossible to marry all those years together to the man he was now. _The Tongueless Man._ It was a grisly nickname.

She could hear Tomas and Lucas arguing.

"North," he was saying.

"You're wrong," said Lucas. "Son, trust me, you're wrong."

"Who cares what you think?" said Tomas, lifting his crossbow. It scraped loudly on the counter top.

"Why don't I just kill you?"

"Tomas," called Emil, getting up. "Please, don't."

Tomas raised the crossbow, finger on the trigger. Lucas looked along the shaft of the bolt, the shiny tip aimed at the centre of his face.

"I've had guns, axes, swords, bombs, bows, everything pointed at me," he said. "Do it or not, son."

There was no fear in the biker's eyes. He was no fool, he knew the world of Gallen, the creed of kill or be killed, and here he still was, air in his lungs. Tomas listened to Emil's pleading and tried to force her voice and reasoning from his head and the feelings he had for her from his heart. He wanted to punish Lucas. He wanted to destroy and savage the calmness the biker possessed. He knew he wouldn't kill the man but he badly wanted to; wanted him to suffer the pain he was feeling inside, wanted him to know the confusion he felt through his loyalty to Stone and the pact of vengeance they had made to the feelings he had for Emil, knowing what they were going to put her through. There wasn't a single reason to fire. So easy to lodge that bolt in his skull - but for what? The man had nothing he wanted. He wasn't getting in his way or stopping him from getting where he was going. He wasn't trying to trap or kill him. He was a drifter, like them, heading nowhere.

"Please, Tomas," said Emil.

He lowered the crossbow and put it down on the counter. Lucas turned his head away, showing no reaction. Emil let out a sigh of relief and went back to studying the maps.

Tomas reached into his pocket for a food bar. He bit it in half and chewed down the bland flavour, the chemical ingredients surging through him, his stomach becoming full. He looked at Lucas and reluctantly offered him the other half.

"Thanks," said the old biker, biting into it from Tomas's hand. "Plenty of these where I'm going."

Emil looked up from the booth.

"Glad you never took the shot," continued Lucas. "I don't mean you any trouble."

"Are you heading to Chett?" asked Emil.

"That's right," said Lucas. "Going home. Been living out here for a long time. Trying to tell ... I don't know your name."

"He's Tomas, I'm Emil."

Lucas swallowed down the last of the food bar.

"Nice to meet you, miss. You too, son."

He studied her for a moment.

"You're one of them girls that can heal, is that right?"

"You hunting her?" asked Tomas.

"I'm not hunting anyone, son, just heading home. That's all. Heading east, towards Chett, not north."

"Is this what you were both arguing about? Something about north?"

"Emil," said Tomas. "You need to get some sleep. It'll be light in a few hours."

"I'm not tired," she said, sliding from the booth. "What did you mean about going north?"

"Your friend here," said Lucas. "Got no sense of direction. The road out there, that's heading east, a few days ride now and I'll be home in Chett."

"But we're heading north," said Emil, puzzled. "Away from Chett. Right, Tomas?"

Lucas shook his head.

"Tomas?"

"He's wrong," said Tomas, quietly.

"You're a two or three day ride from Chett," said Lucas. "You're travelling east."

"Emil, trust me, we're going north, away from the city."

There was a light tap on the door.

"Are you taking me there?"

Stone knocked again.

"Tomas, are we going to Chett?"

He moved the wedge from the door. Cold air rushed in. Stone ducked inside.

"Clear," he said.

"Told you it was just me," smiled Lucas.

Emil grabbed the maps.

"Where are you both taking me?" she flared, rage filling her single eye. "Where are we really going?"

Stone glanced around the room. Slowly, he closed the door and drove the wedge back in place. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his untidy hair. He looked from Lucas to Tomas to Emil.

"She knows," said Tomas.

"What's going on with you people?" asked Lucas, looking concerned for the first time. "Maybe I should just clear out of ..."

"Quiet," said Stone, swinging his rifle towards him.

Emil threw the maps, scattering them across the dusty floor.

"I should have known," she said. "I was so stupid to trust you both. It wasn't luck that you were holed up in that building. You were waiting for me, weren't you? I knew it. I knew it all along but I couldn't get my head round it. You knew those men were hunting me. Were you following them whilst they were following me? I should have seen it. Why didn't I see it?"

The tears came. Tomas felt his heart sink, his shoulders sag.

"And you, pretending you didn't know who they were. You must have known they were Red Guard all along? So is there a bounty on my head? Are you taking me back to Chett to collect a bounty?"

"Red Guard?" said Lucas. "What Red Guard? You can't take her back to Chett, the law says you can't. Even I know that."

"Law?" wailed Emil. "What law? Look around, you old fool. This is the wasteland. There are no laws out here."

"I don't understand any of this," said Lucas, shaking his head.

"Nearly fifty, sixty nights ago," said Tomas. "We came across a man hiding out in the city. He was wounded. He looked like a bandit so we left him. Then he produced papers and begged us to take him home. He was a soldier in the Red Guard, a Sergeant. He said he was part of a group that were hunting for Pure Ones. The reward was a life pass. A place called Hamble Towers." Emil was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. "He said that by the time anyone returned, if anyone returned, the law would be changed and that Pure Ones would be allowed to be used once again to heal people. I mean, that's a good thing, right? Saving people's lives? Emil, Emil, you'll get to save lives. What can be bad in that? You saved mine."

"I wish I hadn't," she whispered.

"You get us into the city," said Stone.

"Chancellor Jorann would never approve this," said Lucas. "I remember him before I left."

"I don't know who he is," said Tomas. "A major named Nuria organised the soldiers and a man named Gozan has offered the bounty. That was what the Sergeant told us. Bring a Pure One to Chett and live a life of luxury. We've been out here all our life, Emil. Drifting from one place to another. Never knowing if ..."

"I hope you choke on it," she said.

Stone picked up the maps. "Tie her up," he said.

She shouted, cursed, fought and spat at Tomas as he bound her wrists and ankles. Lucas attempted to calm her but then she turned on him as well. Tomas sat at the counter once again, leaning on his crossbow, his eyes heavy, his face tired, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Lucas turned his head away and closed his eyes. Emil's rage seemed to last for hours but it was only a matter of minutes. And then came the pleading and begging and finally the damning and the hate until, exhausted, she drifted asleep, her single eye raw from crying, her face stained with tears. Now and then she exhaled a tiny sob that caused Tomas to jerk awake. Eventually, even he fell into a deep sleep, sprawled across the counter.

Stone shuffled the maps together and put all but one of them away. The wind howled across the land and the building creaked, groaned and rattled. Tomas and Lucas were snoring, almost in tandem. Now and then he heard a pitiful sound from Emil. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the photograph he had taken from the house. He touched each face with his fingers, wondering who they were, how their voices might have sounded. He set the photograph down and closed his eyes, trying to picture his own kin, to reach back more three decades into the past and draw their features forward but the memories of were blurred.

"I kept your name," he muttered.

He had known from a very early age that silence would help him remember.

"I kept your name," he repeated.

The snoring was fading, Emil's sobs were fading; he could hear the gallop of horses as armed men tore into the camp, hacking and chopping, slashing and burning. _The screams. The awful screams._ A tear pinched his eye and he quickly wiped it away. Silence would allow him to keep the name, keep it safe for all these years, protect it from being forgotten. It would never be forgotten. It would be held until it was spoken again.

Walk. Breathe. Survive. Wait.

" _That's enough ... we need some of them alive ... not the children ... spare some of the children..."_

"I kept your name," he said, and opened his eyes, the final map in his grasp, detailing corridors and rooms and subterranean tunnels.

He yawned, leaned back in his seat and, after days without sleep, could fight it no more. It washed over him. His eyes closed. The map slipped from his fingers. His hands relaxed against the photograph. Surely, only an hour had passed but, when Stone slowly opened his eyes, grey light filtered into the building and a knife was pressed against his throat and his revolver was jammed against the side of his head.

"Thinking of taking the girl with me," said Lucas. "Especially now I hear there's a bounty on her."
PART TWO

ELEVEN

With an idiotic grin spread across his face, Mauricio nodded in an exaggerated fashion as the man begged for his life. Then he slashed the man's belly wide open with a machete.

Chuckling, he knelt down to ransack his pockets as he lay at the roadside, clutching his bleeding stomach and moaning. Mauricio found nothing and checked the man's shoes. Sometime people hid things in their shoes. Still nothing. Frustrated, he opened the battered satchel that was tied to his bicycle. There was no food or weapons and only a meagre collection of items he didn't recognise. His vision wasn't strong enough to make out the finer details so he threw them on the ground. It had always been this way. Objects close to him would blur and become indefinable. Mother had said they would find him eyeglasses to fix the problem but he preferred the dark sunglasses he wore and was in no mood to swap them over for something practical. Thinking of her, he scooped up the discarded odds and ends and stuffed them into his own pack.

Annoyed at his paltry loot, he kicked the dying man and took the bicycle. He wiped the blood from the dull edge of his machete and sheathed it, the fearsome weapon hanging from his belt. The red slashed blue sky above stretched over the endless cratered landscape of brown scrubland and mountain ranges. He jumped on the bicycle. He had no idea what today would bring or if he would even see the night sky again. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The road was wide and empty and he stopped pedalling once he felt a downward slope and let the pedals spin freely. He sailed ahead, yelling in delight. It was already the second best part of his day. As the road curved around a bend, he slammed his feet against the surface and gasped; the road snaked down the mountains and there, spread across the barren ground, was a vast town, of concrete buildings and black roads, surrounded by miles of craters filled with rubble and twisted metal. He could see the tiny dots of people moving about.

"Yeah," he cried out, thrilled at his new discovery.

He had to get back and tell everything. Not only had he found a bike and rode it without using the pedals but he had also found a new playground for the family to venture into. The cave was horrible. He hated the cave. It was cold and dank and where he slept was hard and draughty. He cycled back up the road, towards a narrow track in the rocks and was about to disappear from view when he heard it. It came from far away, little more than a distant rumble, possibly thunder, but then it grew louder and more intense and the ground beneath his feet began to shudder. The sound took shape, formed into a grinding and mechanical sound, drowning out the pleas of help from the man he had attacked and left on the verge.

Quickly, Mauricio ducked back along the path through the rocks, wheeling the bike with of him. He threw it into the dirt and crouched from view, holding his breath.

A heavily armoured vehicle rose over the brow of the hill. Its engine roared savagely and a large gun was mounted at the rear and manned by a warrior. His face was obscured by a scarf and thick goggles. Mauricio saw plating across the wheels and windows and a fearsome spiked crash bar. A huge yellow sun streaked with red was painted across the front. The road was wide enough for more than one vehicle and two smaller cars flanked it; one a jeep, one a pickup truck with a smaller weapon mounted in the flatbed, a cartridge belt hanging from it. Both vehicles were rusted, dented and battered. They had grilled windscreens and iron meshes fixed over the tyres. More cars and bikes followed, bristling with armed warriors, and at the rear of the long convoy were trucks covered with tarpaulin. The man riding in the lead vehicle thrust out a thick arm covered with ink and the entire convoy began to slow. It ground to a halt and Mauricio felt his mouth turn dry. Not a solitary engine could be heard. The man pushed open his door and stepped slowly from the lead vehicle, arching his back as he did so. He was tall, long grey hair plaited down his back. He walked to where Mauricio's victim laid bleeding and groaning, skin deathly pale, filmed with a cold sweat.

"Now who are you, little man?" he asked, bending at the waist.

Shaking fingers reached for him.

"Help me ... please ... please."

"I cannot help you, I am sorry; I do not have that skill. That is the curse of the Mutants." He spoke calmly, as the man writhed in agony at his feet. His voice was articulate, educated, urbane. "But you can help me, little man; you can help all of us." He gestured at the vehicles behind him as he got to his feet. The dying man's face filled with confusion. "You can be breakfast."

There was laughter and armed warriors leapt onto the road. The men wore light, baggy trousers and long shirts, halk fur and hide. Quickly, they finished him off and carried his body into one of the trucks.

"And you there, hiding in the rocks," said the tall man, his voice measured, urbane. "Show yourself."

Mauricio hesitated but then emerged looking sheepish, dragging the bicycle in one hand, his other hand on the handle of his machete. Two warriors wearing grilled helmets stepped forward, both armed with crossbows.

"I am the Cleric. I am leader of the Blood Sun tribe. Did you attack this man?"

"Sure," said Mauricio.

"Why?"

Mauricio scratched his lumpy head.

"Dunno, I wanted his things, you know, his stuff."

It was almost a question and some of the Cleric's men began laughing.

"You are different," said the Cleric.

"What do you mean?"

The tall man opened his arms wide.

"He asks what I mean."

There was more laughter now. Even the two men watching Mauricio with crossbows were laughing. Mauricio wasn't sure whether he was supposed to join in or not so he decided it was best to do so.

"You can have it." He offered the bicycle, grinning, as more warriors laughed. "Mean, if you want it?"

The Cleric leaned his face towards Mauricio and removed his dark glasses.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Give me my glasses back," said Mauricio.

"I asked you, mutant, why are you laughing?"

"I was, I thought, you ..."

He realised a hush had descended on the Cleric's warriors. There was only the sound of the wind.

"Why are you laughing?" asked the Cleric.

Mauricio shrugged.

"Guess I'm not," he said. "Can I have my glasses?"

"Gallen is not for you," said the Cleric, and crushed them. His hands suddenly thrust at Mauricio and clasped his mottled throat. Mauricio gasped. His arms flailed wildly as he wrestled his machete from its sheath. The Cleric stamped a boot against his wrist and the weapon dropped loudly onto the road. His feet jerked as he was lifted from the ground and shook vigorously. A shoe fell off, revealing a shrunken foot. He tried to prise the choking fingers from his throat but the Cleric's grip was vice like and he couldn't budge them. His vision began to blur. He felt his bladder loosen. He stretched out his arms, reaching with every ounce of strength he could muster, straining every sinew, trying to claw the face of the Cleric, but his fingers snatched at empty air. Mauricio felt dizzy. His eyes began to close. There was a terrible crunching sound and then blackness as the Cleric threw his limp body aside.

"Gallen is not for you," he repeated.

He stared down at Mauricio's body; the lumpy skull, the rippled skin across his face and neck, the deformed foot.

"Not for you."

A bearded warrior came running up the road, a rifle on his back, binoculars in his hand.

"Cleric, there is a town ahead."

"Good, we need a place to rest. Are there more of these things there?"

The warrior shook his head.

"Not that I could see."

The Cleric signalled for them to move on and the convoy thundered into life, exhaust fumes filling the air. The town would know they were approaching. The snarl of the engines alone would have given them away and any defences would already now be in place but he had no reason to slaughter unless the deformed were amongst them. Window down, he banged on the door of his vehicle and it began to move along the road. He felt the wind whip his face and cleanse his skin. He loved the morning air and the brightness that came with it. He felt his body invigorated the moment the sun broke in the torn sky. He hated the night. The dark held voices and sharpened blades and places his mind did not wish to visit. He feared the night. No one knew of this weakness and nor would they. Gallen was a beautiful world in the light, a world of sweeping deserts and forests of black trees where nothing grew. It was a clean world but the mutants were still here, a wretched plague upon the soil. He had worked so hard, recruited so many warriors and still the monsters were rampant. They caused the suffering. They caused the misery. They broke the order of Gallen with their evil gifts. They hid in the dark and spawned in nests and poisoned a land that was rich with colour and filled with hope.

As the vehicles swept down the hillside, they road reached a large fork in the road. The Cleric saw a twisted and rusted sign with words he didn't understand; the right fork led away from the town, the left one went straight into it. There were burnt out vehicles, a mountain of ruined tyres and a deep pit of charred bodies; the smell was enough for him to cover his nose. The Cleric saw it must have been a great city once but most of it now lay in ruin at the bottom of huge craters, miles deep with rubble and metal. Forty or fifty buildings were all that remained; it was an island in the desert. Faces peered from windows, tiny children stood open mouthed on a patch of ground ringed with a wire fence, a woman standing defiantly before them.

Once more, he raised his hand and the tribe slowed and stopped. Once more, he stepped from his armoured car.

The barricade ahead was a line of metal drums filled with broken pieces of concrete. A plump, grey haired woman, in a tattered straw hat and stained overalls, waited to greet him. He saw the snipers in the windows and on the rooftops but she was the town's only line of defence here on the street. He admired her pluckiness. He walked towards her with purpose, arms swinging at his side, and saw her face was wrinkled and her eyes tiny and dark. A double barrelled shotgun was casually leaning on her shoulder and both feet were planted firmly on the road as he came closer.

"Good morning," he said.

"Name's Marge," she said. "Town's called Ford. And you need the other road, mister."

No doubt it was a well used greeting. The Cleric allowed her a moment.

"Do you not know who I am?" He gestured to the convoy. "I am the Cleric. I am leader of the Blood Sun tribe."

"No scraps to me what you go calling yourself." She spat on the ground. "Ain't taking that metal and noise into our town. Roads are all dead ends."

"Your town is called Ford?"

"That's right," said Marge, swinging the shotgun and pointing the twin barrels at a large, rusted sign sticking out of the earth. "Ford. Thought it sounded good."

The Cleric studied the sign in the dirt.

"It says Ford Mot ...."

"Ford Mot would be a damn stupid dumb name for a town," smiled Marge. "Reckon Ford sounds right and just."

"Indeed," smiled the Cleric. "I could open fire on Ford right now. I have long range weapons and plenty of ammunition to punch holes in your buildings and sever the limbs of everyone watching us ... but I would prefer not to."

"Yep," said Marge, glancing back at a small group of onlookers, some with worried faces, others carrying rifles. "You could do that, I suppose. But we've been here for a long time. Ain't got no fancy walls and pretty boys in uniforms like the big city Chett but we ain't none too stupid. See the road you're sitting on is packed with explosives and the men with the detonators are pretty good at keeping hid. Every one of your vehicles can go kaboom in seconds."

"Kaboom?"

"Kaboom," nodded Marge.

The Cleric laughed.

"I like you, Marge. I am very impressed."

He clasped his hands together and nodded.

"I have decided to go around your town but we need to refuel our vehicles and take some rest. We are on a very important crusade, you understand this?"

"Best move your vehicles over the hill then," said Marge.

"What is wrong with this road?" asked the Cleric, pointing to the road that ran parallel with the town.

"Got explosives there, too, but ain't so many." She shrugged. "Just here and there."

"And we will go kaboom there as well? So if we make camp over the hill we will not go kaboom and you will permit us to come into your town? We have many things to trade."

"We got a few shops that'll like that," said Marge, nodding. "Ain't got no black energy for your metal. Got a bar. Even got a school for the little ones if you want to leave any behind. Got a few books, can give them an education." She lowered the shotgun. "No more than four of your boys at a time. You get me, Mr Cleric?"

His eyebrows drew together.

"I am not, Mr Cleric," he whispered. "Or a Cleric. I am _the_ Cleric and this is the Blood Sun tribe and you ... you will show respect."

He glimpsed a crack in the hardness of her face but then it was gone.

"Men like their titles," said Marge. "Got no problem with that. Can I call you Cleric?"

He nodded and was about to issue orders. "What other men do you know who have titles?" he asked.

* * *

The Cleric took his second in command, Ramon, and two warriors, Tent and Dren, into town with him. It amused him that they had drawn the name from an old sign jammed into the hard soil. As he walked down the centre of the street, aware of the gun muzzles shadowing his every step, he had no fear. His walk was one of confidence. His frame was tall and straight, his iron grey beard neatly cut, his long iron grey hair plaited down his back. His clothes were bloodless and bright and his eyes smiled at the men and women he passed.

The people of Ford observed him curiously; some stared or nodded a greeting, others simply looked away. His men were less impressed, like wild animals stepping into a trap. They moved edgily until the four of them reached the building that Marge had indicated was the bar. The Cleric saw her at the barricade, holding her shotgun and watching the tribe's cars and bikes and trucks head along the right fork and away from the town, deep into the scarred wasteland.

The door and windows of the bar were covered in wooden boards that had been brightly painted and offered some cheer. He allowed his men to enter and then followed into a gloomy room filled with tables and chairs and a long counter against one wall. Narrow shafts of grey sunlight shone onto empty metal frames that hung from the faded walls. A young woman stood behind the counter, washing glasses in a bowl of water. The Cleric nodded at his men and they agreed it was the finest bar they had ever visited in Gallen. The hardest of his tribe often concocted evil brews that could rot a man's insides and have him spewing foulness for days. The Cleric enjoyed the tension relieving surge drink gave and was happy for his warriors to indulge. In truth, imbued with drink, his tribe fought with a deadly and merciless ferocity.

The woman dried her hands on a thin towel. Her hair was cut short and she wore a dull red apron over a vest top.

"I'm Sadie, you strangers want a drink?" she offered. "Only got the one. We call it Ford."

There was a single customer, a bald headed man, and he showed no interest, consumed with a book and a half empty glass

"Ford," smiled Cleric. "Like the town. That's clever. A lot of imagination."

He placed his palms on the counter.

"We will all have one. How do we pay you, Sadie?"

"Don't get many new people," said Sadie, putting out four glasses. "How about the first ones are free. See what happens after then."

The Cleric's men grinned and propped themselves against the counter as Sadie poured small measures from a green bottle. They drank, grimaced and laughed. The Cleric carried his drink through the room, towards the man seated at the back, the man Marge had identified to him; calmly reading from an open book, tracing the words with one finger, left to right, mouthing them silently, ignoring his approach. Finally, as the Cleric shadowed his table, he looked up.

"You're in my light," said the man.

He was of a similar age, at least into his forty years. His clothes were rumpled, he was unshaven and unwashed.

"I will sit then," said the Cleric.

He pulled out a chair with a loud scrape.

"I am the Cleric. You have heard of me? I understand you are known as the Map Maker?"

The man stared back at him.

"My maps are gone. Can't help you."

"Marge told me your maps had been stolen," said the Cleric. "Friendly, helpful Marge."

"I'd like to get back to my reading."

The Cleric's lunged across the table, snatched the book and ripped it apart. He swiped the Map Maker's glass onto the floor, where it smashed instantly. Sadie reached down behind the counter for a weapon but Ramon grabbed the back of her head and pointed a black pistol at her. Tent sprang over the counter and snatched a bottle of Ford. Dren jogged over to the door and nudged it open with his boot.

"No blood," said the Cleric, eyes focused on the Map Maker. "I recognise the female as Marge's kin."

The Map Maker nodded.

"Sadie's her daughter."

"Few town people looking at the bar, Cleric," said Dren. "That one with the shotgun is heading this way."

"You need to tell this monkey to ..." began Sadie, her cheeks flaming red with anger.

"Quiet," said Ramon, the gun muzzle tight against her skin.

"No blood," repeated the Cleric, his voice rising.

The Map Maker picked up his ruined book.

"Why did you do that? Do you know how hard it is to find a book in Gallen? These are from the Before."

"I don't care about books," said the Cleric. "Tell me what maps you have?"

"Maybe you need to clean your ears out. They're all gone. Stolen. Two drifters ripped them off me."

The Cleric lifted his glass, took a sip, and then tossed the rest into the man's face.

"I have lived for over forty years in this beautiful land. I have led my tribe for more than twenty of those. And I know many, many things." He leaned across the table and jabbed his finger against the side of the Map Maker's head. "Your papers might have gone but the maps are in here. I am right? Yes? I am right? You know every curve of this land, its hills, its vast mountains, its long roads, its beautiful forests of dead trees ... and every settlement, every place they are. Yes? Yes, I thought so."

"What do you want?"

"A great many things, Map Maker," said the Cleric, standing up as Marge pushed into the bar, shotgun held level. "Some of them you will provide me."

Ramon lowered his pistol.

"Got a problem in here, Sadie?"

"We are all good," said the Cleric.

"Think it's time you all left," said Sadie.

"I am sorry," he said. "It's just us men. With our titles. There will be no trouble."

Without saying another word, the Cleric led his men back into the drab sunshine.

TWELVE

Stone's face showed nothing. His hands were still. His heart beat steady. _He couldn't believe he had slept for so long._

Lucas took several steps back, Stone's revolver in one hand, boot knife in the other. He crept across to Tomas, moving lightly for a man his size, and shoved him off his stool, quickly seizing the crossbow. As Tomas hit the floor, Lucas drove his boot hard into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. Stone felt his fists clench but his revolver was aimed directly at him and he would never cover the distance. Lucas kicked Tomas again and now Emil was awake, her tortured dreams a reality. She wiped her stained face with her sleeve and tried to wrestle her hands free but the rope was too tight. Her face filled with shock as she saw Tomas curled on the floor, gasping for air, Lucas kicking him.

"This is how it's going to happen," he said, breathing laboured. "I'm taking your weapons, the girl and my bike. You get to keep your lives and nothing else."

He began sawing through the rope binding Emil's wrists.

"You have a choice, miss, of coming with me to Chett and taking your chances or setting off on your own away from these two."

"You can't trust him," winced Tomas, clutching his stomach.

"I can't trust you, either," she said, rubbing her wrists. "I saved your life and you tied me up."

Lucas handed her his knife so she could free her legs whilst he loaded weapons and packs onto his bike. He kept his aim on Stone, knowing he was the more dangerous of the two men. Crouching, he pulled free the wedge holding the door shut. It was light outside, scraps blowing in the wind, the air chilly, the road and land deserted. He climbed onto his bike, grabbed Emil by her arm and swung her onto the bike behind him.

"Put your arms around me," he said. "Stick on this helmet ..."

She drove the knife into his throat, feeling it sink deep into the flesh. She yanked it free and the blood spurted at her. Lucas screamed and dropped the revolver. Stone sprang from the booth. Emil leapt from the bike and snatched the gun from the floor. The bike toppled over with a loud crash and Lucas went with it. His face turned deathly white and he was shaking violently as he bled from the terrible wound. He gasped and his arms jerked wildly.

Emil flashed the blood stained knife and revolver in her shaking fists.

"We're not going to tie you up again," said Tomas. "I promise."

"Then why did you?" she said. "I know he was going to trade me for a better life. You two are just the same."

"Emil ..."

Stone snatched the revolver from her. He aimed and fired, the bullet hitting Lucas in the skull, ending his misery. The blood stained knife slipped through Emil's fingers and clattered to the floor. She fell into Tomas's arms, crying loudly, exhausted. He curled her against his chest and held her. She was trembling uncontrollably. He could smell the dirt of scavenging in her hair. Stone crouched next to Lucas and frowned at a series of markings burned into his arm. A sequence of shapes. He had never seen anything like it before. He got back to his feet and went back to the map he had fallen asleep with last night.

Walk. Breathe. Survive. Wait.

"I kept the name," he said.

Emil wiped mucus from her nose; she peeled away from Tomas and stared at him.

"What did you say?"

"I kept the name," repeated Stone, tapping his head with the barrel of his revolver. "In here."

" _That's enough ... leave some of them alive ... not the children ... spare some of the children..."_

"What you are, this thing they call you, it can get us through the city gates," he said. "This map will get us all out."

"I don't understand," she said.

"We were never going to trade you," said Tomas. "But we needed you to think it so it would convince them."

"Convince who? _"_

" _That's enough ... leave some of them alive ... not the children ... spare some of the children..."_

"The men who run Chett," said Tomas. "The Soldiers. The Ministers. The General. They're not stupid, Emil."

She looked at Stone.

"You were using me, just like they want to, just like Lucas, just like everyone. I'm just a thing for you all to use."

"You're not ..."

"Shut up, Tomas, stop being so damn nice about it. Stop making this hard."

"What?"

"Tell me why you're both going to Chett?"

" _That's enough," shouted Jorann. "Captain Gozan, leave some of them alive ... not the children ... spare some of the children..."_

"Vengeance," said Stone.

* * *

His tribe had freedom; the road, the land, but ... the people of Ford had created a freedom of their own, realised the Cleric; a strange freedom set within daily toil. He felt a grudging splinter of admiration for the courage they showed, hacking out a life in what little remained of a once great city from an age no one remembered. In truth, they were not so different to his people.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Ramon lightly held his shoulder and gestured towards the school.

The Cleric saw the children playing on a square of dirt, laughing and teasing. A female teacher watched over them keenly, separating squabbles, but beyond the tiny hands and high pitched glee he saw it - he saw the beast - lurking amongst the clean, dressed in ordinary clothes, carrying a box into the simple school building, dragging one leg behind it, its face deformed, one arm bloated.

He felt the anger and bile rise and clenched his fists tightly. His head jerked in spasm and he wanted to rip the thing to pieces but he knew that rifles still pointed at him from the rooftops so he would have to contain his fury for the moment. They walked beyond the town, soon reaching the convoy, camped on the hill, his woman Bann waiting for him, warming herself by a blazing fire, surrounded by Blood Sun warriors. She knew something terrible had happened and fetched him a strip of cooked flesh but he showed no appetite.

"What did you find?" she asked.

"A man they call the Map Maker," he answered. "He will help us cleanse Gallen. We will be taking him with us."

He looked down at the town of Ford.

"And they are harbouring a diseased monster."

Bann reached for her crossbow.

"This is what we are going to do," he said.

* * *

"Empty," said Tomas.

Abandoning the jeep, they continued on foot, in silence, each consumed with their own thoughts. They walked through the morning and into the afternoon and deep into the evening until the night became so cold and the wind so fierce that Stone knew they had to make camp soon. He saw no buildings and no caves or openings anywhere offering shelter. They pushed east for another hour, the potholed road rising gradually into the mountains. They crossed a broken bridge. Below, the parched river bed was dark and grimly littered with rotting corpses. Beyond the bridge they approached a van, flipped on its side, off the road.

Cradling his rifle in his arms, Stone ran his eyes across the vehicle. He spotted heavy dents and shredded tyres bristling with arrows. The body of a man lay nearby on the brown grass, several days old, stripped of weapons and supplies, arrows protruding from his back. Stone crouched and lowered the back door of the van. He shone his torch inside, saw nothing.

