

Drums of War

(The Wasteland Soldier Book 3)

By

Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2016 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2016

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
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.

DRUMS OF WAR

The Cloud Wars was the final war of the mythical Ancients. Cities of glass and steel melted, the sky burned and billions were consumed in the fires of the Metal Spears.

Centuries have passed and in Ennpithia nature has all but reversed the devastation. Survivors have advanced to a colonial level of society with law, economy, religion and education.

Stone is the wasteland soldier, righting injustice in an unforgiving world. With his hard fighting companion, Nuria, and the enigmatic Map Maker, they are determined to thrive in this promised land and put behind them the horrors of Tamnica.

But what they discover is a society tainted by secrets and mired in unrest, the fallout from a civil war ten years before. Pitted against sinister and ruthless adversaries, there will be more than their own lives at stake - for where there is Man there is always the ability for total annihilation.

And for Stone and Nuria the future will rest in the hands of an enemy they know only too well.

This book is dedicated to:

### Terry and Vicky

### Family means everything.

### Always

**ONE**

" _Stone!"_

The coach was sinking. Metal groaned and whined as the earth began to gradually swallow it. It was their second rain drenched night of struggling through the Metal Sea. The name was one of irony, naturally, because there was no churning water or crashing waves or foamy white spray; nothing but miles of blackened and rippled mudflats that stank of salt and seaweed and were littered with obstacles. The sea had died centuries ago, during the age of the Before.

The three of them had abandoned Gallen's sun baked wastelands - seeking, hoping, dreaming - that beyond its arid shorelines lay Ennpithia, the promised land of freedom and safety. But their ambition had been blunted against another grim landscape, a terrain thickened with blankets of fog and swept by sheets of torrential rain. Having barely escaped the treacherous street gangs of Maizan they had tracked to the furthest tip of the world and leapt into the unknown, discovering a place more soulless and unforgiving than any that had come before.

It was the Map Maker who'd cried for help, his round face popping with frightened beads of sweat. Arms aloft, he was a miserable and pitiful looking man; his hands had been severed and his wrists were tightly bound with thick cloth.

"Please don't leave me behind."

Stone, tall and bearded and heavily scarred, had no intention of leaving him behind. His hooded eyes were narrowed and focused. He showed nothing as he sprang along the aisle of the coach and dragged the full bellied man onto his feet, grunting as he hustled him along.

They had moved amongst the markers of another age and, despite the freezing wind, had often paused to marvel at what the Ancients had created and then wilfully destroyed. Gingerly, they picked through an eerie and seemingly endless graveyard of half-submerged metal machines; bloated and discoloured by the centuries, most beyond all recognition.

As darkness descended Stone had opted to make camp inside the coach; they had to stop or lose all sense of direction. Its glass windows were shattered but had been boarded over. The wood was rotten and green; it kept the filthy weather outside and the smell of damp inside. Many of the seats had been ripped out to make space for people to lie down in although there was no one here now. It was too damp to make a fire. Stone tore off the wood from the back window, affording them a good view of the surrounding mudflats. Not that they had seen anyone since leaving Caybon. Nuria was convinced they'd spent the past two days walking in circles, lost in the swirling fog and pouring rain, and were barely a few miles from the Gallen coast. She had little faith in the Map Maker's skills of navigation and was frustrated Stone was placing such weight to the enigmatic man who believed he could mend this broken and barren world.

"Get the weapons," shouted Stone, but Nuria had already scooped up the sheathed swords they'd carried since escaping from Tamnica. She threw them over her shoulder, grabbed the backpack laden with supplies and scrambled out into the heavy rain.

Face reddened, Stone tossed the Map Maker out the back window and onto the sticky grey mud. Nuria dragged the heavy man to his feet, panting as she lifted him. He straightened the precious satchel of maps hanging around his neck. They were the only maps in Gallen and the only maps that hinted at the existence of Ennpithia.

The coach whined loudly and sank further, going down at an angle. The way out was disappearing fast.

Stone reached for the rising ledge of mud but it crumbled beneath his weight. He curled his hands around the lip of the roof but as he prepared to pull himself out backward the vehicle tilted violently. He was slammed into a stinking wall of mud and plunged into darkness.

Nuria, blonde hair plastered to her skull, face streaked with mud, watched in horror as the rear end of the coach was sucked beneath the surface. The front end rose slowly into the air. She threw aside the swords and unlatched the backpack, hastily taking out a length of rope. She moved swiftly and ran through the pouring rain, all the time calling out his name. She climbed the rusted base of the coach and tossed one end of the rope through the shattered windscreen. It went taut as he caught hold of it and she leapt clear and began to pull as he climbed. She was strong, athletic, well trained, once a soldier, but for half a year she had been locked away in prison and her body was still malnourished. Thick perspiration ran down her face. Her chest burned. Her arms strained. Her boots sank into the mud.

"Wait," she shouted.

She ran to the nearest obstacle of metal, an enormous wing snapped clean from a sky car. It was appeared hundreds of feet long, disappearing into the fog, twisted and hollow, the wind whistling through its rusted frame. She fed the rope through a gap and knotted it.

"Now."

The rope tensed once more as Stone began to climb. The rain poured in, forcing him to duck. The coach whined loudly and began to sink deeper into the mudflats. Nuria's heart hammered. As his head poked through the windscreen her breathing calmed but then the ground suddenly shook and a long black fissure speared open. Nuria and the Map Maker were hurled off their feet and the vehicle disappeared.

"Help me," screamed Nuria, as the tremor continued to distort the world. The Map Maker lumbered toward her, rocking from side to side. The mud was torturous. Crossing even a short distance left him breathless. His clothes were sodden. His bald head glistened. Nuria grabbed the slack of the rope and wound it around both his arms, far below the wrist.

"Now pull," she growled.

The Map Maker's face grimaced and he gritted his teeth. His boots were slipping into the boggy terrain and his body shook as the unrelenting tremor sliced more ugly fissures across the mudflats. It was the most horrible place he had ever seen. Born in a cell in the city of Chett, put to work mapping the land of Gallen, he had witnessed dead cities and barren deserts and forests of stunted trees, yet here, in the Metal Sea, it reeked of death, more than any of those places. He wondered how many souls had disappeared beneath the surface. He wondered how many thousands of bones they stood upon.

" _Pull."_

The rope wasn't budging. Stone was a dead weight. The seconds were passing. Black clouds scudded in the night sky. He could hear Nuria screaming into his ear as she dragged on the rope behind him, desperate to save Stone, but her words were lost in the rush of the wind and the lash of rain. His head was already filled with noise. It was a voice, he was certain, but the truth of its words eluded him and the distortion could never be silenced. Ennpithia would offer him peace. Ennpithia would be his sanctuary and drive away the menace. After all these years, a lifetime of poring over maps and travelling the continent of Gallen, he knew his time had come. It had been calling to him his entire life. He had simply never known it. He would reach Ennpithia. He would not fail... but he needed Stone and Nuria both; one was not strong enough without the other alone.

"Come on," he said, pulling hard, surprising himself.

Ringed with sweat, arms throbbing, the mud climbing above his ankles, he was suddenly thrown backward, smacking into Nuria. The mud spattered end of the rope flicked into the air and landed with a loud slap.

Stone was gone.

"No," said Nuria. "No, no, no."

As the tremor began to subside, she was on her feet, sinking to her knees as she took each step, her breathing laboured, blue eyes torn with fear that he was truly gone. The Map Maker realised, in those chilling seconds as the fog bound them, how deeply she cared for the near silent drifter, frantically calling out his name and throwing herself against the mudflat where the coach had once stood, digging giant clumps with her bare hands.

"Stone," she said, sobbing.

Then a fist broke the rippled surface of mud, followed by another, and a bearded head thrust into view, coated with black and brown sludge. Nuria grabbed hold of him. On his knees, gasping for air, spitting and puking, he reached out and gripped her arm and she levered the tall man onto his feet. She threw her arms around him as the wind blasted viciously over the desolate landscape.

The Map Maker offered a canteen of water, balanced between his stumps. Nuria took it from him and handed it to Stone.

Silently, he unscrewed the cap.

She looked into his eyes.

He looked back at her, saying nothing, and nodded.

"Are you okay?" asked the Map Maker, but there was no time to answer. The tremor struck again and the ground shifted aggressively beneath them, bundling them from their feet and slamming them down with ugly wet smacks. A giant tentacle snaked from the earth and lashed at them. Nuria rolled clear, her eyes wide with shock. In the gloom of the night, she saw more tentacles swirl and rise, each one easily thirty or forty feet in length. Stone grabbed the weapons, tossing one of the swords at her. He dragged his iron blade from its scabbard and roared. He had no idea what they were facing. It reared in the thick rolling fog, an impossible beast, but there was no time to think – only to fight. The giant tentacles swarmed around them. The rain continued to pound without mercy and the ground shook. Stone swung his sword and cut into one but he grunted fiercely as the blade jammed in armoured flesh. Nuria stepped alongside him and hacked at it, but her sword bounced back with a loud metallic clang.

Once more the tremor began to ease and as it did the strange beast grew lifeless and the three of them watched the flailing tentacles drop to the mud. Stone yanked his sword free. He frowned at the clean blade. He stepped forward, dropped onto his haunches and lifted a heavy metal pipe in his hand. It was grey and ridged and empty. He saw the cut he had made with his sword.

He rose, shaking his head, half-amused.

Nuria looked down at the maze of pipes that had burst through the mudflats. Another forgotten piece of the past. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile, a look Stone had grown accustomed to and realised he even looked for.

She began laughing.

The Map Maker stared at her.

"I don't understand," he said. "What's funny? What was that creature?"

Stone patted him on the back, sheathed his sword and started walking.

Filthy and shivering, the trio disappeared north into the swirling fog, passing the mottled green remains of ships and boats jutting from the surface. It was dawn before the rain stopped. The wind echoed across the land and they stopped and stared as thin rays of sunlight lined the edges of angry clouds.

"Shit," said Stone.

"I don't believe it," said Nuria.

"Yannis lied to us," said the Map Maker. "We should have never trusted her. I told you."

He glared at them both.

"She lied, she lied about all this. She sent us out here to die."

"Yannis probably didn't know," said Nuria, quietly. "It's not like anyone ever came back."

She let out a deep sigh and looked down at the foamy water lapping over her boots. Waves crashed against the mudflats, curling around the long forgotten vessels that had once sailed upon it. She glanced at Stone and saw him scratch his beard, deep in thought. The sea stretched grey and choppy into the fog shrouded horizon. Yannis had told them they would not require a boat to reach Ennpithia. The Cloud Wars, the final war of the Ancients, had incinerated giant swathes of the world, including its many seas and oceans. She couldn't have known that some of it still remained. Nuria wondered how many days lay ahead of them before they reached land. _If they reached land._ Conrad had told them Ennpithia was a fable, told to children to ease the pain of losing a loved one, a special place where the soul floated toward, able to rest beneath the sign, whatever that was.

"It might not even exist," she said. "This might be the end of the world."

"It does exist."

"Conrad said it was a fairy tale for children."

"We're not turning back," said the Map Maker, and he waded into the sea, the dirty looking water slopping onto his thighs. "I have to carry the Light to them. I have to bring sense to this world. I have to unify the people."

Stone and Nuria exchanged puzzled looks. He'd been spouting curious nonsense like this for days.

"How do we cross that?" she said, shaking her head.

Pockets of sunlight punched through the dawn fog. Even the hint of it felt good on her skin.

"It's so easy for you," said the Map Maker, raising his arms in frustration. "You can turn around and walk away from this. Go this way, go that way, it doesn't matter, does it? What am I supposed to do? I have to reach there. I have to rebuild what has..."

"Enough," said Stone, his voice a deep growl. "No more of that shit. I don't want to hear it."

He took out his binoculars and scanned the landscape. Within a few minutes a thin smile shaped within his beard. He nudged Nuria, pointed. She saw exactly what he had spied. They sloshed through the water, momentarily leaving the Map Maker behind.

"He's getting weirder," she said. "I don't understand what he's talking about anymore."

"Did you ever?"

She snorted. Then fell silent.

"I thought I'd lost you."

He stopped, turned to her, his brooding eyes set deep in a heavily lined face, his leathery skin carrying a fresh and terrible looking scar that ran from his eye, over his nose and across his cheek. Nuria reached up with her hand, cradled his face. Once he would have flinched. Now he warmed at her touch. She tilted her head, a lop-sided smile upon her lips. She said nothing. She didn't need to. He kept looking into her eyes and she slowly lowered her hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, surprising her.

"What for?"

"Tamnica."

She nodded. "You broke us out of there."

She turned from him and stared out to sea, the wind whipping her lank blonde hair, thin rays of sun touching her grubby cheeks. She knew he was riddled with guilt. Chasing after the Collectors, determined to rid the Eastern Villages of the mercenary clan, had placed them behind Tamnica's brutal walls. But she did not blame him. She did not blame him for anything. The memories would fade in time, she knew, and sleep would become easier, she hoped, and the violence in her fists would calm, she wondered, but although she was free of its grey walls and watchtowers and iron gates she knew escape was a long way from here. She wondered if Ennpithia would breathe new life into her soul, wash away the dirt that clung to her skin.

"Nuria?"

He was standing beside the wooden rowboat he had spotted. She walked toward him, pocketing the darkness deep within.

It was old but in reasonable condition. It was not covered with algae like most of the ships and vehicles wedged into the mudflats. It looked as if it had been recently used. She helped Stone drag it into the water. It bobbed on the surface. There were two loose planks of wood inside, undoubtedly utilised as oars. Nuria called to the Map Maker and his round face broke into a wide grin as he saw the boat. He splashed toward them.

The sun broke from behind leaden clouds. The grey sea blinked with golden rays. The Map Maker sat at the top of the boat, muttering to himself. Stone watched him closely as he drove the wooden plank into the water, timing his strokes perfectly with Nuria. After several hours, they rested, drinking fresh water and chewing small pieces of toughened white meat. The wind tossed the boat forward. Nuria fetched the rope once more and tied the Map Maker to his bench. He protested but she didn't want a sudden current to send him toppling overboard. They rowed until the sky was pinched with darkness and the stars glittered and the sea turned silver in the moonlight. Arms aching, hands cramped, they set the oars down and wrapped themselves in blankets. The stars began to disappear as the clouds surged above and it grew very dark and very cold.

The rain fell, thick and heavy, giant plops exploding on the sea; the wind hurled the boat and flooded it with water.

"Cut me loose," shouted the Map Maker. "Hurry, I don't want to die in the water. Quick, cut the ropes."

"Shut up," said Nuria, using a cup to empty water from the boat. "You've no hands to hold on."

The bald headed man blinked the rain from his eyes. He saw nothing but swirling darkness ahead. Why was his life being threatened once more? He glared angrily at his stumps. He would never draw a map again or turn the page of a book or clutch a woman or himself between his fingers. Had he not suffered enough? He saw the world so differently. He saw the lines and the shapes, the curves and the bends. Surely he deserved better. It was a momentous task he had undertaken, picking up the pieces of his mission through years of mapping, understanding it had been only one part of the puzzle, one aspect of his true purpose. The boat shook. The wind howled. His teeth chattered. He thought about Philip, the one-legged man from Dessan, old and wise, the man who had first told him of Ennpithia. The Map Maker now recognised the man as an omen, signalling the way forward. He _knew_ the world was fractured. He _knew_ the world was broken. And he _knew_ Ennpithia was where he would begin to mend it. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Stone and Nuria frantically bailing water from the old wooden boat as they glided deeper into the fog. He allowed himself a smile as they worked tirelessly to protect him.

"That's enough," said Stone.

Soaked, exhausted, face flushed red, Nuria nodded. The water pouring in and gushing out in equal measure as they crashed through the sea. They were still afloat but there was nothing more they could do.

They cut the Map Maker loose and the three of them huddled beneath rain sodden blankets.

Stone gripped Nuria's hand tightly as the choking grey fog engulfed them.

TWO

Stone opened his eyes and instantly shielded them from bright sunlight. It had stopped raining. A wispy grey mist curled around the boat. He sat up, abruptly, brushing aside a sodden blanket and stared as the boat drifted gently through a winding canyon.

"Nuria."

He shook her lightly. She stirred with a wide yawn as he searched for the makeshift oars but couldn't see them anywhere. They must have gone overboard during the storm. The backpack was missing, too. His stomach whined at the thought of lost rations. Clothes damp, skin cold, he shivered. Nuria eased into an upright position, wiping grit from her eyes. She ran her fingers through her knotted hair and stopped mid-stroke.

"Ennpithia?"

Stone raked his beard.

"It might be."

He glanced at the Map Maker, curled in the bottom of the boat, and planted his boot into the man's back.

"What's happening? What was that?"

"Did we make it?" asked Stone.

The Map Maker saw towering peaks crowded with vegetation. He licked his dry lips.

"I never once found a river through a gorge in Gallen."

"But you never mapped all of Gallen," said Nuria. "Did you?"

He cast his eyes down at the satchel of maps around his neck. Some of them were now decades old, intricate and detailed, but it would be impossible for him to create any new ones. It was a crushing admission. He would map in his thoughts only. The wind nudged them further along the meandering river, the sun dazzling against its surface. The three of them gazed in silence at the escarpments of brown and yellow and white rock, dotted with tangled greenery spilling from above, and jutting outcrops of flowers bent back in the breeze.

"I want to see the map," he said.

Nuria shook her head. "Not now." She turned to Stone. "Did we lose the food?"

"The oars as well," he said.

"Get me the map, Nuria," demanded the Map Maker. "Please, I need it."

"What difference will it make?" she said. "You've no idea what direction we've been travelling in since we left Caybon. None of us were able to navigate in that weather. We could have been going round and round in circles."

"Why do you say all that? Why do you punish me further?" He raised his arms. "I have taken us this far. I'm asking for your help because I _cannot_ help myself."

"What will that old map tell you? There's nothing on it."

She was partly right but he would not admit that to her. The map he wanted was not one of his own. It had been gifted to him and was an incredible map with an astonishing level of detail, rendering his own sketches primitive. Clearly, it was a relic from the time of the Ancients. It was how the world must have looked before the Cloud Wars; vast continents of green and yellow with giant seas of blue and a host of curious names and landmarks, none of which he had ever found through his years of exploration.

Except for one portion. One corner of a land mass that appeared to resemble his own map of Gallen. The shape was very close and there were cities on the old map that were ruins on his one. He had connected his own map to the age of the Before. Not that anyone believed him or understood or even cared. There were few historians in Gallen. He knew his knowledge and foresight separated him from most. Many ignorantly believed that Gallen was all there was and that a step into the sea was a death sentence. But he knew better. So did Stone. Stone had pushed for Ennpithia.

"Beyond Gallen's northern shoreline is a sea," said the Map Maker, quietly. Nuria looked unimpressed with his tone. "Across the sea is land and this land is marked EN... which is short for Ennpithia. And this is where we are. We've crossed the sea. It's behind us. Can you hear it? We can't be anywhere else."

"You're putting your faith in an old map," said Nuria. She was hungry and needed to empty her bladder. She did not want this discussion with him. "What if you're wrong?"

"This is Ennpithia." His voice was firm.

He rubbed his temples with his wrists as the boat curved around a wide bend in the canyon.

"We're in Ennpithia. We're in Ennpithia."

Nuria hesitated. His voice was beginning to crack. "Maybe you're right," she said, reluctantly. "I mean, I've never seen so much greenery. Look at the colours. I suppose we could've made it."

He raised his head, smiled faintly. "Thank you," he said.

The boat butted against a rocky bank scattered with loose boulders. Patches of vegetation strained through narrow fissures.

Stone lunged, grabbed hold.

"We're somewhere," he said, boots scraping against dry ground.

No one knew them in the land beyond the sea. The death sentences that hung over them were for crimes long ago and far away. No one knew their names and no one knew their stories and no one knew of the brutality they had unleashed in the wastelands of Gallen, righting wrongs the only way they knew how; with bullet and blade and fist.

There was a sudden cry for help. It echoed around the walls of the canyon. The Map Maker flashed a look of worry. Stone sprang along the bank toward a craggy opening in the wall of rock. The cry rang out once more. It was definitely a man and he was much closer now.

Stone peered around the opening and saw a long tunnel disappearing into the gloom. Moist air touched his skin.

"Nuria," he called, whipping out his sword.