"It will do," said Tomas.

It was the first words that had been spoken since morning. No one had anything to say. Emil knew she needed them to survive but she hated what they had planned. She understood, she had no one, her people were dead, but the anger still burned. Stone made a final scout of the area and then the three of them clambered inside. The van was more narrow and cramped on its side. Stone shared out the last pieces of halk and they ate in silence. Weary, Tomas and Emil lay side by side, back to back, each wrapped in a single blanket.

Stone sat by the closed doors, against the back of the van, which was actually the roof. He draped a blanket across his long coat. His eyes did not feel tired and his thoughts were a jumble. He had never thought to hear the name of Gozan again until they had stumbled upon the wounded Red Guard Sergeant. It was then he had learned that the man responsible for the slaughter of his family and clan was not only still alive but holding a position of power with authority over thousands.

He pulled his revolver from beneath the blanket. He would drive every shell from it into Gozan.

He could see him, strong and powerful, black hair, on horseback, swinging a sword, charging through the camp.

The map had showed him how to escape Chett but he knew there would be no way out. A walled city with thousands of citizens and hundreds of armed soldiers. He supposed it had been a foolish plan. He felt the map in his pocket and knew he would die killing Gozan. It wasn't a thought that troubled him. His life was a single road, a direct route, one foot after the other; no crossroads, no junctions, sometimes a curve, sometimes a bend, even rise and fall, but it was straight and direct, speckled with faces from the past, blurred and grainy. His path had been set. His destiny had been fixed. It had taken many years, many gunfights, many bodies, but the end was Gozan and there would be nothing beyond.

He turned his head to look at Emil and Tomas. He had heard the girl's chattering teeth and Tomas's gentle whispering and now they both shared the blankets and curled together.

His lined, bearded face cracked a tiny smile. The map would get him in, not the girl. He wouldn't need a way out.

Stone waited until they were in deep sleep and then he picked up his pack and rifle, crept from the van and disappeared into the night.

* * *

The four of them stood on the rooftop of the clothing store, on the northeast fringes of the town. The ground floor windows were grilled and the interior was in darkness. The store was owned by Derek. He traded his goods for almost nothing but Ford's population of two hundred and forty seven adults took very little from him. Lights glowed and flickered on the second floor, where Derek's father sat discussing the Cleric with several older men over bottles of Ford. With the conversation drifting towards the creation of an outrageous roster of new laws for Ford and the entirety of Gallen, Derek had excused himself onto the roof.

"Gone and done themselves out of range of our bombs," said Marge, lowering her binoculars. Her face looked numb from the harsh wind. "Reckon they're out of rifle range as well."

"I still don't think we have anything to worry about," said Geoff, the town engineer. "You told him to make camp up there. Why tell him about the explosives in the first place?" He was a bright man and without him, Marge reckoned, the town of Ford would be dust and ashes as everything else, but he had no stomach for a fight and this was shaping up to be a pretty nasty one.

"You know why, Geoff," said Marge. "They arrive here, all that noise, them guns, think they can roll over us. You show them you're not stupid they think twice."

"If they wanted trouble they would have attacked us already," he muttered. "I think we should ..."

"You didn't see them in my bar," said Sadie, hands thrust into the pockets of a heavy coat. "You wouldn't be sticking up for them if you had been there."

"I'm not sticking up for them," said Geoff. "I'm trying to keep this town from being dragged into a fight we can't win. Marge, tell your ..."

"Done telling her stuff, Geoff," said Marge. "She ain't school size no more."

"Got that right," grinned Derek, and Sadie flashed him a loose smile. Then she said, "They wanted the new guy. The one calling himself ..."

"The Map Maker?" exclaimed Geoff. "Then let's give him to them. He's not one of us. What kind of stupid ...?"

"You thinking this ain't a fight we can win, Geoff?" said Marge, looking through her binoculars again. "Hmmm, they like wrestling. Got a few muscle heads rolling around in the dirt." She shook her head. "We get to giving away people where does that end? Maybe next they need an engineer to work on them metal machines. That alright with you, Geoff? We give them you, ain't that alright? Makes them up and go away, does it?"

"Give them Geoff," laughed Derek. "And the Map Maker. The guy's a freak, reading a book all day."

"He's not reading anything now," said Sadie, smiling at Derek. "That Cleric ripped up his book."

"Look, I'm not suggesting this is easy," said Geoff. "But we have to think of Ford and the generations before us who put this town together. We've had threats before but these are not a few thieves or marauding bandits. Marge, this is a tribe with guns and armoured machines and weapons we've never even seen before."

Sadie felt her shoulders sag. Derek kicked at loose gravel. Even Marge had no response, at first. Geoff's word had driven home a damning truth.

"He's right," said Sadie. "This isn't like anything we've had to deal with."

"There are a lot of them," added Derek.

"I just don't want anyone to lose a loved one or a friend. Why don't we try and talk to ..."

Only Marge wasn't having it.

"They're coming," she said. "Tonight, Geoff. That fella just wants it bad with us. Got that big bluff of wrestling going on. They'll be on us soon enough."

Clouds filled the night sky, blotting out the white lights.

"Then we should evacuate," he said, quietly. "Send the word that we're heading for the craters. It's a maze; they'll never find us in there."

"Why don't you head off to the craters?" said Derek, winking at Sadie. "I'm sure you'll be happy down there. You can make ..."

"Will you shut that trap up, boy?" snapped Marge. "That trash think we're pretty dumb so don't make them right."

She took one last look across the broken land to where the Blood Sun tribe were now camped; vehicles, tents, fires, wrestling, weapons, drink, laughter.

"This is what we're gonna do," said Marge.

* * *

The cremation of Chancellor Jorann was held that night in Progress Square, after all shifts had finished.

A mood of dejection had seeped into the city for days with the production output at the factories and plants reaching its lowest in years. Trade had rapidly dwindled in the markets. The ever loyal and dedicated Red Guard had shown signs of dismay that no one in power, ministerial or military, had been aware of the network of underground tunnels beneath Quinto. Subsequently, these had been blocked. Gozan had anticipated this period of mourning and reflection and even rumblings of discontent. For years there had been calm under Jorann, with any hatred directed at the SOT. Now, the violence of the wastelands had breeched Chett's high walls. It was to be expected. Time would mend fears. A new chancellor would bring new focus sharply into view.

Thousands of men, women and children took to the city streets. Black flags hung on every corner, a respectful tribute organised by Second Minister, Mason, who had since been promoted to First Minister, due to Gozan's succession to Chancellor. Gozan had also relinquished his title of General of the Red Guard, promoting Major Nuria into the position, and had taken an older title, Lord of Chett, one Jorann had never wanted. Nuria had also been awarded a Wreath of Bravery for saving Jorann from the first assassination attempt in Progress Square. Gozan had hoped it would elevate her to the status of public hero and diminish the power of any impending investigation into missing soldiers. Not that any of that really mattered now. The law would soon be changing.

Amusingly, the hunt for Jorann's murderers was ongoing and Gozan had promised merciless retribution once the culprits were apprehended. He had given a powerful speech, a rousing oration, damning greed and corruption, but only hundreds had drifted into Progress Square and the response from those had been decidedly muted. He knew the brutality of the murders at Quinto had shocked his citizens but he was furious at the insipid reception. He had penned all of Jorann's speeches, from his first to his last, and the peasants had lapped up those ones

"Timing is the key, Gozan," Nuria had advised him.

"I'm sure you're correct. Chett spins in cycles. I have seen it all before."

Life had been shaken but soon the dust would settle and the sun would rise and fall and work would continue and mutterings fade away.

He ordered that great fires should be lit and in the night sky the first and only city must have seemed ablaze to the wastelands of Gallen. He had already drafted his new laws and motions but had followed Nuria's advice in waiting a few more days before unveiling them. Earlier, hours before the ceremony, where he would be expected to speak again, he had instructed his Sixth Minister, Isaac, to provide him with a report of the slowest operators from the Worker Zone. Finally, with the list, and before leaving for Progress Square, he passed it to General Nuria.

"Arrest these tonight," he ordered her. "Their output is poor so they will not be missed. Tomorrow, hang them as members of SOT, traitors of Chett and Chancellor Jorann's killers."

"Understood," said Nuria.

"And ensure the weapons are found with them. And SOT literature."

She studied the list once he had left. Six men and two women. She rode to the barracks, based in the Red Guard compound on the west side of the city. Once there, she issued the orders to her men and appointed a Captain Andozini to lead the multiple raids. With the barracks empty, she found a bunk to rest on and stared at the ceiling above. She closed her eyes, for a moment only, and then opened them as the wind tossed a thousand years of dirt and grit against the barred windows. She sat up, the light from the fires on the city walls reflecting brightly in her eyes. Drawing her coat, she checked her pistol and went out into the streets. She chose to walk, not cycle. She threaded through the tearful crowds, head bowed, long blonde hair curled around her neck and hanging down over her chest. Hundreds of citizens brushed past her. Many stood outside humble apartment buildings where they scraped out an existence for a meagre Citizen Parcel.

Soon, Gozan would repeal the laws banning Pure Ones from the city. The operation was several months old and, although none of the men she had selected to hunt had returned, it was surely only a matter of time now. Yet the price for healing and curing any sickness would be beyond these simple people. The Pure One would not be for them or their kin. She would be taken to Hamble Towers and kept for the powerful and the influential. Citizens could work until their fingers cracked with age and pain and their kin would replace them. The cycle would never break. The wheel would always turn. The city would always spin.

" _Chett spins in cycles."_

Nuria found herself on an empty street, black flags fluttering in the wind. She waited outside a boarded up doorway. The building looked abandoned with a broken and rusted fire escape clinging to the aged brickwork and a wire bordered yard filled with rubbish.

Suddenly, the door edged open and she hurriedly slipped inside. The door closed and a lantern was shone in her face.

"It's good to see you, Nuria," spoke a voice.

THIRTEEN

As the sun broke through the clouds, Marge headed for the early morning café and took a breakfast of processed tea, skinny slices of halk and three black eggs.

Unbuttoning her coat and laying her shotgun across the table, she curled her thick fingers around the mug and closed her eyes, enjoying the burning heat seeping through her skin. She lifted a piece of meat, bit into it and chewed it down. Then she cracked one egg and drank it. Her eyes were brimming with frustration and disappointment in herself. She puzzled over the Cleric's decision not to attack her town. Naturally glad, and relieved, too, but now troubled. It had been a wasted night of double patrols and preparing traps.

The hardest route into Ford was the northeast corner, near Derek's clothing store, where the roads and pathways on the edge of town fell away into giant craters. There were barricades of rock, wire and debris but these were more to stop people falling in and injuring themselves rather than keeping out a determined menace. Marge knew it would have taken a raiding party of warriors several hours to cross that rugged landscape but, once that hurdle had been eliminated, there were a number of scattered roads, walkways and underpasses to move quickly through and Marge didn't have enough men and women who could handle weapons and cover every avenue. The crater was a natural defensive barrier and no one had ever attempted to cross it.

"It's the route he'll come. Watch that man, that man's a devious slippery thing. Makes his own way in Gallen, he'll take the hardest way into us, that makes it the simplest."

"I'm not sure you're right, Marge," said Geoff, shaking his head. "Why choose the hardest direction to attack us?"

She needed to make the northeast corner even more vulnerable and inviting for the Cleric, to be certain he would take this route. The people in the area had been hurriedly evacuated and directed to the warehouse where they would be safe. She had withdrawn her snipers and placed them in the centre of town, on rooftops and at windows. It was also closer to Sadie's bar, where the Map Maker drank, read and cleaned, his price for a bed with a lumpy mattress, thin sheets and a hot meal once a day. This is where the Cleric would be heading. Allow them across the cratered land, Marge had said. Allow them to run along the roads, walkways and underpasses, yelling and brandishing weapons and funnel them towards the square where a new series of devious booby-traps had been set and rifle fire would cut them to ribbons.

"That man's got brains. Don't survive this life long, leading that rabble, with no knockings upstairs. What we do is smarter, because we're this dumb little town who left the back door wide open."

"If he takes the bait it," said Geoff. "I suppose it could work."

But it hadn't worked. It hadn't worked because the Cleric had ignored the bait and ignored the town. Nothing had happened. The town had waited on high alert all night and nothing. Not a single bullet or arrow fired in anger. The tribe had drunk and wrestled, shouted and laughed until the fires were dying embers and heads had grown foggy and bodies weary and they had crawled into tents a few hours before dawn.

Jaded, Marge walked through the centre of town, past Geoff's workshops and a row of tenement buildings. She nodded to the men and women she passed and they all looked drained. She walked on towards the school and saw Jenny, the town teacher, yawning loudly as she pushed through a low gate into the front yard. She watched her root into her pockets for a bunch of keys and curse as she dropped them on the ground. Marge tried to catch her eye but Jenny ignored her, unlocked the building and ducked inside.

"Not in the mood for you," said Jenny, seeing Marge trudge away, shotgun slung over her shoulder.

The school lobby was cold and a draught rustled her collar. She took off her coat and hung it on a bright red hook. There was a long row of colourful hooks, each with a child's name scribbled beneath it and a drawing. Jenny saw muddy prints across the floor and on the wooden benches that lined the walls. She made a mental note to ask Dorran to make this his first job of the morning. She hadn't realised the children had tracked mud back in yesterday. She went into the washroom and filled the sink with water from a plastic bucket in the corner. She took off her glasses, cupped her hands into the water and splashed it over her face. She pictured Marge heading to the front of the town and felt a pang of guilt for ignoring her. Simple fact, the older woman had done a lot for the people of Ford and was always at the front when trouble turned up. She found the tribe an odd collection. The vehicles had looked fearsome and the men and women inside them equally as dangerous but they hadn't actually done _anything_ and already looked to be on their way.

Pushing back strands of damp hair from her forehead she suddenly heard a noise and tilted her head.

"Is that you Dorran?"

Living across from the school, in a one bedroom apartment, Dorran would often turn up once he saw her arrive. She slipped her glasses back on, tossed and fiddled with her tangled hair. The second noise startled her and she felt a flutter in her chest. Her pulse began to race a little faster. She reached for the handle of the washroom door and gingerly opened it.

"Dorran?" she called.

The lobby was empty. She tried the front door and found it locked. Nothing to worry about. Only tiredness from being awake since this time yesterday. Across the street, Henderson, the town barber, was taking the shutters off his salon windows as his wife swept out front. They were chatting back and forth. Her husband, Mike, flashed into her thoughts. He had died in a bandit raid three years earlier. She shook her head. It would be another hour before the children arrived and she wondered whether to grab a nap. A draught tickled the hairs on her neck once again and this time she realised one of the windows was unlocked and had been left ajar. It must have been the noise she had heard from the washroom.

It was then she glanced down at the muddy footprints for a second time and her eyes came into focus as she realised they were adult sized.

A gloved hand thrust from behind and clamped her mouth. She tried to scream but there was no sound. The muzzle of a gun wedged into the hollow of her throat and she went rigid. Rough hands dragged her off her feet and she was bundled into the nearest room. Naked terror filled her eyes as she faced a dozen painted warriors in baggy trousers and long shirts, fur and hide, carrying bows and guns. She saw the Cleric, talking with a black haired woman holding a crossbow. An ugly, heavily scarred man with a narrow moustache came into view, his hand still across her mouth, his other hand holding a pistol. She recognised him as one of the men who had accompanied the Cleric into town yesterday.

"How long until the little ones arrive?" asked Ramon. "Tell me how long. Do not scream, teacher."

He slowly lifted his hand away from Jenny's mouth but her jaw wouldn't move and she had no saliva. He spoke again, but the words were just noise in her head. He pushed the gun hard into her throat, bruising the skin.

"I ask you one last time," said Ramon. "How long? How long before the little ones come here?"

Panting, gasping furiously for air, she managed to croak, "One ... one hour ... an hour."

Smiling, Ramon turned to Bann and the Cleric. "The children will be here in one hour."

He stepped away from her but before Jenny could scream or even move a crossbow bolt thumped into her head and her body sagged to the floor.

Bann yanked the bolt from her head and wiped off the blood with Jenny's hair.

"Now we wait again," said the Cleric, standing at a desk where a cluster of explosives lay before him.

* * *

Tomas opened his eyes, blinked at Emil, her body pressed against his, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Warm breath tickled his chest, hair brushed his rough chin. His arms were entwined with her and he left them there for a moment, savouring every second as morning light filtered into the van. He suddenly realised the sun was already climbing in the sky; he had slept longer than ever before. He smiled as she continued to sleep. He wasn't sure if he should wake her. He wondered what he would say to her when she woke or what she would say to him or should he say nothing at all. He had trussed her up like a wild halk and threatened to use her as bait.

Maybe it would be best ...

"Morning," said Emil, yawning. She placed her hand against his chest. "How are you?"

"Bruised," he said, thinking back to the rough treatment Lucas had handed out.

"I can help you," she said.

He pushed himself onto his feet, leaving her covered with blankets.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't want you to do something you'd regret."

She looked at him and he looked at her. She had heard the softness in his tone, his words layered with guilt.

"I didn't mean what I said. I'm glad I saved you."

He nodded.

"I'm sorry, what we had planned for you. What we still have planned for you. Getting us in."

He felt the van rock gently as he moved. He wiped the grit from his bleary eyes with the heel of his palm. Stone was already scouting the way ahead but Tomas was surprised he had not woken him He was hungry but they only had a handful of food bars remaining, chemically infused snacks pumped with everything your body required, apparently, though nothing could beat a slice of halk cooking over an open fire, which is what Tomas craved, or even gleff, not that they had seen one of those in over a year, or even black ollish eggs. He hadn't tasted black eggs in years. He climbed from the van, stretched, and rubbed the base of his spine. He felt battered. He looked back at Emil, smiling.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She came and stood with him, unkempt ginger hair framing her pale face.

"I've only ever shared a blanket with my sister," she said.

"I've only ever shared one with Stone."

She laughed and it threw him off balance. Her laughter carried across the silent morning.

Tomas suddenly became agitated.

"Stone?"

He grabbed his crossbow.

"Stone?"

Louder this time, his concern palpable.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "I can't see him and I can't hear him. I can't hear anything."

He ran onto the road, looking left and right, seeing nothing and no one. His eyes scrutinised the land, coursing over every patch of scrub and tree. Stone was nowhere. Had he been taken in the night? His pack and rifle were missing, too, but that made no sense, reasoned Tomas, because he and Emil were unharmed and Stone wouldn't have gone without a fight. Lucas flashed into his thoughts. What if he hadn't been a lone rider? What if he was part of a larger bike gang and they had ambushed Stone? But, again, that didn't make any sense because they would have taken all three of them. What if they had snatched Stone at dawn, as he scouted ahead or hunted for food?

Tomas ran up the bank, calling frantically, looking in every direction, trying to spot signs of trouble, hoping for anything.

He sprinted back to the van.

"Where is he?" said Emil.

"I don't know. I thought he might have gone ahead but he would have heard me by now."

"What about Lucas?" she said. The biker's pale and bloodied face loomed into her thoughts and she shivered. "What if he wasn't on his own?"

Tomas poured out his reasoning over Lucas and that no one had taken Stone in the night.

"You mean he left?" she said.

"He wouldn't leave us. He's around here."

"You just said he would have heard you by now."

"I know," said Tomas. "But Stone wouldn't just leave us here, not on our own. Maybe he had an accident and is waiting for us to help him."

She looked at him.

"We planned this together, Emil. To go to Chett and avenge his family. To kill Gozan."

"He didn't want to use me," she said, suddenly, but Tomas shook his head and paced away from her, angrily swinging his crossbow. "Tomas, he's gone to Chett alone. He's going to use the map to get in."

Tomas was barely absorbing a word. "I don't understand where he could have gone."

"You know where he's gone."

"The plan was simple," said Tomas. "Through the gates with you and into the House of Leadership. Offer you as a trade then kill Gozan instead and anyone else inside. Then escape through the old tunnels built beneath the city."

"He wants to do this on his own."

"I mean, maybe if he clears the whole building he can get back into the tunnels before they track him."

He suddenly kicked the van.

"Why would he leave me?"

* * *

One by one, a lone parent emerged onto the street. There were no cars or bicycles in Ford. Mum or Dad walked, one hand swinging the hand of their son or daughter, one hand gesturing as they gossiped to another parent about last night's false alarm. Some had even been on sniper duty; some had toiled on the booby traps and wire barricades; some had been at home, watching over a sleeping child, cleaning dishes, trying to remain calm, waiting for the attack to come, hoping that a loved one would return home safe and the bed would not become cold on one side. Now, as the school came into view, beneath grey clouds and a leaden sky ripped with crimson streaks, complaints began to taper off as the children grew more excited and tiny hands wriggled free of larger ones and they ran through the gate, into the school yard, singing songs, clapping, chasing.

"Where's Jenny?" remarked one parent.

"Having a quick nap, if she has any sense."

It was a remark that brought a few chuckles. Marge, standing duty at the front of the town, next to the concrete filled drums, turned at the sound. She saw the children in the yard and their parents milling around, waiting for Jenny to come out and welcome the little ones inside. She sighed and looked past the school, along the road, into town, seeing the faces she had seen all night. She cast her gaze further towards the northeast corner, over the blasted and cratered land, a maze of fallen buildings and ruined roads, up towards the mountains, up to where the Cleric's tribe were camped and she shook her head at her over confidence - and then her vision swept down and followed the road on the east side of Ford and something was terribly wrong.

Grabbing her binoculars she ran for a better view and saw the gouged road surface and the holes where the explosives had once been.

A sick sensation poured into her soul and her stomach turned to water. There was still no sign of Jenny as she ran towards the school, clutching her shotgun and yelling. One of the parents, Frank, pulled open the front door and ushered the children inside, calling out for Jenny and Dorran. As the last one disappeared from view there was the shocking blast of a gun and Frank was hurled backwards from the school door. The children screamed as the doors were slammed shut behind them. Parents turned chalky white and ran across the yard towards the building. Their children were in there and nothing else mattered. They could hear Marge yelling but her words were nothing more than a distorted noise. The front door was thrown open and a score of weapons pointed out and the group of parents stopped in their tracks, standing shaking as Frank lay dead on the ground.

A woman spearheaded the warriors. She was short, but broad, with thick, muscular arms and hair the colour of night. Brown studded gloves gripped a loaded crossbow and a scarf covered her face.

"Back into the street," she ordered.

Parents screeched and pleaded with her, begged for their children to be returned.

"Back, back, now, move, move, get back."

A dozen warriors spilled into the school yard, led by Bann and Ramon, pointing weapons at the snipers on the nearby rooftops.

"Where is he?" barked Marge, aiming her shotgun at Bann. "Get that piece of trash out here."

The parents were herded back through the gate, sobbing, pleading and angry. The men and women of Ford had heard the gunshot and were rushing from their homes and shops. Apprehensively, they headed towards the school. The children wailed. The Cleric stepped from the building and locked them in with Jenny's bunch of keys. Tiny fists banged on the glass, eyes red with tears, faces wrought with terror. Bann formed her warriors into a loose circle, facing out. The people could barely watch. A woman fainted. A man threw up his breakfast. Fists were clenched. Heads shook with disgust and bewilderment.

Marge hadn't moved from the gate.

"Harm them little ones and you get it first," she said.

"No, no, no," said the Cleric, pacing slowly across the school yard. "The last thing I want is bloodshed."

He stopped and looked out at the growing crowd.

"There will be no bloodshed by us today. I give you my word. We will not harm any of you."

Voices began to shout at him, demanding the children be released, yelling insults and threats.

"Last night," he said, his voice loud, unwavering. "Whilst you lay traps and showed us the way into your town, we chose a different route and dug up plenty of your explosives. Those bombs are inside the school. With your children. Your bombs and your children. Together." A cacophony of dissent almost drowned out his voice. "These children are innocent. They are your future. I do not want to trample on your future but you have two things I need and you will surrender them to me now without discussion."

He held up a detonator.

"Or they will perish."

Marge knew that, to the day she died, she would never forget the terrible screaming the parents had made as that detonator was held up for all to see. Darkness filled her and she had no words.

"Please don't hurt the children," shouted Geoff. "Tell us what you want and let them go."

"Got no trade with you, Cleric," said Marge.

He walked towards her, stepping through his protective line of warriors, sniper rifles trained on him.

"I want the Map Maker," he said, calmly pushing aside the twin barrels of her shotgun. "And him, this thing you shelter."

For a moment, no one had a clue who the Cleric was talking about. They knew the Map Maker; the bald headed man had lived among them for a few weeks. Some claimed to have met him the _first_ time he passed through Ford, drawing the town on his map of Gallen, a beacon in the desert. But they were confused who the _thing_ was supposed to be. They looked around and whispered to the person nearest and then they saw where the Cleric was pointing and they realised he meant Dorran and, for the first time, they saw that Dorran _was_ different; he carried marks on his skin and his body had shapes they did not have. The Cleric smiled and watched as fear of the explosives and the thought of dead children beneath a pile of rubble moved them away from Dorran. He had brought them clarity. He had pointed to them what they had always known; Gallen was beautiful and Gallen was not for his kind.

"What, what are you doing?" said Dorran, nervously. "I haven't done anything wrong. Look, I work at the school, I work hard. The kids love me. What's wrong with you?"

The Map Maker stepped from a knot of men.

"Let the children go," he said. "I'll go with you."

"Now we are getting somewhere," said the Cleric. Still the children banged at the locked school door, faces streaming with tears. "Now, you people will fetch a length of rope and hang the vermin you allowed into your town. Do not stand around waiting to be told again. You men get some rope and hang him." He hefted the detonator aloft, drawing cries and pleas from the parents frozen at the school gates. "Do I need to tell you again?"

"No one gets hung," said Marge.

"It's our children in there," yelled Kim, Sadie's closest friend in town. "Not yours. And Frank's dead, you couldn't stop that could you?"

She charged at Dorran, her fists clenched. He swerved the blow and tried to calm her but another man sprang at him and pain shot through his skull as he was clubbed around the head. He curled his arms around the man's waist and pinned him to the ground.

"Derek, Derek it's me Dorran, why are ...?"

He was dragged off Derek by several more men and blows rained down upon on him.

"Stop it, please stop hitting me. Why are you doing this? Please, please don't do this. Marge, Marge help me. Somebody help me."

His arms were pulled behind his back and thick rope tied his wrists. He tried to wrestle free and there were protests around him but they became muted as the mob swelled to nearly a dozen men and women intent on following the Cleric's orders. Dorran was bleeding, sweating heavily and his head spun. He saw the town he had been born into. Where his father had worked. Where his mother had worked. Buildings he knew. Streets he had played on. Friends he had made.

The rooftop snipers were becoming restless, disgusted with what was unfolding down below, convinced a single shot to the Cleric's head would end this, but the Cleric sensed their agitation and waved the detonator at them. He patted Bann on the shoulder and she flashed a smile. He put his arm around the Map Maker who glared back at him. He was showing them there are many ways to get the things that you want. Ramon laughed and made a pistol shape with his hand. He aimed at Dorran and fired. A sound suddenly caught his attention.

"Cleric," he said, lowering his hand.

"Gallen is not for you," said the Cleric, his eyes fixed on Dorran.

"You can't let them do this," pleaded Dorran, as they dragged him towards a high post.

Boots crunched along the road, one foot after the other, the long coat swishing back and forth.

"Cleric," repeated Ramon.

"I'm sorry," sobbed a woman, as one end of the rope was thrown over the post. "The children, Dorran."

He blinked tears and could see the innocents inside the school lobby, despairingly hugging each other on the floor.

"Hang him," said the Cleric.

Dorran closed his eyes.

"You," hissed the Map Maker, pointing.

"Cleric," persisted Ramon. "Look."

The Cleric turned and the sun blazed into his eyes.

He raised a cupped hand and saw a long haired, bearded man, striding towards them.

He wore a long coat and heavy boots. A rifle was strapped to his back, an ammunition belt across his chest, a long barrelled revolver tucked into his belt.

FOURTEEN

Stone stood at the edge of town.

The rope slipped down from the post as heads turned to see who the newcomer was. Dorran, crumpled in the dirt, flicked open his eyes, the noose hanging around his neck.

"I am the Cleric. Do you have a name ... stranger?"

"I can tell you who he is," said the Map Maker. "They call him the Tongueless Man. He's the one who stole my maps."

Marge turned to look at Stone and a raft of whispers travelled though the people. With the lynch mob distracted, a woman reached down to untie Dorran's wrists.

"He has our children," shouted a voice, as Ramon slowly reached for his pistol. "Locked them in the school with a handful of bombs."

Stone drew, lightning fast, the revolver suddenly in his gloved hand, his finger squeezing the trigger, the hammer slamming down, the chamber turning, the bullet hitting Ramon square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Horrified, the Cleric ran to his second in command and knelt down beside him, lifting his head from the ground. Stone moved, keeping low. He fired off two more shots, one bullet stinging the ground, the second clipping the thigh of a warrior. The Blood Sun warriors looked for cover as a rifle cracked from above and the Cleric saw another of his brave warriors struck down. There were screams and people scattered in every direction, everyone running except the parents, who dropped to the road, hands covering their heads. Bann fired her crossbow at Stone and the bolt whistled past his head.

"The signal," shouted the Cleric, as Ramon died in his hands. "Now."

She drew a large pistol from her furs and fired into the sky. A projectile shot into the air, exploding in a shower of sparks.

Crouched behind a slew of debris, Stone kept firing until his revolver was empty. Marge raised her shotgun and emptied both barrels at Bann, blasting her into the air like a rag doll.

"No," screamed the Cleric. He looked at the detonator in his hand and then ran for the school building.

On one knee, Stone looked down the barrel of his rifle and drilled a bullet into another warrior as an arrow sailed over his head. There was rapid gunfire all around and the swish of arrows and crossbow bolts. The ground around Stone erupted with bullets and he raced for cover down the side of the school building. He spotted the Cleric unlocking the door and rolled around the corner of the wall to open fire but a volley of bullets forced him back. A scream from above saw a man plunge from one of the rooftops.

Stone hurriedly reloaded his revolver, eyes scanning the street and school yard. Again bullets sprayed from behind a low wall. He waited and as the warrior came into view to fire again he shot him through the eye. He lowered his revolver as the children suddenly ran into the yard and parents scooped them up and fled. Marge cracked open her shotgun and shoved two shells in. As she snapped it shut she heard the roar of engines and saw a number of vehicles moving down from the tribe's camp. She raised her shotgun and fired again, hitting a fleeing warrior in the back.

Stone took down the last one. He reached the front of the school. The doors were open. Marge was at his side and two other men with handguns were with her. He offered cover and the two men went inside, fanning out, sweeping the room. Stone and Marge followed, taking a door each. She burst into the classroom. Saw the explosives abandoned on a desk. Saw the open windows. The Cleric and a few surviving warriors were fleeing across the brush, towards the vehicles driving down from the camp. He was still holding the detonator.

"Out," yelled Marge.

Leaping into his armoured car, the Cleric twisted the detonator and watched the building erupt in a fireball. It blew apart the building next to it. A shower of bricks and metal rained back down and the air filled with thick smoke.

"Fire on them," he ordered.

The heavy cannon mounted on the flatbed of the Cleric's vehicle began to punch holes in the surrounding buildings and tear chunks from the road. Bricks exploded into dust as the gunner peppered the town with heavy fire.

Face down in the dirt of the street, coated with dust and chunks of masonry, Stone shook his head, groggy from the explosion. He felt blood trickling from his scalp. He saw Marge, dazed looking, stumbling to her feet. There was no sign of the two men. His ears were ringing but he could still hear the gunfire from the rooftop snipers. He couldn't see any warriors in the street as he pushed himself to his feet and wondered who they were firing at.

Crouching, he ran, fleeing from the smoking ruins of the school, zigzagging across the road, glimpsing an armoured car spewing shells from a fearsome weapon. The sound was deafening. He saw more vehicles, bristling with armed warriors, firing handguns and shooting arrows into the town. He sprinted towards the nearest building and burst through the front door. Stone found himself in a cramped room with several large chairs and mirrors on the wall. An older man and a woman were lying on the floor, shielding each other. They saw his scuffed boots and gripped each other tighter. Shells hammered through the brickwork and shattered the mirrors. The couple screamed and Stone crawled towards a back door as he was sprayed with glass.

Yanking down the handle, he pushed open the door and went into a smaller room, cramped with boxes, crates, shelves and a bench. There was a rectangle shaped grilled window and a back door led outside. Stone drew his revolver and went through it. A car was across from him, the engine idling. A huge sun with blood spots was painted on the roof and the wheels were covered with wire mesh and dozens of razor sharp spikes. A broad steel plate with narrow slits was fitted across the windshield. Stone spotted a warrior but was too late to stop him shooting a crossbow at a fleeing man. The young man cried out and stumbled to his knees, trying to claw at the bolt lodged between his shoulder blades. His body slumped against the road. Shells exploded all around them, sending up clouds of dust. The crossbowman saw Stone and quickly tried to reload but Stone raised his right arm and fired twice. There was movement inside the car and he fired at it, splintering the side window, killing the driver as he reached for a pistol.

Stone pulled open the door and dragged the body out. The man's long white shirt was smeared with blood. In the distance, the heavy cannon had stopped, hopefully out of ammunition, but then a rattling sound began and bullets flew everywhere as a second pickup truck sped into the town and began firing at anyone foolish enough to be on the street. Bullets raked houses and shops, shattered windows and peppered walls. A warrior came out of nowhere, running at Stone with a meat cleaver. Stone raised his revolver and it clicked empty. The warrior hacked and swept at him but Stone was more nimble and agile than his frame suggested. All around were screams and raking gunfire, buildings were burning, thick plumes of smoke coiled into the air. Another vehicle roared past and an explosion flipped it over. The man swung again with the meat cleaver and Stone went low, taking him off balance and slamming him to the ground. He wrestled for the weapon, sweat pouring down his face. He rolled in the dirt and dust, punching the man, trying to prise the weapon free but a studded fist drove across Stone's face. He recoiled, spitting blood and a tooth. The man came at him again. Stone feinted right, then went left and struck him with the butt of his revolver, breaking the warrior's nose. He hit him a second time and kept hitting him until the man went limp.

"Call them back," ordered the Cleric.

It would be difficult to get word to the raiders loose in the town but the driver of the Cleric's armoured car turned the ignition and the engine gunned into life. The other vehicles followed slowly, back towards the camp over the hill, still firing off rounds into the town. The Cleric stared at what was left of Ford. The buildings were heavily pitted, many in ruins, shrouded in smoke. Dozens of bodies lay in streets but many belonged to his tribesmen.

Stone drove the car back towards the demolished school, nothing more than a huge crater of rubble. He turned off the engine. Spattered with blood, filmed with dust, he looked around as gunfire erupted in the distance, on the far side of town, more sporadic now. He had seen the tribe drive away and wondered how long it would be before they regrouped and attacked again. He saw the woman with the shotgun, limping towards him, bleeding from her arm and leg.

"All the children survived," she said. "Need to thank you for that, mister."

Stone said nothing.

"I reckon it won't be long and that trash will be back again. This time no clever plans."

She saw Geoff, covered in blood, none of it his own.

"This time we'll do it your way, Geoff," said Marge. "Make for that maze in the craters."

He nodded, but said nothing to her. Turning to Stone, he said, "Thank you, you saved a lot of people we care about."

"Don't say much, do you?" said Marge, taking off her jacket to examine her wounded arm. "That why they call you the Tongueless Man?"

"They call him that because he's too stupid for conversation," said the Map Maker, stepping from the swirling dust clouds.

Stone punched him in the jaw, and put him on the ground. The Map Maker scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chin, as Dorran approached and offered Stone his hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Stone shook it but didn't respond. Dorran turned to look at Marge and Geoff.

"You all just watched."

A small knot of people began to wander towards them, looking dazed, deeply shocked, some elated.

"I thought you were leaving with them?" called Derek.

"I am leaving," said the Map Maker. "Don't worry about that. Leaving my own way."

Dorran spun round at the sound of Derek's voice. The two men stared at each other. Stone began to walk away, reloading his weapons, as buildings burned all around him.

"Saved a lot of people today," called Marge. "Fancy pitching some food into your belly before you go?"

He stopped, nodded, and said, "Yeah."

* * *

Tomas forced himself to concentrate. They had walked for miles but there was no sign of Stone.

As the hours dragged by, he grew more sullen, a cold sensation in his stomach. He had woken to the most beautiful moment of his young life, his eyes finding Emil, holding him, her scent, her warmth, but now Stone's decision, his desertion, had wiped all of that out.

Tomas felt empty, lost, betrayed. Gallen had become a very large place and he had shrunk to the size of a child.

They trudged a never ending road, without food or water, but craving neither.

"Would you ever stay somewhere, Tomas?"

"What do you mean?"

His voice sounded very dejected.

"Like what I had with my kin?" persisted Emil. "A village?"

"I don't know," he muttered.

"With more people, a community, you could have a different life, Tomas."

"Maybe."

"I'd stay with you. Where else could I go?"

"Hmmm."

She fell quiet. The road stretched ahead, deserted, the sky dull, the sun hot, the land brown and dry. Her father had devoted his life to preparing her for the world of Gallen, a world that did not always accept _different_ and would attempt to hurt her and abuse her ability. She argued it was a curse, not an ability or a gift or a blessing, but a twisted punishment. She wished he was here so she could argue with him some more. She sighed. Tomas didn't seem to notice her sadness. The old women of the village, with pinched faces and watery eyes, would tell her stories of the good she would bring to others with her gift. She would argue with them, too, that it was not a gift, as they scrubbed clothes and wrung them out. Then she looked at Tomas, five, ten years older than her, walking ahead, crossbow in his hand, pack on his back, leading her deeper into this barren region and without her curse, her twisted punishment, she would be alone now and would never have felt the warmth of his skin.

"Look," said Tomas, pointing.

On the horizon, the sky was filled with billowing smoke. His pace quickened and she had to jog to keep up with him. They cleared the crest of a hill and saw the road begin to angle downwards. Rocky hills rose up around them and for a moment Emil slowed as she thought a pair of eyes had looked back at her. Tomas was calling her again. There was a body on the rocky verge and Tomas was holding a bicycle. Setting down his crossbow, he tilted the bike onto its back wheel and spun the front one.

"What happened?"

Tomas had barely glanced at the young man's body. Emil studied him and saw heavy bruising around the throat. She glanced up at the rocks, convinced now she had heard something.

"Tomas?"

He began pedalling in circles, delighted they would no longer be on foot.

"Let's go and see what's on fire," he said. "I bet I can ..."

"What'd you do to my boy?" said a harsh voice.

She stepped from the rocks, gloved hands pointing a submachine gun, a scarf tied around her face, black goggles covering her eyes, long black hair flowing from beneath a scratched helmet. Tomas had left his crossbow on the ground but an automatic pistol was tucked into his pocket and his hand began to move. The woman slowly shook her head. Emil glimpsed movement in the rocks and two young men in rumpled clothes emerged, both holding rifles. Long haired, skin dusky and lumpy, they stepped towards Tomas and dragged him from the bicycle. One of them searched him, taking his pistol and knife and pack, whilst the other kept his rifle pointed at him. The woman crouched down beside the body on the ground.

"Silly boy, Mauricio, you silly boy."

The two boys shoved Tomas and Emil together and backed away, rifles pointing at them.

"Did you kill my boy?" asked the woman, getting to her feet, finger on the trigger.

"We found him like that," protested Emil, but Tomas told her to keep silent, it would make no difference.

"Whether you did or didn't you're going to bury him. Mossy, go back to the cave and grab a couple of shovels. Caleb, keep your gun on these two."

One of the boys darted back into the rocks while the other kept his weapon pointed at them. Tomas fumed at getting caught off guard so easily. He looked at his pack and weapons, too far away. He looked at the man with the rifle. Standing well back. Unlikely he would manage a few steps before getting a bullet in his gut. And the one with the machine gun, he had seen the damage that kind of weapon could inflict, spraying hundreds of bullets in seconds; they would be cut to pieces if he attempted anything. He wondered if it was even loaded. Through the years, they had come up against many men, and some women, carrying empty weapons. You could always tell, though, the eyes gave it away, that pressing fear that the hoax could be uncovered at any moment. He couldn't even see the woman's eyes but her manner told him there were bullets in that magazine so he stood and waited for Mossy to return with the shovels, suddenly aware he was holding Emil's hand.

"Wonder what's going on over there," said the woman, looking at the smoke. "Caleb, take no chances, shoot them if they try anything."

"Yes, Mother," he replied.

She began to walk down the road, taking the same route Mauricio had taken earlier that morning, except on foot.

At the end of the road she saw the town of Ford, buildings ablaze, smoke pouring into the sky.

"Is that your mother?" asked Emil.

"Shut your mouth," said Mossy, before his brother, Caleb, could reply. He held the shovels in his hands, rifle hanging on his shoulder.

"Mother," he yelled.

She came strolling back up the road, stopped to study a pool of dried blood several feet from Mauricio's body.

"Now bury my boy," she said.

FIFTEEN

The cafe was one of the few buildings to have avoided major damage. The brickwork had been raked with bullets and both front windows had been shot through but the structure was otherwise intact.

Marge led Stone inside once she had instructed Geoff to take care of the town. He was the perfect man for the job; diligent, organised and the people knew and respected his voice. The fires were already dying out and showed no sign of spreading. Water was a precious commodity and none of the paltry supply they retained would be used to protect a single building. Clipboard in hand, Geoff issued a raft of instructions to the men and women who had volunteered to help. All families with children were to be evacuated into an area of the craters. This was the first priority and a group of armed men would accompany them with a small supply train of food and blankets. Explosives were to be reset on the outskirts of town. Enemy weapons needed to be collected and stored in the armoury. Enemy bodies needed to be burned in the fire pit. A mass grave would need to be dug for the burial of the locals. A census would need to be conducted. Geoff explained this was a low priority and could wait. A barricade needed to be placed where the school had once stood. All rooftop snipers needed to clean their weapons, replenish ammunition and take some rest. And so it went on.

As his volunteers put aside tiredness, fears and personal loss, Geoff felt a swell of pride that restored his faith in Ford, Gallen and people. It was, he realised, that in times of adversity that you saw the true soul of a man and woman. It was this thought that triggered a picture of Dorran, shockingly strung up to be hanged. He wondered how the poor man would find a way past that and would he ever be able to come to terms with or even forgive the people who had almost murdered him. And then Geoff's thoughts drifted to the poor children, penned inside the school by that madman. He supposed Jenny must have died in the explosion.

Tears filled his eyes. He doubled over and threw up, hiding his face with his wooden clipboard.

Marge offered Stone a seat and went to the counter. The café was warm and he slipped off his long coat. His nostrils filled with the smell of food. The place was empty and he was glad. Marge carried over a plate and sat with him. He felt uncomfortable with her looking at him and reluctantly nibbled at the slices of halk. The sight of ollish eggs surprised him.

"You have ollish birds?" he asked

"Too right we have, damn fine birds they are. Tasty eggs."

"I know someone who would kill for one of these."

He thought of Tomas as he cracked open the black egg and poured it into his mouth.

"Why are you here?" asked Stone, looking down at his plate. "Not out there, putting things back together."

"Reckon you already know that answer," she said, easing back in her chair and wincing. "Damn arm stings like fire." Her leg and arm were both bandaged. "How's your mouth?"

Stone nodded.

"It'll heal."

"What you did took a lot of guts. Got some brave people in Ford. Sometimes a man even braver can inspire a lot, teach them stuff they don't know."

He shook his head.

"You going to take that car and head somewhere else. Where else is there to be? You can do more good here."

He cracked another ollish egg, dribbled some onto his beard.

"Could do much worse out on that road, better here, safer. We did alright, didn't we, kicking that Cleric out of here."

Stone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crushed the empty egg shells into tiny pieces.

"Guy was pretty much a nutcase, I reckons, but smart. He outsmarted me, not you."

He thought about the emblem painted on the roof of the car.

"The Blood Sun tribe," he said.

Marge narrowed her eyes.

"You tangled with them before?"

"No," answered Stone, chewing halk. "But I know what they do. I know who they want to hurt."

"You mean the like of Dorran?" She let out a low whistle. "I don't, you know, I don't get that one bit. He ain't any different to me. Yeah, he looks different, but so do I, so do you, man still a man, ain't he? Why don't you stay? Stay and help us? Keep me company, I could use some company, I don't even know your name. Your real name, not no stupid nickname."

"Stone," he said, sliding from his chair.

"That it? Stone? That's your real name?"

He shrugged.

"Will you stay?" asked Marge.

He shook his head.

"Then let me at least pack you down with supplies before you go. Top up your ammo, sort you some food."

Stone looked at her.

"A way of saying thank you for saving our little ones."

"Okay," he said.

* * *

"What now?" said Emil.

Ignoring her, Mother said, "Boys, put your brother in the ground. Be careful with him now."

Mossy and Caleb lifted Mauricio and rolled him into the shallow grave. They stood with heads bowed, not sure what to do or say. Tomas and Emil looked on, leaning on their shovels, faces hot, flushed and sweaty. Emil wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Mother stared down at her youngest boy. She removed her helmet, tugged down her scarf and lifted her goggles. Emil gasped. Her dusky skin was rippled, her left eye was moist, her right eye blind. She was a Pure One.

"Mossy, run and get the rest of the family."

Sulking, he trotted off back down the winding path and disappeared from view. Tomas was thinking this was the best opportunity they had. One swing with the shovel would take out Caleb and then he could move on mother. She was still holding the submachine gun but as she looked down at her dead boy the muzzle of her weapon was tilted down towards the ground and she wouldn't pull the trigger if one of her boys was in the line of fire, he hoped.

"You're a Pure One," said Emil.

A sharp look.

"I'm a what? What did you call me, child?"

Emil raised her hands apologetically and her shovel fell to the ground. Mother brought the submachine back up and pointed it at Tomas.

"No funny ideas," she warned.

Caleb lifted his eyes from his dead brother, wondering what he had missed.

"I'm Mother, that's who I am. Sure, I can do the healing but what good is that now? I can't raise the dead, can I? I can't bring back my idiot, half blind boy, can I? So what good is it?"

"I'm sorry," said Emil.

"Nothing is pure out here, stupid girl."

Emil bit her lip.

"We didn't kill him," she said.

There was the sound of voices, drifting up towards them, someone complaining bitterly. Mossy led the rest of the family to gather at Mauricio's graveside. The oldest man was heavily scarred and leaned on a wooden cane. He wore eyeglasses and was missing half of his left arm. The woman next to him wore a dress printed with colours. It was threadbare and frayed but Emil had never seen anything so pretty. The elder women in her village had worn dresses but none had looked like this. It had faded colours of green and gold. She had an oddly shaped head, curved in on one side. A middle aged man was the one complaining about hiking up this _damn_ hill just to see Mauricio when he knew _damn_ well what the stupid boy looked like.

"I'm here," he grumbled. "He looks just as stupid dead as he did alive."

"Shut up, Uncle," said Mother.

"Stop pointing that damn gun at me," said Uncle.

Caleb rolled his eyes. He had heard the squabbling a hundred times before. He was going to miss Mauricio, he reckoned. Anyway, Mauricio was the lucky one, getting to lie in that hole by himself. He didn't have to put up with Mother and Uncle arguing anymore or listen to Grandad snoring and Grandma telling him not to snore. He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and reached up with both hands to catch the shovel Tomas had swung at him. Tomas blinked as the younger man snatched it from him and punched him on the top of the head.

"You stupid?" he said. "You want to end up in there with Mauricio?"

He threw the shovel onto the ground and fetched his rifle. Keeping his distance, he pointed it Tomas.

"Daddy," said Mother. "Say words."

Grandad shuffled forward and spoke over Mauricio's body. Emil listened but his tone was barely audible and she couldn't understand him. Soon, he finished and the three of them trudged back down the path, leaving her and Tomas alone with Mother and her boys. Caleb jabbed the rifle towards them and told them to fill in the grave. They took their time; convinced that next they would be digging their own. Emil supposed there were far worse ways to go. She had no idea what this desperate looking family were capable of. Mother told Mossy to lead the way. Emil and Tomas were to follow and Caleb and Mother would be behind them.

A sun baked track led down to a flat plain of rock and sand, a vast landscape of nothing, dull brown to the horizon. No roads, no settlements, nothing. The heat was intense. The plumes of smoke in the sky could not be seen from down here. Mossy led them along a winding path of sand and stone, hot beneath their shoes, until he reached a dark and ragged opening in the mountainside. Inside was a narrow tunnel. The temperature and visibility dropped at once. Outgunned, Tomas and Emil kept walking.

The air was moist and damp. The tunnel widened into a large cave where a fire crackled. There was a steady dripping sound in the distance. The old man who had spoken at the graveside was sat in a threadbare armchair, studying them with interest, whilst Grandma was pottering about with pots and pans, looking for something. Uncle was sat at a long wooden bench. It was covered in tools and pieces of wood. There were curls of wood shavings around his feet.

"Chain him," ordered Mother.

Her boys obeyed, without question, and dragged Tomas into a gloomy corner of the cave where a length of chain with shackles was secured to the rocky wall. He yelled, spat and kicked wildly as they restrained him. Emil flashed into his thoughts. How she had fought him went he tied her up. The guilt washed over him. The boys locked the shackles. The rusty metal cut into his wrists as he struggled. Unable to break them apart Tomas attempted to pull the chain from the wall. Grabbing it with both hands, he pulled until beads of sweat ran down his face. Uncle chuckled, shaking his head. Mossy kicked the back of Tomas's legs and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Mother, for the first time, hung up the submachine gun. She eased herself onto a low bunk covered with rumpled blankets. Mossy trotted away from Tomas and dropped onto another bunk, setting his rifle next to him.

"Leave it alone," said Tomas, as Mossy opened his pack.

Caleb stood admiring Emil until Grandma told him to quit his nonsense and put the water on. Glumly, he trudged off into the darkness of the cave.

"He was a good boy," said Grandad.

"How can you say that?" said Grandma, slapping his arm. "He had a wicked streak in him."

"He was mean and stupid," added Uncle. "But he didn't deserve to die like that. He was strangled."

"Let Tomas go," demanded Emil. "Let us both go. We didn't kill him. I told you, we just came along and found him like that."

Caleb trudged back into the cave, clutching iron buckets brimming with water, sloshing some onto floor. Grandma chided him, told him to be more careful. He apologised, embarrassed, and hung them on a tripod over the snapping fire.

"I know you didn't," said Mother, unlacing her boots. "Took someone with a lot of strength to choke out Mauricio's life. There was fresh blood on the road as well. And that bike didn't belong to my boy. I reckon he robbed someone, wounded them, maybe even killed them, but got outnumbered and got himself put down."

"Then why are you keeping us here?" said Tomas, straining against his restraints.

"Shut up," said Mossy, tipping the last of Tomas's possessions onto the floor. He rummaged through clothes, food bars, an empty bottle, a knife, crossbow bolts, a metal pan, a dusty book, a threadbare blanket and a pouch of lock pick tools.

"What's that book?" said Grandad, leaning forward in his chair. "Mossy, let me see that."

Mossy picked up the book with little interest. It had faded green board covers, a cracked spine and the edges of the pages were yellow.

"Let me stick it on the fire," he said.

"I'll clip you one," said Grandad, waving his cane. "Give that to me. Sara, tell that son of yours."

It was the first time they had heard her name. She ignored him, her focus on Emil.

"If you know we didn't kill him," protested Emil. "Why won't you let us leave?"

"Scared of nothing, are you girl?" said Sara, rolling off her socks and massaging her aching feet. "You can leave. We haven't chained you up, have we? That one's dangerous; look at him, like a rabid halk, ready to bite."

She didn't want to see Tomas chained but the moment his name was mentioned she couldn't help but look over her shoulder to see him fighting against the unbreakable shackles. She felt enraged, surrounded by her own kind, the shunned deformed, the mutants, the diseased, she had heard and lived with all the names. Stay with your own, her father had told her. Find your own kind, he had said, as the convoy of metal had powered towards their settlement. Run my beautiful daughter, he had said, holding her in his arms one last time before smuggling her into the secret holes as the village came under attack, men and women dying at the hands of the Cleric's tribe.

"He's my friend," roared Emil. "And I want you to let him go."

The cave went silent; the only sound was bubbling water and the wind outside.

"Caleb," said Grandma. "The water."

Sara pulled on her socks and boots, slowly laced them. Emil wasn't going to surrender anymore to these people or to anyone. Defiantly, she marched across to Tomas, as Mossy stood with the old green bound book, teasing Grandad about burning it. She pushed past him and tried to prise open Tomas's shackles. She grunted with the effort but they refused to open. She grabbed a large rock and began to strike them. Tomas had stopped fighting and watched, smiling faintly, the clanging noise echoing through the cave. It was Uncle who finally shook the rock from her fist and clamped her arms to her sides.

"Caleb," said Sara. "Bring another bucket of water."

"Yes, Mother," he said.

"Mossy, give Grandad the book." Mossy groaned but a hard glare silenced him. "And fetch the chair for her."

SIXTEEN

"As First Minister," explained Chancellor Gozan. "You will relinquish your weekly pass for Hamble Towers and be granted a lifetime one. Though not a residential one and I urge caution at over indulgence. Naturally, it will be expected of you to continue living within the House of Leadership."

Mason ran his eyes over the outer compound of the Towers, an impressive white walled building set beyond a curved bridge with an armed checkpoint at each end. The water below looked choppy and flowed down to the Trade Zone. The front building was allocated to security, an elite unit of the Red Guard, who checked and verified all passes before entry was permitted, and a small team of administrators, who registered any complaints or compliance issues and also arranged for the delivery of supplies. Through this building was the main area, a thoroughfare lined with hotels for short term stays. There were glorious apartment buildings, where retired men of power and ex-officers from the Red Guard lived out their twilight years, knowing only pleasure and luxury, whatever a man or woman desired. It was an island paradise, a dream for every citizen of the city. No one was excluded. Anyone could work and trade to earn a pass.

"What do you think?"

"I am very grateful, Chancellor Gozan."

The sun was weak, straining to have any impact, and both men wore thick coats over neatly pressed ministerial suits. Gozan had opted to retain his suit. At a glance, he did not look like a Chancellor, but his narrow face and watchful eyes showed him as a man of considerable power. Those watchful eyes studied his new First Minister, easily thirty years younger, impressive and strong looking, competent in his duties, popular within the House of Leadership, charming even, a trait Gozan despised. He himself had been resourceful as a First Minister, it had always been more than paperwork and speeches, and he had seen glimpses of these talents within Mason but his loyalty would need to be tested before he became a man who could be relied on.

"Well, you have been here before, unless I have been wrongly informed," said Gozan, nodding at the bridge guards as they saluted.

"No, sir, you have not," said Mason, falling instep with his superior, as they began walking, a tangle of security behind them.

"Hard work, diligence, these are admirable qualities," said Gozan, hands clasped behind his back. "And you have an abundance of these, Mason, but do you understand what it really takes to be a good First Minister and useful to a Chancellor?"

"Information," said Mason. "Without knowledge of what our citizens think and feel how can we shape our city?"

Gozan glanced at him, digesting the words.

"We tell them what to think and feel. _That_ is how we shape the city."

Passing the heavily barred west gate, with its single gun tower and patrolling Red Guard soldiers, the newly appointed First Minister stopped and faced his Chancellor.

"I understand we have to make the choices for them. We have to make the difficult decisions."

"You witnessed the hangings this morning, Mason. Chancellor Jorann's killers are dead and the SOT is a fractured mess. However, you will need to be my eyes and ears in this city. Never underestimate the destruction the SOT can bring. We have a delicate balance that a single man or woman could tip. You will alert me to anything suspicious. You have contacts? Spies? Yes? Good, what they know, I must know."

Mason was thoughtful for a moment.

"There is information I became aware of early this morning, sir. However, it is very delicate."

"Then I think ..."

"Chancellor Gozan, sir," called a voice. "Chancellor, sir." It was a soldier from the gate. A young man with sandy coloured hair. He saluted both men and stood rigidly to attention.

"What is it?"

The soldier hesitated.

"What you have to say can be said to both of us, soldier."

"Concerns Operation Lamb, sir."

Operation Lamb, though Gozan, finally soldiers had returned and a Pure One had been found.

"What's that?" asked Mason.

Gozan signalled his security and ordered for the First Minister to be escorted back to the House of Leadership. "We will finish our discussion later," he told Mason. With the man gone, Gozan compelled the soldier to speak.

"No more than ten minutes ago, sir, one of our men has come back. I was about to cycle to the House of Leadership to ..."

"Take me to him," demanded Gozan. "And fetch General Nuria."

* * *

Marge said, "Gone and ran. Lookouts saw them pack up and drive off. Reckon they won't be back."

Stone placed his pack and rifle on the front seat. Sadie handed him a wooden crate filled with bottles and smaller packets of ammunition. She thanked him for what he had done for the town and he nodded, looking around at the clean up that was underway. All he could see were shattered buildings. He shrugged. He wasn't sure if he had caused more destruction. Sadie must have read the look on his face and shook her head at him.

"They're just buildings, bricks and stuff," she said. "None of them kids were hurt. They're scared but alive."

Pulling open the car door, he slid behind the wheel. Then he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a thick stack of folded papers.

"These belong to the Map Maker," he said.

Frowning, Marge accepted the bundle of maps. She looked at his empty eyes set in a worn face, hiding behind the thick beard and long hair. She tried to think of something to say before he drove away. She hadn't been able to persuade him to stay. In truth, she knew it wouldn't have mattered what life she could offer him here in Ford. His mind was set. He was heading in a direction. Somewhere he needed to be. She wondered, briefly, if he had helped them simply because he was passing, but she threw that thought out. In the few hours he had been in town he had shown the long suffering folk around here that there was hope in what they were doing and it was worth every sacrifice they had made and would, no doubt, continue to make.

With no words, she smiled at him, banged the roof of the car and edged away, noting the deadly spikes fixed to the wheels.

Stone offered Marge and Sadie a simple nod, then fired the engine and pressed down on the accelerator.

"Shame you couldn't get him to stay," said Sadie. "You could have done with the company."

"Hey," shouted the Map Maker, running down the street. "Was that Stone? You let him leave? Damn, why ..."

Marge thrust the maps at him, put her shotgun across her shoulder and trudged back to the edge of town.

"What's the big deal?" said Sadie. "Just bits of paper. They don't mean anything round here."

"You don't understand," he said, shaking his bald head.

He saw the car swerve out of Ford, burn off along the road and scream over the brow of the hill. As it disappeared from view he looked around the small town and knew he had to leave. The Cleric had terrified him. He now knew the man's motives. He had wanted his maps to pinpoint any village or settlement of deformed people. With his maps he could disappear now, head north, then northwest, towards the unknown region.

He began to walk back to the bar, ignoring the noisy hustle all around. He had no interest in rebuilding or setting down roots. He was aware Sadie was shadowing him. He glanced at her, the cropped hair, the round face, and the smiling eyes. She read people well and he knew she had figured him out.

"You as well?" she said.

"That's right," he nodded.

They strode along the street, buildings shot to pieces, bodies still lying on the ground, everything taking time.

"Geoff looks happy," said Sadie. "If you know what I mean."

The Map Maker saw the fussy looking man, clipboard in hand, pointing and gesturing.

"Where will you go?"

He stopped outside her bar. He glanced up to the second floor, where his room was, across the landing from hers. He unfolded one of his maps. She peered at it, impressed but puzzled. He pointed to where Ford stood and then pointed at the blank space a long way to the northwest.