She was already out of the boat, the Map Maker behind her. She ran along the bank and they flanked the tunnel.

Waiting.

Listening.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes... shit," she whispered, as the boat floated away. Ennpithia or Gallen, they were here to stay. "I'm glad you stayed out of it."

"He talks to you like a child."

"I can handle him."

"I was tempted to chuck him in the water."

"I'm glad you didn't," she said, looking over her shoulder to where the Map Maker was slumped on the ground, talking to himself. "You know you'd miss him."

They stiffened at the sound of running feet. Whoever was in trouble was coming straight for them.

A young man came rushing along the tunnel with fast moving shadows pursuing him. He was clutching a spear with a broken shaft. He burst into the sunlight, face flushed from running, pasty skin marked with red blotches. Stone swung out an arm, catching him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him, the broken spear flying from his grasp and landing in the river with a splash. He rolled the young man along the bank, out of sight.

Nuria gripped her sword tight and nodded at Stone.

Bare-chested men spilled from the tunnel, brandishing axes. They spotted the swords but were running too fast to stop. Their momentum carried them onto Stone and Nuria's blades. Blood splashed, the men screamed. They quickly jerked free their swords and hacked at the men, finishing them. A third man skated past them and quickly bounced onto his feet; long knotted hair swinging behind him, his bare chest painted. He snarled, baring a row of yellowed teeth and flashed his axe. Nuria went at him, slashing two-handed with her sword.

The young man looked on wide-eyed and wordless as the tall man plunged into the tunnel.

Stone saw the gloomy outline of another bare-chested man. In his left hand he held a lit torch, the flickering orange glow illuminating a dirty and narrow brimmed hat bristling with dark feathers and wedged onto an angular head. The rim shadowed eyes concealed behind round goggles. His cheekbones were smeared with red ointment. The man took a step forward, sweeping the torch before him. Stone observed a thick black line painted down his chest, from throat to waist, with another black line low across his stomach. It was then he saw a block shaped object in the man's right hand. The man hissed, a long tongue darting over twisted lips. Words spilled from his mouth in a language that Stone did not recognise.

" _Maroidh me thu..."_

Stone raised his sword. _It was a language everyone spoke._

He swung his blade at the warrior. His sword hacked into the torch and it erupted with a shower of sparks.

The man stepped back and a sickening smile formed across his face. There was a discernable click in the tunnel and a white beam shot from the box unlike anything Stone had ever seen. The beam was solid, flooding the tunnel with brilliant light; more powerful than any torch or vehicle headlamp. Stone threw a hand across his eyes. At once there was a searing pain in his chest. His heart began to beat fast. He glanced down and saw the beam was burning through his tunic, singeing his flesh. He cried out in pain.

"Stone," yelled Nuria.

Instinctively, he allowed his legs to buckle and dropped to the floor of the tunnel. Nuria grunted and the axe spun through the air, turning over and over with tremendous ferocity. It smacked against the man with the box of light, slicing through his shoulder. He screamed and dropped the box, the beam instantly dying. More men appeared in the tunnel and gathered around the man with the hat. Stone scrambled to his feet, wincing with pain. He snatched up his sword and lunged forward but his legs had no strength and he could barely stand or take a step. Had the light injured him more than he'd realised?

But within a split second he realised the ground was shaking. Black cracks appeared in the walls and snaked along the ceiling. Huge pieces of rock broke from above and one struck the side of his head, slamming him against the trembling wall. Blood trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. Nuria's hand curled around his arm, pulling him onto his feet. Thick clouds of dust swirled around them. Gasping, they staggered back onto the bank, the world shaking all around them, boulders rolling down and striking the river with loud splashes.

Nuria saw the blood coursing down the side of his face. The Map Maker yelled as a giant slab of granite slid down and shattered. There was a loud splash as the young man they had saved dived into the river and began to swim away, his bare arms cutting powerful strokes through the water.

Suddenly, almost as quickly as the tremor had begun, it subsided. A few rocks and stones trickled down the gorge and dropped into the water with light plops. The wind angled through the canyon. The abrupt silence caused the hair to rise on Nuria's neck. Stone went to the tunnel. The men were gone. He went to the river and dunked his head, washing away the blood from the side of his face. Flicking his head back, panting, he gingerly touched the skin. It was tender but would heal. He tore a strip from his clothing and tied it around his skull.

"What happened in there?"

He shook his head, a stunned expression in his eyes. Nuria stared at him.

"What was that light?"

"I don't know," he croaked. He glanced down at his chest, lightly fingering his scorched clothing. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"Was it a torch?" said the Map Maker.

Nuria pointed at Stone.

"A torch doesn't do that."

Stone sheathed his sword and studied the blood splashed bodies. All three men had long knotted hair and were painted with the same curious symbol. A thick black line from throat to waist with a thick black line across the stomach.

"Is this what you meant about living in peace beneath the sign?" he said, to the Map Maker. "That's what you were told, wasn't it?"

The Map Maker stared down at the corpses, saying nothing.

The river was empty. The man and the boat had gone. Nuria's skin crawled. They were trapped here.

Who were these people? What had they put themselves in the middle of?

"We should have stayed in Gallen," she said.

"There was nothing to stay for," said the Map Maker, glumly. "I had to reach here. You don't understand what it's like for me."

"Until we arrived in Dessan you'd never even heard of Ennpithia," she countered. "You're unable to stay in one place."

"Can you?" said the Map Maker, stung by her words. "Or you?"

Stone ignored the comment directed at him and got to his feet. He moved toward the tunnel once more and Nuria followed him, feeling less claustrophobic in the narrow space than any conversation with the Map Maker. The dust had settled and they saw the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the way ahead. They stopped to examine a giant split in the right hand wall. Cool air rifled from above.

"We should try and find our way back," said Nuria. "We killed three men. All with that strange sign on them. What if they're part of a much larger tribe? What if we've stepped into the middle of something we don't understand?"

He stared into her eyes. "No more Tamnica."

She recoiled at the name. They both bore the scars and branding from that the horrific prison. She nodded, slowly, knowing that the inner battle was one only she could win or lose.

"Stone."

It was the Map Maker. The two of them rushed back to the riverbank where he lingered beside the corpses.

"Look at them," he said, incredulous. "Look at the sign."

Stone and Nuria stood at the feet of the bloodied corpses. Nothing had altered. It was the same as what they had observed a moment earlier. A wide black line from throat to waist, crossed with a wide black line across the lower stomach.

"What are we supposed to be looking at?" said Nuria.

They came beside him.

"Do you see it?" he said.

They looked. The sign was now upside down with the horizontal line nearer the top rather than at the bottom.

Stone shrugged. "So?"

"I've seen it before. That way around." He tapped the side of his head with his stump. "When the noise comes, when I hear the voice, like pieces of metal scraping together, I see that sign. It whispers Ennpithia to me."

Nuria rolled her eyes.

"It's always been with me. The noise, the sign. But this is the first time I've seen it for real." He paused. "Why do you think they paint it upside down?"

Nuria stepped away from the corpses and into the tunnel, re-examining the large crack in the wall. Emil, the child with healing hands, had told her once she thought the Map Maker was a creep. This was _before_ he'd kidnapped her and allowed her to become entwined in a gang war in the city of Maizan, ultimately leading to the Map Maker losing his hands. He was a well known oddity in Gallen. Sometimes respected, sometimes vilified. He unnerved her when he spoke. She pitied him, though, which made her annoyance with him a complicated emotion. He was no longer able to perform even the most simple of daily tasks and his love of drawing had been robbed from him. She knew all this but still found herself more and more frustrated by the tone of his solemn voice.

"Let's see where this goes."

She squeezed into the gap and pulled herself up a rough slope, a cool breeze on her skin. She grunted as she climbed higher through narrow crevices until she saw an opening and emerged into a new tunnel.

"Nuria?" called Stone.

Nothing.

"Nuria?"

She shouted down at him. "Come up."

Stone shoved the Map Maker into the gap. The oversized man struggled and wheezed but managed to use his elbows and forearms to steady himself. Stone kept behind him, nudging him upward with his shoulder and one hand, balancing himself with the other. The Map Maker's clothes reeked of stale sweat and urine and seawater. Nuria's hands thrust from above and dragged the Map Maker into a long tunnel. Stone emerged behind him.

Nuria led the way along the tunnel, toward a patch of light that grew larger. They passed the remains of a fire in a small alcove, several days old. There were small bones and blackened pots, worn sandals and a threadbare blanket. They walked on. Within minutes the three of them emerged amongst low grass and wildflowers, bathed in sunshine, rippled by the wind, stunned into silence. Strands of blonde hair flicked carelessly across Nuria's face but she didn't bother to brush them aside. Stone was equally speechless.

The Map Maker shouldered between them, sucked in his breath.

"I don't believe it."

There were pastures of long grass and sweeping valleys with swathes of colour, open scrubland, wooded hills and winding rivers; the impossible landscape stretched to the horizon and spread in every direction.

For a moment, they forgot all about the men they had encountered at the riverbank.

Then Nuria crouched, studied the ground.

"Fresh horse tracks," she said, pointing. "They're long gone."

Stone nodded, glanced up at the grey clouds.

"It's beyond anything I could have imagined," said the Map Maker. "We _did_ make it. We really did make it."

He clapped them both on the back with his wrapped stumps and attempted to draw them close but Stone shrugged him off and took out his binoculars. He swept the terrain.

No city ruins. No blasted deserts. No parched rivers. No scorched mountains. No cratered and broken wastelands.

He lowered the binoculars, saying nothing. It was more terrifying than the man with the box of burning light; they appeared to be at the cusp of a world unscathed by the Cloud Wars.

His stomach churned.

"Is that a village?" said Nuria.

Stone raised his binoculars once more. Nestling on the outskirts of a forest was a settlement of primitive stone buildings with turf roofs. Smoke coiled from chimneys. Animals shuffled inside pens. There were no vehicles. Stone spied a procession of people trudging along rutted tracks. None of them resembled the warriors they had killed at the river. He watched them walk toward a more impressive building of stone with tall arched windows and a covered porch. A man in black stood beside open wooden doors, beckoning them inside. Stone lifted his gaze to the shaped roof of the building where a symbol was fixed to the apex.

It was constructed of solid stone; one tall vertical piece with one horizontal piece, near the top, the opposite to what they had seen on the bare-chested men.

"Looks like we've found your sign," said Stone.

THREE

"Are you coming?" called Jeremy.

A low stone wall ringed the cottage and outbuildings. Twelve years old, he waited patiently beside a stout wooden gate. The herb garden was overgrown and tangled with unruly wildflowers swaying in the early morning wind, blowing in from the coast. The smell of mint and rosemary blended with seaweed and salt. The washed out sky was streaked with crimson coloured fissures and dotted with stretched leaden clouds. Misty rain began to fall. His straw coloured hair grew damp. He was acutely aware of his father's stern gaze burning into his back.

"Quinn?"

There was urgency to his voice. He craned his neck and looked toward the workshop. It was a ramshackle structure of stone, wood and turf. The double doors were wide open and he could see inside where a fire blazed in a metal drum. The floor was littered with shavings, salvaged pieces of metal, lengths of timber and piles of boxes filled with rope, balls of twine, horseshoes, nails and tools. Quinn was hunched over a cluttered workbench.

Jeremy wondered, lightly, if she had chosen _this_ morning of all mornings to work in an effort to rile them. She knew it was Reverence Morning. Under law, all men, women and children, except servants, were required to forsake manual labour on Reverence Morning.

"Will you ever give up?" said Quinn.

Jeremy smiled at the sound of her voice, the words fast and punchy, funnelled through a narrow space. She had lived in Brix all her life but her accent was different to that of many of the villagers.

"Why should I?" He smiled pleasantly. "You're my friend."

There was a thirteen year deficit which meant she wasn't the kind of friend that played games in the rutted village lanes or scampered across fields clutching stolen beer or trudged home from school sharing dreams and secrets and anxieties. He had done none of those things with Quinn and all of them with Clarissa. But Clarissa was dead and Quinn was still here; a shoulder to cry on, a voice of cold logic. And she had taught him how to fight. From an early age. She knew his father and she knew Jeremy needed to defend himself.

Quinn was the strongest woman in his life; determined, fearless and taking no nonsense from anyone. She stood toe to toe with bullies and killed bandits and thieves that preyed in the wilderness. But whenever he visited her, whenever he saw her, whenever he thought of her, and he thought of her a lot, his chest ached with the loss of Clarissa, Quinn's niece, eleven years old, his best friend, gone, her body abandoned in the soil, six feet under.

"Daydreamer," said Quinn.

She stepped from the workshop. She wore a woollen hat. Twisted ropes of blonde hair trailed from beneath it, like snakes writhing for attention. She strode across the garden, walking with purpose, carrying a long knife in her left hand. Her boots were scuffed, her clothes rumpled, her skin browned from a lifetime spent on the road. She was stocky, thick arms and thick legs, dark blue eyes with a large nose, flared nostrils and a curved upper lip. Jeremy straightened his back, smoothed his palms down his clothes.

"Will you come?"

"You know I won't."

"For me?"

"No."

She dug at the stone wall with the tip of her blade.

"You used to come," he said.

Villagers passed by. There were furtive glances.

"I know the Legend of Patriarch Albury and the Sins of Man word for word. It's not for me, Jeremy."

"Just pretend. I do. I know it all word for word as well. It's only for an hour or two. Do it to stay out of trouble."

"I'm staying out of trouble. I'm busy working."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not going."

"But what about the law?"

"Servants are excused."

Jeremy fidgeted. Quinn could see the worry in his youthful face. He was growing up fast, too fast, standing there wearing his smartest woollen trousers and cleanest tunic, his hands scrubbed clean, his hair neatly combed. He was becoming a very handsome young man. He was already taller than her and his shoulders were broad. Clarissa would have loved him. She would have been his wife. She would have bore him beautiful children. Guilt gnawed at her. She should have been here. She should have been here for both of them. She should have been here for _all_ of them.

"You don't need to worry about me," she said. She folded her arms as more villagers went by, some openly glaring at her. "I pay my taxes. That's all they want. You'll learn, Jeremy, that only laws involving coin are ever enforced. No one cares if I'm inside or not. It doesn't matter. You need to stop worrying. Get your mind on figuring out what you want to do with yourself when you finish school."

Jeremy leaned across the gate.

"I already know what I want to do. I want to learn the way of the road. Working with you and Mr..."

"No, no, no," she said, shaking her head. "That life is not for you. You have brains. Use them."

He looked crushed.

"The Archbishop is coming to Brix," he said, suddenly. "Is he coming because of you?"

"You know he usually travels this time of year," she answered. "It's the Summer Blessings. He's not coming here because of me." She nodded toward Jeremy's father, Pretan. "He's getting impatient. You should go. Everyone will be inside soon. He won't want to be the last one."

Jeremy's father was tall, narrow and white haired, shoulders hunched against the light rain, looking older than his forty odd years. His wife had died giving birth to the twins and the loss had aged him considerably, tempering all but the man's anger. He was fiddling with his clothing, growing more frustrated, as the entire population of the village trotted along the dirt path toward the imposing stone building. But Jeremy wasn't finished talking with Quinn. Damn his father. She was more important. He would take his time. In truth, he would take more than his time.

"He can wait," he said.

He had turned twelve which meant Touron law recognised him as a man and he could leave school and was free to march into the world and his miserable father was unable to prevent him. He was sprouting into manhood and had towered upward to draw level with Pretan's slate grey eyes. No more would he sob beneath his blankets. No more would he soil himself. He glared icily at the nightmare whose seed he had spawned from and all he saw was a pathetic and wrinkled husk.

Jeremy flicked his eyes toward his twin sisters as they gossiped and kicked at the dirt, content with the delay.

"Is it because of Daniel?" he asked, turning his attention back to Quinn.

"You ask too many questions." She smiled, wryly. "He takes a lot of looking after but it's not just him."

"Then what is it? I'm getting worried they will take you away and punish you."

"I claim the status of Daniel's servant." She stared at the building. "If they ask that's what I'll tell them. Servants are excused from Reverence Morning. You should go, stop worrying about me."

"I'll stop worrying." Jeremy nodded. "I'll try."

As he turned to leave, she called to him.

"I'm going to find out." She twirled the knife. "Trust me, Jeremy. We have to know what happened. I know it upsets you to talk about her but Clarissa was very special."

His stomach gurgled at the mention of his best friend's name. She saw the distress in his eyes.

"The sickness took her. That's what happened."

"I know the sickness took her." Quinn hesitated, knowing what victims of sickness looked like; their hair fell out, their bowels loosened, they were covered in blisters and gripped by fever.

"But what was she doing up there? Everyone knows Mosscar is a plague city. She knew it but still went up there."

Her hand moved in a flash and the knife flew from her grip, slamming into a wooden post at the end of the garden.

"It doesn't make any sense. Why did she go there?"

Jeremy stared at the knife embedded in the wood, vibrating angrily. He shook his head.

"I don't know." His eyes became moist. "I knew something was troubling her but she wouldn't tell me. She wouldn't tell anyone."

He looked back at his father.

"I should go."

Quinn watched him fondly as he trotted back to his family. She was determined to root out the truth; they all needed an answer. Pretan raised his hand to his son but Jeremy grabbed his wrist. The old hand trembled and hovered inches from Jeremy's face. Quinn held her breath. Jeremy forced his father's hand down and then shoved him back, releasing his grip at the same time. He went to his twin sisters, placed his arms around their shoulders and confidently guided them toward the building. Pretan bent his neck and looked at her; dead eyes in a dead face, a curious sneer on his coarse lips. Quinn was unflinching against his harsh gaze and he folded quickly. He mingled with the last of the stragglers, hastily making his way inside.

Deacon Rush, all in black, closed the doors. Quinn knew Father Devon would be preparing to deliver His Words. She playfully wondered why he didn't invoke some magic to alter the weather. The past few months had been more miserable than ever and surely she wasn't the only one who'd noticed the tremors were becoming more frequent.

There was silence through the village. Quinn smiled. The servants were supposed to work but many chose to idle and smoke and chat during the Reverence Morning period.

She looked at the stone building, the mighty Holy House, and her skin pimpled as thousands upon thousands of years of history judged her, still clinging inexorably to the soil despite the toxic bile released by mankind through the centuries - the thrust of a blade, the blast of a cannon, the hiss of the _Metal Spears_ during the final war of the Ancients. The rain fell and the clouds drifted and the Holy House defied all. Quinn could hear the muffled oration of Father Devon. It was impossible to discern the old man's words from this distance but they had been imprinted upon her since childhood. He would no doubt open with the Statements of Damnation which he mixed with the Sins of Man before closing with the Legend of Patriarch Albury. He no longer vented about the Scourge of the Non-Believers. He had obviously grown tired of that one.

"... and despite all his advancements Man succumbed to the temptation of the Demon; he turned himself inside out and showed himself as a diseased thing of foulness; cowardly and sick with greed and forever looking inward for adulation from others. And whilst Man looked inward the Demon seized the opportunity and the world of the Before was extinguished and our Lord judged Man vain and He punished Man. Yet in those times of horror and darkness the Lord relented and He fought the Demons we had invited upon His very soil. His Son bled for us. His Son died for our sins. The Lord opened His arms and His heart and His love flowed and He delivered us into the Age of Light and we bathed in His magnificent Light and offered our devotion, our loyalty and our very lives to Him; our Lord, our Maker."

Father Devon composed himself.

"And once more will the day come that He will send His Son to us and He will come from the sea a mortal and walk among us. He will judge us and He will mend the world we have broken."

Quinn's mouth drew tight. The Holy House had resisted every assault. What would it take to stamp the place from the surface of the land? Daniel, her brother, had failed miserably in attempting to reduce it to ash. She furthered her gaze over its long arched windows and a sombre expression fell upon her face. The house had lied to them. It had promised to keep them safe. But it had betrayed them all.

Plucking her knife from the wooden post, Quinn tossed it repeatedly, catching it each time by the handle, before slipping it into the knife belt worn across her chest. She was annoyed at her outburst, especially with Jeremy around. He had already endured far too much anger from adults in his young life. It was good he was spending more time with Deacon Rush. Though she despised _all_ men of the cloth he was a young man with a more balanced viewpoint, seeing both sides of the same Holy coin.