"That's where I haven't been," he said. "That's where I'm going."

"Why?"

"I don't like being in the same place. I lived in the same place for a lot of years. It made me miserable."

Sadie looked around, everything familiar, everything home.

"Do you have a name? A real name?"

"I was born in a prison," he said. "I never got a name."

"I have a map," said Sadie. "You can have it if you want. I can't read it. Found it years ago. Belonged to my Grandad."

They stepped out of the sunlight, back into the bar. He followed her through into the back room, brick walls lined with packed shelves, boxes and wooden crates scattered around the dusty floor, a table and two chairs wedged in the corner, where Sadie had taken breaks and fed her strange guest. She trotted up the stairs and went into her room. It was drab. An unmade bed and closed curtains, lines of daylight from a dozen bullet holes in the wall.

The Map Maker waited in the doorway.

"You can come in, you know," she said, but he didn't budge and watched her shrug. She dropped into a crouch and dragged a battered suitcase from beneath her bed, scraping it loudly on the floor. She hefted it onto the bed, sat and opened it. He peered forward, seeing a jumble of clothes and personal items, many of which he did not recognise. She rummaged through the contents and pulled out something creased and book shaped.

"My Grandad kept stuff he found, things from the past. History of Gallen, he liked that sort of thing. He couldn't understand how we had some things but not others; do you know what I mean? Weapons that could kill, rip a man in half, but we couldn't save a life. When my Grandma died it really made him sad. He would spend all his time talking about the past. He got killed when bandits raided us three years ago. A lot of people round here got killed then. He left this to me. Told me if anything happened to him I should take care of it. Give it onto my kids." She snorted. "Said it was the past. Things that used to be. Where we came from."

She shrugged.

"I don't know if I really care about that."

"Let me see it," he said.

She saw keenness in his eyes for the first time since he had arrived in town. She handed it to him. Gingerly, he accepted it from her and opened it. She watched it double in size. Each time he opened it the book grew further until he was stretching his arms wide to hold it. He laid the map on the floor and attempted to smooth the creases. Parts were torn, missing, rippled, faded, washed out, but he seemed fascinated by what remained, tracing his hands across it. It still had some colour, yellow and green and blue, lots of blue. Sadie watched him reach for his own map, the one he had shown her outside. He laid it over the larger map and studied the two, muttering to himself.

"Can I ask you something?" said Sadie.

"Hmmm."

"Why do you care about maps so much? I mean, I don't get why it's important."

Bewilderment crossed his face. Kneeling, he folded both maps away and glanced at the suitcase on the bed.

"Explosives," he answered, his eyes glazing over. "Bullets, bows, those metal machines. That's not power. Not real power. They're lost, all of them. Round and round in circles." He waved the maps at her. "This is the key to everything. This is ultimate power. To know where we are. Where we can go. Where we have been. Look at you, in your little town, peddling that awful drink downstairs. You couldn't even think of a name for it. You named it after the town. I mean, you only had to think of a name for it, that's not too hard, is it?"

He scratched his head.

"A name, just a name."

"Maybe you should leave," said Sadie.

"I am, I'm getting out of here. I've got a lot of miles to cover and I won't ever be back here again. That was my job. Map Gallen. Make maps and take them back to Chett. Why? Why should I give them my work? They took them from me before but the Cleric was right." He slapped the side of his head. "It's in here. Gallen is in here. I will know how everything fits together and then they can rot behind their walls. For me. That's who. I'll keep walking. I'll keep mapping. I'm heading beyond. That's where they sent them."

"I really want you out of my room," said Sadie, edging away from him. "Out of my bar, as well."

He held up his hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I had my maps stolen off me. I got very agitated about that. Thank you for this map. I'm really happy, Sadie. Thank you."

She sprang across the room, yanked open a drawer from her dresser and pulled out a knife.

He backed away.

"Out," she said, jabbing it at him. "Downstairs and out."

"I need to find them," he said. "That was where they sent them. Out there. The beyond."

Into the bar, Sadie went behind the counter and fetched her pistol. The Map Maker didn't seem concerned. She was no longer in his focus. He was alone. A hundred people could have crammed into the bar and he wouldn't have seen or heard any of them. He kept talking, words rolling out one after the other, hardly any cohesion or connection. She had no idea about maps. She didn't care about them. What did it matter? The next time a bandit gang tried to rob the town would she wave a map at them? Sure, that would work; a bullet right through one is what she would get. Power? What was he on?

"Will you shut up?" she said. "I really liked you. Why do you think I let you stay? Why'd you have to turn out so weird? You know, I coped with cleaning this dump long before you turned up. I didn't need your help. I wanted your company. That was all."

He stopped, shook his head, let his eyes fall on her.

"Why are you pointing a gun at me?"

"Because you're scaring me and if you keep doing that you're getting one through the heart."

He scratched madly at his bald head.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know, you asking me my name. I don't know. I'm sorry, I get, sometimes I get ... call me, call me, er, Doug. Yeah, Doug. That can be my name."

Sadie couldn't help but find a smile for him; the strangest, most intelligent, most scary man she had ever known.

And twice her age.

Putting down the knife, but keeping the pistol handy, muzzle pointing away from him, she set two glasses on the counter and lifted a bottle of Ford. Uncorking it with her mouth, she poured both to the rim.

"You fancy sharing a glass of Doug with me?"

* * *

His name was Bramble.

Gozan told him to sit, relax, take a moment, gather his thoughts. He had ordered for the man to be kept alone in one of the detention rooms, housed in a low and flat roofed military building, to the left of the south gate. Outside, men were undertaking drills. The soldier had a rancid odour. His clothes, hair and face were filthy. He needed hosing down and his clothing incinerating.

"Take some water," said Gozan, his words carefully placed, legs crossed, hands resting on his raised knee.

"Thank you, sir," said Bramble, and swilled it down, spilling plenty down his thin and rakish beard.

"Better?"

"Men kill for a mouthful of this out there," he said, then added. "Sorry, sir."

There was sharp knock and General Nuria stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She motioned for Bramble to sit as he instinctively rose to offer a salute. She saw Gozan was staring at her. She nodded a greeting, knowing what was really bothering him. He wouldn't dare address the matter in front of a common soldier. It would have to wait.

"What can you tell me, Bramble?"

"We were a four man unit, sir, but a sandstorm hit and we got separated. I lost contact with my team. I kept heading in the same direction but it was hopeless. I had no way of finding them. We had been tracking towards a city ..."

"A city?" said Nuria.

"What city?" asked Gozan, narrowing his eyes.

"A dead place, sir, not like Chett. It was a ruin. Everything old and fallen down, skeletons on the ground, it was a horrible place. I hoped to rejoin my unit there. I thought at one point I had found them but I was attacked by a couple of scavengers and by the time I had killed them there was no trace."

"What unit were you assigned to?" said Gozan.

"He was sent out six weeks ago," answered Nuria. "Under Captain Adam, soldiers Hugo and Rafa."

Gozan nodded, the names meaningless to him.

"As I said, sir, I thought I had a line on them but it was a false alarm. I then heard gunfire somewhere in the city. I tried to locate it, but I was too far away. This city, sir, it was the size of Chett, or bigger even, roads and buildings; I had no idea who had been firing. Then I picked up the tracks of a couple men and a girl. It was night and they became involved in a heavy firefight. I didn't know if any of them had survived."

"Who were they?" asked Nuria.

"Drifters, I guess. In the morning, I spotted the three of them leaving the city. There were dead raiders everywhere."

"Impressive," said Gozan. "And the girl?"

"She was what you sent us for."

He leaned forward.

"Describe her to me."

Nuria folded her arms and listened intently as Bramble picked out the girl's features; the bright hair, the mottled and scarred skin, the patched right eye. She saw the delight in Gozan's face.

"The road gang, the ones they fought with the night before, they returned that morning, in greater numbers. I didn't have enough firepower to take them on. There was more shooting and then the gang left, leaving behind bodies and dirt bikes. I had to wait for the area to clear and by that time the girl and the two men had gone in a stolen jeep. I took a bike and followed them east. They were heading this way. Three or four days, maybe, in a vehicle, and I reckon they would have got here. I kept riding but I never came across them. But they have her, sir, and they must be close. With a large party of men I think we could ..."

"Soldier, remember your place," said General Nuria. "Go and clean up. And get some sleep."

He got to his feet, his salute a tired one. At the door, Gozan said, "One last question, Bramble, who were these men?"

"One was young, sir, average build, fought with a crossbow and pistol. The other, a big man, older, had a long coat and hat. Shot with a rifle. These men knew how to handle themselves, sir."

Gozan nodded, and then indicated for Bramble to leave. Nuria closed the door, her hand resting on the handle.

"So these healers still exist?" she said. "And we have two drifters holding onto one of them."

He looked at her from head to toe; heavy boots, combat trousers, holster and sidearm on her hip, grey T shirt, straight blonde hair trimmed to the nape of her neck.

"What have you done?"

Idly, she flicked a hand through her cropped locks.

"Is it really that important? After what we've just heard?"

He rose, slowly, smoothing his suit with both hands.

"I like it," she said.

"I hate it," he replied.

"What do you want done with Bramble?"

"He's a deserter, isn't he?"

"Gozan," sighed Nuria. "I don't think that's a wise move. Leave him be, for now."

Gozan stood at the doorway with her.

"What happened last night? Why didn't you plant the weapons like I ordered?"

She lowered her head.

"I'm sorry, with everything that was happening in the city, the cremation, it was an oversight, but it doesn't matter. They were all executed this morning and the matter is closed. Things will tick back into place. Like they always have done. Like you always say they will."

"Destroy them, Nuria, the evidence is damning for us both."

"I still don't understand why you had to be there that night."

"When you reach my age, stuck behind a desk pushing paper, then you'll understand why."

She smiled.

"I can't imagine you've ever pushed paper."

"Do you still believe in what we are doing?" he asked, his beady eyes drilling into her face.

"Always."

She left him alone in the detention room.

SEVENTEEN

Emil thrashed as they forced her into the metal chair.

It was rusty with a cushioned seat and arm rests. The fabric was worn and thick with dust. Tomas threatened to kill them all once he was free. Uncle, tired of all the yapping, threw down his tools and rooted in a drawer beneath his workbench. Finding a roll of grey tape, he tore off a strip and covered Tomas's mouth. Emil landed a punch on Mossy and tried to bite him but Sara was much stronger and held her down as the boys tied her wrists and ankles.

Grandma told her not to worry, everything was going to be okay, she shouldn't fight it, she didn't understand, she deserved it.

Caleb trotted back in with another bucket of fresh, clean looking water, once again clumsily slopping some of it on the cave floor. Grandad showed little interest in the two guests. He was far more curious about the book. His father had taught him to read. And his father had taught him but his own children refused the words and his grandchildren, well, there was no hope for them. He knew the legacy of reading would end with him. Sighing, he opened the cover, almost with reverence. There was a bad smell to the book and the pages were yellow edged, crinkled and brown spotted. He went through the first six pages, finding the wording faded. He held his place with one hand and glanced at the spine, but the title had also faded.

"Please," begged Emil. "Please, don't hurt me; we didn't hurt your boy. Mauricio? He was called Mauricio? We didn't hurt ..."

"Stop fighting," said Sara, grabbing Emil at the throat, forcing her head back.

Emil was panting, unable to move her arms and legs, chest rapidly rising and falling, shaking so hard that her teeth were rattling together.

And then she felt it. The warm water. It was Grandma, pouring from a steel pot, mixing the hot from the fire with the cold, bringing it to a delightful temperature. It gushed through her filthy hair, washing out the grime and scum, and puddled on the cave floor. Grandma poured a second and third time, and then set down the pot. A scent filled Emil's nose. She drew in her breath as deep as possible. It was the most beautiful aroma; it enticed her, lured her in, allowed her to run for miles. She felt her left eye close and a sweet darkness envelope her.

Uncle walked back to Tomas and peeled off the piece of tape. He shook his head, admonishment for the young man. Tomas stared as Sara massaged Emil's scalp with lotion.

Mossy and Caleb drifted back to their bunks, watching in fascinated silence. Emil knew it was her own mother washing her hair. She felt it with every fibre. Her childhood was no longer a faraway place; it was here, it was now, a time of laughter, of running and playing once her chores had been completed. For the tiniest of moments the world knitted back together and there was warmth in her heart. She opened her left eye, a shiver suddenly dancing her spine. Reality poured in. She focused on Tomas. He was calmer. He knew he couldn't rip the chain from the wall or break open the shackles. He would have to bide his time and if the moment never presented itself and they were to die in this gloomy cave at the hands of this oddball family then Emil would forever remember waking in his arms this morning, feeling safe, feeling protected, feeling cared for.

Sara stepped back and Grandma rinsed, over and over until the buckets were empty. She fetched a large cloth and briskly dried Emil's hair. She clutched a handful of it and sniffed, a broad smile on her face.

"Mossy, untie her. Caleb, take the chair and buckets away."

Emil stood, uncertain. She lightly touched her hair, smelt it, and couldn't help but smile at both women.

"What did you think we were going to do?" said Sara. "Torture you? Chop you up?"

"That comes later," said Uncle, chuckling.

She told him to shut up and get back to his wood working.

"Thank you," said Emil.

She sniffed her hair again.

"Why?"

"I lost a son today. Why don't you stay and be a daughter?"

Emil looked into Sara's single eye, Pure One to Pure One, and knew the question was one of vain hope and nothing more. There was no expectation of a positive response. The only way she would gain a daughter would be to keep her prisoner. She suddenly looked less fearsome, more vulnerable.

"Will you unlock my friend?"

Grandad looked up from the green book.

"Please?" she said.

"Didn't he say he was going to kill us?" said Grandad. "I want to keep him as a pet."

The family laughed. Emil was stony faced.

"Mossy, Caleb," nodded Sara. "He seems to have puffed himself out."

Caleb grabbed the keys, Mossy his rifle. Tomas rubbed his wrists as they freed him. He shoved the brothers out of his way and went to retrieve his pack and possessions.

"Where are my weapons?"

"I'm not stupid," said Sara, picking up the submachine gun. "Mossy will let you have them, once you're back on the road."

"We're going," said Tomas, backing away, reaching for Emil's arm.

"This book," said Grandad.

"Keep it," said Tomas.

More steps back.

"Where did you get it?"

"I said keep it, I don't want it."

Edge of the cave.

"Do you know how old it is?"

"I don't care," said Tomas, glancing at Grandad. "You have it."

"Can you read, young man?"

Tomas stopped.

"A bit."

"I can read," said Grandad. "My father taught me. His father taught him. This book is from the Before. It talks of life before Gallen. Like the other one I found."

"What other one?" said Emil.

The old man dragged a battered satchel from alongside his armchair, hidden from view. He opened it and took out a large book with bent covers.

"We need to go," whispered Tomas. "Emil, we have to get out of her."

"I want to see it."

Tomas fumed. A few minutes earlier he thought they were going to torture Emil and then him next. It hadn't panned out that way but he didn't want to give the family a chance to have second thoughts. He couldn't understand this nonsense about a few books. He had found it back in the dead city, whilst tracking Emil. He had intended to give it to Stone but it had slipped his mind to do so. He wondered where he was right now. Closing in on Chett. Lining up to kill Gozan. They needed to get going. Right now.

"Emil ..."

"I want to see this book," she said.

"It's proof," said Grandad. "We can go back there, show it to them. She won't listen, my Sara. Says I'm stupid, but look, it's all the proof we need."

"Proof?" said Emil. "What do you mean?"

"Grandad, don't fill the girl's head with this nonsense. We're not going anywhere, this is home."

"It's not home," he shouted, rising from his chair, flaring with sudden anger. "This isn't a home, it's a stinking cave."

Both books slipped from his lap onto the floor. Mossy chuckled, Uncle clipped his head. Grandma took his arm and tried to settle him back down but he was having none of it. His pulse was racing. His blood was boiling.

"They threw us out, all of us, because of this. It's just skin. All these years, hiding, living out here, moving from place to place, the heat, the cold."

He shook his head.

"You boys don't remember. They rounded us up, chucked us out like the rubbish. Your father as well."

He shrank back into his armchair, wheezing. Emil saw pain in his eyes. She picked up the books from the floor and placed them on his lap. The larger one was covered with strange pictures and several long words. He watched as she opened it, a renewed twinkle in his eye. The rest of the family loitered in silence. Pages were missing, others torn, aged, but the ones that had survived were mostly clear, a jumble of words and pictures. She saw men, women, children. Missing limbs. Odd shaped bodies. She turned the pages. Smiling faces. Happy faces. She turned again. A room with a row of beds. A man in white clapping a child on fake legs. More pages. A one eyed child, missing a nose, a squashed forehead, hugged by a man, again in a white coat. This was the Before. The time her parents had spoke about, passing on the stories from generation to generation, year after year, century after century, we _were_ part of the Before.

She lowered the book, stared at the old man.

"Drove us out our homes. Our city. Threw us into the wasteland. Blamed us for everything. But we're the same as them. We're them. They're us. Chett is our home. Not here."

He began to weep, softly, took a cloth and wiped his eyes.

"I want to go home," said Grandad. "I want to go home."

* * *

Stone sped along the deserted highway, the land featureless, dry and hard baked.

The engine roared and the steering wheel felt good in his hands. Nothing on the horizon. He drove until the sun began to dip from the sky and it was then he saw a blur of vehicles behind him. The Blood Sun tribe convoy had driven north. It couldn't be them, not this soon, not unless they had left a few cars behind, hidden to track him when he left Ford, capture him for the Cleric or simply kill him on the road. He couldn't make out the number in pursuit, just a dust cloud in his rear view mirror; they would reach him before nightfall.

The car was solid, reliable, he'd driven far worse. The tank was half filled with black energy and he had no intention of losing it. They grew closer, second by second, minute by minute, the column suddenly breaking, forming a line across the hard road, revealing numbers. Stone cursed as he saw a heavily armoured car, a pickup truck with a gun mounted on the flatbed and a jeep. They were powering along, panels fixed across the windscreens, tyres protected with mesh and metal sheets. The last vehicle, trailing behind the front three, was a small truck.

Four of them!

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Stone checked his weapons. Behind him, the vehicles bore the yellow sun with blood spots.

Engines snarling, rubber burning, they drew closer.

* * *

"You're leaving with him?" said Marge. "Ain't got no hair. Got even less scraps of sense in him."

Sadie sighed. People were still edgy, tense, the crater where the school had once stood would be a daily grim reminder of what might of happened and what actually did happen. A lot of the blame was directed at Marge. The easiest way into town was at the front, where the road was planted with explosives, but also the most obvious. She'd convinced them all that the Cleric would make his move from the northeast of town, across the craters. Only she'd got it wrong and they had been allowed to sneak in undetected, digging up the bombs, killing a few lookouts and hiding overnight in the school. Sadie wondered if this was the wrong time to leave her Mum. She was needed, by her and the town. She wasn't stupid. Everyone was needed. There was always a job to do. She had the bar to run. Frank, one of her regulars, would have taken over if he hadn't been murdered this morning. She took a lecture from Marge, about the town, about her life here, about what life was really like out there, especially with a man she hardly knew.

"You've lived here your whole life," said Marge. "Not a bounce in your skull about what it's like out there."

"I'm not going to be alone," she said.

"How good is he? Surrendered right off to that Cleric."

"He did it to try and save the children."

"The Tongueless Man saved them. Saved us all. Why couldn't you run off with him? Sadie, that wasteland will gobble you both up. Gone. Then who I got? No one. What am I supposed to do?"

There was no point. She was leaving. It was decided. The Map Maker, Doug, was waiting for her, impatiently pacing up and down, growing more agitated as the minutes passed. It wasn't the best decision she had ever made, but she knew that staying would be the worse. Rucksack on her back, she headed off with him, across the boundary of the town for the first time in her twenty years, striding forward, walking with purpose, Doug alongside her, the map she had given him tucked in his belt, his own map in his hand.

He stopped, pointed and changed direction.

Sara angled her submachine gun at Tomas, as Mossy handed him back his weapons. The air was cool, the sun was disappearing, Mauricio's grave would soon be in darkness.

"He was a bad boy, taking, killing." She slapped the weapon hanging on her shoulder.

"Will he be okay?" asked Emil.

"Who?"

"Grandad."

"Sure," laughed Sara. "Gets these crazy notions we can march right up to the gates of Chett and demand our home back."

"That book ..."

"It's just a book. What does it mean? We all lived together once. So what? They got walls, guns, men ... a book ... it doesn't mean anything."

Tomas loaded his crossbow. "Let's go," he said.

"It's a curse," said Sara, as they made for the track back to the road. "The healing. Nothing good comes of it."

Emil glanced at Tomas, saying nothing.

"Your hair looks nice," said Sara.

"Thank you."

Sara nodded, then looked away and crouched down at the grave of her dead son, as the shadows began to lengthen.

EIGHTEEN

Stone aimed, fired.

The driver of the armoured car swept right as the bullet splintered his side window. He had crept along Stone's flank, looking to ram him, but had instead found himself staring down the long barrel of a revolver. The jeep was on his left, out wide, holding back, burning across the rough terrain. The pickup truck loomed in his rear view mirror, strips of metal across the front windscreen. He could see two warriors inside the cab. A third manned the cartridge belt fed heavy machine gun mounted on the flatbed. He hadn't open fire and Stone had to assume the Cleric wanted him alive. That was never going to happen.

The three vehicles bunched around him, dropped back suddenly and then shot forward.

The jeep swung in hard and fast. His car took the impact and he gripped the wheel hard, trying not to spin off.

The armoured car then slammed into him, but ran against the spikes and pulled quickly away, one of his tyre mesh guards trailing off into the dirt.

Steadying the car, Stone fired off two shots from his revolver, both bullets careering off the armoured car, forcing him further wide, bumping off the road and onto the hard dirt.

The jeep rammed him again, metal torturing metal. A warrior leaned out and repeatedly hit the roof of the car with an axe.

With both side windows rolled down, Stone levelled his revolver and squeezed the trigger. The bullet whistled past the driver's nose and the jeep swerved away and back into the dirt.

The pickup truck was coming in hard now and Stone's car jerked forward as he was rammed. He wrestled with the wheel, losing control for a moment, sliding left and right, tyres squealing against the road. The armoured car crunched against him, leaving huge dents on the front and back doors. The pickup rammed him a second time and he lurched forward. The warrior standing on the flatbed hurled a large rock at the back of his car. It went straight through the rear window, spraying glass across the back seats. He banged his fist on the cab of the truck and reached down for another missile.

Stone spun the wheel left and crashed into the jeep, forcing it from the road in a shower of dirt.

Tyres burning hard, he pulled away, the three vehicles scattered loose behind him, but accelerating quickly.

The warrior on the back of the pickup truck threw another rock through his back window and the remaining glass shattered. He drew a machete and climbed onto the side of the pickup, holding on with one arm. The truck came in. Stone swerved right and battered into the armoured car. His car was tossed back into the centre of the road. A warrior leaned from the armoured car and shot out his front tyre with a crossbow. Stone felt it at once, the shredded rubber flapping uselessly.

There a loud thud behind him. He steadied the wheel, turned, revolver in hand. A machete wielding warrior was scrambling towards the back window, shouting, eyes wild, skin dark from the sun. Stone fired. The bullet burst through the man's shoulder, spitting out flesh, but he held onto Stone's car and lunged in through the back window. The warrior thrust the machete and Stone shifted from his seat fast, one outstretched arm clinging desperately to the steering wheel. He tried to line up the shot as the car bounced and swerved. The warrior thrust again with the machete and tore through Stone's sleeve, slicing into skin. Stone grimaced as the pain burned through his arm but he couldn't let go of the wheel. The armoured car swung in and rammed him. He felt the car spinning. His arm was burning. He jammed his revolver towards his attacker and fired until the gun clicked empty. The warrior slumped down onto the back seat.

Stone pulled himself back into the driver's seat as his car was hit again, from the left, then the right.

Quickly, he shrugged out of the long coat, glancing at his slashed arm, streaming with blood.

The armoured car swept in and the crossbowman leaned out for another shot, this time at the rear tyre.

One hand on the wheel, the barrel of his revolver wedged between his legs, Stone dropped in a bullet, snapped back the chamber, pointed and fired.

He hit the man in the chest and the warrior toppled from the armoured car, his body smashing and bouncing against the road.

Stone gripped the wheel with both hands. The car was heavily dented, back window gone, right front wheel gone, and something was rattling behind him. In the rear view mirror something broke off and smacked against the pickup truck.

The jeep screamed in from his left and clattered against him. As it recoiled a warrior leapt from it and skidded onto Stone's roof. His revolver was in the foot well, empty. The warrior slid down into the car. Stone reached for the machete, loose on the back seat. The armoured car on his right hit him once more and the wing came loose. The warrior climbed over the body of his fellow tribesman and lunged at Stone, unleashing a volley of punches to his head.

The warrior dragged the body out of his way. threw a leg over the front seat, and as he climbed across Stone drove the machete up into his throat, twisting it hard.

Feeling dizzy, he let go, his head throbbing, searing pain in his arm. He began to edge off the road, nudging past the jeep, onto the sun dried ground.

The dead warrior was draped across the front seat, drenched in blood, the machete hanging from his throat.

Stone shoved him onto the backseat with the other one, snatched up his revolver, dropped it into his lap and then turned the wheel furiously, the car lurching off the ground.

He broke free of the noose. The driver of the armoured car slammed on his brakes, tyres screeching along the road. The jeep and pickup truck swept into the rough terrain and circled around but Stone had placed a short distance between them now. His car was shaking and rattling and bouncing all over the place. His left arm was becoming numb. He stamped down on the accelerator, heading for the fourth chasing vehicle, a rusty looking van, the slowest of the vehicles that had tracked him across the wasteland.

Unblinking, he kept a straight line.

He pushed bullets from his ammunition belt, dropped them into his revolver one at a time.

The armoured car was bearing down behind him. Stone saw the passenger in the truck gesturing and pointing but the driver was ignoring him and pressed down against the accelerator.

The vehicles grew closer.

Closer and closer.

Stone saw the armoured car fill his rear view mirror.

With seconds remaining, he swerved left, and bounced off the road, into the dirt. The driver of the van tried to turn but the armoured car ploughed into him and the vehicles erupted into a hideous fireball, sending metal and burning bodies screaming into the air.

The pickup tuck suddenly opened fire and bullets raked the gloomy sand. Stone swerved towards the jeep and slammed into it, the spiked crash bar ripping giant holes in its side.

He threw the gear stick into reverse but the vehicles had locked together. The warrior with the axe sprang from the jeep. He was holding a pistol as well and fired off a few rounds. Stone ducked, as the bullets punched through the windscreen. He pushed open his crushed door and rolled free of the car. He dragged himself along the dirt, keeping low. The heavy machine gun rattled and spewed out bullets across the sand. Stone spotted the warrior moving round to attack him and fired from beneath the car, spearing both ankles. The man howled and dropped. The pickup truck drilled another line of bullets, the ground erupting all around him.

Stone came round the other side of the car, the dusky sky filling with giant plumes of black smoke, and felt the searing heat from the burning vehicles.

He needed to tend his arm but, instead, he leaned across his car and fired at the driver of the jeep.

The warrior slumped dead across the wheel.

The pickup truck swung in again, rapid fire, bullets pinging everywhere. Stone grimaced as his hip burned. He glanced down and saw he was bleeding. He edged around the abandoned jeep and fired until his revolver was empty, shooting wild, hitting nothing.

He saw the truck pull away, slow and grind to a stop. The gunner was reloading. Stone pushed himself forward, this was his last chance. He reached his car, unsteady. He had hardly any movement in his left arm. His side burned and blood trickled down his leg. He leaned into the car, almost losing balance. The gunner banged on the roof of the cab and the pickup truck gunned into life, like a snarling beast ready to charge.

The warrior on the flatbed began firing, bullets tearing up the road, spraying everywhere.

Stone stared down the barrel of his rifle, balanced on his pained left arm, and squeezed the trigger.

The driver's head jerked back, the bullet drilling between the steel plating covering the windscreen.

The vehicle swerved, the gunner lost control and toppled off onto the road and the pickup skidded out onto the dirt, engine idling.

Stone limped along the road, emerging from the billowing smoke, rifle in hand, as the gunner tried to pick himself up.

He fired off one last shot.

Dropping to his knees, he tore off strips of shirt and tied his arm. He clamped a hand across the bullet wound in his hip and limped back to the car. He reached for one of the bottles of Ford that Sadie had given him. Spitting out the cork, he poured it over both wounds, gritting his teeth as the drink washed away the blood. He rooted into his pack and took out a small kit to stitch both wounds. He had been fortunate that the bullet had gone straight through or he would have been in serious trouble, out here in the middle of nowhere. It was then he remembered the warrior he had crippled.

He stepped around the car and saw the man with the bleeding ankles crawling across the dirt.

He stopped as he heard the crunch of boots behind him. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder and began to drag himself away quicker.

Stone limped towards him, reached for him and snapped his neck.

NINETEEN

"Chancellor?"

A hard pedalling convoy of tricycles was on the street below, each one fitted with a large wire basket, strapped down boxes of supplies, replenishments for Hamble Towers. The riders wore blue caps, dark red overalls, and black boots. The sky above was dark. The clouds were thick and heavy. Scattered lights showed from apartment windows across the city. Further, beyond the flat rooftops, he saw the tallest building of Hamble Towers, the top floor brightly lit.

His eyes continued to gaze at it.

"One day," he muttered.

"Sir?"

"Come in, Mason."

The newly promoted First Minister stepped into what had been Jorann's office less than a week ago. His reached for the door handle until Gozan said, "There's no need, everyone has left."

Gozan was right, in a way, everyone had left _this_ floor, a long corridor flanked with offices, but they had not left the building and had retired to private rooms and bedchambers on the lower floors. Mason followed the instruction and left the door open, lingering awkwardly, unsure if he should sit or not. Gozan had his back to him, one arm neatly folded across it. He noticed his Chancellor was holding a fine cut glass in his other hand. It was brimming with drink. He had never seen Gozan consume drink before. It was readily available at the Towers but never here in the city, possibly illicitly down in the markets, but certainly not inside the House of Leadership. Sloppy heads, sloppy work, thought Mason.

Gozan turned, smiling, and offered him a glass, but Mason politely declined. Drink did not agree with him. His response was ignored, though, and a glass was poured anyway. Reluctantly, he accepted it, held it for a moment before taking a light sip. The liquid warmed and burned. Gozan gestured for his companion to sit. Both men faced across Jorann's desk and there was a peculiar silence with only the sounds of the city.

"Do you know what I feel sitting here, Mason?"

Mason knew he was next in line to sit in the Chancellor's chair and rule the city but that was a long way off, ten years away, possibly more, and First Ministers had been demoted before, so nothing was certain. He had no idea what it felt to sit in that chair. To rule Chett. To rule Gallen. To control everything.

"Powerful?"

The utterance sounded lame, and he regretted it immediately.

"No," said Gozan, shaking his head, glumly. "I feel sadness. A wretched sadness that only an older man can feel for a dead friend."

"Chancellor Jorann was a remarkable leader, sir," said Mason, half raising his glass in salute.

"He was an awful leader," said Gozan, raising his voice. "I thought you were a perceptive young man, Mason. Jorann was a terrible Chancellor. A puppet figure head for fifteen years whilst ... he was a superb First Minister, honest and fair, but a hopeless, bloated, lovesick Chancellor."

Mason was stunned. Was this more games from Gozan? Was he being tested? Should he agree to curry favour? Or vehemently protect the reputation of the murdered man?

"I think he was a good Chancellor, sir. Yes, he had his failings, he was soft when a firm hand was required although, to be honest, this came more in his later years than his early terms."

Gozan chuckled, swirled the drink in his glass.

"Nothing is certain with Chett politics, Mason. I admire your courage to speak your thoughts. I do not want a yes-man as a First Minister. Nor was I testing you. Jorann was a foolish Chancellor ... but he was a good friend. I miss my dear friend. I do not miss my Chancellor."

He drained the glass, set it down more heavily than anticipated.

"Now, this delicate matter, approach it."

"As you alluded to earlier, sir, I do have spies and contacts within the city. They feed me information, sometimes useful, sometimes not. I think it best to build a picture of people, rather than the one they want you to see. My father, former Third Minister, taught me that."

Gozan rolled open his desk drawer, took out a bottle and refilled his glass.

"I am horrified that our Chancellor was assassinated and that many soldiers and servants lost their lives protecting him."

Gozan squeezed the trigger once and the Chancellor fell backwards. His face turned ashen and blood bubbled over his shaking lips.

" _You ... were ... always ..."_

Gozan stood over him, raised the pistol and fired twice more.

"... minor rumblings of discontent, yes," Mason was saying. "There are complaints of rigid routine, unfairness, a stifling of freedom, but these murmurings have never been tainted with such ruthless and cold blooded violence ..."

"You are not in Progress Square," said Gozan, his voice growing impatient. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Save your speeches and oily charm. Get to the point, Mason. Tell me what you know."

The young man cleared his throat.

"It's difficult, sir."

"Why is it difficult?"

He glanced back at the open door and lowered his tone.

"Collusion, sir."

"Collusion?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Between?"

"The SOT and a high level officer in the Red Guard. With access to weapons and the ability to turn rabble into terrorists."

"We hanged SOT murderers this morning, Mason," said Gozan, and took a long drink. "Only last week we netted the core of the SOT. I don't understand the point you're attempting to make here."

"A senior officer, sir, has been seen visiting a suspected SOT safe house, here within the city, under our ..."

He suddenly turned in his chair and frowned. "Did you hear that, sir?"

Gozan lowered his glass.

"Hear what?"

Mason rose from his chair and walked slowly to the office door. He peered along the corridor. A wooden trolley of folders in baskets had been left near the stairwell. Several doors were open, many were closed.

"Well?" called Gozan.

Mason stepped into the doorway. He was certain he had heard a noise in the next room. There was a closed door to his right, an open one to his left. He glanced through the open doorway. It was a simple office. A desk. A chair. A row of metal filing cabinets. A window looking out across the city. He saw his reflection in the glass. He turned and tried the door on the right. Locked.

"Sorry, sir, it was ..."

He stopped.

Cold, hard steel thrust against his neck.

He raised his hands, very slowly.

The gun muzzle pushed and he shuffled forward, one step at a time, not daring to turn his head.

Untroubled, Gozan peered over the rim of his glass.

"Good evening, General."

Nuria lowered her weapon and Mason heard it being holstered. As he turned round, she was closing the door.

"Your spies are wasted," she said. "Send them into the Trader Zone to look for illegal dealings instead."

Gozan got to his feet and clapped Mason on the back.

"You were never in any danger. You are perfectly safe."

He strode to the window, looked out at Hamble Towers, at the tallest building, that top floor apartment.

"I'll let General Nuria explain."

* * *

Stone took the pickup truck.

It was dark and he drove for hours, into the night, the landscape bleak and sparse. He was stitched and patched. He had stripped every weapon and piece of ammunition and food from the dead Blood Sun warriors. The burning vehicles were miles behind him now. Tomas and Emil were even further behind. Exhausted, aching, he kept driving, the long highway black and unbroken. He saw the mountains on the horizon and would keep going until he reached them.

Now he knew he was close.

He no longer needed maps or clever deception. He had a way in, he had weapons and he didn't need a way out.

* * *

"I don't believe it," said Mason, shaking his head.

"Why?" she said.

"Why go to these lengths?"

"Chancellor Facundo understood this very well," said Gozan, turning from the window. "Men need to hate, Mason. Men need to blame. Years ago, when the desert raiders attacked us, day after day, scaling the walls, firing into the city, killing and maiming – who did we hate then? We hated them and we blamed them for what they inflicted upon our perfect society. Your father stood in the House of Leadership. He understood hate." His face was flushed. "You are very young. A smart suit. A charming joke in the office with the junior ministers. Do you think that is all it takes? You will be up to your arms in blood and filth in this position, Mason. It takes a man to be First Minister. Even more to be Chancellor. I thought I saw it in you. Was I wrong?"

Nuria, perched on the corner of Gozan's desk, almost felt sorry for the young man as Gozan continued to lecture him. Having believed to have uncovered a high level conspiracy, Mason had shown a tremendous deal of courage to bring it to the new Chancellor, now the most powerful man in the city and Nuria's mentor. Yet his resourceful actions and brave resolution had unravelled something far worse.

"We beat them back, our brave Red Guard soldiers, but Facundo knew it wasn't enough, we all knew they would be back so we rode out into the wastelands and hunted them down, every last one of them. Jorann was my General and I was his Captain. We had horses then. Not these dreadful bicycles. We found their villages and camps and burnt them to the ground. We killed them. The men, the women, the children ... we spared no one."

" _That's enough," shouted Jorann. "Captain Gozan, leave some of them alive ... not the children ... spare some of the children..."_

"But that wasn't enough for Chett. Men need to hate. Need to blame. Facundo focused our citizens against those who among us looked different, the disfigured, the oddities. He poured the blame on them. It was easy. They became shunned and despised until Facundo exiled them from within our walls. And then there was calm. But Facundo had learned of the Pure Ones, the deformed with this ... this incredible gift and he was filled with regret for banishing them. He had no idea that amongst these ... these different people ... were the greatest gifts to Gallen. His greed for power and control tore Chett apart. It was a savage and dark time for our city. Now, Chett needs the Pure Ones again. We cannot allow our people to keep dying. Sickness will devastate us unless we can fight it. Pure Ones are the way. The only way. Facundo handled it badly. We will not. Once the law is repealed, Pure Ones will be welcomed back into our city to help our sick and our dying."

Nuria stared at Gozan as Mason nodded in stunned agreement.

"Facundo used the Pure Ones for the powerful. The common citizens were never able to afford his charges. How will it be any different this time?"

Gozan stared harshly at Nuria, taken aback by her statement.

"Understand me, General, I love my city. What I do, what I have done, has always been for Chett."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"But the SOT?" said Mason.

"Pure fiction," replied Nuria, her eyes fixed on Gozan. "An invention. Men need to hate."

Gozan smiled thinly and picked up his glass.

"But, sir, who were those men and women we executed this morning? Who have we been arresting?"

"Often, no one. We tell our citizens what to think and feel, Mason. Today, we told them that the group responsible for murdering the former Chancellor have been punished. Now they will be relieved and they will return to work happy that justice has been served. Tomorrow production will rise and once again Chett will continue to turn."

"They were innocent," said Mason. "We executed innocent people this morning, didn't we?"

"Is this a problem for you?" asked Nuria. "The people need to believe in the SOT. Believe in them so they can fear them and hate them."

"Fear them?" said Gozan.

"But why this way?" said Mason, shaking his head. "I can't, I really am struggling with this, sir, I am sorry."

He rose from his chair.

"Sir, I am a loyal Minister, but ... why do we need them to hate and blame?" He paused, gathering his thoughts. "What are we so afraid of?"

"Who do you think they will hate, Mason? Without the desert raiders or the deformed or the SOT? Who? Who?"

"Us," said Mason, glumly.

"Yes," nodded Gozan. "The SOT are fake, Mason, we use them to misdirect out citizen's opinions. Life is hard here in Chett. Jorann never understood how hard it really is for people. He felt that if you were kept safe that was all there should be. People want more. They crave more. The SOT are the reason people do not have more."

Mason cleared his throat.

"Sir, if the SOT is not real, then who _did_ murder Chancellor Jorann?"

Gozan got to his feet.

"General, I think First Minister Mason is tired. He has been drinking. Place him in detention for a few days. Let the fog clear in his head."

Nuria unholstered her firearm.

"And make sure you return here afterwards."

TWENTY

The pickup spluttered, ground to a stop, its supply of black energy exhausted.

Stone abandoned the truck and continued on foot. He was only a few miles from the mountains. In the dark, he trudged off the highway, a solitary figure in the night. He was utterly alone. The wind was his only companion as he followed a slowly winding dirt road, dotted with stone and rock. He could have remained on the highway, it led straight to the city, but he would have been visible, exposed. He would use the mountain range to cover his approach. Walking for another hour, his calves began to ache as the road gradually ascended. He stopped and set his pack down. Despite the chill air, he was sweating. He took off his hat and goggles and tipped water over his face. He shook his head, his long, dirty hair swinging wildly. He had pulled it back and tied it with a short length of rope. Pushing his goggles across his eyes, his hat back over his scalp, he lifted his pack and walked on. He came across a narrow path, much steeper than the road, which now seemed to be falling away back to the flat lands below. He chose to follow it.

His legs stretched long as he pushed his body to its limits. The crags loomed around him as the path wound deeper into the mountains. He turned, glanced back, held his gaze for a moment. The ground below was grey, featureless, the highway a black line; Gallen stretched to the horizon, a land that filled him with nothing but despair. He felt every grain of sand, every block of dirt, every piece of road, ruthlessly combined to weight upon his shoulders. He had lived for more than forty years. He was old compared to many. Few lived long years in this world. He tilted his head to the sky, seeking solace, and watched the clouds for a moment, marvelling at how they shifted in the wind, the white lights hiding behind them and then revealing themselves.

Stone lowered his head and headed on, further and further, the path forking many times. He took out his torch, thankful it was still working. He left his revolver in his belt and armed himself with a pistol he had taken from one of the Blood Sun warriors. The weapon was black and the magazine held nineteen bullets. He had used a similar firearm before. He shone the torch onto the path, keeping the beam low. The path was stony and uneven and, despite torchlight, he managed to lose his footing from time to time. The moon peeked around the clouds, illuminating the way ahead. He switched off the torch as he approached a wall of dead trees, branches black and lifeless, like a host of evil creatures escaped from a nightmare, waiting to ambush him.

He stopped and sniffed the air. He crouched, waited, listened, kept the pistol out in front.

His eyes scanned the surrounding darkness, peering through the trees, across sloping rock faces.

He saw the opening, faint wisps of smoke trailing from it. He looked around but couldn't see anyone watching him. He waited longer. Wind whistled through the black trees. He rose, began walking, aware of the noise his boots made across beds of fallen branches and loose stone; it didn't matter, the fire had been quickly extinguished, his presence was already known. Stone kept one eye on the cave opening, his pistol fanning left to right as he came closer. The path split again, one branch heading further into the mountains, cutting away to his right, another running down to his left, perhaps dropping all the way back to the barren scrubland.

He passed the cave opening and swiftly pressed his back against the craggy rock surrounding it.

He could no longer smell anything or see the wood smoke. He edged along, pistol ready, torch in hand, but switched off.

He took a deep breathe and swung around the entrance, dropping down, snapping on the torch and aiming his pistol.

Wide eyes looked back at him. Bushy grey eyebrows and blackened teeth. A thickly lined and sun burned complexion. He was crumpled in the corner of the cave, skinny and ragged, his fire now only dying embers. He had a knife but Stone ignored it. Ducking, he entered the cave, finding it much larger than he had anticipated. He looked around. There was no one else here and no other way out. He set down his pack, snatched the knife from the old man and hurled it into the shadows.

"What do you want?"

Stone shook his head, crouched and began working on the fire. The old man watched him and grinned as it sparked back to life. Stone found himself a spot and sank down. He removed his goggles and tossed them onto the ground. He pushed out his legs, crossed them and enjoyed the warmth of the fire seeping into his bones. The old man leaned forward and added more wood. The fire spat and crackled. Stone took a half bottle of water from his pack, drank some, screwed the cap back on and tossed it to the old man. He caught it and emptied it within seconds.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm Timmy. You got a name, friend?"

Stone watched the flames, said nothing. The old man began to speak but Stone held up both hands and placed them to the side of his head. _Go to sleep, old man._ He made a second attempt at conversation but realised Stone wasn't much of a talker. He glanced through the cave opening, at the dead trees and paths in darkness. He then looked back at Stone. He shrugged. If he was going to get killed in his sleep at least it would be next to a warm fire. He settled down, drew a miserable blanket across his body and closed his eyes. He tossed and turned but finally began to lightly snore.

Stone stared into the flames. It would soon all be over. All these years. All his life. Waiting for this moment. He took out the ancient photograph and uncurled it. He stared at the people. A loving family. He wanted them to be his family but they were strangers. They had been _someone's_ family but not his. He closed his eyes. He wanted to remember them. Their voices. Their laughter. Their smell. The colour of his sister's hair. _I kept the name, why can't I remember anything now?_

He opened his eyes and thought of Tomas and the girl. He wondered if they had reached Ford yet. He could see Tomas now, standing on the outskirts of the town, questioning the woman called Marge, the one who had wanted him to stay and live a life there. Doing what? Fighting and protecting a town? There were worse things a man could do, he supposed. Perhaps he would go back there afterwards and enjoy a breakfast of ollish eggs. Maybe Tomas was tucking into a plate of them right now. He smiled fondly. He knew it was all nonsense. He would never see any of them again.

He hoped Tomas would remember everything he had taught him, everything he had learned from Tomas's father. Take the girl far from this terrible land, thought Stone, out of reach of the corrupt rulers of Chett and away from the lunatic that was the Cleric. Take her beyond the dead cities and the bike gangs. Take her to a land where you will both be safe and you will no longer sleep with your crossbow and pistol and knife.

Soon, Gozan would be dead, his vengeance would be satisfied, and it would all be over.

Tossing the photograph onto the fire, Stone closed his eyes and waited for morning to come.

* * *

"How dare you question me?" said Gozan.

He was still drinking, had been for hours, and the office air was stale.

"I am your superior. I am Chancellor of this city and you will obey my rules."

Arms folded behind her back, Nuria remained silent.

"I told that idiot what he needed to hear. He has the potential to make a good First Minister, once he can get his brain around how Chett really works."

"And when he realises you have lied?" she said, breaking her silence. "Will he be executed? Like the rest?"

Gozan poured more drink.

"You are bordering on treason, Nuria, please be very careful."

"General Nuria," she corrected. "Chancellor Gozan."

He rose from behind his desk and hurled the glass against the wall. She never flinched. She had witnessed his black moods before.

"I care about this city. I will keep this city alive. The Pure One will heal the sick and the dying. What is wrong with that?"

His booming voice echoed around the room.

"Is that really why you are doing this?" She relaxed her stance, approached him, reached for him. "We killed the Chancellor. We gunned him down in cold blood together. We are murderers. All because he wouldn't change a law? How have I been so blind to you?"

He shook free her grip.

"You don't care about the people, do you? I mean, not really. It's the power. It has always been about the power."

"Silence," he said.

"You controlled your life partner until she died. You control and bully everyone around you. Shape decisions and lives."

"And your point is?" said Gozan.

"It means I don't believe in you anymore, Chancellor," said Nuria. "Your time is coming to an end."

* * *

In the grey light of morning, Stone left the cave. He gave the old man the last of his food and trudged on into the mountains. The old man waved at him but Stone never looked back, never saw the sequence of shapes burned into the old man's forearm. The sun was pale and insipid and now and then he felt spots of rain from the clouds above. He kept walking. Along winding paths and sloping tracks. Slowly ascending, and then descending until, after several hours, he found a spot behind a low ridge and took out his binoculars. He raised his goggles and looked through them.

There stood Chett. The first city. The only city. The grand city. High walls and black gates, guard towers and flat rooftops.

Stone drew his gaze a mile along the road, to a scattering of ruined buildings, the size of a hamlet.

Nodding to himself, he put away the binoculars.

"Stone?"

He froze at the sound of his name.

"Tomas?"

"We drove all night to find you. Saw the wrecked vehicles. Took the jeep and followed your tracks. We planned this together."

"You're wounded," said Emil. "You're bleeding. Let me help you."

He turned around. There was no one there. He saw the blood trickling onto his hand.

Wincing as he stripped off his long coat and shirt, he looked at his bleeding arm and hip and knew he wasn't going anywhere soon.

* * *

Gozan woke to a sharp knock.

"Chancellor? Chancellor Gozan? Sir? Are you awake, sir?"

He opened his eyes and lifted his aching head from his pillow. It was long past dawn. Daylight flooded through the drawn curtains in his private bedchamber. He rose quickly, too quickly. His head pounded and he rubbed his temples gently to try and ease the pain.

There was a knock again.

Fuming, he jerked open the door to greeted by his Tenth Minister, Pondly, with two more men whom he recognised as stewards from the Worker Zone.

"Sir, the most terrible thing has happened," said Pondly, breathlessly. "It's the workers, sir."

The Chancellor washed his hands over his face and coughed. His early morning guests winced at the stale smell of drink.

"Half of them have refused to turn up," said one of the stewards. "We're running on half a workforce."

Gozan blinked.

"What?"

"The people," said Pondly. "Thousands have gathered in Progress Square, demanding the answers."

* * *

Under the cloak of night, he slipped into the ruined hamlet.

Stitched up once more, Stone began to search for the entrance detailed on the Map Maker's maps. He had memorised its location but now, in the dark, reluctant to use his torch, he wished he had held onto the maps. He supposed it would be easier to wait until morning but he was only a mile from the city walls and had no desire to be seen. He searched for an hour, shifting rubble, finding nothing. He searched for a second hour, moving from building to building, keeping low. For a moment, he thought he caught the sound of an engine, droning in the wind. He stopped, looked around, but saw nothing. The gates of the city were closed and the highway was deserted. A third hour passed but still nothing. He looked back towards the mountains and saw figures moving down a dark path. He _had_ heard a vehicle, at least one, possibly more.

The Cleric had not given up. Once his raiding party had failed to return he must have decided to send more vehicles in pursuit.

Stone took out the pistol and fixed the silencer to it. It was a strange device, one he had kept for a long time now. He had used it in practice, with Tomas's pistol, and was impressed by how it would render a weapon silent when fired. This would be ideal if he was about to be set upon by Blood Sun warriors. He took up position in the dirt and rubble of a small building and waited. The air was cold. The city of Chett was behind him, watching on. He could see only two warriors. He glanced around the flat land but no shadows moved anywhere else. He saw them break from the path and begin to pick their way across the hard baked terrain. As they got closer, a look of anger flared in his eyes and he lowered the pistol.

He flashed his torch once in their direction.

PART THREE

TWENTY ONE

"Let me help you," said Emil

Stone refused, convinced he would mend. He was strong enough to slip into Chett and kill Gozan and that was all that mattered. She told him his hip wound was infected. Her hands felt light on his bare skin. He shivered at her touch. The dark night was cold. The wind whistled through the ruined buildings. Her warm hands continued to press against his skin. No one touched him. No one held him. He gritted his teeth, became dizzy.

Tomas kept watch, patrolling, barely able to look at Stone. His anger was impossible to hide. He wanted answers. He wanted the truth. He stared across a pile of rubble at Chett, under whelmed by what he saw. He wasn't sure what he had expected but he had heard so much about the place. The first city, the only city - he had hoped for something more than crumbling walls and dirty looking buildings. He had sought a vision that would glitter and sparkle and dazzle in the sand, a sign of inspiration for all in Gallen, a sanctuary for the wanderers and the weary, a beacon, something more than this ramshackle sprawl. He felt nothing but disappointment and disinterest.

"Do you understand?" asked Stone.

He was standing behind him, his wounds healed. Emil was keeping her distance, allowing them time to talk.

"No," said Tomas.

"You can keep her safe," he said. "Once this is done."

The younger man turned to face Stone.

"I don't want it to be that way. We can go back to the original plan. It will work."

Stone shook his head.

"And then what? My whole life, Tomas," he said, nodding at the city. "I kept his name for this."

"And you can have a whole life after this," said Tomas. "Go back to the original plan."

Tomas punched him.

"I should put a few bolts in you," he said, brandishing his crossbow. "Get Emil to patch you up. Then shoot you again."

"Help me find the tunnel," said Stone. "Before dawn."

"We do this together," said Tomas.

"All three of us," said Emil.

"And we get out of this dump together," said Tomas.

"Okay," said Stone.

With the three of them searching, it still took a further hour until Tomas finally uncovered a flight of ancient steps, buried beneath the rubble, leading down into darkness. This was what they had first seen on the Map Maker's maps. They had known of the wandering man for many years, thought him a curiosity, nothing more, until they had heard the name Gozan, and learned that he lived, and then the Map Maker had become a man they desperately needed to hunt down. Stone snapped on his torch and they followed him underground. The air was stale and moist. The steps reached a landing. Stone fanned the torch over walls of dirty cracked tiles. Another flight led further down into a long room with a high, arched ceiling. Corridors ran off to his left but they were blocked with rubble. They realised they stood on the edge of a platform. A tunnel filled with two rusted lines of iron stretched into blackness.

"What is this place?" whispered Emil.

Tomas shook his head.

"I don't know."

Stone swept the torch around. He saw cracks in the walls and roof, dirt and grime, but no apparent threat.

He dropped down from the platform. His boots echoed on the iron lines. He angled the torch down and saw they were secured to heavy wooden beams. The lines were far apart, impossible to stand on both at the same time. He wondered what purpose they had served. He flashed his torch behind him and saw the tunnel had caved in. He swept his torch in the other direction, towards Chett.

"Clear," he said.

Tomas jumped down into the tunnel and offered his arms up for Emil. She smiled at his gesture, but climbed down by herself.

"I need a gun," she said. "I'm not going in there without one."

"We're not trying to trick you, Emil," said Tomas. "Do you think we still plan to trade you?"

"Crossed my mind," she answered.

"Are you serious? After everything?"

Stone reached into his pack and pulled out one of several handguns he had taken from the Blood Sun warriors.

Emil held in her right hand.

"Better?" asked Tomas.

She nodded.

"Stone?"

He looked at her.

"They told us in the town you faced the Cleric?"

Stone nodded.

"We saw the cars, the men you killed back on the highway, was he one of them?"

"No."

Stone led the way along the tunnel, carrying the silenced automatic pistol in one hand, torch in the other. The ground was dotted with broken roof tiles and loose rocks and human bones. The tunnel curved left and then back right again. The air was horrible. Now and then small things moved in the darkness. Stone would snap his torch at them but they were far too agile. They kept walking until they reached another platform, similar to the one before. Ahead, the iron lines stretched on into blackness. The three of them scrambled onto the platform and looked for a way out. Stone pointed at a flight of stairs and they followed them onto a square shaped landing where a corridor with a curved ceiling led away.

Torch beam sweeping out of in front, they soon reached another flights of stairs. Up they went, onto another small landing where an iron gate blocked the way forward. It was secured with a long chain and padlock, thick with rust. The padlock was on the other side of the gate. Tomas opened his pouch of picklock tools but as he reached through the bars and took hold of the padlock the chain crumbled. The gate whined as it opened. There was the sound of movement somewhere above. Stone and Tomas exchanged looks. They realised they had breached the city walls and were under the House of Leadership. If the maps were correct, they would soon be entering the lower levels of the building.

Beyond the gate a corridor in darkness ended at a heavy grey shutter. They listened but could hear only muffled sounds.

"The air is different," said Emil.

Stone nodded and shone the torch at the lock. Tomas retrieved his pouch of tools once again and began to work on it. Within a moment he heard the lock click. The Map Maker had told them that the Ministers had shown no interest when he had revealed that a network of underground tunnels existed beneath the House and other buildings within the city. He had been ensured they were sealed off. The belonged to the Before. It was nothing to become agitated or flustered about. Only one man had shown any curiosity. And for the second time, Stone had heard his name – Gozan.

Gingerly, they rolled the shutter sideways. A white haired man with a clipboard was peering into a wooden crate. He lifted his head, shocked to see the three of them emerge. Stone pointed his pistol and fired once, the gun making no sound. The man slumped to the ground and the three of them spread into the room. It was cavernous, piled with crates and boxes, stacks of metal chairs and folding tables and a long row of bicycles.

Voices came from a side room; two men in grubby overalls appeared, swapping animated conversation.

Stone brought up his pistol and fired; Tomas shot the second with his crossbow.

* * *

"What have you been stirring up?" asked Gozan.

Nuria was tired of his ranting. Since the protests yesterday, he had become even more irritable.

"I had to stand in front of the mob and plead for them to return to work. How did these rumours get out? Did you start them?"

She stood before his desk. It was becoming all too familiar now. She was a child once again. He simply could not understand what had happened. For years, the _fake SOT_ had spread dissent and unrest, had undertaken minor crimes only for them to be squashed and innocents punished. Had he never thought, or even reasoned, that the officers employed to perpetuate the lie, to manufacture resentment, to weave an illusion of discontent, might begin to actually believe in the lie, might begin to see the truth in the lie, to see the reality of what Chett was, what it had become, who _they_ had become. She had pulled at tiny strands and formed the _real SOT_ several years ago, on the poorest side of the city, on the eastern side, her cover perfect.

"Plead?" she said. "I heard no pleading, sir. Only threats."

"What of it?" he said, slamming his palm on the desk. "Have you seen the reports this morning? Stewards are in and out of here every minute. We have a thirty percent workforce."

Nuria glanced over her shoulder at the chaos unravelling in the House. A faint smile touched her lips.

"This is not acceptable. I will not allow this."

"Then carry out your threats, sir. Withdraw citizen parcels, cancel all Hamble Tower passes."

She rounded on him.

"Why not open the armoury and arm the Red Guard? We can have martial law once again."

"Do not mock, Nuria."

"I don't say this lightly. This is what you have always wanted. Punish them. Punish them ..."

His hand struck her hard, across the face. She reeled back. He hit her again and this time she reached for her holster, hesitating at the last moment. She looked into his eyes and saw only rage, no remorse. There never would be. There never had been.

"You are demoted," he said. "Reduced in rank to Corporal. You will be assigned to bridge duty at Hamble Towers."

He nodded.

"Dismissed, Corporal."

"The SOT are real, Gozan, and you have lost control. Truth is what the citizens deserve. Truth about your rank administration. You have hundreds of workers slaving away to produce luxury items for Hamble Towers and what do they see? A paltry Citizen Parcel? I know what we salvage in the wasteland. People deserve more."

He stared fiercely at her.

"We have been real for a very long time, Gozan. You never once questioned it, did you? Your reign is ending. There will be elections and freedom and ..."

"And you?" said Gozan. "You're a traitorous, poisonous ..."

There was a scream in the corridor. Concern flashed across the Chancellor's face. Nuria ran to the doorway and saw two men, both armed, moving along the corridor, firing into the side offices. Already there were bodies slumped on the floor. She pulled out her sidearm but they spotted her and rolled out of view. She spied a third infiltrator, a scruffy girl wearing a patch over one eye.

"What is it?" barked Gozan.

She ignored him as he rushed to a cabinet on the wall. Throwing open the door revealed a square shaped box inside with a glass lid. He slid open the lid and pressed a button inside. At that moment, a siren began to wail beyond the walls of the building. She had heard it only once before, as a child, when Chancellor Facundo had been cited for arrest.

Crouching in the doorway, gun trained on the corridor, she knew the guards in the nearby barracks would be mustering, taking weapons and live ammunition from the armoury and heading here immediately. She wondered how these men had gained access into the building and what had happened to the company of guards on the ground floor.

"Is there another way in?" she said, as a bearded man sprayed bullets at her, forcing her back, allowing the second man to move forward into another office. "Gozan, the tunnels at Quinto, are there more? Beneath us?"

He seemed dumbstruck by the question. There was another scream as Stone fired across the corridor, his bullet hitting Tenth Minister Pondly, tossing him back into his chair.

"I'm Nuria," she called out. "If you're mercenaries for the SOT then hold your fire."

Tomas drew a blood smeared crossbow bolt from a body, frowning.

"Who?" he mouthed.

Emil was hiding near the stairwell, pistol in her hand.

"Stone," she shouted, suddenly, and dashed into the corridor, throwing herself into the nearest office.