It was then she heard the crunch of heavy boots and the clank of armour and weapons. She saw a column of Churchmen soldiers march from the army barracks. The men wore metal helmets and studded tunics adorned with a large cross. Each man was fully armed; a bow, leather quiver bristling with arrows and a sheathed sword. Captain Duggan led the men. Quinn stood her ground as they struck a path toward her cottage. _Was Jeremy right? Were they finally coming for her? Was this her time of reckoning?_ The Captain stopped and began to issue orders. The Churchmen dispersed, barely acknowledging her. Once his men were deployed around the village, Duggan greeted her.

"Morning, Quinn."

"Captain."

He propped himself against her garden wall, took out his pipe. "Do you mind?"

"I could do with a break."

"A break? Have you been sinning by working on Reverence Morning?"

"I have," she said. "And I thought you were coming to take me away."

"This is nothing to do with you." He winked. "But one day I will take you away, Quinn, I can promise you that."

Chuckling, she fetched herbs from the garden, pinching them between finger and thumb.

"There are some very clean and comfortable boarding houses in Touron."

"Is that another name for whorehouse?"

He laughed. She drew her own pipe, filled it.

"Anyway, you're _really_ not my type."

Smoke curled around his coarse lips. His face was crunched, scarred and weather beaten, his body stocky, muscular, hard; the perennial soldier, witness to all kinds of madness across the land.

"Sal Munton?" she asked.

"It was winter the last time his gang looted," said Duggan, puffing. "I thought they'd turned over a new leaf or something but last week a merchant was robbed near Great Onglee. Had all his spices and coins taken. They broke his arm and crushed his hand. Vicious little bastards."

"So they've started again?"

"Seems that way." His dark eyes scanned the land. "Did I tell you Ossie is fat again?"

Quinn, straddling the wall, shook her head.

"What am I supposed to do?" he grumbled. "That's number eight."

"You're supposed to ram it up something that won't give you babies. Won't one of your men oblige?"

Duggan rubbed his jaw, smoked. Quinn couldn't imagine herself stuck in one place doing the same thing over and over again like his wife. It would be better to put a noose around her neck.

"Congratulations," she said.

He raised his pipe.

"What did Jeremy want? I saw him sniffing around. Is he still trying to convince you to go?"

"He's a good boy."

"He's after your bush."

Quinn feigned disgust. "You've been a soldier too long. Did you see him with Pretan?"

"Pretan can be a bit loose with his hands. Mind you, some youngsters need a clobber from time to time."

"Not Jeremy.

"Did he tell you the Archbishop is coming?"

"Yes, he thinks it's because of me. Is it?"

"It's the time of the Summer Blessings. You know that. I'm riding to Touron tomorrow to escort him back here."

"Is that the only reason you're going?"

Duggan hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." She cleared her throat. "Just seems a lowly task for a veteran Captain."

"What are the rumours?"

"I don't listen to rumours."

"That's because most of them are about you."

She smiled, puffed on her pipe. "True."

The villagers inside the Holy House broke into song. Sweet harmonies floated around the village. Clouds edged across the sun. The light rain continued to fall in the mid morning gloom.

"But if I was to listen to rumours," she said. "I would've heard about a new treaty with the Kiven. A trade agreement. Something to do with food for iron."

Duggan's eyes lingered on the Holy House. He raised his pipe to his mouth.

"Touron politics don't interest me, Quinn. You know that."

"Is there a new treaty?"

"All I know is they want my signature. Along with many others."

"You're not happy about it, are you?"

"I just do my job."

"Are the iron mines running low?"

"I'm a soldier, Quinn, not a politician. But I thought Ennpithia had a strong enough economy meaning we wouldn't have to trade with those bastards."

He hated them and she understood the hatred. He had served in the Churchmen Regiment for more than thirty years and his son, Devlan, had followed him into the service only to be killed in the civil war a decade ago. Ruthlessly cut down at the Place of Bridges only hours after a peace treaty had been brokered and cemented by the Archbishop. But it had taken nearly a day for the order to reach the battlefront where the senseless fighting had continued to rage and Devlan had died for absolutely nothing.

"So there is going to be a treaty with them?"

Duggan jabbed his pipe toward the Holy House. "You keep badgering me and I'll order you to attend Reverence Morning."

"I'm a servant. You know that."

He looked at her. "Bollocks."

"Now you're being nasty."

"Will you be gone when I get back?"

"I'm leaving this afternoon. Jeremy will keep an eye on Daniel. I need to understand what happened to her."

"Your niece died a pointless death, Quinn. That's what happened. I'd hate to see you suffer the same way."

He lowered his pipe.

"She probably went up there on a dare."

"Mosscar is a long way to ride for a dare. I need the truth."

"You do whatever you need to do but no more arson attempts on Holy Houses. There are only so many things I can blame on Sal Munton."

"Thank you for protecting Daniel."

His hand went to the cross on his armour. "Lord forgive me for lying but I know what it is to lose a child. It can break a man – or a woman - more than any blade or arrow." He paused. "I questioned everyone, Quinn. No one knew why she had gone there. Daniel was working. He didn't even know she'd left. I couldn't find any answers. Your brother said she'd become very secretive. He thought something was troubling her but she never told him what it was and you were on the road."

"Thanks for that," she said, flatly.

"You bloody know I didn't mean it like that. Look, whatever you do, just make sure I don't come across any bodies."

"You won't."

Duggan nodded and smoked and continued to listen to the Reverence Morning service.

"You might find that it was nothing more than a tragic accident."

"No one wanders into Mosscar by accident, Duggan. That would be the same as throwing yourself off a cliff or sticking your head in an open fire."

He gestured helplessly with his hands. He had no answers for her.

"What about Boyd?" he asked. "How's the fat shopkeeper going to cope without you?"

"Be nice. He's my friend. And he's hiring Dobbs and Farrell."

"That pair of wankers. Both of them are not worth half of you."

"Thank you, but there's no one else. Not unless you can spare a few Churchmen."

Shouts suddenly filled the air. Duggan sprang to his feet. He ran toward the centre of the village. There was more shouting. Quinn narrowed her eyes. A number of children burst into view, clutching sacks, some of them bulky. Yelling, they scattered toward the trees. The Churchmen unleashed a barrage of arrows and three bodies went down. The remaining two looters swerved and looped over the grassland, not looking back. Duggan barked orders at his men and a group of soldiers gave chase into the trees.

Quinn was about to rush over and help but the commotion had stirred Daniel.

" _Liss? Liss? Lissa? Is that you, Lissa? Lissa? Lissa? Where are you, Lissa? Liss? Lissa?"_

His voice began to crack into ragged splutters and coughs. As she reached the cottage door she heard choked sobs.

She closed her eyes, clenched and unclenched her fists.

"I'm coming, Daniel."

The Churchmen yanked a scrawny boy to his feet. Two of his fellow looters lay unmoving in the grass, peppered with arrows.

"Little bastard's still alive, Captain."

He wriggled and spat and cursed but they pinned his arms. Duggan ignored him for the moment and crouched beside the bodies.

"Collect up everything they stole," he said, lifting the head of the first looter, revealing the pale face of a boy, possibly ten or eleven years old, eyes wide open and staring. He let the head drop. "Make sure it's returned before the congregation have finished."

The second looter had stringy black hair. He snatched a handful, tugged the head back and saw it was a girl, only seven or eight years old. Face down, it had been impossible to discern any difference. One of his daughters was the same age. He placed a gloved hand beneath her chin and carefully lowered her lifeless head into the wet grass.

Grim-faced, rain drilling against his helmet, he turned to the prisoner. An arrow was lodged deep in his thigh. Blood trickled along the shaft and down his leg. His blotchy skin was filmed with perspiration and he was panting heavily.

"Didn't you fancy attending Holy House this morning, Billy?"

"You killed Daisy and Roger," spat Billy. "You're dead, knee bender."

His lips were drawn back across an uneven row of yellowed teeth. His gnarled eyes brimmed with hate.

"Where are you camped?"

"Fuck off," he shouted, beads of sweat dribbling over his nose. "I'm not telling you a thing, knee bender."

Duggan slapped him hard across the face, shocking the insolence from the stupid boy. His men were in the woodland, hunting down the remaining two thieves. Sal and the rest of the gang wouldn't be too far away. He hoped they would return soon. It had already taken too long.

"Tell me, boy."

"Get fucked, knee bender."

"Where's your Dad? Where's Sal?"

"You killed my brother and sister. Bastard knee bender."

Duggan could still hear the singing from the Holy House. The congregation were blissfully unaware of what was happening. It was better that way. He did not want the pressure of a baying mob.

"If we don't treat that wound you'll lose your leg, Billy. Tell me where the camp is and we'll help you."

"I'm telling you nothing." Billy was gasping for air. "We're gonna get you, knee bender. You and... you and your fat bitch whore wife. We're gonna..."

Duggan yanked at the arrow in the boy's leg. Billy screamed. Tears poured from his eyes.

"Do you want to be a cripple? A cripple who pisses himself? Do you know what happens to a thief who cannot run, Billy?"

"Leave me alone."

Duggan glanced at the bodies in the grass. He lunged at Billy and twisted the arrow a second time.

"Tell me."

FOUR

" _Clarissa?"_

"She's dead, Daniel."

He was a bag of rippled skin pegged to weakening bones and stuffed into a rocking chair beneath layers of blankets. He was in the corner, in the shadows, curled beside the window, the wooden shutter closed and latched. Quinn stepped toward him. She could feel the heat of the open fire. His head was lowered. Spittle dribbled over his lips, tears wept from his right eye. The left side of his face was gone; merely folds of blackened skin. She stared numbly at what little remained of her brother, gritting her teeth and taking sharp breaths. She had come to terms with none of the past few weeks.

His mess filled her nostrils. He mumbled as she put on the water. She set out clean clothes and slowly unwound his blankets. She could hear a boy screaming in the distance but ignored it. Once the water had boiled she stripped and bathed him, her hands carefully gliding over his ruined body. She was silent and methodical as she worked. The fire had destroyed little of the Holy House. It had consumed nearly all of Daniel.

She dressed him and lay him down on the bed. She put the soiled clothes in a basket and put the basket in the garden. She took a hard bristle brush to his chair and scrubbed it furiously until the odour had faded. He talked as she worked but she ignored him. Finished, she bathed her hands. Waves of sickness swirled in the pit of her stomach and she buried her damps hands in her long thick hair, digging her nails hard into her scalp. The pain held back the tears. She had not cried since childhood. She would not cry in womanhood.

"I'm hungry," he mumbled.

She put on soup and fetched a tray, a bowl, a spoon and a half-loaf of dried bread from the pantry cupboard.

Outside, the wind stirred and the rain tapped against the old stone walls of the cottage. She nudged open a shutter. Deacon Rush and Father Devon were on the steps of the Holy House, making the sign of the cross as they bade farewell to the congregation.

The soup began to bubble.

"Where is she?"

His voice was croaky, she could barely hear him. She sat him up and tied a cloth around his neck. "Where's my little girl gone?"

"Clarissa's dead. Do you remember, Daniel? She was sick and she died. You buried her in the grounds of the Holy House."

Quinn set the tray across his lap. His right eye blinked at her. She saw the flicker of flames in his pupil.

"Why are you here? Where's Lissa?"

She fed him. Some of the vegetables trickled from his lips onto the cloth. She broke off a piece of bread, soaked it and pushed it into his mouth. He chewed, laboriously, his tongue forcing the hunk of bread against his teeth. He swallowed and stared for a moment and Quinn saw a sudden flash of recognition in his only working eye.

"Annie?"

"Don't call me that," she said, poking him. "You know I hate that name."

"Quinn. Always Quinn."

There was a sharp knock at the door. Daniel tilted his head in anticipation. A half-smile spread across his moist lips.

"Lissa?"

"She's dead," said Quinn, rising from the bed. "You know that."

Daniel nodded.

"I know that."

It was Jeremy, babbling excitedly about the Munton's botched raid on the village. She hushed him and told him to fetch a bowl if he was hungry. She settled back down with her brother but his hunger had waned and he shook his head as she raised the spoon. Jeremy noisily rooted out a clean bowl from the pantry cupboard. He stood beside the fire, feeling the warmth seep through his damp clothes and cold bones. It had been freezing inside the Holy House. And it was supposed to be summer.

He spooned in a large helping and began to tuck in, eating on his feet, talking incessantly. Quinn cleared away Daniel's lunch and left him on the bed for the time being before dragging his chair from the window and planting it in the middle of the cluttered and gloomy room.

"Daniel," she said, talking slowly. "I need to go away for a few days. Do you understand me?"

His single eye blinked at her.

"Jeremy will be stopping by to feed you. You're all clean now. Remember to use the bucket when you need to piss and shit. Do you hear me, Daniel? I won't be here to bathe you so use the bucket. Leave it outside and Jeremy will empty it for you."

Daniel groaned, shaking his head.

"You can manage that. You're not an invalid. You found the ale last night, didn't you?"

Jeremy gulped down a mouthful of peas and potatoes. He had no problem checking in on Daniel and heating up food and feeding him but the thought of emptying a piss and shit bucket made his stomach lurch. He looked at Quinn's brother, once a popular and good natured and likeable man in Brix, now more like a re-animated corpse. In a drink fuelled rage he'd poured out his pain upon the Holy House, dousing the building and attempting to set fire to it, blaming them for taking Clarissa from this world; but he'd clumsily ignited himself and was fortunate that Duggan had been on patrol that evening. The captain had saved Daniel's life and spun a tale that pinned the crime on Sal Munton and his gang with Daniel an innocent bystander who'd stumbled across them. No one doubted Duggan's word and the local people instantly believed that no sin was beyond the wild crime family.

Jeremy had noticed in the days after the fire there had been muttering through the village. _How could He punish Daniel by first taking his child and then mutilating him in a fire?_

How indeed, thought Jeremy.

He licked his bowl clean, smoothed back his hair. He watched Quinn gather items and put them inside a battered rucksack.

"When are you going?"

"In a few hours," she said, tipping the leftovers of the soup into a flask.

"You can't go into Mosscar."

She squeezed his shoulder. "You're a good boy, Jeremy. Take care of my brother. He's all I have now."

"You have me," said Jeremy, a sad look in his eyes. "The city will kill you."

"I'll be okay," she said, passing him a small leather bag of coins. "This should take care of any food."

He felt the weight of the coins. "But the sickness. It killed..."

"I'll be okay," said Quinn, firmly. "I know what I'm doing."

Jeremy nodded, fell silent.

"Listen to me, Jeremy, Daniel has nothing and he'll depend on you but he can manage some things so don't do everything for him. And no drink. No matter how much he begs for it. Ale is bad for him. I know you won't let me down."

"I won't let you down. I promise. I just..."

She dropped her voice to a whisper.

"I have to tell you something, Jeremy, something you must never repeat. It might stop you from worrying."

She opened her rucksack, took out a much larger bag of coins. He stared at it. He had never seen so much money before.

"What's all that for?"

"I'm meeting someone before I go into Mosscar. He can supply me with a piece of Ancient tech. It will keep me alive in there. I don't have time to explain it to you – I just want you to stop worrying. I told you, Jeremy, I'm not stupid, I know exactly what I'm doing."

Jeremy went pale.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He grabbed a bucket and threw up. She massaged the back of his neck as he wretched.

"It's against the law," he said, panting, his face ashen. "They'll hang you if you're caught with Ancient tech."

"Then you need to be a grown up and learn how to keep your mouth shut."

He steadied his breathing.

"Do you want to help me sort out the weapons? Dobbs and Farrell will be here soon. They're taking over from me..."

"What's all that shouting?" said Jeremy, suddenly.

"You killed my kids," hissed Sal Munton, veins popping on his craggy face, desperation in his eyes. "You murderers."

Duggan looked at his six men, bruised and bleeding, wrists bound with rope, kneeling at the edge of the woods. Munton was surrounded by his gang of thieves, ten of them, all children, some no more than five or six years old, a mixture of boys and girls. Many of them were his own blood, his seed tossed into a host of different women, but a number of them were strays; orphans and runaways picked up from settlements and villages scattered through the Western Hills. Duggan wondered if any had been stolen, whisked away in the night, parents left devastated.

The Holy House service had finished and hundreds of villagers had gathered behind him but the children were unflinching with cold menace in their eyes as they stood brandishing wooden clubs fitted with coiled wire or pieces of razor sharp metal, ideal for close combat. None of the children carried the bows stolen from his men. It took years of practice to develop the muscles to handle one of those. Duggan had a dozen Churchmen soldiers with him, arrows notched. There were more at the barracks but a dozen was all he needed.

Father Devon and Deacon Rush waited breathlessly for Duggan's response. The captain boasted superior numbers and superior strength but none of that mattered; all that counted was the forbidden weapon of the Ancients held in Munton's thick grasp; a long, twin barrelled shotgun.

"We need to treat Billy's leg," called Duggan. "No one wants him to end up crippled, Sal."

"I don't care what you fucking want," said Munton, spittle flying from his mouth, the shotgun swinging toward the captured Churchmen. "My poor boy, Roger. And Daisy. How could you kill an innocent girl like Daisy? She'd been through so much and no one believed her. You don't understand, Duggan, I saved her."

"How? By introducing her to a life of crime? You should have placed her with the Holy House."

"The fucking Holy House," spat Munton, jabbing the shotgun. "I'm going to even the score and slaughter your men."

"That's not the answer, Sal."

"Shut up," roared Munton, scuffed boots angrily stamping across the dewy grass. "Just shut up." Tears spilled from his eyes, mingling with the lightly falling rain. "My poor kids. I take care of them, you know that. I never hurt them. Why did you do it? Why, you bastard?"

"You know why, Sal. You started robbing again, sending them here to take from folk who don't have much."

There were heckles from the villagers.

" _Kill them all! They make our life a misery! Thieving scum! Little bastards! What are you waiting for?"_

The children seemed unfazed by the cries. Duggan held up his hand, took a step forward.

"You hold it right there." Munton cocked the shotgun, finger curled around the trigger.

The captain stared into the black muzzles. He had not faced a weapon of this type for ten years.

"You're the one who killed them, Sal. I warned you what would happen. I told you to stop stealing."

"What else can we do? You understand nothing about us."

There was growing dissent amongst the onlookers, noisily suggesting that the Churchmen should fire their bows at Munton and his grimy faced looters. Duggan could sense this was going to turn very ugly unless he found a solution. He could not bargain with a man like Sal Munton. There was no reasoning about rights and wrongs with a man who had lived an untamed existence for nearly forty years, ploughing that doctrine of chaos through generations of his extended family. Duggan knew Munton would happily murder the Churchmen he'd captured - even if that meant sacrificing his brood or himself. But he'd fought in the war to stop faithless men like Munton. He knew there was only one answer.

He opened his mouth to give the order for his men to fire, knowing he was risking the hostages, but it was Father Devon's voice that was heard.

"Mr Munton, I understand your pain."

Duggan glared but remained silent. The priest was one of the most senior men in the village. Only the retired Father William was older. Father Devon glided through the wet grass, tall and spindly, clad in black. His darkened skin was testament of his passion for gardening. Watery blue eyes angled toward a curved nose and his lips were tight and bloodless, hardly moving as he spoke. His sedative voice was nothing like the fiery rage often brought to Reverence Mornings.

"Our Lord has taken your two innocent children from the very soil on which we now stand. But there is always a reason."

"I know the reason, preacher man," snarled Munton. "Duggan and his bullies are the fucking reason. They were only children, Father."

" _Children who know how to rob and kill! It's your fault they're dead! Shoot all the little bastards!"_

Billy had turned white. He was panting, the arrow still lodged in him.

"Do we all not carry the stain of sin?" said Father Devon, sweeping his arms toward the soldiers and the villagers. "We walk in a world that was shattered by our many sins. But the Lord forgave us and gifted us Ennpithia to begin again. Do we know better than Him when it comes to forgiveness and understanding?"

He looked to the skies, made the sign of the cross.

"There is no man, woman or child here free of sin. Our very souls are black with sin. This is why we pray."

The villagers muttered. Duggan flashed a look at his men, kneeling in the rain.

"Mr Munton," said Father Devon. "There is a Demon inside you right now and he is tricking you. He is trying to control you. Push away the Demon, Mr Munton. Push him out."

The priest thrust both hands forward, raised his voice and followed each word with the dramatic gesture.

"PUSH HIM OUT!"

The villagers gasped.

"Ignore his words of anger and violence and revenge. Push him out, Mr Munton. PUSH HIM OUT!"