Two men lay staring at the ceiling, a bullet hole in each one. She gasped at the sight of them.

Was this really what Stone wanted?

"I can hear them downstairs," she said. "Stone, they're coming up behind us."

Nuria held her nerve. She had little ammunition and no other weapons. Finger on the trigger, she waited.

"We want Gozan," said Stone. "No one else needs to die."

The siren continued to wail. Tomas jogged back towards the stairwell. He drew his pistol.

"Step out and you can live."

Gingerly, one by one, trembling hands first, the surviving members of the House of Leadership began to emerge from the last few offices ahead of Stone. He counted four men and one woman. Stumbling, they shuffled past the long haired, bearded man and the ragged girl with one eye and the man with the crossbow. Tomas ordered them down the stairs. Nervously, shakily, forming a straight line, the five people went down the steps, towards the noise from the lower floors.

Stone switching the silenced pistol to his left hand, drew his revolver with his right, and came forward into the corridor, pointing both at Nuria.

"Put it down."

She lowered her weapon and placed it on the floor.

"Are you the mercenaries?"

Getting to her feet, she backed away, raising her hands.

"I'm Nuria. I founded the SOT. We hadn't agreed to ..."

Emil ran along the corridor, seeing more bodies.

"Why won't you answer me?"

"Talk again," said Stone. "And you die."

He turned to face Gozan. Finally. The face was older, much older than he had anticipated. There was a long ugly scar running to his jaw. Gozan frowned at the tall man, his blood stained long coat, his grubby shirt and trousers and dusty boots.

"I kept your name," whispered Stone.

Gozan frowned at him.

"What did you say?" he asked.

The siren continued to wail. Stone silenced it with a bullet. The bang was deafening. Smoke curled from the barrel of his revolver.

"Will you at least let me have the name of my assassin?"

"You get nothing," said Stone.

He squeezed the trigger and Gozan screamed as the bullet punctured his knee cap, dropping him to the floor. He rolled in agony, blood gushing from his shattered knee. There was a burst of gunfire from the corridor as Tomas began shooting down the stairwell. Stone heard his family screaming. He saw their faces. He saw the tears and the pain. Emil ran into the room. She saw Gozan bleeding and sobbing. He looked up at her.

"Is this the man?" she asked.

Hands raised, Nuria studied her. She had never seen a Pure One. She was a mere child. This was what all the fuss had been about? A tiny, unkempt girl with scruffy clothes and pitted skin and oddly shiny hair.

"Yes," nodded Stone.

Emil raised the pistol.

"It wasn't for me," said Gozan. "I only followed orders. Always. That's all I've ever done is follow orders."

"You lie," said Nuria, her cheek still stinging. "You're the Chancellor. You rule everyone and everything. No one tells you what to do."

Gozan dragged himself onto his feet and leaned against his desk, grimacing, holding his leg as blood ran from his shattered knee.

"I can give you anything, anything you want."

"Your General made you spare some of the children, Captain," said Stone.

It took a moment, a long moment, and then the colour drained from Gozan's face.

"Facundo, it was always Facundo. It was his orders to exterminate outsiders. He was afraid you would attack Chett again."

"I never saw my father raise his hand to any man," said Stone. "Nor my mother. Or my sister."

Nuria stared at the bearded man.

"Stone," yelled Tomas. "We need to go."

"Facundo is still alive," said Gozan. "Kill him."

"What?" said Nuria.

"He ordered the killings at the camps," said Gozan, panting. "We knew the raiders had been driven back. It was Facundo, have your vengeance on him."

"He was exiled fifteen years ago," said Nuria. "He's dead. What are you talking about, Gozan?"

She stared at him across the office.

"What did you do?"

"He's still here," gasped Gozan, clutching his knee. "In Hamble Towers. The main tower. Top floor. He was never sent away. This is why I need the girl. He's dying from the sickness. I need her to heal him. It was always Facundo. Please."

"You're a monster," said Nuria, shaking her head.

Gozan looked at Emil.

"Please save him. Come with me and save him. I can protect you. You have nothing to fear."

Stone had heard enough. The name Facundo meant nothing to him. He put his finger to the trigger. It had all come to this. He wanted to feel more, hate more, but inside he was hollow. The shots were rapid, a blaze of noise and smoke, several missing, gouging the floor and desk, others hitting Gozan in the chest, his stomach, snapping back his head. His body jerked violently and erupted as the bullets raked him. He rolled over and still Emil fired until her gun clicked empty. Stone blinked. Tomas came running down the corridor, pistol empty. He slammed the door shut and looked around the room. He saw Emil standing over the blood soaked body of Gozan.

Nuria closed her eyes, knowing she would be next. She waited but the bullets never came. She slowly opened her eyes and looked at the rabble that had attacked her city and invaded Gozan's office and committed cold blooded murder before her eyes. And what had she planned for today? What other acts of treason had she already set in motion? This motley trio had accelerated her plans and achieved more in a single hour than she had in the past few years.

"I can get you out of here," said Nuria, to no one in particular. "I'm General Nuria, of the Red Guard. I am also leader of the SOT. There is no one in this city with any authority above me. Not now."

She glanced at the dead Chancellor.

"He deserved to die."

There were footsteps in the corridor outside.

"This is Captain Andozini," called a voice, through the door. "Drop your weapons and release the Chancellor and the General."

"Last chance," said Nuria.

Stone nodded and she lowered her hands.

TWENTY TWO

"Captain, this is General Nuria, pull your men back."

There was silence beyond the door. Nuria knew they were preparing to enter the room.

"I have given you a direct order, Captain. Pull your men back."

Again the silence, and then she heard the Captain issue the order and the shuffle of boots as his men retreated back to the stairwell. Tomas ran to the window and saw hundreds of soldiers in the street below, forming a ring around the building. Beyond, he could see citizens looking towards the House of Leadership, many of them pointing.

"Who are you?" whispered Nuria. "Were you hired to kill Gozan? We spoke of a bold statement but ..."

The three of them looked at her with puzzlement. Tomas reloaded his crossbow and said, "We need to get to the basement."

"Captain," said Nuria, through the closed door. "I trust you have withdrawn your men?"

"Yes, General," he responded.

"You need to follow my orders very closely. Chett will need brave men today. The Chancellor is dead. The Ministers of the House of Leadership are dead. Take your men from this building and onto the streets. Calm any trouble with minimal force. No live weapons. Do you understand these instructions so far?"

"Yes, General, but ... I have bodies everywhere; ministers, stewards, clerks, I cannot just walk away."

"Captain, you have to. I am giving you orders. I am the highest ranked officer in the city and you have your orders. I also want a detail of men sent to Hamble Towers. No one is allowed access until further notice."

"Yes, General."

"And, Captain, ensure that no one leaves, either."

"Yes, General."

Stone heard the man sprint back down the corridor. He counted at least two other men. The Captain had not been alone.

"Did you come through the tunnels?"

Ignoring her question, Stone edged open the door and peered along the corridor. He saw bodies. No soldiers.

"I know about the tunnels. You don't need to ..."

Stone clamped a hand around Nuria's neck and, as she attempted to wrestle free, placed his revolver at the base of her spine.

"Walk," he said.

She led them slowly along the corridor, the barrel pressing into her lower back. She saw the bodies lying twisted and bleeding in the side offices. She felt nothing. She had met nightly with the _real SOT_ whilst managing the _fake SOT_ and, despite wanting to strip the city back to its roots and rebuild, no one had ever been committed to wholesale slaughter. This had been her desire, a radical shake of the Chett tree, the only solution, violence to end the violence that had infected the city for years. She had declared an interest in hiring mercenaries to complete the task but it had been voted down. It had been agreed, instead, to strike where it would hurt the most, with the withdrawal of workers from the plants and factories. She had allowed Jorann's murder to implicate Gozan and today the weapons used that night would soon be uncovered in his private rooms within the House.

They reached the stairwell and saw two Red Guard soldiers, both armed with automatic weapons and holding round shields.

"I ordered you to withdraw," she said. "I am your General and you are being given a direct order to withdraw from the building. Help Captain Andozini."

The men wore body armour and helmets with lowered visors. They looked up at the dishevelled man in the hat and he stared back down at them, his face grim. They saw he had a weapon jammed into the back of their General.

"We cannot allow these men to leave," said one of the soldiers.

Tomas leaned into view, and raised his crossbow.

"For the last time," said Nuria, losing her patience. "I want every man withdrawn from this building. Lower your guns and withdraw."

Teeth clamped together, she waited for what seemed an eternity but was only a matter of seconds. The men complied and retreated. Stone nudged her forward and she carefully went down through the building until they reached the ground floor. She could see through the broad, grilled windows that the streets were teeming with citizens and soldiers. The bearded man shoved the revolver against bone and she led the way along a short corridor, through two connecting rooms, where two House security lay face down in blood and into a back hallway where metal stairs lead into the basement.

Boots clattered loudly as they descended. They walked quickly to the shutter. Nuria saw more bodies.

Stone pulled the revolver from her and spun her away from him, shielding Tomas and Emil, who backed into the dark tunnel.

"Where does that go?" she said.

Stone said nothing.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

"I'm low on bullets."

She stared at him, unsure if it was a sick joke, and quickly realised it wasn't. She felt cold air ripple her shirt.

"There'll be chaos," she said, tipping her head. "Up there, in the city. You killed everyone ..."

"I don't care," said Stone.

"Who are you?" said Nuria, lowered her hands. "I need to know who you are."

"Why?"

"I want to go with you."

"You're not coming with us," said Emil.

"Stone," said Tomas. "We need to go now; we really need to get out of here."

"She'll cut our throats the moment we sleep," said Emil.

"If I stay I hang for treason," said Nuria. "The House of Leadership is dead but at Hamble Towers there are powerful men still alive. If Gozan was telling the truth and Facundo is there then we all need to get far away from here. The people hated him. This city will erupt."

She looked at Stone.

"You might as well shoot me. I'd prefer a bullet than a noose."

He grabbed her by the arm.

"Try anything and you die."

* * *

Breathing laboured from running, they emerged back in the ruined hamlet, coughing from the poor air below.

Nuria was astonished at where they were. She stared back at the city walls and doubt filled her mind. Was she really prepared to abandon her life and career for this? Wander the wasteland with a pack of murderous strangers? She knew that was a lie. She had no life inside those walls. She had rigid routine and daily training but no life and no life partner and she hated what the uniform had become, sullied by the men who ruled, abusing loyalty and honour. She had been sickened by the recent hangings. If she ran now, if she turned her back, she would be cast a traitor and would be executed if she ever returned, but if she went back, explained what had happened, how Gozan had set in motion a devastating chain of violence, how he had kept a former Chancellor concealed all these years ... would anyone listen? No, she would have to run, find a way, stay with this group until she could forge a path of her own.

Stone waved them all down. Crouching behind a collapsed wall, he reached into his pocket and took out his scuffed binoculars. He focused his attention on the city gates. They were still closed but the patrols on the walls and in the watchtowers were more active. He saw soldiers running back and forth. Spotters on the walls were looking across the wasteland. If a hunting party of soldiers were to be sent out after them there was no immediate sign of it. He knew they had to keep moving. Crossing the open land in daylight was reckless but they could not hide here until nightfall.

He made hand signals and led them away from the hamlet, across the rough scrubland, towards the mountain track.

As they trekked up the rocky slopes, his spirit felt crushed, his thoughts were a mess. He had kept the name for a lifetime and had seen nothing beyond the moment when Gozan would be killed. He had even been robbed of that. Seeing the man dead and bleeding had healed nothing within. It hadn't mattered if it was his or Emil's bullets that had killed him. His death was meaningless. The man had looked at him like dirt on his shoe.

Absorbed in thought, it was Tomas who first became aware of the noise vibrating towards them.

On the horizon, travelling hard east, dust clouds swirled, as a column of metal powered along the highway.

"No," said Emil.

The air filled with the snarl of engines, the ground churned up with dozens of tyres.

"Who are they?" asked Nuria.

Stone recognised the lead vehicle, mounted with the heavy cannon, fitted with armour, daubed with the emblem of a blood streaked sun.

"The Cleric," said Stone.

TWENTY THREE

The group watched from the mountainside as the column of six vehicles slowed and then stopped next to the battered jeep Tomas and Emil had driven. Once more, the Cleric had not journeyed with all his tribe. Stone wondered if they were conserving the supply of black energy they carried.

The Cleric stepped from the largest vehicle and Emil recognised him instantly. The iron grey beard. The long iron grey hair plaited down his back. His tall frame. His neat clothes. His arms covered with ink.

She felt her stomach crawl as he placed one boot in front of the other.

"It's him, Tomas."

Her words were little more than a hoarse whisper. She had watched this man rip into her life, inflict agony and death on friends and loved ones. She clamped a hand across her mouth. Both Tomas and Nuria peered down at the tall man who walked with purpose towards the wrecked jeep. The Cleric stooped and looked inside. He straightened his back and stared up in their direction, hiding amongst the rocks and brush.

"I recognise this vehicle," he said, his booming voice echoing through the mountain crags. "It is one of ours."

Emil shivered as he spoke, his words scaling the featureless paths and winding tracks, the dead trees and rocky verges. She shrank down and Tomas curled his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

"This belonged to my warriors, the ones I sent after you, Tongueless Man."

A sweet scent wafted into Stone's nose and he sniffed as Nuria moved alongside him.

"Who are they?" she said.

He ignored her.

"If this car is here," said the Cleric. "Then you are here, here with your little family of freaks."

He paced as he spoke, widening his arms, gesturing theatrically with his hands.

"Will you face me, Tongueless Man?"

He waited for a response but Stone would not be goaded.

"You killed many of my warriors back in Ford and you killed my woman, Bann. I miss her dearly."

Stone's face showed no reaction. It had been Marge who had shot Bann, but he supposed it didn't really matter.

"Well, show yourself, Tongueless Man, legend of the wasteland. Isn't that what they call you?"

Nuria glanced at Stone. Was he the Tongueless Man? What kind of title was that to have?

"Give me the mutant, and I will spare your life. Gallen is not for her. She is a thing. To be destroyed. Gallen is a beautiful place ..."

"Go back to Chett," said Stone, to Nuria, rifle in hand, lining up the shot. "This isn't your world."

His finger went to the trigger but suddenly he heard movement from behind. He swung round and immediately fired. Tomas peeled away from Emil, snatched his crossbow and released a bolt as a large number of warriors leapt at them. They must have found a short way up the mountainside as the Cleric spewed his words. Dressed in trousers and long shirts, hide and fur, they carried knives and machetes, swords and axes. The Cleric had forbidden them to use guns. He wanted prisoners, battered and cut, but alive.

Stone's rifle was useless at such short range. He drew his revolver and fired until it was empty, gunning down four of them, bodies twisting and sprawling in the dirt. He glimpsed Nuria wrestle a warrior to the ground, take his machete and slice his throat open. He was impressed. She swung at another, hacked at him repeatedly until he was still. As she whirled round to attack again she was clubbed from behind. Stone grabbed an axe and sunk its edge into a warrior's neck. Tomas had no time to reload his crossbow so he used it as a club and struck one warrior down but then they grabbed Emil and a sword blade was held to her throat and the fight went out of him.

Stone continued to swing, bloodstained axe in one fist, empty revolver in the other; breaking jaws and hacking men bloody until he saw they had captured all his companions.

He became surrounded by jabbing sword tips. Breathing hand, he dropped his weapons.

The warriors picked up the discard weapons and herded the prisoners down to where the Cleric waited.

Without a word, the tall man lunged at Stone, burying his fist in his stomach. Stone stumbled but kept on his feet. The Cleric hit him again, in the stomach, then cracked a punch across his face, and then another. His warriors lifted Stone from the ground and held him up, his face and nose cut. The Cleric hit him once more and Stone sagged in the warrior's arms.

"Put him in the truck," said the Cleric. "He is the most dangerous of them. He will die very slowly."

The warriors dragged Stone to one of the vehicles, his boots drawing long lines in the dirt.

"One day soon, Tongueless Man," said the Cleric, not looking back. "Your name will have true meaning."

The truck was heavy with rust and dents and the paint had long faded. Its wheels were covered with wire mesh. One of the warriors opened the back door and then unlocked an iron gate. It swung open and they bundled Stone into it. He turned and drove his foot into the warrior's face. The man sprawled to the ground but several other warriors crowded in on him, carrying spears. They stabbed at him, forcing him into the cage and locked it.

Tomas, Emil and Nuria stood bruised and weary, with arrows and spears and swords pointed at them;.

"You are the companion of the Tongueless Man," said the Cleric, speaking to Tomas. "Do you have a name?"

He spat on the ground and the Cleric shook his head disdainfully. He nodded to his men. Two warriors closed in on Tomas, both armed with bows, strings taut, arrows notched. Tomas felt the tips press against his throat.

"I ask you again," said the Cleric. "Do you have a name?"

"Tomas."

"Hmmm," nodded the Cleric. "A strange name."

"Miles in that direction are hundreds of armed men," said Nuria. "Preparing to move on your rabble."

The Cleric turned his focus onto her.

"Men with guns," she continued. "And armour. Men who have been trained to kill. What have you got compared to that? A couple of bashed up cars and a few bows and arrows? I reckon you should turn and run whilst you can."

"You are very brave," he said, considering her. "Where are these men with guns? I cannot see them."

He shielded his eyes from the weak sun, looked around the desolate wasteland, and saw only the closed city gates in the distance.

"I still cannot see them," he said, his warriors chuckling. "Where are these heroes with guns and armour?"

He slapped his chest.

"I am the only hero here. Cleansing Gallen of those who do not belong. Put her in my vehicle but tie her up. You will be my new woman."

Nuria shouted and struggled as she was dragged away. The Cleric turned to Emil, who stood with her legs feet on the ground.

"You have spirit," he said, and then thrust his open hand at her. She cried out, startled, as his fingers curled around her throat. She gasped and kicked as he lifted her from the ground, slowly tightening his grip, savouring every moment. She was so much lighter than the thing he had killed before. Tomas yelled and shoved the two men with bows away from him. They were never going to fire. He saw the handle of a knife in the belt of the nearest warrior and reached for it. Nuria shouted from inside the Cleric's armoured car, her hands tied. Stone banged on the iron gate at the back of the truck and yelled loudly.

Tomas hurled himself at the Cleric and plunged the knife into him. The tall man howled and his grip loosened on Emil. She slumped to the ground, in a heap, unmoving. Tomas yanked the knife free but the Cleric grabbed his wrist as he attempted to stab him a second time. A bunched fist struck Tomas square in the face and his head snapped back. The two men rolled in the dirt, the knife flashing between them, blood leaking from the Cleric's open wound.

Stone couldn't see what was happening but he could hear Tomas grappling with the Cleric. The ugly sound of flesh striking flesh filled his ears and then came the sudden swoosh of a bladed weapon. There were loud grunts and groans and shouts of encouragement from the Cleric's warriors. He scanned his eyes around the cage but there was nothing he could use to get out. He continued to bang on the iron gate, in utter desperation, until a warrior came to the truck and yelled at him.

Stone pushed an arm through the bars and caught the man's wild hair. He pulled his head back, with every ounce of strength he possessed, and cracked the man's skull repeatedly against the gate.

A pistol was sticking out of the man's belt. He took it and let the warrior slide to the ground.

He pointed at the lock and fired.

Kicking open the gate, Stone vaulted from the truck and turned to see the Cleric bury a knife deep into Tomas's chest. He yanked it free and plunged it in again. The Cleric roared and Stone watched his friend drop to his knees, soaked in blood, his head jerking unnaturally, his body shaking. Tomas fell sideways into the dirt. Instead of cheers from his warriors, the Cleric saw the looks of concern from his men. He turned, almost in slow motion, his long plaited hair swinging, his neat grey beard spattered with Tomas's blood. He saw Stone raise the pistol and pull the trigger. The gun clicked empty. Stone hurled the empty weapon in frustration and charged at the Cleric, fists clenched. The Cleric slashed the air with blood stained knife.

There was a sudden burst of automatic fire, bullets coming from all directions, raking lines across the sand.

Stone ducked and threw himself next to Tomas. He rolled his friend onto his back and lifted his head from the ground, staring into his dark eyes.

There was movement and shouting all around him. The warriors were in panic and the Cleric was running. He vaulted into the back of a pickup truck, clutching his bleeding knife wound, and it sped away in a cloud of dust and squealing tyres.

Soldiers in armour were moving amongst them. Black gloves holding automatic weapons.

Stone cradled Tomas's head. He stroked his pale face. He lowered his head and gently touched foreheads.

The warriors left behind hesitated and then released arrows and hurled spears but they were massacred in seconds.

Nuria was pulled from the large armoured car, her ropes cut.

Several warriors threw down their swords, dropped to their knees, hands thrust in the air, pleading.

The soldiers approached and sprayed them with a hail of bullets.

Nuria saw Stone, clutching Tomas, and ordered her men to hold off. Despite the rumblings in Chett, they still recognised her as their General.

She crouched down beside him. He was knelt in a spreading pool of blood, long hair covering his face.

There was a coughing sound and Nuria turned to see the strange girl with the copper coloured hair and one eye.

"Where's Tomas?" she croaked.

TWENTY FOUR

It was Captain Andozini who led the assault beyond the walls. Through the tunnels beneath the House of Leadership and up into the ruined hamlet.

Now, he had the unenviable task of sorting out the mess. At thirty years of age, with a life partner and three children, military responsibilities and a dying mother to contend with, the eruption of violence across the city had him teetering on the edge. It was becoming harder to get up and face it. He had become irritable with his men and shoddy with his responsibilities. His unit had been grumbling for weeks and months at how dull and routine everything was. A few disagreements in the marketplaces. Petty vandalism in Progress Square. A couple of protesting SOT members. There had been no challenge. Even he had joined in with the complaining, momentarily forgetting his position and rank, but these past few days had him wishing the clock would turn back.

Closing off his personal problems, shutting down all thoughts of his loved ones, he was eager to get his teeth into this situation and prove to his men, his commanders and himself, that he was worthy of the title of Captain. His first instruction had been to secure the bearded man. He had witnessed, at first hand, the carnage this man had unleashed through the House of Leadership. He had butchered over twenty people, mostly ministers and security officers, but also several administrators, stewards and engineers. There had been only five survivors. It had taken six of his men to restrain the bearded killer.

Andozini had then ordered a forward recon party, equipped with flares and automatic weapons, in case the raiders chose to return to the area in greater numbers. At this moment, he was working upon the assumption that this was one group of raiders, not two separate factions, despite the protests of General Nuria. Not that she would be General for much longer. She had been complicit in allowing this group to escape and strong rumours were already circulating within the city that she was a key member of the SOT. He did not know there was a distinction between the separatist organisation - one real, one fake - but he was unsure that a highly intelligent and decorated officer such as Nuria fit the mantle of traitor.

The one eyed girl was also to be taken into the city. His men were wary of her, initially, until he barked the order at them again. Emil was lifted to her feet, half dragged, half walked, her face stained with tears as she looked back at Tomas's body, lying crumpled and bloodied on the ground. Her throat was dark with bruises where the Cleric had attempted to choke her.

Both prisoners were shackled and hooded, then led back on foot to the city under armed escort.

Andozini ordered for all the bodies and vehicles to be searched and stripped of weapons and supplies and for this to be stock piled at a distance. He sent a single man back to the city with orders for the production factories to release ten three wheeled transport bicycles, with a rider for each.

Slowly, the Captain circled the tribe's abandoned vehicles, astonished at how well armoured they were.

"These will need to be destroyed," he said. "I want all the bodies placed with them and then torch the entire lot."

The last of group of his men responded. One by one, the bodies of the Cleric's tribe were carried and tossed onto a heap next to the armoured cars. None of the men had any experience of driving a vehicle but they knew how to roll one. Gradually, the vehicles were pushed together with the grisly stack of bodies piled beside them.

"Last one," called a soldier.

"Not him," said Nuria. "I want him taken to the city."

Glances passed between the remaining soldiers.

"He's to be cremated there. Not with this trash."

Captain Andozini shook his head, firmly.

"Burn him with the rest," he said.

"Captain, I'm ordering you to take that man's body back to the city."

"No more orders, General," said Andozini. "That man was responsible for over twenty deaths. He burns with the rest of them."

"I am the senior military commander in Chett," said Nuria. "There is no ministerial authority left in the city and I am taking temporary control until we can work a way forward."

"First Minister Mason has already assumed control. Until we can work a way forward," he added, echoing her words.

Mason, thought Nuria, of course, she had locked him in the detention rooms to cool off.

And he knew, mostly, everything. She was complicit in Gozan's crimes. He could easily condemn her to the hangman's noose.

"I'm not placing you under arrest, General," said Captain Andozini. "But I am under orders to escort you back."

His tone was now more respectful. She understood he was only following orders. She nodded and walked with him, throwing back one final glance. Tomas's body was draped across the others. She lowered her eyes and watched her shadow on the parched ground, noticing how Andozini's gun was casually aimed in her direction. She had to think fast. Establish how she was going to approach this with Mason. She was confident that she would be able to smooth things over with her own men. She had been held hostage in the Chancellor's office. Essentially, this part was true. Gozan had been gunned down and she had been forced to aid the killers in escaping from the House of Leadership. All plausible. All credible. She was a respected officer. She knew whispers might spread but she was strong enough and resourceful enough to fend those off.

Mason would be a far trickier prospect. He knew the truth of the SOT _,_ a mere concoction. Perhaps, he could forgive this. Besides, the scheme had belonged to the Chancellor, not her, but Mason knew that innocent lives had been taken in this plan. Her actions alone were treasonable and she knew he could have her executed or, at the very least, exiled into the wasteland. Had Mason's network of spies and informers discovered a real sub-organisation within a false one? And, with all he had heard and uncovered, would he now look much deeper into the murder of Chancellor Jorann?

There was a terrible explosion behind her. A ball of fire erupted into the sky. Thick plumes of smoke billowed outwards as the vehicles and bodies were licked by giant flames.

Of course, she reasoned, as a door set within the main gate was unlocked and opened, she had a prize that could solve all her problems. What Mason, and the city, was blissfully unaware of was the existence of Chancellor Facundo, safely tucked away in Hamble Towers, enjoying a life of luxury until sickness had taken hold of him. She wondered how long he had left. She had seen the sickness claim a person in a week. Others could last a year or two, forever blighted by symptoms, but bluntly refusing to succumb to death.

She noticed an immediate frosty reaction from the soldiers on the gate as she passed through it.

A column of three wheeled bicycles arrived a moment later. Each rider wore a blue cap, dark red overalls and black boots. The inner door was closed and locked. Patiently, they wait for the main locks to be released and there was a loud groan as the huge gate opened. The riders pedalled through towards the remaining soldiers, lingering beyond the walls, guarding the stockpile of weapons and supplies, the fire raging behind them.

Andozini led Nuria into the barracks and then the detention area. He took her to the room she had placed Mason in. It was empty.

He locked the door on his way out.

* * *

A single overhead light buzzed faintly. There was no window.

She turned her head at the sound of approaching footsteps but they went past the door and quickly receded. The walls, floor and ceiling were stark, spartan. A low bunk with rumpled sheets and a blanket. A sink. A water bucket. A toilet bucket. A folding metal chair. The air was stale and warm. Nuria filled the sink with recycled water and washed. She eased down onto the bunk, stretched her legs, crossed her ankles, folded her hands behind her head and waited. She was a solider. She had been drilled to wait. Gozan flashed into her thoughts. Curled on the floor. Body punctured with bullet holes. Then she saw Jorann in almost the same position. She felt she should shed tears for both men but the sadness that bluntly refused to fill her eyes was for something far greater, a much deeper loss than she could comprehend, almost intangible. Her city was dying, she felt it as a physical wound. Her world had fractured, all that was left was gone; the deep divides that had weakened Chett had finally snapped and, after so much bloodshed and pain, irrevocably so, she feared.

She bunched her shirt and wiped the sheen of sweat from her face, wincing at the bruises she had suffered on the mountain. What had she been thinking? Fleeing with them like that? Running away from her home? This city was no longer her home, she told herself. It was a shell. It was a prison. She heard footsteps outside once more, and voices, too, and this time the door was unlocked and First Minister Mason was shown inside by Captain Andozini. The Captain closed the door and remained next to it, an assault rifle hanging from a strap around his neck.

Mason reached for the metal chair and set it down in front of her. His face seemed hollow, drained of confidence.

"I'm very sorry about Gozan, I know you were close," he said. He seemed sincere. "You witnessed it?"

"Yes."

Mason shook his head.

"I can't imagine how horrific that must have been. Captain Andozini walked me through the building."

He licked his lips.

"I never made it into the Chancellor's office. Bodies and blood everywhere. These men are monsters. I cannot begin to fathom why this attack happened."

"The bearded man spoke to Gozan before he was shot by the girl," said Nuria.

"Captain Andozini, can you fetch us both some drinking water," said Mason. "It's very hot and uncomfortable in here. Yes, I will be fine. Please make sure the water is cold and fresh."

Andozini complied. Mason waited for him to leave before leaning forward in his chair.

"There is talk you are a traitor," he said. "That you are a leader within the SOT. How can this be? You and Gozan told me the SOT was a fictitious organisation, engineered to cause resentment in the city, but the streets are filled with real members. What is going on? Nuria, please, you must tell me everything. There are hundreds of them out there. Too many to be a false government group. There are genuine protests and I have some very angry people making a lot of demands. They want new laws, new rights, and the freedom to choose ministers. Can you imagine that? Citizens selecting who is in charge. It's anarchy out there. They're real, aren't they? You fooled Gozan into believing he was orchestrating a fake group when, in fact, you forged a real one. That's right, isn't it?"

She swung her legs off the bunk and sat forward.

"I am the only one left now," he continued. "Chett is hanging by a thread. Gozan told me the balance was delicate, that one man or one woman could tip it. This bearded man has certainly tipped the scales one way. I need you to help me tip it back."