He used the pushing out action a second time. It was pretty effective. Munton was transfixed by the Holy man and the crowd were becoming more subdued. Quinn, lurking at the edge of the crowd, peered along the shaft of her crossbow and idly wondered whether to swap her aim from Munton to Father Devon. The old priest made her skin crawl.

Jeremy appeared beside her, colour slowly returning to his face.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Please don't buy Ancient tech," he whispered. "I know you and Duggan are friends but he won't..."

"Shut up," she hissed.

Father Devon was talking again, inching closer and closer as he spoke. "You are a strong man, Mr Munton. You are stronger than the Demon. Let the Lord's Light into your heart. Feel His love, Mr Munton. Feel the love of the Lord inside you. See the good He can bring you."

Munton's face was streaked with tears. The shotgun was wavering in his hands.

"Your children are with Him now, Mr Munton. They sit beside Him in the Above and they will wait for you."

Once more, he made the sign of the cross.

"But it is not your time to join them. Please, Sal, discard the sinful weapon of the Before, the weapon of the Demon."

Duggan narrowed his eyes and peered around Munton into the trees. Had he just seen movement in there?

"I think you got it right, Father," said Munton, calmly, a crooked smile forming on his lips. He raised the shotgun at Duggan once more. "It ain't my time for the Above but I reckon it's his."

There was rustling and a sudden blur and the flash of twin sword blades. Munton gasped as cold steel was pressed against his throat and neck.

"Drop it," growled a voice.

Munton unclenched his hands.

FIVE

Stone sheathed his sword, picked up the shotgun and clipped the stock across Munton's face.

He went down howling, blood gushing from his nose.

"Stay down," said Stone.

The child thieves took one look at the bearded stranger with the long scar and the slender woman with the sword pointed at Munton and fled for the trees. Arrows whistled after them. Duggan rallied his men to pursue and swords were hastily drawn. Nuria worked her way along the line of prisoners, sawing through the ropes. The soldiers got to their feet, rubbing their wrists and thanking them both. Stone leaned the shotgun over his shoulder.

A few villagers began clapping.

"Hand it over," said Duggan.

Stone took a measured look at the grizzled man. He saw the sign on his tunic and the sword at his waist.

"It's empty."

"I'm not going to ask you again."

Nuria looked up. Stone took a step toward him, almost nose to nose, and pressed the shotgun into the man's chest.

"It's empty."

As he walked away, Duggan cracked open the firearm. There were no shells in the barrels.

"How did you know?"

Stone said nothing.

"You always know," said Nuria. "You can see it their..."

Duggan turned his back on her and called to Stone.

"I'm Captain Duggan of the Churchmen Regiment," he said. "Who are you people?"

"Dead," snarled Munton, as he was dragged to his feet, blood coursing over his chin. "That's who they are. They're fucking dead. And you, Duggan. I'll gut the lot of you knee benders. You bastards. My poor kids. You don't know what you've done. You have to let me go. I can find him and kill him."

"Shut up, Sal," said one of the Churchmen, as he clamped Munton in chains. "It's the barracks for you."

"I can't go to the barracks," shouted Munton. "I need to protect the kids. You can't put me in there."

"What will happen to him?" asked Nuria, but she realised the captain was ignoring her for a second time.

"He'll be taken to Touron," said Father Devon. "He'll stand trial in a court of law. I'm Father Devon of the Holy House of Brix. You're not from here, are you?"

Duggan saw his men begin to return from the woodland, having swiftly rounded up Munton's gang.

"Who are the children?"

Duggan, having no problem hearing this question, snorted at her. "Children? Thieves, rapists and murderers. Not children, miss."

He marched away. Father Devon smiled apologetically. The soldiers chained the boys and girls and the villagers began to hurl abuse. A clot of mud was thrown, striking one of them; it was the catalyst, anger and frustration poured out and the villagers pelted missiles at the children. They buckled as they were repeatedly hit. The Churchmen dragged them back onto their feet and herded them toward the barracks.

Father Devon and Deacon Rush hastily attended and their words began to soothe and disperse the unruly mob.

"That's Reverence Morning for you," said Quinn, lowering her crossbow.

Jeremy smiled, playfully, but said nothing; he was too busy staring at the two strangers. Then a third emerged from the trees, a man, bald and plump, arms thrust beneath his tunic.

"What's happening?" said the Map Maker.

He paused.

"They don't seem very appreciative."

Stone didn't care what was happening or whether their actions had been appreciated or not. The past few days had been terrible; he wanted food, drink and a decent fire. Gallen was behind them and if this was Ennpithia then he didn't think much of it. He began to trudge toward the village. The air was damp and wreathed in fine rain. The lines on his face hardened. His mouth twisted into a snarl. Nuria and the Map Maker hastily fell in step alongside him.

"I don't think we should mention the men we killed at the river," said Nuria, her voice hushed. "The man we disarmed is heading for trial. They have laws here, Stone. Better we appear to stick by them. At least for now."

"I don't care about their laws." His face grew sterner because he knew she was right.

Duggan spotted the three of them on the move. He strode through the grass, opened his arms wide and blocked the way forward.

"I'm only going to ask once. Who are you people and what do you want in Brix?"

Nuria said, "We saved your men. Have you already forgotten that?"

"You interfered," said Duggan, pointing at her. "The situation was under control. We can enforce our own laws."

"You do that," said Stone.

"I want names. Or you go to the barracks."

"What is that building?" asked the Map Maker, suddenly, nodding toward the Holy House.

Duggan was silent for a considerable time. A deep frown creased his weathered face.

"It's a Holy House," he said, finally. "It's the first Holy House of Ennpithia. How do you not know what it is?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"You knew that weapon was empty," he said, turning to Stone, "and I saw the way you handled it. You three are Kiven."

"We're what?" said Nuria, her heart beginning to race. She licked her lips as a cluster of bowmen advanced and gathered around them, bows raised. Had they left behind one crazy world for another? She couldn't understand the hostility.

"We're from Gallen," said the Map Maker, nervously. "His name is Stone. That's Nuria. I'm the Map Maker."

Duggan let out a low whistle. "Now I find that very hard to believe. Few men find their way here from Gallen."

"Us men seem to have made it just fine," said Nuria.

Stone let his hand drift toward his sword.

"I wouldn't do that," said the captain, taking a step back. "I'm placing you in the barracks. Surrender your weapons or we take them."

"Captain Duggan," said a voice, pushing through the knot of bowmen. "Captain Duggan, please."

Stone observed a tall slender man with freckled skin. His scalp was covered with a fuzz of blond hair. He wore black, from head to toe, with a white sign emblazoned across his chest, identical to the one the soldiers' wore. Hands clasped together, he presented himself to Duggan and said, "Mr Boyd claims knowledge of this party. They are here at his request."

All heads turned toward a portly man with a shock of grey hair, standing on the edge of the village.

"Deacon Rush, with all respect, I do not place tremendous faith in the word of Mr Boyd."

Rush smiled. "I cannot imagine that Mr Boyd would spin a lie on Reverence Morning, Captain. He's an honest, hard working man."

Duggan chewed his lower lip. He glared at Stone.

"You know Mr Boyd?"

Stone and Nuria remained silent. Bowstrings strained. A few villagers began to wander over, intrigued by the stand off with the newcomers.

"Mr Boyd states he can vouch for these people," said Deacon Rush. "I think his word should be good enough, Captain."

They didn't know him but it appeared everyone else did; there were vigorous handshakes as Boyd led them through the village, firm hugs, waves, slaps on the back and a plethora of polite nods, all accompanied by a warm and genial smile.

Nuria whispered to Stone but he had no answers for her. Boyd had saved them from the barracks and for the moment that was good enough. He was in no mood for any further slaughter, having only reached the shores of Ennpithia, and despite the bodies in the canyon, he wanted his sword to remain sheathed, at least for now. If they had been taken to the barracks he would have been forced to resist and kill all the Churchmen and would have done so without hesitation. He had lived a long and bloody life. In the wastelands of Gallen they had many names for him; the Tongueless Man, the Wasteland Soldier, to conjure only a few. But they knew him and feared his violent wrath. Here, he was a stranger and for now the anonymity appealed.

Glances lingered for a few seconds longer as Boyd walked them through a bustling and hard working community. The village had stood for many centuries, a post Cloud Wars settlement, that much was obvious. The inhabitants had ritually observed Reverence Morning with solemn reflection but now, with the sideshow of Munton's arrest over, the rest of the day would unfold into labour, and little else.

Stone could hear the groan of cattle. Beyond the humble dwellings he spotted fields of black and white beasts, chewing grass, tails swatting away flies. He could see long necked white creatures with orange beaks and recognised them as gleff, tasty but vicious things, very rare in southern Gallen, where he was from, but more common in the north. Later, he would learn they named them geese here. There was hammering and sawing and stitching and cooking and tending and gardening but despite the hum of activity, despite the loud chatter and the occasional burst of song, Stone could feel tension, almost as a physical thing, like a heavy cloak, pressing down onto his shoulders. There was a down trodden nothingness to the lives of these people, an oppression that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Boyd's affable nature was the only respite from the suffocating mood. Stone wondered what position the man held in the village. The man's boots, though mud spattered, still looked clean. His clothes were neatly tailored, well presented, and colourful scarves were knotted around his neck, concealing fleshy rolls. His eyes were dark, scrunched tight, with half moon shadows beneath them, and his hair was a curious shock of grey set atop a smooth scalp, curling shaggy and untamed onto a deeply rippled forehead. He was easily ten or fifteen years older than Stone, though the vivacity in his step belied his age.

He took them to the village inn, at the end of a rutted lane. A faded sign creaked in the wind. Inside, the ceiling was low and stale pipe smoke lingered in the air. A lit fire blazed in a large stone hearth, despite the mild temperature outside, and filled the room with warmth. Stone smiled but then noticed a wooden sign nailed above it. The sign seemed to be everywhere; on buildings, on the uniforms of men – even on Boyd who wore one on a chain around his neck.

A bald headed man stood behind a long wooden counter and looked up as the three of them entered. He was in his thirties and wore a brown apron over a heavy woollen shirt with the sleeves rolled back, revealing thick arms covered in wiry brown hair.

He smiled at Boyd, a near toothless grin, and cast inquiring looks at Stone and Nuria.

"Good morning, Bertram," said Boyd. "Food and drink for the three of us, please."

Boyd asked them to sit. It wasn't a request. His voice was friendly but there was a firmness tucked neatly behind his words. It was no wonder he had persuaded the village authorities to release them to him. He was a man who got what he wanted with a smile, not a sword or a fist. He politely excused himself to speak with two men slouched on stools at the end of the counter, sipping from large mugs.

Stone sat opposite Nuria, his back pressed against a rough wall, and carefully studied the two men. One was older, a gnarly face, grey hair, dark beady eyes; the second one was half his age, hair brown, blistered and patchy skin. Both men wore studded leather armour with heavy boots and strapped down swords. Whatever the nature of the conversation Stone knew the men were looking more and more displeased by it. Boyd spread his arms and shrugged. The older one nodded, turned away and raised his drink to his lips, shaking his head with disappointment. The talk was over, as far as he was concerned, but the younger man was not letting the matter lie; he jabbed a finger at Boyd, his face contorted with fury.

"Did you see the way they handled the shotgun?" said Nuria, the warmth of the fire on her back. "They were terrified by it."

She drummed her fingers against the table.

"Why did the captain call us Kiven? Have you ever heard of that word before?"

He shook his head.

"Do you think it means outsider?"

"I don't know," he muttered. He paused. "They don't look too happy."

She glanced over at the two men. Then turned her attention back to him. There was anger in his eyes.

"I don't like it here," he said.

"We've only just arrived."

"What is it with that sign, Nuria? It's everywhere. Boyd is even wearing one. I hate signs and symbols and... we've seen enough of them."

She wanted to reach across the table and squeeze his hands. Her heart hammered at the thought of holding him, wrapped in his warmth. She had wanted him as a lover, attracted to his untamed ways, but Tamnica had stunted her desire for any man, severed it piece by torturous piece. All she wanted was to hold him and feel him close and for him to know that someone cared that much and wanted to be with him and that he wasn't alone in this world anymore.

Her family had passed when she was an infant. The early aspects of her life had been shaped by the discipline and routine of military school - but in the years that followed there had been only deception; her position in the military allowed her to witness the sour veins that ran through her home city. She had committed terrible crimes to maintain her identity within the hierarchy of Chett. But with a renegade group of soldiers and sympathisers, she had plotted to bring it tumbling down, slowly pushing out one brick at a time. Stone had stormed into her city and into her life and demolished the entire wall with one hefty boot. They had fled into the wastelands and she had been with him ever since. Mistrust had become acceptance. Acceptance had grown into friendship.

She eased her palms against the table, closed her eyes. Her skin tingled from the fire.

She wanted to be reborn in Ennpithia.

"Nuria?"

She opened her eyes.

He was looking directly at her. He seemed calmer. He wanted to say something but he didn't have the words.

She nodded, smiled at him.

Stools scraped as the two men finished at the bar. The older man reached for the door. The younger one hesitated, angry eyes glaring at Stone and Nuria. His companion leaned toward him and tried to pull him outside but the younger man refused to budge. His dark eyes bored into Nuria. She stared back at him, unblinking. Stone eased back in his seat, watching.

Boyd, standing at the bar, looked on.

The young man's spirit faltered. He stamped from the inn, slamming the door hard behind him.

The portly merchant wandered back to the table.

"Who are they?" asked Nuria.

"The older one is called Dobbs. The younger one is Farrell. Swordsmen for hire. No one you need to concern yourself with."

Boyd settled at the table, unflustered, as Bertram carried over bowls of mutton soup, bread, hard cheese and mugs of beer.

"I'm Benny Boyd," he said. "And you're most welcome."

"I'm Nuria. This is Stone. Why did you claim to know us?"

"I do. Sort of." He grinned, tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth. "You're both Gallenese."

"First we're Kiven. Now we're Gallenese."

"Oh, you're not Kiven. I know that much about you already."

"Does Kiven mean outsider?"

Boyd thought for a moment. "I suppose it does. In a way. Kiven are the people from the Black Region. Across the Place of Bridges. They live in the old city and the shanty towns. But you're not from there. You're from Gallen. Gallenese people are from Gallen. I was born in north Gallen. In Belsont. I recognise the look in the three of you." He paused for a moment. "Where is your companion?"

"He was curious about the Holy House."

Boyd reached to his chest where the wooden sign hung around his neck.

"What is that sign?"

"Sign? It's a cross," he said. "It's a symbol of our faith and our love for the Lord in the Above. He even watches over Gallen, despite the brutality of that land. One day His Light will shine there."

The two of them looked at him blankly. He drank, partly amused at their ignorance.

"Please, tuck in. You both look hungry. I know Gallen has no faith and I shouldn't mock your lack of knowledge." He fell silent for a moment. "My family were traders and had a shop in Belsont but my father sent us away when we were young. I had two brothers and young men were going missing in the area." He patted his round stomach. "I haven't carried this around all my life. I was fit and strong once." He smiled, somewhat fondly. "We salvaged a boat and sailed here. Ennpithia. The promised land. The land of green fields. That was a long time ago now. We built a business and we thrived. I learned, years later, that the disappearances our father had saved us from were connected to a place called Tamnica. It was some kind of slave camp."

Stone leaned across the table, eyes narrowed, lip curled.

"What do you want?"

"Ah, you do talk then?" said Boyd. "I want you to eat and drink. And then I want you to work for me. Because this is Ennpithia, not Gallen, and here men and women work."

Nuria peered across the rim of her mug.

"I'm a travelling merchant. I leave tomorrow morning. I trade at all the villages and settlements through western Ennpithia. Mostly we hug the coastline. We'll be gone for ten weeks. I saw how you dealt with Sal Munton and you were not intimidated by Captain Duggan. I'm a very good judge of character." He nodded toward the closed inn door. "Dobbs and Farrell were supposed to be Quinn's replacement. Quinn is my usual escort and my friend. She recommended them but I would prefer to hire you two. You see, a merchant requires protection on the road."

"From who?" asked Nuria?

"Bandits. Thieves. Touron law will hang a man for robbery but there are no Churchmen soldiers on the roads to make any arrests." He saw the questioning look upon their faces. "Touron is the central town in Ennpithia. The high council that meets there create the laws by which we all live."

Stone smiled thinly. There was only one law he lived by. _Survival, at any cost._

"I pay well." Boyd set a plump leather bag onto the table. Neither of them touched it. "I see you carry only swords. Quinn can provide you with ranged weapons. You might need them."

Stone loosened the bag, reached in and scooped out a handful of metal coins.

"What are these?"

"The economy of Ennpithia is different to that of Gallen." said Boyd, burping loudly. "Gallen is built on trade and theft. Here, if you want something then you pay for it with coin. That's a large amount of money I'm offering you both. There are men who would give their right arm for this deal. But they wouldn't be of much use if they did."

Unsmiling, Stone tipped the coins back into the bag.

"That was a joke," said Boyd.

He knotted the bag, glanced at Nuria. She realised he wanted her to decide.

"How important are these things? Truthfully?"

Boyd smiled at them. It was like explaining numbers to children. He shifted in his seat.

"Coin will put food in your belly. A roof over your head. A woman... or a man in your bed. As I told you, this isn't Gallen. You can't walk around killing and stealing with no consequence. There are laws here and the law will pursue you if you do. This is the new world. This is why people try to make it to Ennpithia. Coin is everything. Coin is how you survive."

Nuria took a deep breath, nodded.

"We'll work for you."

"Excellent," he said, clapping his hands. "Now, eat before this food grows cold."

Stone lifted the bowl of soup and sniffed. A rich smell filled his nostrils. He saw the look of disapproval on Boyd's face and the merchant offered him a wooden spoon. Nuria tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it into the hot food and stirred it around. She smiled across the table at Stone and was about to take a bite when the inn door creaked open and Farrell stepped back inside.

"I'm not happy with the new arrangement, Boyd," he said, standing in the open doorway. His voice was calmer, his face resigned. "Quinn said you'd give us work and I need that coin. I've made promises on earning that coin."

"I'm sorry," said Boyd. He appeared sincere. "I have to pick the best to protect my business."

Dobbs appeared behind him. He had the same resigned look on his face. Neither man could afford to back down.

"I want you to reconsider hiring us, Mr Boyd," said Farrell. "I'm giving you a chance to change your mind."

"I don't want any trouble in here," called Bertram.

"Then we'll take it outside," growled Dobbs.

Stone hurled the soup bowl into Farrell's face. He howled as the hot liquid soaked him and flailed blindly for his sword. Nuria sprang from her chair and jabbed her fist into his throat. She slammed him against the table, scattering mugs of ale. She grabbed his wrist and bent his arm behind his back until he cried out. Dobbs flashed his blade. Stone wielded his sword against him. The ring of iron against iron was loud in the confined space of the inn.

"Enough," shouted Bertram, aiming two pistol crossbows at them.

Dobbs looked into Stone's eyes. There was nothing but coldness. He kept throwing his weight behind his sword.

"No more," bellowed Bertram, taking a step forward.

Stone could see the crossbows out of the corner of his eye. Farrell, pinned to the table, whined as Nuria jammed his arm further up his back.

"I swear to the Lord I will drop you both," hissed Bertram.

Stone took a step back and reluctantly lowered his sword. Dobbs mirrored him, maintaining eye contact.

"Put your swords away. Now."

Slowly, both men sheathed their weapons.

Bertram let out a long sigh. His shoulders relaxed.

Stone took him, hands moving fast, nearly a blur. He snapped Bertram's wrists back and snatched both crossbows. He widened his arms; trained one on Dobbs, the second on the innkeeper.

"Nuria, let him up."

She released Farrell's arm and backed away, half-drawing her sword. Farrell came up from the table, smeared with blood and squashed vegetables. Shaking with anger and embarrassment he stormed from the inn, barking at anyone who dared even look at him.

Boyd pushed back his chair.

"I never made a deal with you, Dobbs," he said. "Understand that you were only a recommendation. And a piss poor one at that. This ends here."

Dobbs nodded. "Yeah."

"Out," said Stone.

He waited until the door was closed before twirling the pistol crossbows around and offering them to Bertram.

Boyd smiled. "I think I've made an excellent choice."

The Map Maker stepped through an arched doorway and stood perfectly still, waiting, listening.

Despite the dampness of the building, warmth surged through him and tears surprisingly moistened his vision. He had never experienced such serenity, witnessed such inner calm; it was truly overwhelming, a sensation more potent than any of his maps or any of the women he had ever known; even Sadie, who carried his child back in Gallen. But then his skin tingled and the hairs on his neck stood on end and a new emotion engaged him. He took several steps forward across a stone floor. He had walked this floor before. A long time ago. Far into the murkiness of his past. Even further back than that. The footsteps were no longer his. He did not know who they belonged to.

But that was impossible.

He was yanked, roughly, with such tremendous force that breath escaped from his body.

Confused, the Map Maker looked around. A few villagers were clustered on benches, heads bowed, hands clasped together, muttering quietly.

What was wrong with him?

His feelings blurred, overlapped. He could not unscramble them. He swayed, dizzy. It nibbled at his skin, clawed into the depths of his soul.

I am frightened, he thought, I have been frightened all my life.

But I have been here before.

Walked this very floor, stepped through this very dust. No, no, no!

He was tired, hungry and dehydrated from the expedition across the Metal Sea. He had never journeyed beyond the shores of Gallen and there were no Holy Houses in its arid wastelands.

He had not been here before.

Yet still the turmoil raged in his head. He swivelled around once more, this time slowly absorbing every feature of the building's interior; its tall windows of glass overlaid with metal crosses, its white washed stone walls that climbed toward a pointed wooden ceiling supported by many beams, its rows of wooden benches to his left and right, its faded carpet that led toward a broad altar draped with a green cloth edged with gold trim. He studied the altar further. It bristled with tall candles and ornate goblets and three large crosses; two of wood flanking one of shiny yellow metal. There was a curved wooden podium to one side of the covered altar. It was empty and the Map Maker had the sudden urge to climb its steps and stand inside, imagining himself holding sway over hundreds of eager and devoted listeners.

He smiled.

But then the noise was back in his head, metal scraping metal. Faraway, then closer, penetrating him, guiding, swirling inside.

Look...

He tilted his head back, saw the carving. It was a solid wooden cross, quite possibly ten feet in height, perhaps taller, but unlike any of the crosses he had seen since arriving in Ennpithia; this one bore the shape of a man upon it, his face contorted in pain, a crown of thorns upon his skull, his legs bound, nails driven through his hands.

The Map Maker stared, mouth agape. The clarity came to him. The lines joined together. The shapes snapped into place.

You have been here before. So long ago. In a way they will never understand, never believe, and never accept.

The Map Maker blinked, looked frantically around. The voice had been distinct, as if whispered in his ear. He could see the villagers at the back of the building, hunched over. They had not budged.

Then a tall figure emerged from the shadows. It was Deacon Rush. Footsteps echoed as he walked toward him.

"One of Mr Boyd's friends," he said, politely.

The Map Maker did not respond.

"It is a shame you did not arrive earlier. You missed our Reverence Morning service." He paused. "Father Devon delivered one of his most powerful sermons. It was very uplifting."

"Who is he?" asked the Map Maker, nodding at the crucified figure.

"It is the Son of our Lord."

"Where does your Lord live? In the village?"

Rush frowned, raised his eyes. "Our Lord is in the Above. He watches over all of us."

"Why is he in pain?"

"He suffers for the sins of Man. Because Man's greed plunged the world into darkness. One day He will return..."

"... and where there is darkness," continued the Map Maker, "He will bring Light."

"You are a man of faith?" said Rush. "Captain Duggan assumed you were faithless Kiven."

"One day He will return," whispered the Map Maker. "One day you will return. I don't hear it anymore."

Rush frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't hear it. Do you understand? The noise has gone. It's gone. There is something about this building. It's blocking the noise."

He stopped.

"Clarity," he said. "This building isn't blocking the noise. The noise has been unscrambled."

Deeply puzzled, slightly concerned, Rush said, "Would you care to sit down?"

"It's words. All this time. Words."

"Please, have a seat."

The Map Maker eased gingerly onto a pew. Rush sat on the one in front of him.

"Mr Boyd claimed knowledge of you three strangers but I am beginning to wonder if I have been tricked."

"You have," said the Map Maker, flatly, making no eye contact. "I don't know the man. Nor does Stone or Nuria."

"Stone and Nuria are your companions?"

The Map Maker shook his head.

"My followers."

"You have followers? A man of faith with followers. That's quite interesting. Do you have a name, sir?"

"No."

"You have no name?"

"No."

Rush swept a hand over his cropped hair.

"Where are you from?"

"Gallen."

"Then you're not Kiven."

"What's Kiven?"

"Well, Kiven are us, I suppose. Ennpithians and Kiven are the same but the Place of Bridges is what divides us and has done for centuries."

"They are nothing like us," boomed a voice. "This is why our Lord created the Place of Bridges."

Both men turned to see Father Devon coming through a side door, his lined face reddened with anger. He strode swiftly toward the two men. The Map Maker guessed he was possibly in his fifties or sixties or even older. In his lifetime he had seen few men of such age.

"Do not compare us to the Kiven," he said. "What an outrageous claim to make, Deacon Rush."

"I am truly sorry, Father Devon." Rush lowered his head as the older man glared at him.

"The Kiven do not embrace the Holy House." He was scowling as he spoke. "They shun the Light of the future and live in the darkness of the Before. It is a sin to speak or think otherwise."

"I meant no sin, Father. But it is said that not all Kiven are non-believers and that Holy Houses are appearing within their city."

"Not this rhetoric again. I will not suffer it. The Kiven are nothing like us. The Lord brought His light to Ennpithia and our soil was reborn and He brought forth the animals and we worked the land but... but across the Place of Bridges the..." His flow stuttered and faltered as his attention focused on the Map Maker. "The hate of man incinerated... the hate of man burned the cities and..." He paused. "We are nothing like the Kiven. Whilst they crawl back into a history of sin we strive to take steps forward into a future of ordered society."

The Map Maker rose from the pew, ignoring the tall and bony man. He had clarity. For the very first time.

You will walk amongst them, my son. You will give them the answers, my son.

His head was spinning. Sweat burst across his face.

Your time will come. They will rise up and follow you. We will banish the dark and bring our freedom.

Slowly, he eased his arms from beneath his tunic and mopped his brow with his sleeve.

The men of the Holy House stared at his missing hands.

"Who are you?" gasped Father Devon.

SIX

"Lever action," explained Quinn, picking up one of three customised crossbows lying on a cluttered workbench. "Rapid fire. Twenty bolts in the magazine. Let me show you how it works."

She swiftly demonstrated firing and reloading, indicating the lever that required cocking before every shot.

"You'll have to crank the lever every time you fire. Otherwise there's no tension. Keep it clean or it'll jam."

She showed them how to remove and refill the wooden magazine box that slotted onto the shaft. Then she dragged out a box of bolts and lifted it onto the workbench with a grunt.

"That should last you a full trip. There are spare magazines boxes in there as well. Have them loaded before you leave."

"What kind of trouble will we get?" asked Nuria.

Stone stood at the doorway and glanced around the cramped workshop; tools, weapons, strips of leather, pieces of metal and timber, stacked boxes. He could imagine being quite at home in here.

"In the villages you might encounter a few light fingered thieves whilst Benny is selling, maybe a couple of drunks as the day wears on, but nothing you shouldn't be able to handle. I managed by myself. You two will be fine." She paused. "The ones who'll give you the real trouble will be the Shaylighters. Their tribes are scattered through the hills. For years the Churchmen have hunted them down, trying to eliminate them, but the Shaylighters are few in number so tracking them is difficult. Now the Churchmen leave tackling them to hired mercenaries."

She gave a short laugh.

"You can't miss the bastards. The Holy House calls them Devil Men or Devil Soldiers or something. They wear their hair long and paint themselves with the inverted cross. I don't really care. It's all shit to me."

"What's an inverted cross?" said Nuria.

Quinn scanned her workbench and picked up two chisels. She formed a cross with them. "This is the symbol of the Holy House. You'll see the bloody thing everywhere." She flipped the tools upside down. "This is the sign of the Shaylighters."

"What kind of numbers and weapons can we expect?" said Stone, speaking for the first time.

Quinn said, "Wait a minute I saw that look. You've already come across them, haven't you?"

"Boyd said we couldn't go around killing anyone," said Stone. "He said you have laws here."

She snorted. "He's right, you can't. But there's no law for killing Shaylighters. No one gives a shit about them."

"We killed some in a canyon near here," said Nuria. "They were chasing a man. He got away from them."

"The most that attacked us once was about ten on horseback. That's a large number for Shaylighters. They were armed with spears and axes. It was pretty scary for a short time." She patted one of the crossbows. "These will keep you alive on the road."

"You killed them all?" said Stone.

"I know what I'm doing. So does Benny. He's a good man. He's clever, too. And he's a friend. Don't be fooled by how he looks. Just do as he says. Don't get smart thinking you know better. He knows what he's doing. We both do."

"One of the Shaylighters we encountered carried a box of light." Stone fingered his burnt tunic. "It did this."

"That's not possible."

"Trust me, it is."

Quinn narrowed her eyes.

"Did he wear a hat of feathers?"

Stone nodded

"His name is Essamon. He's their spiritual leader, a crazy man." She peeled off her cap, scratched her head. "It's strange to find him this close to Brix. He usually stays deep in the western hills."

"What was the box?" asked Nuria.

She told them she didn't know exactly what it was but that it had to be a piece of Ancient tech which was forbidden and carried a penalty of death.

"The Shaylighters don't believe in the Lord and the Holy House. They have nothing but hatred for the cross. I'm surprised Essamon has Ancient tech. But you're lucky to be here. He can't be killed."

"Nuria stuck an axe in his shoulder. He bled like any man."

"Essamon is not like any man. There are stories he has powers."

Stone nodded with disinterest. He then asked, "Why are you quitting?"

"That's none of your business."

He said nothing, picked up the crossbows and slung them over his shoulder. He lugged the box of ammunition into the tangled garden. It bright outside, hot and windy. He allowed his eyes to roam the village and for a fleeting moment he thought of Emil, back in Dessan, one of the Eastern Villages in North Gallen. Her life was there now. She had chosen a man and chosen a place. He wondered what she would have made of Brix and the Holy House. He wondered what she would have made of Quinn. He smiled wryly. He knew _exactly_ how she would have reacted to Quinn's spiky personality.

Was he a man who could choose a place like she had?

Stubbornly, he accepted how much he missed her. She was his last connection to Tomas, once his closest friend, almost a son, stabbed to death in the wastelands last year by a tribal leader known as the Cleric.

But it was a far deeper emotion than simply that. He saw Nuria and Emil as a small family.

He glanced down at the box in his grasp and stepped back inside the workshop.

"We don't need these."

"What?" said Nuria.

"Since when do we suddenly care about coins and merchants? If Boyd needs mercenaries he can hire those idiots from the inn."

"Dobbs and Farrell are wankers," said Quinn, echoing Duggan's opinion. "I had to suggest them because there's no one else. Brix is a working town. Benny would have to ride to Touron to enlist fighting men and it would take days. He'd be behind on his schedule for the festivals and fairs. Look, you made a deal with him. Honour it. He needs protecting."

"Then you protect him."

"I can't. I..."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I told you that's none of your business."

"You suddenly decide to walk away at the beginning of Boyd's busy schedule. That makes me suspicious."

Nuria looked between them. He had a point.

"Take the work," said Quinn. "Be glad of it."

"I'm glad of the sun on my face. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are we being watched?"

Both women spoke at once. "What?"

"A fair haired boy loitering at the well on the hill. He's been following us since we arrived. Who is he?"

Quinn knew who it was but she pushed past him anyway. She cupped a hand over her eyes to block out the bright rays of afternoon sunlight.

"That's Jeremy. He's a friend." She walked back into the workshop. "He can get a bit protective. He's just looking out for me. He was a friend of my niece."

"Was?" said Nuria.

Quinn chewed her lip. "Take the crossbows and work for Benny. At least this once. I can pay you extra if that's what you want."

"Do you think we're stupid?" said Stone. His voice was a deep growl. "We're not taking on the work unless you tell us why you're quitting. We're not going to walk into any mess you've left behind."

He glanced at Nuria.

"No more Tamnica."

It was the same words he'd said at the riverbank, the moment they'd arrived in Ennpithia, but it was much more than simply words; it was a promise.

Quinn blinked. "What did you say? You know of Tamnica? Benny once told me about that place. He said it was a death camp. They torture people and make black energy for the metal machines. Were you prisoners there?"

Nuria folded her arms.

"Look, I'm not trying to trap you. You can trust me. There's no mess and I can give you with something better than crossbows. Maybe then you'll realise you can trust me." She took a deep breath. "I have outlawed weapons. You have to keep them hidden in the villages. All it takes is for one loose tongue and you'll be marched off to Touron for a hanging."

"Why do they fear guns so much?" asked Nuria.

"It's not only guns." She sighed. "To be Ennpithian is to worship at the Holy House and build for the future. One way of building for the future is to damn the weapons and tech of the past."

The words were flat. Nuria guessed it was a rehearsed speech, a mantra that had been passed down through generations.

"It's how we differ from the Kiven. That's why Duggan thought you might be them. He hates them. The Holy House teaches forgiveness; not Duggan. I mean, he _really_ hates them. They live in an old city, trying to kick start it back into life; metal machines, lights in the sky, that kind of thing."

She picked up a canteen of water, drank. "They live in the past. We live in the future. The words of the Holy House. Sometimes I think it's the other way round."

"We don't give a fuck about the laws of the Holy House," said Stone. "What do you have?"

For the first time, a smile broke across Quinn's stocky face. She eased shut the workshop doors. In the near gloom, she shifted barrels and rolled back a frayed rug revealing a square of metal embedded in the dirt. She lifted it and Stone widened his eyes at a metal crate brimming with pistols and revolvers. He crouched and picked out a few handguns, feeling grips, peering along barrels, testing firing mechanisms.

"Some of them are pieces of shit and I can only spare you a few bullets. I need some for myself."

She was right. Some of the guns were even constructed from crude plastic or wood and not metal.

"Remember to keep them concealed. And if you get caught with them forget where they came from."

Stone offered Nuria a pistol. It was a similar model to the one she had trained with in Chett. He picked out a revolver with a good barrel and clean chamber. Quinn fished out a box and tipped out a dozen bullets. Stone studied them. They were not conventional bullets, like ones he had used in the past. They appeared to be no more than melted steel projectiles. He wondered how they would fire and how accurate they would be. Quinn saw his expression as he dropped them into the chamber.

"They pack a punch. I just wouldn't use them from any great distance."

Nuria's pistol magazine would hold more than six but six was all she was given. She tucked the handgun into her pocket.

"Keep the crossbows with you at all times," said Quinn, pushing open the workshop doors. "Use the firearms only if you're overwhelmed."

She studied the two of them.

"Clarissa," she said. "My niece was called Clarissa. She was only eleven... she was murdered."

"What happened?" asked Nuria.

She told them, spitting out the words rapid and bitter, choking back the loss, fists clenched with hate. The child had died of a sickness, a terrible sickness that raged within the broken city of Mosscar, a parting gift from the Ancients.

"The Holy House tells us the Lord restored Ennpithia but left the sickness as a reminder that we do not attempt to rebuild the past. Mosscar is the only place like it in Ennpithia."

One morning Clarissa rode out to the city, a confident and capable rider. She never told anyone she was leaving or why she went there. She took no supplies and no weapons.

"It was more than a day before she returned. She was shivering, vomiting, skin red and blistered."

"Did she say anything?"

"She was delirious. She... she died in agony." Quinn stared. There was only the sound of the wind. "My brother, Daniel, blamed the Holy House for not protecting her. He was so angry." She stepped into the garden, placed her hand against the wall of the cottage. "He had prayed all his life. You see our mother was very... _devoted_. It was the cross before anything. Daniel couldn't come to terms with losing Clarissa. He tried to burn the Holy House to the ground. In the end, he was so drunk he set fire to himself. Jeremy, up there on the hill, is going to look after him whilst I go into Mosscar to get the truth."

"There are ruins in the east of Gallen where sickness clings to the buildings," said Stone, sombrely. "There is no way to survive it. You'll die like your niece."

"You sound like Jeremy," said Quinn. "But I'm not stupid. I will have something that can help me. A piece of Ancient tech. This is why I need you to work for Benny. He's been good to me and I've worked with him for a long time. I should only be gone a week or so. Maybe not even that."

She looked at them evenly.

"You have forbidden weapons. I will have forbidden tech. We could all hang for it. We are bound to each other by deception."

"You said Clarissa was murdered," said Nuria, leaving the words hanging.

"She _was_ murdered."

Quinn's face grew dark.

"Ask yourself why a sensible eleven year old girl rides into a deserted city knowing it will kill her?"

Stone nodded. "She doesn't."

"Someone manipulated her or took her there against her will. Someone who knows how to survive the sickness."

Brian set down his wheelbarrow, arched his shirtless back and let out an exaggerated yawn.

He was nearly twenty years old with a ragged and patchy beard that crawled around his narrow face. It wouldn't grow right and he was conscious of it all the time, forever tugging or fingering it during conversation. It really looked as if he had gathered locks of shorn hair and stuck them to his annoyingly youthful skin. He had once cracked a man's head open for poking fun at his beard. Bertram had barred him from the inn but thankfully not reported the attack to the Churchmen. The man had been passing through and left the following morning, bloodied scalp wrapped in linen. Brian now picked up his drink from Antolly, who brewed his own and charged less.

He went to the well, cranked the handle and raised the bucket. Clear water sloshed over the rim. He drank, gulping it down, and then poured the rest over his sweat covered face and torso.

Soaked, his beard looked even worse, like a half-drowned rodent festering beneath his nose.

"Fuck, it's getting hot," he said, loosening the scarf around his throat and squeezing his crotch.

Jeremy, loitering a few feet away, said nothing. His vision was fixed on Quinn's cottage at the bottom of the low hill.

"Really getting hot."

He leaned back against the well, dark eyes scowling at the bustling village. He squeezed himself once more.

"I'm leaving with the Churchmen convoy in the morning. They've put me in charge of the horses. A few measly fucking coins in my pocket."

Jeremy waved his hand.

"Who the fuck are you waving at, boy?" said Brian.

"It's Quinn," he muttered, smiling down at her. "She's seen me. Wave at her. Act normal."

Brian peered toward the cottage. He saw the blocky figure of Quinn and spat.

"I'm not fucking waving at her. I don't even like the bitch."

He tossed the empty bucket into the well. It hit the water with a loud splash. He tugged at his crotch.

"You're wasting your time with her. She ain't into cock. Have you ever seen her with a fella?"

Jeremy's face reddened. "That's just nasty gossip."

Brian snorted. "What's she doing?"

"Saddling her horse."

He paused, glanced at Brian.

"The three strangers are inside the Holy House. Make sure you pass the names and descriptions of them to the emissary."

"I will. I know that. You don't need to keep reminding me,"

"It's important he knows."

"I fucking know all that. Stop going on, Jeremy." He stamped around. "You know I could easily drown you in the well."

"Sure."

He swaggered toward Jeremy, bumped foreheads.

"I could smash your fucking face in until you wet yourself and then take over. You understand me, you little prick?"

"You don't scare me, Brian."

"I do scare you, Jeremy. Look at you, the big man, shaking like a fucking girl. You got a cunt between your legs or something?"

A sickly grin covered Jeremy's lips. "How are you with languages, Brian? Maybe if you could learn their tongue then you _could_ take over. It's a shame you're such a fucking inbred retard."

The young man lifted his fist, then lowered it and picked at his beard. "Is Quinn going to be a problem?"

Jeremy swallowed before answering. "She's meeting with someone to buy a piece of Ancient tech. I don't know who and I don't know what it is she's buying. Then she's going to Mosscar. She says it can help her survive in there."

Brian chuckled. "What the fuck are you doing about it?"

"I've tried stopping her but she's determined to find out why Clarissa ended up there."

Jeremy paused.

"She shouldn't have gone in there."

Brian trudged back to his wheelbarrow.

"If you can't stop her going," he said. "Then you need to give her a reason to come back."

He pulled at his crotch.

"See, that's a good idea, ain't it? Find a reason for her to turn around and come back. Not bad for an inbred retard, right?"

He looked at Jeremy sternly.

"You can't let her get inside Mosscar."

"I'm staying," said the Map Maker. "This is where I belong now."

Nuria's mouth curled.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"But you hate staying in one place."