The door opened and Andozini returned with two canteens. He handed one to Nuria who gulped it down. Mason took a more restrained sip.

"Captain, I have to discuss matters of high security with General Nuria. I need you to be outside for the time being."

The Captain hesitated.

"Yes?"

"First Minister," said Andozini, his tone weary. "We have made over a hundred arrests this morning for damage to factory machinery, destruction of bicycles, incitement ... my men are responding to every incident but we ... I need to know what we are fighting for. If you are all that's left then ..."

"Yes, Captain," said Mason, getting to his feet. "You're right, I am all that's left, which means you need to follow your orders and contain the situation. Arrest on sight any SOT protestors. Update me one hour from now."

"And is General Nuria still in command of the Red Guard? Because there is a lot of ..."

Mason was becoming irritated by the delay.

"Captain, carry out your orders. Keep the people safe. Do whatever is required."

"Can I take the extra men posted at Hamble Towers?"

"Extra men?" frowned Mason. "What extra men?"

Nuria looked up.

"The General's orders, First Minister," said Andozini.

"With the House under attack," said Nuria. "I assumed Hamble Towers might be next. A lot of powerful men reside there."

"An update in one hour, Captain," said Mason. "And take the extra men from the Towers. Ensure all the regular security is on duty."

He waited for Andozini to leave before taking his seat once again. He sipped from his canteen and set it down on the floor. He ran his eyes over Nuria and puzzled at why she had no life partner. She was intelligent, composed, athletic, beautiful. He pushed the thought aside, for the moment.

"For the last time, Nuria, you have to tell me everything. I can help you but I have to know everything. I was disgusted with Gozan's methods and I am sorry I reported you to him."

"That showed guts," she said. "It's what you should have done. What is happening to the prisoners?"

"I understand the man is being questioned," sighed Mason. "I think we both know what that means."

"And the girl?"

"She has been placed in a solitary cell. She scares the men. She is a very odd thing."

"Do you believe I am a traitor?" asked Nuria.

Mason paced the detention room. He felt suffocated by the lack of fresh air. He kept his back to her, hands on his hips. "Yes, I do," he said, deep regret in his tone. He faced her once again. "Though I agree with your motives, just not your methods and actions. I think Gozan truly loved our city and I think you do as well. We both know there are things wrong here. These people have nothing." He gestured at the closed door. "What is their life? To work hard and watch the convoys cycle over to Hamble Towers? Have you ever been inside Hamble Towers, Nuria? They serve real food there. Sliced halk. And gleff. Have you ever tasted gleff? They cook gleff in a kitchen. A kitchen. And where does that come from? There are no pastures here where animals graze."

"The Supply Expeditions," she said. "I know. We range a long way to hunt them."

"Do you think any of those luxuries are found inside a Citizen Parcel? Exactly, you and I both know the answer to that question."

"Then you agree with the SOT? These are the topics were argue and protest over, Mason. We want to be heard. We need to be heard."

"But they are dissidents, separatists ..."

She stood, hurling down her canteen.

"Can we stop painting each other with names? Mason, you have an opportunity to take Chett into a new age. Can you understand what is happening? We are stagnant. It's the same day over and over again for so many years. Nothing is ever different. Gozan said Chett keeps turning. Maybe it needs to stop. The deaths today, the murders at the House, yes they are truly awful, but with Gozan and the ministers gone, there is an open door for a different way. Sit down with the SOT. Listen to them. Are you going to run this city alone? If you don't trust me, fine, but sit down with the SOT. They have good ideas. We have good ideas. I am a loyal officer, Mason, and I would never betray the city. I just don't agree with the way we run it."

Mason absorbed her words, rubbed his unshaven chin, thought for a moment.

"Captain Andozini mentioned a third conspirator, what happened to him?"

She sank back onto the bunk and sighed heavily.

"He was killed. Outside. By raiders. A tribe called the Blood Sun. A man named the Cleric killed him."

"So these men were part of a tribe? Are they planning to attack again? Because we are being pulled ..."

Nuria raised her hands, cutting him short. She began to explain how the three of them had attacked the House, finding an unknown route into the building, from the lower level, killing anyone who had stood in their way, until they had reached the Chancellor. She told him that the bearded one was called Stone, also known as the Tongueless Man. She had no idea why. The Cleric had called him this. She asked him if he recalled the conversation with Chancellor Gozan, concerning the raids he had carried out years before, wiping out settlements and camps.

"Stone suggested he was a child from one of these camps and witnessed the slaughter of his family."

She continued, telling Mason how they had used her as a shield to escape back through the underground tunnels.

"But you left with them?"

"I wanted to run."

"All what you just told me about how much you care about this city, why would you run?"

"What are you planning to do with them both?" asked Nuria.

"The man and the _freak_ will hang."

"Gozan committed some very terrible crimes, Mason. Please don't make the same mistakes."

"I have over twenty murders, Nuria. What do you suggest, I reward them?"

"No, use him."

"Who?"

"Stone."

TWENTY FIVE

The cells were located in the basement beneath the detention rooms.

The military compound at the south gate was bustling with prisoners. A never ending stream of citizens were being marched or dragged inside by Red Guard soldiers and processed. Names and crimes were listed and then they were bundled into already cramped cells. There had never been a day like it. Not for decades. The Corporal in charge, although in control of the situation, was struggling to fit them all in and had serious concerns over safety as fights broke out over nothing. They would have to be transported to another compound or he would have to begin releasing the citizens charged with lesser offences.

Mason had placed Nuria with a two man escort. They had been instructed to return her to the House of Leadership once she had concluded her interviews with the prisoners. They led her from the detention rooms and into a noisy lobby, crammed with soldiers and citizens protesting innocence. She felt eyes burning into her back. Whispers were rampant; she had been labelled a traitor. She reached the stairwell and was taken to the lower level where the smell of sweat filled her nostrils. Men and women of all ages were packed into cells, shouting and banging on the bars, yelling at the guards, arguing with each other. She had never seen a cell block under such strain.

The soldiers led her by the cells and through a gated entrance into another corridor at the far end. It turned left and reached a locked door where two guards sat behind a broad desk. Keys and weapons dangled from hooks on the plain brick wall behind them. A thick set man, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, took down a bunch of keys and led them through into a narrow and much gloomier cell block. The lighting was dim and the right hand wall was lined with heavy doors. She was taken to the third cell. The jailer unlocked it and the heavy door swung outward. A locked iron gate behind it allowed her to see inside. She dismissed her two man escort and the jailer. At first, they were reluctant to leave until she reminded them that she still held the rank of General, even though Gozan had demoted her.

Stone was on a wooden bench, at the back of a damp, poky cell. There was a bucket in the corner. There was no window and no light. They had stripped him, shaved his beard and cut off his hair. His bare skin showed fresh bruises and a number of older scars. His back was against the wall, a towering man even seated. Strong arms. Strong legs. His hands clutched his thighs. She watched him slowly open his eyes. She stared at him for a long time, saying nothing.

"They're going to hang you," she said, finally, leaning against the gate. "You and the girl."

Stone met her eyes.

"Was Gozan responsible for the deaths of your family?"

She wet her lips, waited.

"You addressed him as a Captain. This must have happened a very long time ago. Before I was born. Is that what you meant when you said _I kept your name_?"

Stone nodded.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you."

She glanced around the cell.

"I can get you out of here. You and the girl."

She leaned against the barred gate.

"Is this why they call you the Tongueless Man? The silence you keep? Let me tell you that after tomorrow it won't matter either way. They'll hang you both and burn your bodies."

She shook her head.

"I kept his name," croaked Stone.

He rose from the bench and she eased away from the gate. The jailer looked down at her, curiously.

"It means I never forgot," said Stone, his bare feet padding across the cold floor. "I was eight years old he came."

Nuria stared at his bald head and roughly shaved face. He looked a completely different man, more menacing, savage.

"General Jorann, Captain Gozan," he said, voice low. "I had a father, a mother, a sister."

Stone gripped the bars, his knuckles whitened.

"He butchered them all."

"... _we rode out into the wastelands and hunted them down, every last one of them. Jorann was my General and I was his Captain. We had horses then ... we found their villages and settlements and burnt them to the ground. We killed them. The men, the women, the children ... we spared no one."_

She lightly brushed his fingers.

"I am so very sorry."

"Why?"

"For what he took from you."

Stone released his grip on the bars.

"I'm not afraid to die."

"You look cold," she said.

He sat back on the bench. She couldn't help but stare at him.

"They burnt your friend."

Silence.

"Put him with all the other bodies."

Silence.

"I saw how much he meant to you.

Silence.

"I don't want them to hang you," said Nuria. "I can make a deal to get you both out of these cells and out of the city."

Silence.

"Well, shall I make the deal?"

Silence.

"I'm not going to let either of you die. You achieved more in a few hours than years of sitting around a table talking."

She marched from his cell.

"Do you want to see the other one?" asked the jailer.

"No," she said. "And get him some clothes."

* * *

There was chaos.

A mob of disgruntled men and women had run amok through the Trader Zone, tipping over rickety wooden stalls and smashing anything to hand. A few stall holders had resisted but they had been pushed aside and beaten. The Red Guard, hopelessly outnumbered, had drawn clear from the area. A fire was started and boxes of passes were burnt. The rampage spilled onto the derelict waterfront and made its way towards the recycling plants. School children had been evacuated. Progress Square had been sealed. Protestors knelt on the paved stone, hands tied behind their backs. Soldiers patrolled, waiting for instructions of where to escort them. It seemed a lifetime ago that the city had pulled together in the wake of Chancellor Jorann's assassination. Families barricaded apartment doors. Worried faces peered through the windows.

Nuria watched from Gozan's office. His body had been removed but a large patch of blood stained the carpet.

"I can name Chancellor Jorann's killer," she said. "But I want you to release both the prisoners to me. I will take them from the city. Myself as well."

"No," said Mason. "No, that is not a deal I will make with you."

She turned from the window. Went to the Chancellor's desk and took his bottle of drink from the bottom drawer.

"We know two masked men were involved."

She spat the cork from the bottle, swigged hard.

"Search Gozan's private rooms. You should find the weapons there. He was one of the gunman."

"And the other?"

She drank some more, and shook her head.

"I don't know."

Mason stamped to the office door to close it but hesitated as he saw smears of dried blood along the empty corridor.

There was no one left to listen.

"It was you," he said, lingering in the doorway. "Wasn't it?"

It was early evening and the sky was darkening. Reports had reached Mason that crowd trouble was subsiding and the mobs were dispersing. Whatever burning fury they had felt seemed already to be gradually extinguishing. Large groups had gathered at Progress Square, since the soldiers and prisoners had left, and chose to sit and wait and hope. Several vocal men and women moved amongst them and their words called for calm and peaceful protest, openness and honesty, truth and fairness. Fires were lit and citizens huddled to keep warm as the cold night descended. No one wanted to go home.

"When I was assigned to head up the Chancellor's fake organisation, I hand picked my team, personnel that I could trust. At first, we created minor rumblings within the city, distributing literature, small acts of vandalism, heckling at assemblies. We would then arrest citizens who were poor workers or had health problems or leanings towards violence. They would be exiled or placed in cells for a period of time, punished for the crimes we had committed. Sometimes they were hanged. People grew to hate the unrest the SOT caused, the distress, and the imbalance. Gozan was pleased. Chancellor Jorann became gravely concerned and instructed him to hunt them down and dismantle this rebellious network. He tasked the man responsible for creating the SOT with destroying them."

The bottle went to her lips.

"But it soured. It had changed us. The rebellion we spoke of, we began to talk at length about it. And so we formed the _real_ SOT _._ Not all of us were part of this second organisation. And now we intended to cause real unrest. We wanted citizens to stop and think and look at how little freedom they had. Ministers told them what to think and feel ... why are you smiling?"

"Something Gozan said," said Mason, quietly. "He told me we should always tell our citizens what to think and feel."

"Our numbers grew," continued Nuria. "Minister Pondly was our most prominent member." She saw the shock on Mason's face. "It's a shame he died today. He helped engineer the work withdrawals. We became a group no longer made up of disillusioned military. So it was agreed, sometime ago, that I should work much more closely to Gozan. Follow in his corrupt footsteps. The goal was to expose him but he was a very clever man, Mason, you have to understand how hard it was to break him open. I had to become his shadow. I had to prove myself as evil as he was."

"So you agreed to kill Chancellor Jorann to convince him of your loyalty?"

"Yes.

"You were the second assassin?"

"Yes."

Her face went pale, her eyes began to water. She doubled over and threw up, the vomit loudly spattering the floor. Mason took the bottle from her, set in down on the desk and offered her a handkerchief. She mumbled as she accepted it from him, wiped her mouth and then threw up a second time. Mason grimaced at the smell as she retched and walked to the window. He pushed it open. Gusts of cold air flowed in. It was dark outside. The city seemed calmer. He could see fires glowing from Progress Square. He would soon go down and address the people once he had finished here.

"I understand why you went ahead with his plans, but it doesn't take away that you help assassinate our Chancellor."

Nuria joined him at the window. She closed her eyes as the air blasted her skin. Mason looked at her blonde hair, cut short at her neck, shaved at the sides. Her skin seemed very smooth and clean. He cleared his throat and moved away from her.

"I don't think you need to tell me anything more, Nuria. Tonight, I will go into Progress Square and offer myself as the new Chancellor. If the people want me."

"And if they don't?"

"Then tomorrow we enter a new age," he said. "Just as you said."

He stopped at the door.

"I want a deal."

He shook his head.

"The prisoners hang in the morning," said Mason. "Nothing will change my mind on that."

TWENTY SIX

The early morning wind whipped through Progress Square, stirring nearly a thousand citizens.

Men, women and children woke bleary eyed to a new world. Bodies ached from sleeping rough on the ground. Stomachs rumbled. Food bars were handed around. Muted conversation began. Another Chancellor had been murdered. The members of the House of Leadership had been slaughtered. The world had been turned upside down, shaken and put back askew. First Minister Mason's stumbling and nervous address last night had instilled little confidence. SOT members were more vocal than ever, demanding an election, demanding the right to choose who ruled. Nervous faces wondered where this was all going to end. The marketplaces had been wrecked and burned. There was nowhere left to trade. The plants and factories and warehouses were silent. There was nowhere left to work. Shame fell upon many. This wasn't what they had wanted. Fury had gripped them, had needed to be unleashed.

As the sun penetrated the grey clouds, fresh fires were lit and soldiers joined to warm themselves. Talk grew louder, more animated, and there were even moments of sporadic laughter. A convoy of three wheeled bicycles sailed by, another delivery for Hamble Towers, some things never change, and the children waved at the riders, who wore standard blue caps with dark red overalls and black boots. Litter blew across the dirt road as the convoy continued to thread its way past apartment buildings with broken windows. The cyclists had red faces from the sharp morning air. The lead rider continued to pedal hard and the others followed.

" _No," said Mason. "I'm sorry. I don't understand why you want to help two cold blooded killers."_

" _Because they did what we only ever dreamed of doing, Mason. They tore it all down and now you have to start again."_

He stared at her, stunned by the outburst.

" _I can make you the most loved Chancellor in our city's history," she said._

" _How can you say that? I might not be Chancellor. If we follow the SOT and give the citizens an election they might not choose me."_

" _Let them have an election," she said. "Insist on it. But I can still promise you a victory, no matter who stands against you."_

Mason was silent for a moment.

" _How?"_

The cap was pulled down over his shaven head. His face was blank, his eyes betrayed nothing. The overalls covered his bruises and scars. Wind rustled the boxes strapped to the back of his three wheeled bicycle. He was the sixth in a convoy of ten. He observed Hamble Towers for the first time in his life with little interest. It was only bricks, windows and doors. There was no life. There was no breath. He knew only the wasteland, the burnt soil, the bandits and the quick draw of his revolver. This world meant nothing to him. He would continue to tear it down.

Ahead, a curved bridge spanned a narrow waterway. There was a checkpoint with a lowered barrier at each end. The convoy slowed and the lead rider handed across paperwork. The riders took a moment to arch their backs and blow air from their lungs as the soldier on duty yawned and studied it. He looked along the convoy, counted ten riders, handed back the paperwork, and then waved them through as the barrier was raised. One by one, they cycled over the bridge, the water beneath grey and unsettled. The guard at the second checkpoint had already lifted his barrier and motioned them through without making any further checks.

" _That's a lie," said Mason. "You're trying to trick me."_

He reached for the bottle, looked for a glass. Unable to spot one, he wiped the palm of his hand across it before swallowing a mouthful. He grimaced, revolted by the taste, and shook his head as the foul liquid burned down his throat.

" _That's my offer," said Nuria. "Ex-Chancellor Facundo, convicted of hundreds of crimes, for the lives of the two assassins."_

" _The people will be in outrage," he said, gesturing furiously._

" _The people will not care," she said. "You need to wake up, Mason. Give the people the most wretched criminal this city has ever known. Worse than any desert raider that has knocked at our gates. Worse than the killers you want to hang."_

" _And he's here?"_

" _He never left."_

" _Where is he?"_

Across the bridge was a squat white walled building with a flat roof. A watch tower had been constructed in the centre and was ringed with sandbags. Coils of razor wire covered the front and sides of the roof. A neat footpath led to double doors but the lead rider turned left onto a path of packed dirt that ran along the front of the building. The path took a sharp right turn and the stream of bicycles reached a broad iron door set in the wall of another building. This was easily three or four times the size of the first building. There was a door to the right with a bank of glass windows. The lead rider dismounted and went through it. Two armed men stood on duty and a woman was hunched at a desk, wearing a knitted jumper. She looked up and smiled at him as he handed over his paperwork. She fiddled absentmindedly with her hair as she studied it. The lead rider made a comment and they both shared a joke. The two armed men remained stony faced. Happy with the paperwork, she filed the document and kept her eyes on the lead rider as he went back to his tricycle. There was a dull buzzing sound and the iron door began to slide open.

" _I need a guarantee first," she said. "All three of us; clothes, weapons, provisions."_

" _Go on," said Mason._

" _You also need to release them tonight."_

" _Why don't I march over to Hamble Towers right now?" he said, attempting to call her bluff. "Take Captain Andozini and a detail of men and flush him out?"_

" _The unit who guard Hamble are elite security. They were all recruited by Gozan when he held the rank of General."_

" _Loyal to Facundo?" said Mason. "What kind of a man was Gozan? I am so ... frustrated by all this. Bodies everywhere and now I have to let the killers go?"_

" _If you present Facundo to the people," said Nuria. "They will follow you. No matter what the SOT want."_

" _So your true colours are shinning through. You don't really care about the SOT, do you? You just want to run."_

" _You're wrong," she said. "I want you to listen to them, and bring them into the House of Leadership ... but someone has to lead, Mason."_

Stone pedalled into a huge warehouse. Despite the early hour it was a hive of activity. Nuria had told him that once in here he would be able to slip away and he realised it would be fairly straightforward with this many people around. He saw towering racks of wooden shelves lined with pallets of boxes. Men and women in matching caps, overalls and boots worked at tables, unsealing boxes and transferring the contents into smaller, more decorative containers. Each one was marked with a series of numbers. Stone saw they were periodically referring back to clipboards bristling with notes as they unpacked and repacked the items that had been produced in the plants and factories.

The convoy turned left into an area reserved for transportation and he followed, easing himself from the saddle.

"Can you believe it?" complained Grant, his front tyre flat. "The rubbish they send you out on. I mean, how can you reach your targets? I'm going to be stuck here again."

No one seemed particularly interested; concern was focused on hurriedly removing the straps on their baskets.

"Go find a mechanic," suggested one of them, finally. "You must know them all by name."

The comment bought a few chuckles. Shaking his head, Grant stamped away to look for a bike mechanic. A couple of riders rolled their eyes. They began carrying the boxes into the central sorting and repacking area. Stone lifted his first box and mingled with the other delivery cyclists. A young man accepted the box from him and opened it. Stone glimpsed an assortment of brightly coloured clothing, neatly folded. He returned to fetch the second and third box. There was the buzz of conversation all around. A number of stewards were overseeing the work, seemingly happy with the speed and efficiency. One glanced at Stone's bruised face but made no comment. He had seen a few bruised heads already this morning after last night's trouble. He was simply glad to have a full workforce, unlike at the Worker Zone.

As Stone reached into the basket for his final box, he hesitated and took a look from the corner of his eye. He waited a few seconds, taking in the positions of the stewards. He walked more slowly this time and, at the right moment, veered away from the main area of the warehouse and disappeared into the aisles of palletised boxes. He immediately quickened his pace. Kept in a straight line. Eyes forward. The racking reached to the ceiling. Several men went by him wheeling boxes on trolleys. They nodded a greeting but Stone ignored them. Unfazed, they continued on their way. He stopped at a gap in the pallets but then a man confronted him.

"Hey, have you seen ... oh, it's you," said Grant. "Can you believe I'm still trying to find a mechanic. I could spend half a morning in here looking for one. Did you hear me back there? I got a flat. That drives me mad. They never check the tyres properly at the factory. I mean, they give you targets but ..."

Tomas flashed before his eyes, the Cleric standing over him, grinning and laughing with a bloody knife in his hand.

"Are you okay? I mean, you look a bit roughed up. Were you out smashing everything up last night? You know, I've never seen you before. I know all the riders. Maybe I should go and get ..."

Grant's words tailed away. He had seen the coldness in Stone's eyes, devoid of any emotion, his face a mask of nothing. He wanted to walk away very quickly and fetch a steward or security or both because something was very wrong with this man and now, as he studied him further, he was certain that he had never seen him before on any of the replenishment runs to the Towers. He opened his mouth to say something but Stone lunged at him, fast, dropping the box he was carrying, and effortlessly snapped Grant's neck without hesitation. He caught the man's body and dragged it into the gap he had spotted moments before. He folded the body over and then drew boxes from a nearby pallet to conceal it. He picked up the box he had been carrying and walked briskly forward.

The racking on the left ended abruptly at several doors. He heard one of them unlock and saw a man emerge from what he guessed was a washroom. The man nodded a greeting and this time Stone nodded back. Carrying the box in front of him, Stone pushed through the door and slid across the lock.

" _Here," she said, offering him clean boots, a pair of overalls and a blue cap through the cell gate. "Get dressed."_

Back against the cell wall, his cold eyes glared at her.

" _Stone, you have to get dressed. Stone. Stone."_

It was the first time she had spoken his name.

" _Quickly," she told him._

He had dressed slowly. His body ached. He had no interest in what she wanted from him. Mason had sent her with written orders that the prisoners were to be moved under her command. The jailer had refused the written notification and sent a runner to locate the First Minister. She had waited for him to return, irritated and edgy. Even then the Jailer had been wary at freeing both prisoners. Nuria had assured him that Mason had provided an escort. Restrained, Stone and Emil were led past the cells, up through the lobby, out of the barracks and taken to a nearby apartment.

" _What do you want?" said Emil, her arms folded. Behind her, Stone was silent, dressed in his uniform._

" _You both hang in the morning. I've made a deal so that you can leave the city instead, as exiles. I'll be exiled as well. We all have to leave together."_

" _What deal?" said Stone._

Mason walked amongst his people in Progress Square. Last night they had protested and rioted. This morning, tired, they wanted to talk and they wanted to be heard. He had been overcome with nerves last night, processing everything he had learned from Nuria, agreeing to her deal, but this morning, after a few hours sleep, he felt renewed. It felt a new beginning for Chett. He had to make this work. The mercenaries who attacked the House of Leadership would hunt down Facundo and he would stand trial, again, winning Mason his victory. He had no intention of honouring any bargain. The killers would be executed and Nuria would be expelled from the military and give the choice of exile or becoming his life partner. His desire for her had grown stronger now that the shadow of Chancellor Gozan had evaporated. Today would be a memorable day, a day of many victories.

Nuria had directed him towards the main speakers within the SOT, men who would want to have his ear and offer ideas of how life here should proceed. As he continued to show a fresh and radical side to a House of Leadership Minister, Nuria waited in the small apartment several miles away. Standing by the window, she watched Hamble Towers.

"He must be inside now," she said.

Emil sat in a large chair, knees drawn up to her chest. Her face looked tired. She couldn't stop thinking of Tomas.

Only once did she glance at Nuria, wanting to say something, but unable to construct the words, to knit them together, her thoughts a tangled mess, her head ready to explode. She wanted to shout and scream. Nothing in her life was fair. Nothing. Everything was horrible. Everything was pain. She understood Stone more than ever now. This was why he said nothing. How could you even begin to express how wretched you felt inside? Tomas was dead. Her family was dead. Her village was dead.

" _Bring him out of there alive. That's the deal."_

Emil looked between Stone and Nuria.

" _And they let us go?" she said._

" _Yes."_

Nuria ran her hands through her hair. Her face looked tired.

" _Facundo for your freedom. Stone, listen to me, Stone, please. This is the man Gozan served all his life. It was Facundo who ordered Jorann and Gozan to attack your village and many others. It was Facundo who Gozan wanted the girl for, to heal a monster."_

Stone met her eyes.

" _The most hated man in Chett's history, with the blood of thousands on his hands. Do this for everyone you have ever lost."_

He stepped from the washroom. The uniform he wore was black with a red tunic. A holster was on his right hip. A silencer was concealed in his left pocket. He carried a helmet in one hand. In the other was the box, open now, and containing the overalls and cap. He abandoned it on the nearest shelf. He pulled the helmet down over his head and scratched his bare chin. Nuria had told him the uniform would give him all the access he required. He kept walking and saw a door that would lead him into the main thoroughfare of Hamble Towers.

He went through the door, into an impossible world.

TWENTY SEVEN

A man and a woman strolled arm in arm, smiling and exchanging words, consumed with each other. Stone frowned at them as they went by, how they held on, how their eyes never strayed. He saw Tomas and Emil in the van, curled beneath blankets. He blinked.

He stood on a thoroughfare paved with stone; thousands upon thousands of stones, flat and clean, one set neatly against the other. He had known soil and sand his entire life. Running shirtless as a child with the sun burning his shoulder blades. His boots clicked against the stones. He stopped and saw decorative fountains of water. The water had been left there, rippling in the light breeze. He was astonished that no one seemed troubled by it. He had cut men down for water, to survive. There were benches, around the fountains, hand carved from wood, with shapes and curls. There were great rows of trees, planted in tidy groves, tall skinny trunks, flat broad leaves. He had never seen a living tree. He wanted to reach up and put his hand on one, feel the texture against his skin. Tomas had never seen a live tree, either. Stone took a few paces forward. His head was dizzy. Citizens milled by. Some had one or two night passes that had expired and they walked briskly towards the compound that handled all incoming and outgoing visitors. Others enjoyed a more leisurely pace, most probably owners of lifetime passes.

Stone observed dozens of small buildings with flat roofs. Brightly coloured signs hung above broad windows. In one he saw people sat eating and drinking at tables whilst women in white shirts waited on them. A woman went past and glanced at the bewildered expression across his battered face, only half concealed by the helmet. Above the smaller buildings were scattered apartment blocks. They were not squashed together in uniformed lines, as with the rest of the city. He saw curved balconies and curtained windows that scaled ten floors into the red streaked sky. Pairs of security guards, in black and red, roamed walkways and footpaths. The main tower loomed above him, dwarfing everything. He needed to locate the entrance quickly. His astonishment at his surroundings would soon be noticed. He noted the patrols and mirrored their pace as he walked along a footpath of loose stone that crunched loudly beneath his boots. He rested his hand on the holstered pistol on his hip, drew a slither of reassurance from it.

He passed an arched walkway and saw steps descending between two white walled buildings. He trotted down them and reached the banks of the waterway. He was alone. A railing ran the length of it. He clasped it, gripped hard and stared at the grey water below, slopping around. This was hopeless. How was he supposed to smuggle this man out of here? He had already counted six armed men. How many more would there be? Did he really care? He had spent a lifetime waiting to exact vengeance and Gozan was dead, but so was Tomas, and the Cleric had escaped, although wounded. Stone had survived knife and bullet wounds. He doubted this would end the Cleric. The lunatic would soon reunite with his tribe and continue his quest to cleanse Gallen. Stone knew he would track him down and make him pay.

Across the water, he could see the walls of the city. He was much closer to the wasteland than he realised.

He looked down at the uniform, of black and red. Nothing tied him to this. He could make his escape now and flee the city, free to hunt the Cleric, night and day, but what would Tomas have done, standing here with him, crossbow slung over his shoulder, a crooked smile on his lips. What would his friend have suggested? Cross the water, scale the city walls and escape, abandon the blonde woman and the one-eyed girl? He knew the answer already. Tomas had wanted to protect the girl when they had first tracked her in the dead city. He had been uncomfortable with the plan of using her as bait to lure out Gozan from the very beginning but he had kept with Stone's plan. Stone had seen Tomas's eyes look to her, as he had seen the girl look to Tomas. He had never looked that way at anyone. He made me better, Stone realised, he made me so much better.

Resolved, he glanced up at the city wall, turned his back, and retraced his steps. The main tower, where the former chancellor Facundo resided, stretched high above him. Nuria was a fool. They would never honour any deal. He was a murderer. Once he obtained the prize for them he would be imprisoned once more or executed there and then. The tower was a death-trap. The mission was suicide. He had to get away from here, back to them both, and find a way out.

As he emerged from the walkway a voice shouted in his direction.

"Hey!"

He glimpsed two security guards talking with the woman who had passed him a short time ago. She was pointing at him. Stone quickly sprinted along the thoroughfare. He heard the sound of boots running behind him as the security men gave chase. Stone ran fast, arms and legs pumping. There was no siren and no shots had been fired. Nuria had told him that the soldiers here were very different; better trained and also vigilant as to not create panic amongst the elite residents. He disappeared back into the noisy warehouse and bolted the door behind him.

Stone briskly retraced his steps along the aisle of palletised boxes. There was loud banging behind him as the security guards tried to gain access. In seconds, someone would have that door open and they would be inside. He sprinted forward, taking the silencer from his pocket and fixing it to the muzzle. A steward crossed his path but Stone clubbed him across the face before he could open his mouth. There were shouts behind him and the sound of men running.