"I'm not going with you."

"We'll be moving from village to village. You'll see a lot of new places."

"I've travelled all my life. This is where I'm going to stop."

"Why couldn't you have picked Dessan as a final place to stay?"

The Map Maker remained silent.

"You left behind a woman carrying your unborn child. You might have been happy there. I know Sadie would've been."

He stared forward at the man on the cross. "Dessan is not here and here is where I need to be."

Nuria shook her head. Despite their differences and his increasingly odd ways, she was uncomfortable leaving him behind.

"Will they look after you?"

"I can hear her clearly now," he replied, ignoring the question. "This place has brought clarity to the noise. I never imagined it was a voice. I'd hoped it was but often I thought it was a punishment. Now I know different. Her words are inside me. This is where it begins for me. For all of us."

Nuria frowned. "Who can you hear?"

Stone shrugged and walked away. The enigmatic man had made his decision and another piece of his rag-tag family was lost, albeit an edgy and dysfunctional and sometimes unwanted piece, but a piece nonetheless. The Map Maker had chosen his place; surrounded by strangers with a curious belief in something intangible. For a fleeting moment, he envied the man and wondered what it felt like to arrive somewhere and know, in that instant, it was where you belonged. There had been a place like that for him during childhood. Slowly, though, he believed such a place existed now.

Though not here in Brix, not exactly.

He glanced around the Holy House, noting the trappings of the Ennpithian faith. Quinn was right. There were crosses everywhere. He thought of the branding on his arm. Was this cross truly any different to the shapes scorched into his flesh? Was this mythical deity observing him and tapping into his rambling thoughts this very moment? Was he plotting the places men and women stopped and had picked the Map Maker to stop here? Were choices not really choices after all? Stone grimaced. No deity was choosing his path. He was a free man. One foot after the other. But had the deity chosen for him _not_ to choose? Should he stay here out of defiance or would that defiance be the deity's choice, too?

No wonder the villagers looked miserable. He'd only been here for one afternoon and his head was already aching.

He stepped outside, the sun on his face, the wind in his hair. The boy hiding behind the well had gone and Quinn's cottage looked still. The workshop doors were closed and her horse was missing. Crossbow over his shoulder, sword buckled at his waist, he set the box of ammunition on the ground, placed his boot on it, and closed his eyes.

"How was your business with Mr Boyd?"

He'd already heard Duggan's approach. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The man wore armour and his leathery face was squashed beneath an iron helmet. He carried a bag of coins; similar to the one Boyd had offered them in the inn, though noticeably smaller.

"This belongs to you."

He tossed it in his gloved hand.

"It's the reward for the capture of Sal Munton."

Stone looked into the man's eyes; he saw frustrated tolerance.

"Well, it's yours."

He threw the bag. It hit Stone in the chest and dropped to his feet, landing with a clink.

"You might not be Kiven but I don't trust any of you."

Stone glanced at the cross on the man's armour.

"You'd rather trust that?"

"It's not too late to place you in the barracks. I don't leave until the morning. I'm sure I can think of a reason to arrest you."

"I'm sure you can."

Nuria stepped into the warm sunshine. "He's adamant he's staying..." She stopped as she saw Duggan.

"Who's staying?" said Duggan, nose twitching.

"Our friend."

"That stupid man calling himself the Map Maker? What's his real name? Why does he hide it? Is he wanted?"

"He doesn't have a name," said Stone.

"Not everyone starts life the same way." Nuria folded her arms. "Besides, Father Devon asked him to stay. It seems his word carries a lot of weight in this village."

Duggan turned away from her.

"Make sure Boyd enlists some new help on his trip," he said. "I don't want you two back in Brix."

He bent, picked up the bag from the dirt, and chucked it at Nuria. Instinctively, she caught it.

"Enjoy it. Women are good at spending coin."

He walked away.

"Prick," said Nuria.

Stone looked at her and smiled.

"You frighten him," said the Map Maker, joining them on the steps. "Look at these people. They live in fear. All of them. Fear of the Lord and the Above and the sins they are guilty of. It has been drummed into them from birth. How the sins of their ancestors created this awful world. How their sins perpetuate the evil we face. These people are abused in a way I have never seen before. Not through weapons or brute strength. But in here."

He tapped his wrists against his bald head.

"Then why do you want to stay?" said Nuria.

"Have you not been listening to me? A part of me has been missing all these years. I first discovered it when I met Sadie and she gave me a map from the time of the Ancients. It opened up a doorway to the past. And it's here. The rest of me. It's all here. My true purpose."

He gestured toward the old stone building. Stone grunted, stooped for the ammunition box.

"I don't like leaving you behind," said Nuria.

"Last chance," said Stone.

But he was no longer listening, only talking. He was going to lead the people from the dark and into the light. He was going to do this and do that. His mouth moved and the words came out and little of it made any sense. They had fled the murderous gangs of Gallen and tossed him off the edge of the world and Stone realised the mercurial man had never seemed more content that right now. He was eager to leave with Nuria. He was looking forward to the road. There was nothing he liked nothing about the village; except Quinn. He thought about her dead niece and wondered how she would survive in Mosscar.

Maybe they could detour?

Stone edged into the shadows, leaving Nuria stranded with the Map Maker. She threw him a sideways glance – _thanks a lot_. He watched her for a long time, soft pale skin, dirty blonde hair tied into a ponytail, and that sense of belonging touched his murky soul.

"Nuria," he called.

She eased the talkative man onto the steps of the Holy House and told him to rest.

Hands on her hips, she leaned toward Stone, lips curled smile. "I think he's staying."

"I think you're right."

"Would you ever consider staying?"

"Here? No."

"No, not here, but somewhere."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

He looked into her bright blue eyes and saw the humour had gone. He plucked the bag of coins from her palm.

"Shall we go back to the inn?"

She realised he wasn't going to answer.

"Sure."

As they walked through the village, Stone said, "What kind of a person bundles an eleven year old girl into a city stricken with sickness?"

"You don't think she went in there alone?"

"Quinn doesn't."

"It's too horrible to think about. I just want to get drunk."

"How do they survive but the girl doesn't?"

They stopped outside the inn.

"We're working for Boyd," she said.

Stone scratched his beard. "I reckon we can do more than one thing at a time."

It was the season of long hot days and short warm nights. It was the season when Shauna slept naked with her husband.

Not that he was there to appreciate it.

She woke abruptly, a film of perspiration on her face, the fourth night in a row it had happened. Her dreams had grown messy. She sat up, blankets slipping to her waist. Patches of grey moonlight slanted into the room. The wind ached. The cattle groaned. The dream had faded. She licked her lips. Her throat was dry. She had taken to bringing a half-filled cup of water with her at night. She reached for it, drank too quickly, set it down gasping.

His pillow was untouched.

Wrapping a blanket around her thin frame, she went looking for him. She knew where he would be. He would be on the other side of the wall, slumped half-drunk in his chair, dirty boots and empty bottles discarded on the rug, the fire dwindling to almost nothing. She sighed, hesitated, glanced back at the empty bed, tempted to return. It was his last night and she really didn't want another fight. Then she looked at the cross-stitch hanging from the bedroom wall, a beautiful piece of embroidery they had forgotten to notice for so long now, their names woven amongst trees and flowers and Holy crosses, a wedding gift, nearly seven years ago, the day of her thirteenth birthday.

She wasn't giving up on him, on them.

The door creaked as she nudged it open. Her bare feet were sticky against the stone floor. She was right about his boots and about the empty bottles. She almost laughed to herself. His chair was angled toward the fire and all she could see was his arm dangling from it, a bottle of cheap wine loosely clutched between his fingers.

Shauna placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He sighed.

"Why don't you come to bed?"

She loosened the blanket; pert breasts and an untamed bush. He tilted the bottle to his lips. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he gulped it down.

It was her turn to sigh. She sat beside the crackling fire and curled around his legs, leaning onto his thighs.

He drank, stroked her hair.

"Jeremy called me an inbred retard. Because I ain't able to speak their tongue like he does. He's the fucking retard, Shauna. He's the cunt in deep shit. He let Quinn leave for Mosscar this afternoon."

"What's going to happen?" She looked up at him.

"Jeremy needs to find a reason for her to turn back. She can't be up there, nosing around."

Shauna shook her head. "Walk away from this."

"I can't."

"You can, Brian. You can do whatever you want."

"The beacon is finished. Everything is in place. I can't walk away. Not now. Not after everything we've been through. We need the coin. You know I make next to nothing. When it's done, we're fucking rich."

"You'll make extra going to Touron looking after the horses."

"And what will that do?" He glared at her. "Clear the rent we owe and fuck all else."

"I can take on more cleaning jobs. We can work it out."

He shook his head, buried his hand in her hair, and massaged her scalp. She moaned at his gentle touch.

"There are no more paying jobs in the village," he said, taking his hand away. "You know that. People like us are just unlucky. We've done the sums, Shauna. Even a retard like me can do the sums. You know there's no fucking way out of this. We need money. I have to do it."

He scratched his ragged beard, picked up the bottle.

"I want to fucking do it."

She knew it had always been about more than the coin. They had struggled for years. Now was no different to then.

"Anyway, what do you think would happen to us if we walked away now?"

She shivered.

"When will you be back from Touron?"

"Duggan has a hush-hush meeting with Governor Albury and then we escort the fucking Archbishop back here so the cunt can begin the Summer Blessings. It shouldn't take too long."

"What do you have to do whilst you're there?"

"Just pass on news of the strangers to the emissary. Nothing else."

"Why does he need to know about them?"

"No more questions, Shauna, I'm tired."

She bit her lower lip. Peered into the flames.

"This is our last night."

He didn't answer. He made no move. She spread the blanket beside the fire. Her hands reached for him. His lust had never dimmed. Even when they learned their union within the Holy House would be a childless one. He had always wanted her. Nothing stopped him. Not even the lack of coin or drink or food or decent clothing or anything nice other than the cross-stitch which they no longer looked at. Shauna had feared she would lose him to another woman, a fertile one, but his appetite for her refused to be sated. Until this plot, this horrible plan, had surfaced. Now, he hardly even looked at her. And when he did he could barely maintain himself and even when all that was present there was more chance of the moon falling from the sky than him finishing inside her.

She recoiled from him. He was cold, disinterested. She lay back on the blanket, propped on her elbows.

He drank some more. And still ignored her.

"Make sure you pack before I return. Only what we can carry. We have to move fast."

She picked up the blanket, pulled it around her.

"I don't want to leave Brix."

"There's no choice."

"I've only ever been as far as Great Onglee."

"Once it's done, we can't stay."

"Why? Why do we have to go away?"

"Because the Churchmen will hunt us down. They'll know the beacon was a signal."

"What about Jeremy? What will he do? He has a family here, Brian, sisters and a father."

Brian snorted, got to his feet, brushed past her. He paced the gloomy room dotted with odds of furniture and little else.

"I don't care what Jeremy's going to do. At the moment the smarmy little bastard needs to worry about Quinn."

"There's nothing to worry about. The sickness will kill her."

"Yeah," said Brian. "That's right. How could I forget?"

He was tired, half-drunk and edgy and Shauna knew she should have gone back to bed and left him to dwell on the decisions he had made and how nothing in their lives would ever be the same again since he had made them. How had they both found themselves in this? No. Why had _Brian_ put them in this? He should have never listened to Jeremy about a lucrative way of making extra coin and gaining revenge against the Holy House. It was stupid. What did he think it would involve? Shovelling manure? Chopping wood? Brian was right; there was no paying work left in Brix, not honest paying work anyway.

"If we stay we hang." He stared at her. "Once it's over we'll go far from this miserable village to a place where we can have nice things like our friends have and no longer worry about how much things cost."

"What's the point of nice things if we'll never see our friends again? I like it here, Brian."

"We'll have a decent house to live in. You want that, don't you?"

"We have a decent house now," she said, tiredness fuelling the defiance in her voice. "We just don't have..."

"A decent house?" He slammed his open hand against the wall. His nostrils flared. "It's a fucking hovel. We live in shit, Shauna. Shit, shit and more fucking shit." He took a deep breath. "I hate it. I hate this house. I hate Brix. What has it ever done for us? Tell me. Tell me."

He threw the bottle.

"I hate them for what they've done to us."

"This is what it's all about, isn't it?"

He came to her, gently placed his hand against her flat stomach.

"Empty," he whispered. "All their sermons and prayers and words. It's a big fucking lie, Shauna, a big lie."

He pushed the blanket from her shoulders, looked down at her bare skin. She gasped as he grabbed her and roughly pushed her to his chair. He fumbled with his trousers and pounded against her, thrusts of anger, ruthless and near brutal, the sweat pouring from his face, dripping onto her back. She stared at his dirty boots and empty bottles askew on the floor. He grunted loudly, unable to spill his seed. He kept driving into her until her knees buckled and then he pushed her against the floor and he was above her and his weight was against her and her legs were wrapped around him and her nails were digging into him and still he could not finish.

He rolled off her, exhausted, panting heavily.

Shauna could see the blackness in his eyes as he lay staring at the ceiling.

SEVEN

Stone opened his eyes.

It was shortly after dawn and the mild air resonated with the clump of horses and the rumble of wagons. He eased into an upright position, head throbbing. He saw Nuria watching the convoy, leaning her hip against the open doorway of the barn, arms folded, head tilted to one side, wind lightly tossing her blonde hair. The property belonged to Boyd. He owned a piece of land on the outskirts of the village with several outbuildings and stables. His house was wood and stone with a moss covered thatched roof. Stone pushed himself onto his feet, licked his dry lips. Nuria heard him cough and glanced over her shoulder. He saw the dark, half-circles below her eyes. He washed his hands through his shoulder length hair, scratched his beard and stepped gingerly toward her.

Sal Munton was straining his lungs inside the prison wagon, damning every man and woman who had ever crossed him and cursing their families and loved ones with all manner of plagues. His shackled gang of thieves were less belligerent. A girl of no more than six years old was deeply distressed. Duggan, riding at the front of a column of armoured Churchmen, appeared untroubled by her choking sobs. The sun glinted off his iron helmet as he trotted past, glaring at them.

Nuria said, "Do you really believe Quinn's niece was murdered?"

"I don't know but something's off about it."

After Boyd had invited them onto his land, introducing them to his wife and children, they had discussed at length the dead child, Clarissa. They talked with Boyd's staff, two men who maintained the property during his absence, but they knew little of the girl who had chosen to wander into a city stricken with a sickness left behind by the Ancients. Nuria pointed out that Quinn would have no doubt spoken with the locals already and there was little to be accomplished by poking their noses into the matter here.

"Quinn seems more than capable of dealing with whatever happened," said Nuria.

"I'm not convinced."

He wasn't. He was far from convinced. A feeling was lingering inside and he didn't like it. It was more than the pressing gloom of the Holy House and the down trodden vulnerability of the villagers.

"Quinn believes she was murdered."

"What if she's wrong?"

"Then no harm done."

"I'm not so sure."

"A child doesn't knowingly wander into a city of death. Something else must have happened."

"It's not our problem."

She walked away from him.

"I like making things our problem."

"Well, where were you in Tamnica?" she shouted. "Where were you when I was being raped? Did you make that your problem?"

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Look, maybe we should just focus on the job we're being paid to do."

He looked crushed. "You've been crying again."

"I'm not sleeping much."

He said nothing.

"It's always there." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I close my eyes and it's always there."

She looked at the scar down his face.

"And it's always there for you. That bastard took a whip to you and they almost killed you in isolation."

He still said nothing. Those months alone haunted him.

"I see their all their faces, Stone. The Warden, Captain Niklas, Cathy. I can hear their voices and I can still smell the cells and taste the rank food."

"The bastards are dead now."

She shivered.

"Then why am I still afraid?"

He wanted desperately to find the right words but lacked them. He had met her down the barrel of a gun, finger on the trigger, only a whisper from pushing her violently out of this world, putting her in the dirt like so many before. But he had hesitated. Something in her eyes had stopped him.

His thick fingers curled around her slender wrist. He pushed up her sleeve. She lowered her eyes to the symbols branded into her pale skin.

"You're stronger than that," he said. "You always have been. I know you always will be."

She lifted head. A tear rolled from her eye. He smudged it with his thumb.

"Never again," he said.

"You can't promise that."

"I can."

He lowered his eyes. "What you asked me yesterday... about stopping... sort of... of finding a place... you know, a place where you belong."

"Forget what I said yesterday."

"No, it's important. It's just... I wouldn't know how to stop. Not like Emil and the Map Maker. Some follow a path that runs in a circle. I don't know how to do that."

"I'm not asking you to."

"But when I'm..." He cleared his throat. Took a moment. Tried again. "When I'm around you I feel like I belong."

Nuria bit her lip. "That's enough for me."

He took her hands between his. She felt the roughness, the warmth.

"Me too."

She breathed deeply. "There's something wrong here, isn't there?"

He nodded.

"Where is Mosscar?" she asked.

Stone smiled.

There were footsteps. It was Boyd. "Good morning."

Stone let her hands drop. She tugged down her sleeve.

"Are you ready?"

He led them into a large building that buzzed with activity. They had expected a simple wagon with tied down boxes but Boyd's travelling shop was packed into a rusted truck with metal plates welded across its giant tyres. It would be drawn by six horses. A man was busy harnessing them and a second man was loading onboard the last of Boyd's merchandise. Stone circled the vehicle, noting how the engine had been stripped out to provide less weight to pull. He imagined it was the same throughout. Anything unused would have been removed. He had seen this method utilised numerous times on Gallen once vehicles had exhausted their precious black energy.

The back doors were wide open. Inside it was crammed with boxes, sacks, crates, folding tables, stacks of wooden trays, buckets and bedding. A metal ladder led to a hatch in the roof. He stepped back and looked up; the edge of the roof was ringed with iron spikes jutting downward, ideal for repelling attackers, and metal panels formed a defensive wall, providing adequate cover.

"Impressive."

"Quinn usually rides up there," said Boyd.

Stone put one boot onto the back of the truck.

"What about the law forbidding the use of things from the past?"

"I make healthy donations to the Holy House," said Boyd, pressing his lips against the cross around his neck.

"I'm sure you do."

"They understand that if I was unable to trade then I would be unable to make any further donations."

Nuria curled her lip. "Laws are laws until important men need to subvert them."

Boyd stared at her, but failed to muster a reply.

Holding the crossbow she climbed onto the front of the truck. She unbuckled her sword and placed it at her feet. Only the seating remained of the cabin. There was no roof or doors or windshield or dashboard. The back doors slammed shut and she heard a bar drop into place. Her body was tired but her thoughts were sharp and her heart lifted as she thought of the tender moment she had shared with Stone. Her life was bereft of tender moments.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms as Boyd picked up the reins.

"I'm not a corrupt man," he said. "I want you to know that."

"I'm sure you're not."

The road out of Brix was heavily rutted and the horses laboured uphill for the first hour, struggling to gather any speed. Nuria looked behind her as the hatch creaked open and Stone appeared on the roof, binoculars around his neck, crossbow beside him.

The truck bounced and jolted from side to side. Nuria was thinking she could walk quicker but Boyd seemed unperturbed and she recalled Quinn's words about how the man knew what he was doing. The track began to fade and the ground levelled out and soon the horses were galloping across open countryside and the vehicle was powering forward.

Stone lowered his binoculars and signalled to Nuria that there was no immediate threat, the rooftop providing a much greater vantage point. He could hear Boyd talking with her but he couldn't make out what was being said. Boyd spoke. Nuria listened. The horses continued to steer the heavy load across deserted fields. He glimpsed streams and brooks, footpaths and wooden bridges. On the sloping hills he spotted scattered farms where men tended the land with their children. Early morning wreaths of mist dissipated and the sun shredded the lazy white clouds. It rose high and grew strong and the three of them wound scarves around their scalps for protection.

They joined a fresh track, climbing south-west. The hills dropped and the trees thinned out. Then Boyd angled the truck west and surged along the Ennpithian coastline, hooves thundering. Stone and Nuria saw the sea for the first time that morning, shiny and glistening beneath the red scarred blue sky. Nuria looked back at him and he nodded. It was a stunning view and hard to believe it was the same sea they had feared dying in a few nights ago. Boyd smiled broadly, delighted with the look that had passed between his new escorts.

"It's one of my favourite spots in Ennpithia," he called out. "It's a beautiful view."

Stone tasted salt on his rough lips. He fished out his water canteen. Hot wind blasted his face as he drank.

It was hard to imagine that such a world as this one existed but he was unable to deny the swathes of greenery, the dense forests, the colours in the meadows and the pastures, the stillness of the lakes, the flow of the rivers, the sweep of the valleys and hills, stretching in every direction, bleeding against the sky. He had been born upon rock and sand - his mouth always dry, his freckled back always burnt, his head always filled with adventure - and the harsh challenge of hacking out a life in the wastelands had been the words and worries of men and women much older and much wiser. He had been a child of the ones who had come before and the ones before them and right back through the centuries and as a child he had grown up with the stories that had travelled the corridors of time; the future had been robbed from them, the world was not how it should have been, the Ancients had melted its beauty with fire and hate and now there was only ash for his generation and the generations to come. But he had been a shirtless child running with his sister, his hand wrapped protectively around hers, and past and future did not exist until they collided, ruthlessly, when the men in uniforms arrived. He had never seen the ash until that day and had spent the rest of his life drowning in it. But here, in Ennpithia, Stone saw no ash. There was only Mosscar and Mosscar was that inexorable link to the Before and it was this contradiction that hammered at his thoughts. Because if Mosscar stood then where was the rest of the civilisation that had fallen?

And with the unexpected revival of childhood memories, stained ugly with brutality, darkness surged toward him and attempted to blacken his soul. His eyes focused on Nuria. There had been women before her, ones he'd sweated and laboured against, especially after fighting and killing and drinking, but he had not cared for them and doubted they had cared much for him. Nuria was more than that and his feelings for her galvanised him, strengthened him to suffocate pieces of the darkness. She steadied his breath. She unclenched his fists. She was the whisper in the night that stopped him tumbling into the abyss. The singers and storytellers would call it love but he wasn't sure he even understood love; his thoughts were cushioned against hers and he watched for her, waited for her; was that love? The coldness had begun to splinter and shafts of light had penetrated. He had walked the wastelands and marked his path and it had been one of blood and corpses but now she was peering in and he was peering out and he knew there was a chance of something more and something better.

That was what he knew. That was all he knew. And Stone considered it to be quite a lot.

Late in the afternoon, Nuria spotted five riders with painted chests and long knotted hair.

"Shaylighters," said Boyd.

Axes and spears hung from their saddles. Stone kept his binoculars trained on them as they shadowed the truck across the plains.

"No Essamon," he called out.

Nuria gave the thumbs up.

For an hour, the warriors mirrored their movement. Then they galloped away into the hills and disappeared.

"That happens a lot," said Boyd. "They have a few sniffs and decide whether to come after us or not."

It was dark when they approached the village of Great Onglee. The Shaylighters had not returned. The track into the village was muddy and the way ahead was lit by torches glowing in watchtowers. There were clusters of wooden huts and mud huts and stone houses with thatched roofs. Churchmen soldiers in iron helmets and leather armour with tunics adorned by the cross recognised Boyd's vehicle and waved it through. The portly merchant slowed the horses to a canter and they trotted along mostly deserted lanes toward a brightly lit estate with high walls, located on the southern fringe of the village. They rode through open gates and Stone and Nuria saw a large house with scattered outbuildings.

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

He yawned, stretched.

"Stay alert. We set up for business before dawn."

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

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

Stone said, "I'll take the first watch. You look tired."

She patted him on the arm.

"I'd rather keep you company."

He nodded.

"Besides, I can tell you all I learned about Mosscar."

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

For the time being, anyway.

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

No, he was not yet ready for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The priest let out his breath.

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

He hesitated.

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

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

But could he now shape the future?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gingerly, he lifted out a slim book.

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

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

Sapphire Johnson.

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

Her effort had been rewarded, even after this time.

My diary. Age 13.

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

PRIVATE KEEP OUT.

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

"Now I discover your truth, Map Maker."

Slowly, he began to read.

EIGHT

"You're an improvement on Quinn."

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

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

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

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

"What happens at the festival?" asked Nuria.

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

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

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

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

"Some people come from Touron," said Kevane. "As if there isn't enough to see and do there."

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

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

Nuria arched an eyebrow. "Knee benders?"

"The Churchmen," he said, grinning.

"I thought all Ennpithians were knee benders?" said Nuria.

"Maurice and I are not what you call _regular_ knee benders."

"Always something else to do."

"He's politely trying to say we're sinful bastards."

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

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

Maurice shrugged. "What's to know? It's a death trap. That's it. You stay well clear of it."

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

The two men laughed. Stone offered a thin smile.

"Is it an old city?"

"Who knows?" said Kevane, spreading his arms wide. "Can you tell I've never been there?"

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

"She wouldn't be that stupid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Out," he growled.

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

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

"I don't care."

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

"I'm being paid to protect this vehicle and everything it in. I never want to see you near it again."

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

"Let her go, Stone," said Maurice. "She's the Earl's child."

"I don't care who she is. I've seen children younger than her put men in the dirt."

He flicked her away from him.

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

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

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

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

"Of course not. Look, he's here."

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

"Don't encourage her," said Maurice, wheeling the girl around and marching her back toward the house.

She looked over her shoulder at Stone.

"I'll look for you under my bed tonight."

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

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

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

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

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

"Why does she want to run away?"

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

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

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

"Same age as Quinn's niece?"

"I reckon she is."

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

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

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

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

"Give them to me."

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

"I'm... so... cold... please."

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

"I'm sorry."

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

"I'm sorry this has to happen."

Daniel's teeth began to chatter.

"I kept asking her not to go but she's so stubborn. Annie, she's so stubborn. She never backs down."

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

"I need water. Fetch me water, Jeremy. You're supposed to take care of me. I need a drink."

He began coughing.

"Get me some water. Please, Jeremy. My throat is so dry. I'm thirsty."

"None of this had to happen, Daniel."

"Water."

"I kept telling Quinn not to go up there."

"Water."

"Now she'll end up dead. Like Clarissa."

"Jeremy ..."

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

Daniel hesitated.

"Who didn't know?"

Jeremy was about to answer and then stopped himself.

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

"What did you do to my little girl?"

He tried to get up but Jeremy shoved him down.

"What did you do, boy?"

"I didn't do a thing."

"You lying shit. You killed her. I know you killed my Lissa. You'll pay with your life."

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

"Quinn shouldn't have gone there. You're our last chance."

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

The boy released him. Daniel's face twitched with recognition.

"I know you."

He turned in his bed.

Hands glided from the blackness and smothered his mouth and nose.

Daniel cried out, the sound muffled.

"Hold him."

Jeremy placed his weight on Daniel's weakly thrashing body. The single eye rolled and the tongue flopped around and the legs jerked and then there was stillness.

The hands calmly edged away.

"Now she has a reason to come back. Go to the barracks and raise the alarm. Get her away from Mosscar."

NINE

The sky began to lighten.

It was the first morning of the festival and Quinn thought back to when she had missed it during childhood; a bout of spots had erupted across her body and itched like mad. She had grown weak, barely able to stand. Her mother staunchly believed the sickness within Mosscar had found a path to their home and their daughter's bed. Her father was not so convinced. He'd seen other children with this type of illness and they'd all recovered. He bought creams and tonics from the marketplace whilst her mother had prayed fervently at the Holy House, often leaving Quinn alone in the cottage to do so. The creams and tonics calmed the itchiness and reduced the burning fever and within a few weeks she was up and about and as strong as ever, but, as far as her mother was concerned, prayer had driven the illness from her eight year old daughter and freed her of the cursed things, though her arms and legs remained bitten with tiny scars that she still bore today.

"He answered my prayers and rushed to heal you, Annie. These marks will serve as a reminder of your selfishness in not thanking Him for His work."

Even at that tender age, tunelessly singing every Reverence Morning, a wooden pew pressing into the back of her knees, the damp of the building causing her to shiver, Quinn had wondered why the Lord had made her ill in the first place, though she was already smart enough to keep such a question from her mother. She had asked her father the question and he had meekly agreed that faith was both confusing and contradictory, though rewarding. She had no idea the meaning of the words he had used. A year later he was gone, his strong frame struck down by a rapid and brutal sickness that saw him repeatedly vomit blood. No one sat on his garden bench anymore. She'd allowed the wildflowers to claim it.

Reaching her ninth, with her father gone, Quinn began to think the Lord had a nasty streak about him. She cried until her mother beat the tears from her. She could still remember that beating. More than any other.

On a windy day, listening to the crash of the sea, she would smoke his pipe and close her eyes and taste that familiar tang. She supposed it was why she enjoyed sharing a smoke with Duggan. Her father had been a more cheerful man but the experience was as close as it was going to get. She was glad her father had not witnessed the war. The pointless deaths would have broken him. He had never understood the division between Ennpithia and Kiven. Nor had she. Quinn wondered why her thoughts were consumed with her dead parents and the war and the grim secrets the past held.

Memories tapped from behind doors. Scratched to get free.

She sat up.

It was time for answers and she would not find them in the distant past. It was only the recent past that concerned her now.

She'd camped on the edge of the forest and slept wrapped in a tarpaulin cover. She shook it free of rainwater and folded it away. The soil beneath her boots was moist from the overnight rain and a light mist drifted over the hill. She would have a mile and a half of open ground to cover before reaching Mosscar. She tied her horse, Blissful, to a tree and stroked her mane before reaching into her backpack and taking out a slim black scope. It was one of many illegal items she carried. One search through her pack would see her hang, though she was pretty confident of talking her way out of any situation.

She cleaned the scope with a cloth before crouching and raising it to her eye. The way ahead was patchy grassland with ruts and hollows. She scanned the farms to the east. There was the distant bleat of sheep and she could see men and women working the land. She swept her gaze toward the hills in the west. The wind blew in her face and rippled her tightly wound ropes of hair. There was no evidence of any roaming Shaylighters. She licked her lips. Boyd would have set up his wares by now and would already be collecting coin. She wondered how Stone and Nuria were working out. She was glad he'd hired them instead of Dobbs and Farrell.

It was time to focus or she would succumb to the same pain-ridden and agonising death that Clarissa had. Someone had lured her into this damned place. She had suspected Jeremy at first. Despite his polite, well mannered and honest nature he was still a young boy and young boys have lusts and needs and she wondered if he had attempted to force himself upon Clarissa... but none of that made any sense, the logic didn't flow, and she had seen the devastation in him when he learned that Clarissa had contracted the sickness of the Ancients.

Pack slung over one shoulder, Quinn pocketed the scope and moved forward, half-crouched, slowly drawing a black pistol from the woollen fleece she wore. It was already warm and pockets of sweat were forming beneath her arms. She shrugged off the fleece and tied it around her waist. She instantly felt cooler in a sleeveless shirt. Pistol in her left hand she sprinted across the open ground. She spotted broken pieces of black asphalt, winking beneath thickened streaks of greenery. It was the outskirts of the city. She halted and reached into her pack for the piece of tech she had told Jeremy about.

The metal box was yellow and scratched. There was a single moulded handle, a circular dial and a switch. She had fixed a strap to it so it could be hung around her neck. She flicked the switch. There was a low buzz and a red light slowly began to glow. She had purchased the outlawed item for a hefty bag of coins. The man who sold her the device was unsure of its correct terminology but understood how to operate the unit and the potential it offered. He referred to it as a _noise box_. There was a detachable handle which he called the _tester_. Boyd had connected her with the man and he was a trusted dealer.

Boyd was shrewd and well connected. His business flourished in Ennpithia. He paid his levies to the landowners, taxes to Touron and made ample donations to the Holy House. He was friends with everyone and held no grudges yet beneath the hardworking, law abiding and charming veneer he had developed a deep knowledge of the whispering merchants, those who dabbled in the rarities from Kiven and places beyond the sea. He never bought or sold anything illegal himself, he was a devoted knee bender, but he could always funnel a person in the direction of someone who did.

She unclipped the tester: it was a cylindrical piece of metal with a mesh grill at one end and a curly black cord at its base that snaked into the noise box

She swept the tester before her but there was no sound. She hesitated. Had she switched it on correctly? She glanced down at the red light and saw it was still aglow. Gun in one hand, tester in the other, noise box around her neck, Quinn took a deep breath and moved across the cracked and faded asphalt, boots echoing on the roads of the Ancients. Millions of souls had once pressed upon this very spot. Now there was only one. She glanced down at the large dial with its single black needle. There was a sequence of numbers and the dial was on zero. She stepped forward, the city rising around her, towering concrete and twisted metal engulfed by foliage. It was impossible to discern what any of the buildings might have been. Greenery climbed and curled, snaked, smothered and choked.

She swept the tester before her but there was no sudden flare of noise; that raw and metallic sound she was anticipating. Her eyes dropped to the dial on the noise box and she saw the needle had not budged. She shifted her direction and moved slowly east but still there was no angry burst of noise and the needle was dormant. Quinn swore and backed away. All Ennpithians feared the sickness that plagued Mosscar, and she had more reason than most to fear it, but now she was angry that the noise box was failing to detect any. Could the box be faulty? Had it become damaged? No, her contact had tested it in the northern reaches of the Black Region, where the red flags were placed, and he had assured her the noise box had screeched - repulsed by the disease that crawled through soil and stone. Boyd trusted the man and that was good enough for Quinn. She retraced her steps. Still the needle refused to recognise any danger. She headed west. For ten minutes she roamed the outskirts of the diseased city – buildings that reached into the clouds, roads and tunnels and bridges – discoloured and smashed and slowly being absorbed by foliage. She waved the tester before her and the noise failed to materialise.

"What the fuck is this?"

She kicked her boot and it connected with something small that rattled along a street lined with identical sized buildings. The object came to a stop. Slowly, she looked around. The concrete buildings were half-wrapped in greenery but it was easy to see they resembled small houses. There was a short road beside each one with a mangled vehicle on many of them. The noise box hung silent around her neck. The red light glowed. A shiver went down her spine. She swallowed and stepped over ragged vines. The wind ached through the old structures and Quinn imagined souls crying at her. She whirled around, pointing her pistol at the nearest building, but there was no one there, there was no one anywhere.

"The sickness is deeper in the city," she muttered. She nodded and lowered her weapon.

There was a faint tremble in her hand.

She ignored it, kept walking.

There was nothing here for a child beyond morbid curiosity in the past and Clarissa had never shown even the slightest interest in the Before. Why, Clarissa? It made no sense. It made no sense at all.

Had Clarissa walked down that very street and felt the ghostly reach of the past as she had?

It still made no sense.

Quinn suddenly raised her pistol. She could hear the rush of horses.

"Shaylighters."

She moved. Sweeping the tester in a wide arc, the box silent, the needle still, she sprinted into the city's arms of death. She dropped behind a square building with a curved roof where foliage surged through a gaping hole. Quinn reconnected the tester to the box and took out her scope. Back against the wall, she pushed herself slowly upward and began to scan the landscape. The riders were growing close, coming from the southeast. She edged along the wall and found herself next to a twisted iron gate, brown with rust. Vines curled around it. She peered through and saw a wide flight of concrete steps leading into blackness. The horses were nearly upon her but still she could not seem them. It couldn't be Shaylighters. She would have heard the whoops and cries from them by now as they thundered across the scrubland.

Then three riders crested a hill and she let out a sigh of relief. It was Jeremy with two Churchmen.

Anger flared. What was the stupid boy doing in bringing them here? She knew he was worried about her but she was loaded down with illegal weapons and tech. The Churchmen would take her away in chains. She fumed. His childish, over protective nature had landed her in a terrible mess. Rapidly, she slipped off the noise box and her pack and placed them out of sight. She set her pistol and scope on top and jogged clear of Mosscar. The horses reared as she emerged from the ruins, waving her arms, and Jeremy scrambled down from his saddle, face pale, windblown.

"I need to talk to you," he said, catching his breath.

She was furious with him. "Why did you come here?"

The two soldiers climbed from their horses. Neither of them asked what she was doing out here but they had rode all night with Jeremy and now found a spot to relieve themselves.

"Something terrible has happened."

She saw it in his eyes. She was all that was left now.

"Go back to Brix," she said. Her voice was hollow. Her hands dangled loose against her hips.

"I don't know what happened. I went to see him last night and he wasn't breathing and..."

"Quinn." It was one of the Churchmen, emerging from the brush. "You should come back home with us. You need to take care of things."

She looked at him blankly. His horse whined as he climbed onto it. "You shouldn't be near this place."

"I can go where I want. No law says I can't put a foot in Mosscar."

The second soldier appeared, wiping his palms on his trousers. He clutched the reins of his horse and swung onto the saddle. He remained silent whilst his companion spoke.

"Your niece went in there and look what happened to her. Hasn't there been enough tragedy in your family?"

"We'd all hate to lose you, Quinn," said the second soldier, finally opening his mouth.

She turned on Jeremy.

"Why did you bring them?" she whispered

"I had no choice. They wanted to escort me. Please. Daniel is dead. You need to come home."

"He's right, Quinn." It was the first soldier again. The horses were snorting, growing impatient. "I can't make you come back but I really hope you do."

She squinted at them.

"Thank you for telling me about Daniel. You can all go now. I'm staying here."

The Churchmen shrugged.

"Jeremy, ride back with us."

"No, you have to take her with us. This place will kill her."

"She isn't breaking any law," said the second soldier.

"Make her come back. You can't leave her out here."

The first soldier shook his head. "People grieve in different ways, son. Get your horse."

"Quinn?" said Jeremy, tears in his eyes. "I'm begging you. He looks so sad. He's all alone in the cottage. Don't go in there. Please, Quinn. I feel terrible. I was supposed to take care of him and now he's dead and I let you down. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

She put an arm around him.

"He was very sick, Jeremy. His body and his mind. He never got over losing her. I haven't, either, which is why I'm staying."

"Please..."

"Go home, Jeremy."

He stepped back from her. "She's carrying outlawed weapons and tech."

Quinn froze; the soldiers looked at her.

"I'm sorry."

The first soldier trotted forward, eyebrows raised.

"Is he telling the truth, Quinn?"

She extended her arms.

"Search me."

The man peered down at her. He eyed the knife belt strapped across her chest. She had a fine looking chest, the wind blowing hard against her sleeveless shirt. He looked for a moment longer.

"Knives are not outlawed, son."

"She must have hidden them somewhere," said Jeremy. "They're nearby."

"Enough of your nonsense. We're going back to Brix. Get on your horse, boy."

His right hand moved and Quinn's eyes widened as she saw one of her pistols in his grip. He whirled round and the gunshot was deafening. The first soldier toppled backward, a crimson hole spreading in his throat. The second one reached for his sword and kicked his horse to attack but Jeremy swung the pistol, cupping his left hand beneath the weight of the firearm, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet slanted upward through the man's cheekbone. He slid from his saddle and slammed into the grass with an ugly crunch of bone.

He spun round, aimed at Quinn.

"No."

She hesitated, two blades half-unsheathed. She had been too stunned to draw them any quicker. She would have reacted faster to a dozen Shaylighters bearing down on horseback but a single boy killing Churchmen with one of her own pistols had rooted her to the spot. She glanced toward Mosscar where her pack and gun were hopelessly out of reach.

"You couldn't stay away," he said. "You had to push it. Why couldn't you wait, Annie?"

Quinn stared at the muzzle of the pistol.

"Take off the belt. Drop it on the ground." His finger caressed the trigger. "Do it. Slowly, that's it."

Her knife belt snaked into the grass.

"Is Daniel really dead?"

"Yes."

Quinn nodded.

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"You lying little bastard."

"I didn't kill him."

"He would have been easy for a puny boy to kill."

"I'm not a boy. I'm a man."

"Some man. You need a gun against a girl."

He jabbed the pistol toward her.

"Shut up."

She snorted. "What about Clarissa? Did you kill her?"

"No."

"You did. I know you did. You lured her out here and sent her to her death. Why?"

"I didn't. It wasn't me."

"You're lying."

"It doesn't matter now."

"Why not?" She paused. "Who are you protecting?"

Jeremy lowered the pistol. A smile touched his face. Quinn heard footsteps behind her.

"Nach gortaitear di," he said.

She blinked. He spoke Shaylighter. That wasn't possible. How could he know their language?

The hair rose on the nape of her neck. She slowly turned.

At least thirty of them had gathered behind her, creeping out of the ruins; snarling faces, long knotted hair, bare-chests painted with the inverted cross. She saw they brandished spears and axes, their preferred weapons, but she also saw a dozen slingshot carbines. She had never seen Shaylighters wielding these before. And she had never seen so many of them.