He burst into the main area of the warehouse, a throng of packers and riders and stewards.

"Stay where you are," shouted a group of security guards, brandishing batons.

Stone ignored them and ran for the shutter. It was closed and he saw no way of opening it. There was a door to his left and he went through it, coming face to face with two armed soldiers. He fired without hesitation, spewing silent bullets, taking down both men. A woman in a knitted jumper screamed. He pushed past her and out onto a dirt path, the same one he had cycled in on.

He began to run for the bridge when an automatic weapon opened fire from above and bullets sprayed the ground.

The shooter was in the watch tower, plenty of cover behind brick and sandbags. Stone ducked back towards the room he had come from and grabbed the woman. The door crashed open and a security guard came through. Using the woman as a shield, Stone fired around her, instantly killing the first guard. He backed out of the building, the woman begging him to let her go.

Stone edged around the building, towards the watch tower and saw the shooter raise his weapon. His finger hesitated when he saw Stone holding a hostage. It was the edge Stone needed. He aimed and fired once, dropping him. He let the woman go, who ran back into the office, into the arms of the security guards. Pistol in hand, Stone ran for the bridge. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. His heart was surging.

A single guard was on duty. It was the same one he had seen earlier when he had crossed with the bike convoy but, this time, the young man looked far more interested than he had earlier. His black uniform and red tunic were neatly pressed and a shock of blond hair was tucked beneath his helmet. His visor was raised and his freckled nose had been recently broken. He saw the silenced pistol pointing at him, dropping his rifle and ran.

Stone began to cross the bridge, keeping low, snatching the rifle from the ground. A bullet whistled past him. He holstered the pistol and slammed the rifle stock against his shoulder. The guard at the other checkpoint was crouched. Stone dropped to one knee, as a bullet ripped the concrete inches away from him. He aimed for the torso and squeezed the trigger. The guard went down and his weapon clattered noisily on the ground. He was aware of the movement behind him and he rolled and turned in one motion, landing on his back, firing straight down the bridge, drilling a bullet through the head of a pursuing security guard.

Stone fled, back into the city, running with all his strength, into the streets of Chett, along the dirt roads with grimy buildings all around him.

He peeled off the helmet and red tunic and discarded them. He saw a gap in the buildings ahead and disappeared into it. Back against the wall, he slowly looked along the street. There were a few citizens around. Children had been kept away from school and at least one parent, possibly two, was at home, contemplating the days to come. Few had returned to work at the plants and factories. Only at Hamble Towers had the workforce arrived in numbers.

This wasn't his world and he was hell bent on getting out of it.

TWENTY EIGHT

Calmly, Stone approached the apartment building where he had been moved to last night.

He had never realised how quiet life was in the wasteland. A day could pass without any words spoken or any sound except for the wind or the crackle of a fire or the hiss of boiling water. Here, there was noise all around him; voices spouting empty words, hundreds of shuffling feet against the dirt, distant cries and shouts, slamming doors, opening windows, the squeal of bicycles. His head was spinning, the same as when he had seen the inside of Hamble Towers. He shuffled along, hands thrust in his pockets, following a group of men who were discussing yesterday's riots. He felt an abject outsider amongst these people but realised that, with his bald head and roughly shaven chin, he looked very different to the monster Captain Andozini had led through the gates the day before. Despite his bruises, no one was paying any attention to him; he was blending in, becoming one of them, no more than a common citizen.

The building had three floors each with two separate windows. Two soldiers were stationed outside a closed wooden door. A number had been crudely painted on it. The men wore the uniforms he had seen yesterday, in the House of Leadership, different shades of brown. He saw a figure ahead and recognised him at once. It was the Captain who had captured them on the outskirts of the city. Stone quickened his pace, moved closer to men in front of him, kept behind them until he reached the top of the street. The Captain hadn't spotted him, he was more concerned with the frail looking woman hobbling alongside him, leaning on his arm and holding a cane.

Stone loitered on the corner. He saw a small knot of soldiers talking with security from Hamble Towers. No sirens had sounded. Nuria had been right; everything was more discreet in there. The discussion was heated with plenty of arm waving and, at one point, two men squared up to each other. Stone followed the brown uniformed soldiers from the corner of his eye. He watched them split into two teams and disappear into the streets.

He looked back at the apartment building. The two soldiers were sent away and the Captain and the old woman went inside.

He waited a few moments before walking slowly back down the street, falling in pace alongside a young man carrying a satchel across his back. He glanced at Stone and drifted away from him, crossing to the other side, narrowly avoiding a clutch of bicycles speeding through. A sudden blast of wind chilled Stone, his face and head horribly exposed. He edged open the front door of the building and stepped into a small lobby where a single flight of stairs rose to the next floor. He could hear the faint sound of singing coming from somewhere above him. There was a door to his left. He listened but heard nothing.

Drawing his pistol, he twisted the handle, finding it unlocked.

Captain Andozini was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the slowly opening door, both hands on his hips. There was a broad table in front of him and the old woman was lying on it. Stone could only see her feet and ankles. Emil was nowhere to be seen but Nuria was smiling down at the old woman, whispering words of comfort. She glimpsed Stone and her reaction instantly alerted Andozini, who turned rapidly and reached for his sidearm.

Stone thrust his pistol in the Captain's face.

"No," he said.

His hand was steady, the silenced muzzle almost touching Andozini's nose. With his left hand, he reached for Andozini's gun. It was then he saw Emil. She was leaning over the old woman, gently moving her hands against her skin, the way she had with Tomas, the way she had with him. Her left eye was closed. She looked in a trance. Andozini stared at Stone for a moment and then turned his back on him. He was of no concern at the moment.

"This is my mother," he said, quietly. "She has the sickness. There is a lot in my family. My father died from it, and my brother. Now my mother has it. I can hang for bringing her here."

Stone kept the pistol pointed at the back of the Captain's head as Nuria approached him.

"Forget the gun," said Andozini. "I'm not here." He gasped as the lumps began to disappear from his mother's body. "Nor are you."

Nuria put her hand on Stone's arm.

"Where is he?" she said. "What happened at the Towers?"

He pulled away from her and glanced around the room. There was a scattering of comfy chairs. On a low table were empty bottles and food wrappers. Curtains were half drawn across the windows and people were casually walking by.

"Why didn't you bring him?"

Emil opened her eye. She saw Stone and offered him a thin smile. Andozini helped his mother to sit up and eased her off the table. She told him not to fuss.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I can't believe it," she said, almost breathless. "It's gone, I can feel its gone. I can't wait to ..."

"You can't tell anyone," said Nuria. "Not yet, please, this has to remain a secret. For now, anyway."

The colour had drained from Emil's face. Stone watched her drop into one of the comfy chairs.

He turned back to Andozini, the pistol lower but still on him.

"You have to stay here," said Stone. "For now. Then we all leave together."

"Why do you have a gun?" asked Andozini's mother.

The Captain spoke quietly to her, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay, just as he had promised it would. He led her away from Stone and offered her a chair to sit in. Grumbling, she sat, looking around the small apartment for the first time since arriving. Her nose curled up at it. She tried not to see Emil. She hadn't seen a disfigured person for a very long time. They had lived in Chett once, hundreds of them, but were exiled by Chancellor Facundo. The memory tinged her with a pocket of shame. She had been one of thousands who had stood by and said nothing as they were herded from the city. She glanced sideways at Emil. The girl had grown pale and sickly looking.

"Thank you," she said.

Emil didn't hear her, or didn't want to respond.

"I said thank you. I'm sorry for your ... your condition ... the way you are. It doesn't bother me, I want you to know that."

She nodded to herself, satisfied.

"Why does he have a gun?" she asked her son.

Stone told Nuria he needed fresh clothes. She pointed into a second room. He handed her the Captain's weapon. He found himself in a room with a large bed. There was a long bag and his pack and fresh clothes. He removed the black jumpsuit, pulled on trousers, tightened the belt and buttoned up a dull coloured shirt. From his pack he retrieved his ammunition belt and revolver. He thrust his arms into a long coat. Nuria stood in the open doorway, the gun on Andozini, her troubled eyes focused on Stone.

"Your rifle is in the long bag. I have more weapons and supplies as well."

He nodded, pulled on his pack, ran his hand over his bald head.

"Tell me what happened over there?"

She lowered her voice.

"Mason will be here soon, looking for Facundo."

Andozini heard the name and his eyes narrowed.

"Facundo?"

"You're not here, Captain, remember?" said Nuria.

He got to his feet as Emil rocked forward in her chair and threw up. Andozini gasped and his mother turned her head in disgust. Emil rose shakily, mumbling, and threw up a second time.

"What's wrong with her?" said Andozini. "Look, we're leaving. Mother, come on, thank the girl and let's go."

"I already did," she complained, and they both headed for the door.

"The moment you leave here," said Nuria, brandishing the Captain's pistol. "You'll have us arrested."

"I know about the deal," said Andozini, jabbing his thumb in Stone's direction. "I know he has to do something for Mason and you all get to leave. How do you think I found you? You don't have anything to worry about. I'm not going to say a word to anyone."

"Stone?"

"I just want to get my mother home, General. I'm in as much trouble for being here as you."

"I don't have any rank, Andozini."

"Go," said Stone, reloading his revolver, and tucking it into his belt. "Emil."

* * *

Andozini left first, with his mother at his side, no longer holding onto his arm, she had even forgotten her cane. Stone followed them from the lobby, scanning the street, the rooftops, and the corners.

The soldiers who had been on duty had not returned. Andozini walked his mother along the street, without looking back. Stone moved in the opposite direction with Nuria and Emil behind him. He remained watchful. Each second that he spent in this city chipped away at him. He was suffocated by it. He needed to get back out there. The road split, a right hand turn towards Hamble Towers, two left hand turns, one banking down towards Progress Square, one curving up towards more residential areas.

"Straight ahead," said Nuria.

The dirt road had been churned over by thousands of boots and bicycles. It ran straight to the gate. It was busy with citizens and Emil felt horribly exposed as they walked amongst them. Her scarred skin and patched eye drew fleeting glances until one woman stopped and pointed at her. Stone's harsh stare sent her scurrying away. Nuria felt her heart beginning to race as they drew closer. She had no trust for Captain Andozini but he had been right, to expose them would be to expose himself. She needed Stone to explain what had happened inside Hamble Towers but he was refusing to be drawn on it for the moment.

Stone kept his long coat flapped over, concealing his weapon. Ahead was a single brick guardhouse with no one inside. Another stood by the gate. A gun tower was manned by two more men. They would all need to die for them to escape. Nuria stiffened as a three soldier patrol rounded the corner ahead and stepped into the street, nodding at their fellow companions on the gate. The three men began to stroll down the middle of the street.

Nuria kept herself in Stone's shadow, desperate not to be recognised. Emil shuffled forward, trying to walk in line with her. The soldiers came closer, boots kicking up dirt, eyes roaming left to right. They took in Stone because of his height and build, the bruises on his face and the menace in his look. The soldiers drew level, spotted the two women alongside him. They passed by without question until one of them stopped and looked back.

"General Nuria?" he called.

Stone turned, fast, his coat flapping open, the revolver in his hand. He fired three rapid shots, the chamber spinning round, lining up the next bullet. All three went down, in a bloody heap.

"Run," he yelled.

His hand reached for Emil and he sprinted towards the gate, dragging her with him, firing at the lone soldier raising his weapon towards them. He missed and swerved towards the brick guardhouse as the soldier tore the dirt ground around them with a rattle of bullets. Nuria drew her pistol and fired. The bullet ploughed through his chin and slammed him against the gate. She watched him lose his weapon and fall to his knees, gasping and clutching at his face, his hands becoming slippery with blood. The main gun in the tower poked out towards the wasteland and could not be manoeuvred around to fire back into the city. Quickly, the two soldiers reached for pistols. Stone fired and one of them screamed as he fell. Nuria ran to the inner gate, carrying the long bag, firing up at the remaining guard, bullets peppering holes in the tower.

The soldier ducked, thrust a hand over the edge of the tower and fired blind. Emil shuffled along the wall of the guardhouse, glancing back along the dirt road. She grabbed Stone's arm, forcing him to fire wild.

"Look," she said.

Sun in his eyes, Stone squinted and could see a large patrol of Red Guard soldiers outside the apartment building they had vacated. A man wearing a smart suit was amongst them. He assumed this was Mason, the last Minister of the first city. A thin smile spread across his lips. Bullets were raining down around them as the remaining guard in the tower continued to fire blind, now shooting from two pistols. When both weapons clicked empty the man lifted his head into view, his hands raised.

"I give up," he shouted.

Nuria unlocked the inner gate and eased it open. Grit blew into her face. Stone led Emil towards it, swivelling to fire at the unarmed guard, a single bullet finishing him.

As Nuria and Emil went through, onto the dry soil, Stone grabbed the bag from her and took out his rifle. He pushed the stock against his shoulder and looked along the barrel at the guards sprinting towards them. He fired twice, hitting the front two, sending the rest scattering for cover.

His finger went to the trigger again. He tracked the suited man running, fleeing back the way he came.

A single bullet sent Mason sprawling face down in the dirt.

TWENTY NINE

Shadows danced across the stony ground. The fire crackled and licked stumps of dry crumbly wood

The Cleric stared into the flames, watching them consume. His stab wound was a dull ache. Once clear of the soldiers, he had ordered his men to abandon the highway and make camp. He had washed the wound and burned it shut. He lightly fingered the rippled skin and felt shame at how it had scarred his beautiful body. He took some comfort at the life he had snuffed out but, once again, a deformed thing had escaped him, as at the town of Ford, and the Tongueless Man had been there both times. The man had killed his warriors and the Cleric would carry the burden of these failures. It was a shocking emotion, one he would carefully hide, for to reveal even a glimpse of weakness would risk losing the faith of his tribe.

He leaned towards the fire, wincing at the pain in his stomach, and sliced off a piece of meat.

"What is this?" he said, chewing.

"I don't know," shrugged Rodrigo, letting out a burp. "It moved fast and had patchy fur."

"It is disgusting," said the Cleric, swallowing it down.

"I know," said Rodrigo, getting to his feet, yawning. He flexed his cramped arms and legs before taking blankets from the back of the pickup truck. He rolled several out for the Cleric and one for himself. He eased down onto his back and stared up at the black night sky.

"What are you doing, Rodrigo?" asked the Cleric, wiping his greasy lips with the back of his hand.

Rodrigo turned onto his side, propped himself up on one elbow, and blinked at the Cleric through the fire.

"I have driven all day, I am tired, Cleric. Javier is keeping watch. I was hoping for some sleep."

It was a statement, not a question, and the Cleric spat on the ground, and shook his head.

"I am not yet tired. My mind is full." He tapped the side of his head. "You will stay awake with me."

His thoughts continued to be clouded with disappointment, how he had besmirched the long oath he had taken as warlord of the tribe. Inside he yearned to be reunited with the rest of his people. He thought of the wrecked vehicles he had seen on the highway, more of his brave warriors lying dead, a failed ambush of the Tongueless Man. He was acutely aware the black energy was running low and he feared exhausting it and leaving his people stranded so far from home. His heart cried for Bann, his woman, and Ramon, his most trusted of commanders, both dead in that rotten town.

Yet he had no interest in discussing any of this with Rodrigo, a common warrior. What truly pinched his skin and chilled his flesh was not the icy wind, but the dark of the night, and it was gripping him with more urgency than ever before. He needed his tent and more fires and more warriors. He felt something crawling behind him, turned sharply and saw nothing but blackness.

"I have a joke," said Rodrigo, sitting cross legged on his blanket.

"A what?"

"A joke, you know. I want to share a joke."

"With me?" frowned the Cleric. "You want to tell me a joke?"

"I want to raise your spirit, Cleric," he said. "A joke can make you feel good for a short moment."

His words came out staccato. Before today, he was another face in the tribe. Now, here he was, at a campfire with the mighty warlord of the Blood Sun. He felt privileged, elevated, honoured.

"You want to cheer me up?" said the Cleric.

"I won't tell it, if you don't like jokes."

"I like jokes. Tell it."

"Are you sure, Cleric, I am only trying to serve you."

"Tell your joke, Rodrigo, raise my spirit."

Rodrigo hawked, spat on the ground.

"It goes, it's this, it's ... what do you call a car that doesn't need black energy?"

"Hmmm."

"What do you call it? A car that doesn't need black energy?"

"I don't know."

"A horse," said Rodrigo, grinning. "A horse."

The Cleric glared across the fire at him, and then his face lifted, formed a smile, and then came rumbling laugher.

"A horse," he said.

"A horse," repeated Rodrigo, laughing. "A car that doesn't need black energy, a horse."

"You have raised my spirit, Rodrigo. Tell me another, please, another joke."

"I don't know anymore," he said, scratching his beard. "I am sorry."

Rodrigo picked up his knife and cut more meat. He handed a piece to the Cleric, and then helped himself.

"This is foul," he said, chewing. "I would rather eat flesh."

The Cleric laughed.

"Do you know any stories, Rodrigo? Something to pass the hours until the light reaches us?"

He rubbed his hands briskly together and held them to the fire.

"Tell me a story."

Rodrigo shook his head, slowly.

"I don't know any stories, Cleric. I know the words of a song."

The wind howled through the small camp, sparking the fire. The Cleric wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

"Can you sing?" he asked.

"No," said Rodrigo. "No, no, I have a terrible voice. No, Cleric, I cannot sing the song."

"Then speak the words, Rodrigo, raise my spirit again."

The younger man finished his meat and licked his lips.

"We make them run, we make them hide, they're all very scared, of the Blood Sun tribe."

The Cleric nodded, and smiled.

"We'll make you mute, we'll make you dumb, the Blood Sun tribe will tear out your tongue."

He closed his eyes, relaxed his body.

"We'll burn your homes, we'll burn your flesh, we'll ..."

Rodrigo stopped abruptly. The Cleric heard a muffled cry. The smile left his face. His eyes remained shut.

"You raised my spirit, Rodrigo," he said. "Thank you. I am sorry you have left us."

He finally opened his eyes and saw the outline of a woman with sun coloured hair, standing over Rodrigo's body, his throat slit. He recognised her as a companion of the Tongueless Man.

The Cleric clenched his teeth as a revolver was jammed into the back of his head.

"Up," growled a voice.

He got to his feet, slowly, his tall frame creating a long shadow. His long white shirt was patched with dried blood. He clasped his hands together, He had no weapon. He stood by the crackling flames and a look of surprise crossed his face.

"What has happened to you, Tongueless Man? I cannot recognise you looking like this?"

Stone remained silent, his right hand steady.

"And the woman, you still have the woman? She is not of this world."

"Shut up," said Nuria, wiping her bloodied knife on Rodrigo's clothes.

Emil emerged from the darkness. She stared at the tall man.

"Here she is, the freak. Gallen is not for you."

"Just shut up," said Nuria, sheathing her knife and drawing a pistol.

"So, which one of you will kill me first?"

"None of us," said Stone, handing the revolver to Emil.

A look of concern flickered across the Cleric's face. He was uncomfortable with the Tongueless Man's tone.

Before he could say another word, a fist slammed into his stomach, ripping pain through him. He gasped, took several steps back. Stone hit him again, a furious, arcing punch, splitting the Cleric's lip. The Cleric roared and charged Stone, curling his strong arms around him, lifting him from the ground. Stone head butted him and forced open the Cleric's grip. He swung a volley of punches, driving his bunched fists into the Cleric's face. There was a gut curdling sound as he splintered the Cleric's nose and left him howling on the ground.

Stone grabbed the man and dragged him across the ground. He gripped his head and forced it towards the fire.

"No," pleaded the Cleric. The heat grew intense. He could feel his flesh burning. He screamed.

Nuria gasped, and stepped back. Emil watched on, emotionless.

Stone lifted the Cleric way from the fire. The man's skin was singed. He punched the Cleric in the stomach, doubled him over, then grabbed his wrist and thrust his hand into the flames. The Cleric screamed as his skin rippled in the fire. The tall man stumbled to the ground, his breathing laboured, his body shaking. Stone sat astride him and tore open the Cleric's shirt. He then gingerly lifted a piece of wood from the fire and rolled it onto the man's exposed chest.

He moved away, and took his revolver from Emil. Nuria stared at him. Despite all she had seen, all he had done, this had shocked her.

Stone nodded at Emil.

She walked calmly to the Cleric, lying prone in the dirt. She knelt down beside his shaking body and looked into his dark eyes. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to tell him; how his ways had ripped her life to pieces, shattered everything good and kind and loving. He had devastated her home, robbed every hope and dream. And he had walked away from it all, smiling and righteous. And once more he had invaded her life, tore from her someone very precious. There was so much she wanted to say; too much she wanted to tell him but there would never be enough words so she chose none.

Instead, she pressed her hands to his skin, first healing the knife wound Tomas had inflicted.

Her eye rolled shut as her hands passed across him.

"No," he groaned, flinching. "No, what are you doing? Leave me alone, no. Get her away from me."

Her hands continue to travel his body and then she stopped, suddenly, and eased back onto her feet.

"I did enough," she said, looking down at him. "Enough to keep you alive. You won't bleed to death and you won't die of shock or fever but you'll be marked for life."

The Cleric pushed himself into a sitting position and stared at his disfigured hand.

"What have you done to me? You have cursed me. You have made me one of them. Why? Why?"

He was on his feet. He slapped his chest. Saw the scars the fire had left.

"No, no, no."

He felt the crumpled skin on his face.

"I cannot look like this. You cannot do this to me."

Stone opened the doors of the pickup truck.

"Kill me, Tongueless Man. I killed your friend. I loved killing him and I have killed so many of her kind."

Emil and Nuria climbed into the cab.

"You have made me a monster. My tribe will never accept me like this."

Stone slid behind the wheel, fired the engine.

"You can't leave me here ... not like this ... not in the dark."

In the mirror, driving slowly across the rough terrain, Stone saw the fading outline of the Cleric on his knees, sobbing.

THIRTY

The horizon began to brighten.

Stone lowered his window. The morning air was cool and fresh. The road stretched north, potholed and empty, and banked a bleak landscape of low hills and craters. He would drive until the tank was empty. And then he would walk. And he would keep walking. He had told Tomas he had seen nothing beyond avenging his dead family, the fire would extinguish inside, he would be free to fade into nothingness, but he had been wrong. He glanced at Emil. She was asleep, lightly snoring, her head resting on Nuria's shoulder, who was also asleep. He savoured the silence and listened to the throbbing of the engine.

He turned onto a new highway, forging deeper into the wasteland. The black energy ran out an hour later. The vehicle stuttered and ground to a stop. The jolt woke Nuria and Emil. The three of them abandoned the truck, collecting packs, head scarves and weapons from the flatbed, and began to walk. The highway cut through a land of rugged hills. On the horizon, possibly four or five days walk, was a range of mountains, jagged peaks reaching into the washed out sky.

"Are we heading for the mountains?" asked Nuria, a black scarf covering her head.

Stone was quiet.

"Do you have a plan?"

Emil glanced at Stone. Goggles covered his eyes and his face showed no expression.

"Maybe you should have stayed," said Emil, gently.

"Where? In Chett?" She shook her head. "Can you imagine what it's like there now?"

"No," said Emil, not really sure what the woman wanted to hear.

"There's no one left now," said Nuria, glancing at Stone. His beard was growing through, straggly and wispy. A head scarf covered a fresh layer of fuzzy hair. "They will have to start again."

"Like us," said Emil. "Starting again."

Stone stepped off the road, crouched down and poked at the ground, shifting the dirt with a gloved hand.

He got back to his feet and continued walking.

"Stone?" said Nuria, catching up with him. "Where are we going?"

Once more, he ignored her question. Emil, hot and thirsty, was becoming irritated by her.

"Stop badgering him," she said. "We don't know where we're going. This isn't like your city where everything is neatly put together."

The three of them stopped, in the middle of the road.

"Where are we going?" said Emil. "What's the plan? Are we going here? Are we going there?"

"There's no need to mimic me," said Nuria, quietly.

"Either stick with us or go back," said Emil.

Stone lifted his goggles. His eyes were rimmed with tears.

"I was thinking of Tomas," he said.

Emil bit her lip. Nuria looked away.

"Two people," he said, wiping his sleeve across his face and pointing. "At least a day ahead, judging by the camp I found."

He lowered his goggles and strode forward, leaving the highway, his boots finding a way across the hard sand, his long coat flapping in the wind. Nuria and Emil said nothing and followed behind him.

A few hours later, they found shade and rested, finishing off the water and half of the rations Nuria had stowed inside Stone's backpack. As they crossed the barren land, they noticed sparse patches of grass punching through the sand and the rock. As darkness fell, they built a small fire and took turns sleeping. Stone never woke Emil for her watch and left her sleeping all night. In the morning, he stamped on the dying embers of the fire and buried it. Nuria looked back and saw no trace they had been there.

She had seen him at his worst, blasting bullets in the House of Leadership, at his weakest, naked and shorn in the cells, at his most emotional, touching foreheads with his murdered companion, yet still she found him a cold and soulless husk. Nuria realised and understood now, more than ever, how he had earned his somewhat gory nickname. She wondered what type of man he might have become had Gozan never attacked his settlement and murdered his family but that was pointless speculation. Yet, despite all that, she could not take her eyes from him and he was dancing in her thoughts constantly and she wanted to hold his hand and then a rush went through her. She knew it was something she could never act upon. He would cut her down in a hail of bullets. This was his world. She was only a guest.

They crested a low hill, the grass spreading before them, a broad swathe and Emil and Nuria gasped.

"Look at them," said Emil.

The halk ran, bucked and chased. Tall beasts with narrow powerful legs and spotted brown fur.

The three of them stood for a long time, in silence, admiring, respecting. It was Stone who disturbed the moment, drawing binoculars from his pocket, looking beyond the threadbare grassland dotted with running wildlife. He saw forests and hills and valleys and, further, the mountains, much closer now. He tracked across the face of the forest and saw a man looking back at him from the trees. He was shirtless, his head shiny and bald. He wore dark trousers and boots and a woman with cropped blonde hair was at his side.

Stone lowered the binoculars, smiled.

"The Map Maker," he said.

The air was much cooler beneath the canopy of trees. Emil's eyes shone brightly as she looked around at them. Fallen leaves and branches crunched beneath their footsteps as they entered the forest, following one of many paths. Behind them, the halk galloped and played, bent long necks to chew the grass. Stone would bring one down later, so they could eat and would have fur and hide to trade. He knew the Map Maker was close. It was only a matter of time before he revealed himself. As they reached a glade the man bore down on them. Stone saw a woman and recognised her as Sadie, from Ford, Marge's daughter.

"Not this time," said the Map Maker. He was armed with a bow and quickly notched an arrow. "Drop all your weapons. This time I'm giving the orders, Stone."

Emil was unarmed but Nuria tossed her pistol onto the ground. Sadie dashed forward to pick it up.

"Your gun, Stone."

Stone didn't budge.

"We're not looking for trouble," said Nuria.

"Quiet," said the Map Maker, straining the bow, switching his aim to Nuria. "Who are you?"

"Nuria," she replied. "From Chett."

The Map Maker smiled, and began to laugh.

"The first city," he laughed. "The only city. How wrong you all are."

Stone drew, pulling his revolver fast, swerving his body to avoid the arrow. The Map Maker swung the bow towards him, let go, and the arrow thudded into a tree trunk. He lowered the bow and stamped at the ground angrily.

"Please don't shoot Doug," said Sadie.

"Drop the pistol," said Stone, turning his revolver at her.

She threw it down without hesitation and Nuria quickly retrieved her weapon.

"What are you going to take this time?" said the Map Maker.

"Nothing," said Stone. "Doug?"

The Map Maker nodded.

"That's right, I have a name. A real man's name. Doug. That's me."

He began to furiously scratch his bald head, turning the skin red raw. Sadie went to him and gently lowered his hands. She was whispering to him but none of them could hear the words.

"What's wrong with him?" said Nuria.

Stone looked around and saw a small camp, a short distance away, almost concealed by bushes and trees and wild tangles of undergrowth. There was a tent, the remains of a fire and an open pack.

"It's them," said Doug. "It must be them. I can show you them. The only city, what a joke. Let me show you."

The Map Maker signalled for them to follow him out of the glade and deeper into the trees. Sadie trailed behind him. Both Nuria and Emil were unsure of the man. He looked deeply distressed, disturbed even. Stone seemed unconcerned and followed them. He stepped over trunks and swatted away loose branches. He could hear Emil and Nuria talking in low voices behind him. Slants of sunlight came through the treetops, lighting the grass. Twenty minutes passed and then the Map Maker waved them down. Stone crept forward and looked to where he was pointing.

"It's them," he said. "They drove them out. Sent them away. One by one they were gone."

He beamed a smile.

"Who drove who out?" asked Stone.

"Chett, have you not been listening? Why doesn't anyone understand what I'm saying? They drove them out. Made them exiles. Look what they have become. It's the second city."

Stone peered through the line of trees and saw a ploughed field where men and women worked the land. They carried tools and there were wooden carts stacked with food he had never seen before. A long dusty road crossed a bridge where a narrow stream flowed beneath, sunlight glinting off the water. The village was a scattering of mud huts with thatched roofs. Smoke climbed lazily from chimneys. He saw more people and children. He could hear sporadic hammering in the distance. He spotted a pen of scampering ollish birds, a woman tossing feed at them. He saw a group of shirtless men armed with wooden shields and spears, patrolling dirt paths.

"The second city," whispered the Map Maker. "I haven't been there yet. We're planning to go soon and trade with them."

"It's hardly a city," said Nuria.

Emil smiled.

"I think it's better than a city. Tomas would have loved it."

Stone nodded.

"He would have."

THE END

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the first book.

The story continues in ...

Escape From Tamnica