And none of them looked sick.

"Ta si duais."

Quinn shuddered at the voice. She had heard it once before and once only. She saw him emerge from the crowd of warriors, his distinctive hat of feathers, goggles over his eyes, a black box clutched in one hand. She glanced at his bare shoulder where Nuria claimed to have struck him with an axe but there was no sign of any wound.

"Chur lei," cried Essamon, pumping his fist into the air, and the Shaylighters swarmed around her.

Shauna squeezed, strangled, twirled and shook and hung out the last of her sodden washing. The wind blew stiffly against the clothes. She spotted Father Devon and Deacon Rush outside Father William's house. The priest rapped against the stout front door but there was no answer. He sighed and glanced at his young companion who offered a passive shrug.

She called over. "He's out."

"Do you know where he went, my dear?"

"Fishing, I reckon. I heard him leave before dawn."

"Yes, he's not the quietest of men, is he? Thank you, Shauna."

She brushed hair from her face, felt drained and wished Brian was here. He would have all the answers, all the reassurances. She waited for the men of the Holy House to leave. She noticed the priest carried a wrapped package under one arm and puzzled over it for a moment.

Taking a deep breath she called, "Deacon Rush, can I have a minute of your time?"

"How can I help, Shauna?" His expression dropped. "You look deeply troubled."

"I am."

Rush turned to Father Devon.

"Talk with her," said the older man. "I will see Father William by myself. Good morning to you, Shauna."

She stood in her untidy garden as Father Devon trudged away. The long grass curled around her ankles. She lowered her eyes toward the fence; it had become damaged during the last winter and was now a ramshackle and embarrassing spectacle of split and warped wood lashed together with fraying lengths of rope. Brian had no materials to repair it and not enough coins to purchase any. Touron law stated that a man could no longer walk into the forest with an axe and fell all the trees he required. The woodcutters chopped down the trees and the trees were stored in lumber camps and the camps required payment. Shauna raised her eyes and saw one or two neighbours glance at her shoddy fence and overgrown garden and dilapidated house of stone and turf that leaned to one side due to the tremors. She could only imagine what they thought of her and her husband and as much as she claimed not to care she knew, deep down, she did. And, despite this, even because of this, she wanted to stay, but knew it would be impossible to do so.

"Shauna?"

She invited him inside and apologised for the mess. She had begun packing a few items, half-heartedly, but she'd already given up. The thought of leaving was making her stomach heave. He stood at the hearth, the embers cold. It was already a warm morning but this side of the house was perpetually in the shade and the deacon appeared to notice the sudden drop in temperature.

"I would have talked with Father William but I'm not sure he can help me."

"He's terribly hard of hearing, Shauna. A conversation with him can leave you with a very sore throat."

She smiled faintly, relaxed a little.

"You've gone very pale, Shauna." He paused. "Are you ill?"

"No. I don't think so." She shook her head. "I don't feel ill."

"Would you like to sit down?" It wasn't a question. He guided her toward Brian's chair.

She sat. He positioned a second chair before her. She looked at him, struggling to form the words she desperately needed to say. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times over. Not always with the deacon. Sometimes she would be talking with Father Devon or Father William or even the brutish Captain Duggan but she imagined it would be easier to open up to Deacon Rush. He was only a few years older than her husband. She caught her breath when she realised she was staring at him, somewhat fondly. She had never really noticed his eyes before. They were charming eyes, gentle, with warmth and deep concern for her wellbeing. She realised she knew so little about him. He had always been a part of the Holy House, taught the ways of faith since childhood. That was all she knew. That was all anyone really knew. She glanced at the cross hanging around his neck, settled in the folds of his black robes. He seemed to have nothing beyond the Holy House; no family, no real friends, no woman, no interests apart from learning the wisdom of the Lord.

Once more she attempted to coax the words forward.

"Is it your husband, Shauna? Do you miss him?"

"No, it's not that." Her voice was croaky. She cleared it. "Excuse me. I mean, yes, I miss him. I don't like it when he goes to Touron."

"Do you not like Touron?"

"No. I hear too many stories of trouble and fights and I hate it when he has to go there."

"I'm sure our Lord will keep him safe and return him to you soon."

He waited.

"What's troubling you, Shauna?"

"Why do you think the Lord stops me from having a child?"

Rush opened and closed his hands. He was silent for a moment.

"I cannot begin to understand the pain you go through, Shauna."

"I look at the other women in the village and their lives are so complete. Lyndarn has six children. Why would the Lord give her six children and give me none? Does He hate me?"

"He does not hate you. But the Lord has chosen a different path for you."

"It doesn't feel much of a path, Deacon Rush."

"I can understand that it might seem that way now. However, I am certain you will find your reward."

She shook her head.

"The only reward I want is a child. I'm less of a woman. I'm incomplete."

"You are a complete woman, Shauna." Their eyes met. "You are simply travelling a different path to a woman such as Lyndarn."

She folded her arms.

"There are hardly any childless women in Brix."

"There are childless women throughout our land, Shauna."

He pressed the cross between the palms of his hands.

"I will say extra prayers for you, Shauna."

At that moment she wanted to cry. She would regret his death when the time came. She would mourn him. She would mourn the loss of Father William, too. His poor hearing made any conversation a laboured affair of hand gestures and bellowing but he was a gentle, kind hearted and thoughtful old soul who saw the lies within the truth and the truth within the lies. He had served as a soldier in the Marshal Regiment, during his younger days, but had taken his vows within the Holy House long before the outbreak of war with the Kiven, the bleak years when they swarmed from the Black Region across the Place of Bridges, slaughtering Ennpithians, stealing food and clothing and cattle. She had been a child then and Ennpithia had teetered on the brink. But now there was peace and there had been peace for ten long years.

"Do you remember the war, Deacon Rush?"

He nodded. "It was a dark time for Ennpithia."

"But do you remember it? What it was like to live through? How we all turned to the Holy House and prayed and then the war went away?"

"I do."

"I have knelt for years praying for a child but my prayers are ignored. I think I've been abandoned."

"Your reward is coming, Shauna. All you need is patience." He paused. "There is something else, isn't there?"

She took a deep breath. She had to tell him. She had to tell someone.

"Deacon, my husband is mixed up in something very bad and he's planning... people are going to die."

He nodded, leaned forward and curled his hands around her thighs.

Shauna flinched. "What are you doing?"

He tightened his grip.

"Let go, let go of me."

"Your husband was a fool to trust you. I told him you were weak."

He loosened his hands and eased back from her, lifted the cross over his neck, and cradled it within his palm.

"Pog se," he said.

"What?" she stammered.

"Pog se. Pog se."

"I don't... what are you saying?"

"It means kiss it."

"Is that... Shaylighter? Do you speak Shaylighter?"

"Kiss the cross, Shauna."

Nervously, she leaned forward, lips pursed, but he snatched her by the hair and dragged her out of the chair, spinning her across the room and slamming her into the wall.

"The cross is no longer your master, Shauna. You no longer worship it. You do not kneel before it."

She was on the floor, whimpering. He towered over her and kicked her.

"Do you understand?"

She gasped for air.

"I understand."

He yanked her onto her feet. Tears streamed down her face.

"Are you going to be problem for us?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Please don't hurt me."

He tugged her hair. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm sure."

"Do you promise?"

She sobbed. "I promise."

"I'm very pleased to hear that."

He clasped her chin, studied her bruised face.

"Hmm, that's unfortunate. You will tell Brian you fell."

She nodded.

"You will tell him you fell, Shauna."

She winced as his fingers pressed into her skin.

"I fell. I'm clumsy."

"When Brian returns from Touron he will light the beacon to mark the first day of the Summer Blessings."

He delicately brushed hair from her eyes.

"And then the world will change, Shauna. And you and Brian will have your reward."

He let her go.

"Now, is there anything else you wish to talk about?"

TEN

It had been a noisy day in the blazing sun with very little for them to do but watch the crowds spend a large amount of coin on food, drink and a selection of items which Nuria described as junk, though she spotted something that brought a smile to her face and made a small purchase of her own, hastily tucking it into her pocket before Stone grew curious.

Boyd had assembled trestle tables outside Earl Hardigan's property before dawn, on a long bank of grass where other stallholders had gathered. They helped him carry his wares from the truck but no matter where Stone or Nuria placed something he was behind them, shuttling them out of the way and rearranging it. As the sun broke across the horizon the village surged into life. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, hundreds of local people descended upon the green and throughout the day hundreds more arrived by horse or wagon. They witnessed the passing of many coins and began to understand the strange economy that underpinned this land and how it appeared to stop a man killing another for the goods he possessed.

"Boyd was right about coins," said Nuria. "It's all good natured. Look how they haggle and shake once a price is agreed. Everyone's smiling."

"There are markets in Gallen," said Stone, a little defensively.

Nuria nodded.

"But no one is getting their throat slit for what they have. It works here."

He had no argument with that although it was not all harmonious. There were a few drunken grabs at bulging money bags and a handful of disagreements but nothing that paid guards or Churchmen soldiers could not deal with.

Early in the afternoon, stomachs rumbling, Nuria sent Stone to purchase food. He threaded through the crowds onto a common ringed by open tents and stalls with awnings. The green was in the shadow of a Holy House and swarmed with people. The air was sticky and thickened with the smell of cooking and sweat and animal shit. There were more children here, engaged with a selection of games, variations of the same thing; pitching rotten fruit or wooden balls from a distance into a wicker basket or at a row of small objects balanced on wooden stakes or through a hole carved into a gaudily painted piece of cloth nailed taut across a wooden frame. But the games were busy and the children squealed and clapped and once again he witnessed scores of metal coins passing hands. It didn't appear to matter that hardly anyone won and he wasn't sure what the prizes were supposed to be if they did.

He followed his nose to a stall cooking strips of meat over a smoky fire. The cook had bright eyes, a bushy ginger beard and whistled a tune through fat red lips. Stone left with his coin bag lighter and was about to return to Nuria when he spotted another green where men and women grunted loudly beneath the cloudless sky, indulging in arm wrestling and tug and dragging logs. He looked on, far more interested. The wrapped meat was hot and greasy in his hands. He decided to move on and passed a five piece band performing beneath a striped awning; pipes and tub drums and stringed instruments.

A small audience jigged and clapped and dropped coins into a bowl.

He spotted her, by herself, head bobbing from side to side, fingers hooked in the waistband of her trousers.

She turned, suddenly, brown hair tumbling onto her forehead. Her cheek was red from where her mother had clattered her.

"I looked for you all night."

He frowned, then remembered Kevane's joke, and nodded with a grim smile.

"I'm no monster."

"I know that."

She paused.

"Is this the first time you've been to Great Onglee?"

He ignored her question. "Why do you keep trying to run away?"

It was there in her eyes, for a moment, a tiny child playing hide and seek, peeking around the doorway, just to look, just to check, and then the child was gone, masked by the smirk.

It was her turn to ignore a question. "Do you like the music?"

He shrugged.

"You don't know anything about music, do you?"

"Not really."

"They're called _Dream State._ "

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are they called that?"

"It's the name of the band."

He nodded, juggled the hot food.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Gallen."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's a long way from here."

"Is that where you got that scar?"

"That's right."

She lazily kicked at the ground. "What happened?"

"A man took a whip to me."

"Why?"

"He was weak."

She flicked her head. "Did you kill him?"

"Do you have scars?"

She blinked at him. He saw the child peek from the darkness, linger and then disappear.

"No."

"Scars that only you can see?"

"No."

"Scars that you can't tell anyone about?"

Kaya glanced at the hundreds of people milling around; talking, drinking, eating, lives without fear, without regret, lives with certainly, with hope, bright and brighter still, unstained by patches of black and brown that soaked through and became impossible to wash out. She was floating amongst them, out of control, trapped in a bubble, helpless, screaming to break free. They looked but couldn't see her; she cried out but they couldn't hear her. Her heart beat fast and she took deep breaths. Her lips drew thin. Her eyes emptied of mischief. She balled her fists, stretching the skin white and dug her nails into her palms. It was the first thing she thought of, it was the last thing she thought of. It was all she was, it was all she would ever be.

Stone saw the distress and placed his hand on her shoulder but she flinched and snarled at him.

"I don't want to see you under my bed. Or anywhere." She fled into the bustling crowds.

He watched the untidy mop of brown hair vanish from sight and glanced across the village toward the Earl's estate, where Nuria paced beside Boyd's stall, crossbow over her shoulder.

They ate in the shade of a tall tree. He picked listlessly at the meat.

"What's wrong?"

"This has no taste."

Nuria chewed.

"It's not halk. But it's not that bad."

Stone said nothing.

"We haven't seen any halk since coming here. They have a lot of different animals. And different names for animals we know."

He plucked apples from the tree and tossed one to her. Slowly he recounted his conversation with Kaya.

"Do you think her parents are abusing her?"

"Possibly," said Stone. "Her mother clouted her good last night when you were in the truck."

"You don't seem convinced."

"Someone is scaring her. I'm not certain it's them."

Nuria bit into her apple, chewed slowly. "I'll keep watch for her tonight. She might talk to me. Have you told Boyd you're going?"

"No."

"He won't like it."

"His problem. Not mine."

"I don't want you to go and that's your problem."

He shook his head.

"No, it's yours."

She had no words for him through the afternoon. She thought of the purchase she'd made and wondered whether to throw it away. Then she forgot all about it and chased off a few thieves. As dusk settled the merchants began to pack away. The music still played and the food still cooked but the children's games had closed and only adults remained and now the drink flowed in abundance. Stone sought out Boyd. The portly man was concealing a chest of coins inside the truck.

"I'll be back before dawn. It's only a two hour ride from here. She's your friend. I thought you'd be pleased."

Boyd fumed.

"The city will kill you. Do you not get it? Quinn has a way of surviving. You don't, Stone. You'll die in Mosscar. Now, I'm paying you to protect my truck. Not take the bloody night off. Keep your nose out of it."

"Then don't pay me. It shouldn't matter after tonight, should it?"

"You can't survive in Ennpithia without coins. This isn't Gallen. I keep trying to tell you."

"What do you know about Gallen?"

"I was born there – remember? - and I know it wishes it could be half as civilised as Ennpithia is."

Stone narrowed his eyes.

"Nuria is more than capable of protecting you and your cargo."

"I don't have a choice," said Boyd. "Do I?"

"For once, no."

Stone found her behind the stables. She had set up targets and was practising with the rapid fire crossbow.

"What if you're wrong?" she said.

"I'm not."

She fired. The bolt thudded into the target. She cranked the lever, bit her lip.

"You've been wrong before."

"Not this time."

She pulled the trigger, cranked; another bolt dropped from the magazine and she fired again.

"It's a good weapon," he said.

She didn't reply and went for speed, counting down as she fired and cranked, fired and cranked, rapidly exhausting the magazine.

The crossbow clicked empty.

"I'll be back before dawn."

"If you're wrong you won't ever come back." She shook her head. "You selfish bastard."

Stone said nothing more as he took one of the horses and rode away into the deepening dusk. Nuria watched him disappear and her stomach twisted bleak and empty. She heard Kevane and Maurice arrive at the Earl's property to replace the two men who were on duty through the day.

"Where's Stone going?" asked Maurice.

"Off to watch the dancing girls in the tavern," said Kevane. "Racking up his tally of sins."

"Quinn would never leave Boyd's truck."

"I'm still here," said Nuria, slinging the crossbow over her shoulder. "I can manage, thank you."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean it that way."

"Will you shut up, Maurice?" said Kevane, elbowing his companion. "You really know how to charm a woman, don't you?"

"Last night he was asking about Mosscar," said Maurice. "Is he going there?"

"He's going there," she said.

Maurice crossed himself. Kevane studied his boots and scratched his head.

"We'd better get to work."

She climbed onto the truck and stared ahead, numb.

Stone picked at the remains of a small fire with the tip of his boot. He spotted prints in the soil.

He lingered in the growing shadows of the dark forest, staring at Mosscar, thinking of Nuria and the anger she'd directed at him. She was right to be pissed. But Quinn's niece, a girl he'd never met, a child, had been taken from this world, and he vowed to push those responsible bleeding and begging from existence. The wind whipped around him. He scraped his hand down a tree trunk, the bark healthy. He plucked a leaf from an overhead branch, sniffed it, let it sail to the ground. The sweeping countryside turned silver, a three quarter moon sitting in the dark sky. He stroked his horse, whispered to her and tied her to a tree.

Armed with crossbow and revolver, he moved half-crouched across the exposed scrubland.

The metropolis loomed before him; tower blocks with terrible cracks through the brickwork, highways of buckled asphalt, half-collapsed bridges, crumbling into almost nothing. He had seen cities buried beneath centuries of ash and dirt and rubble but he'd never encountered a city ravaged by vegetation. He kept moving toward it. There were no lookouts. His boots touched a hard surface. He edged to his right and spotted horse tracks less than a day old. They had come up the hill, three of them, from the direction of Brix. The tracks stopped, overlapped and then swerved into the city. He spotted puddles of dried blood.

Stone rubbed a hand over his beard, angled the crossbow toward the city. He had seen men and women suffer vile deaths at the hands of the sickness. It was what they all called it. There were no names for the myriad of illnesses that blighted mankind. Sickness was sickness and once inside Mosscar he would be infected within minutes and dead within days. But his instincts had kept him alive this far and there was no wailing scream inside for him to turn around and run.

There was something coiled in the grass. He stooped, lifted out a belt of knives and recognised them. Quinn had been captured. And she had been right. Whoever was responsible for the death of Clarissa most likely had her as well. The belt was too short for his waist or chest so he carefully folded it and jammed it into his pocket.

He crossed into Mosscar.

The most obvious way to hide a lie was to place it in plain sight and you couldn't get more plain and visible than a city.

He stepped over choking vines, black in the dark night. Still he saw no lookouts but understood how the lie negated the use of them. He followed a long street and approached a junction of several roads. Trees punched through the asphalt. Ruined buildings were shrouded in gloom. There was no one around. The Ancients had taken power from the sky cables and threaded them across cities and swathes of open land to bring light but now the giant towers of metal had fallen and the thick wires were rusted, their great power dissolved as nature roared back to reclaim her soil.

The darkening skyline of Mosscar bristled with a new and visceral power and no steel or glass could temper it.

Stone heard movement.

He darted across the street and pressed his back against the pitted wall of a three storey building, beneath a faded metal sign featuring a curious row of black circles with holes in the middle.

He listened; voices, running feet.

He poked his head around the corner and counted five bare-chested men running down the street. They were painted with the inverted cross and carried weapons and spoke in a language he did not understand. He remembered how Essamon, the freak with the feathers and the box of light, had garbled words at him before turning on the beam. It was the same tongue.

Stone went inside the building. The floor was strewn with pieces of black debris that crunched noisily beneath his boots. He carefully picked his way toward a window, the wind whistling sharply through the opening. He put the stock of the crossbow against his shoulder and waited, a faint glow in the distance momentarily attracting his gaze.

The Shaylighters came toward the junction, arms and legs pumping. He narrowed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The warrior let out a strangled cry as the bolt drilled into his throat. His body catapulted away from his companions and his axe flew and clattered loudly against the street. Stone cranked the crossbow and fired again as the group of men stuttered to a halt, frantically looking around. He took down another within the blink of an eye, slamming the bolt into the man's forehead. The warrior reeled backward, blood flooding his eyes, legs buckling, and as his skull hit the asphalt with a wet smack there was a blood curdling screech from the remaining Shaylighters. A spear whistled through the blackness and bounced off the concrete building, spraying Stone with masonry.

He peppered them with bolts, licking his lips as he rapidly cranked the crossbow. A warrior screamed as a bolt sank into his thigh but he managed to limp toward the trees for cover before Stone could take him down. A rifle type weapon was aimed at him and something whistled past his head in a blur. Two Shaylighters ducked behind a crushed car, barely visibly beneath the spreading greenery, and more projectiles volleyed into the building. Stone crawled over the jagged pieces of black rubble as chunks of concrete erupted all around him. A steel ball pinged off his crossbow. He heard the two men calling to each other and then the shooting ceased for a moment.

He made it to the doorway, crouched down in the shadows and drew his knife.

Steel balls whipped all around him as the Shaylighters opened fire once more. Quinn had been wrong about their weapons. He wondered what else she had gotten wrong. The Shaylighters had broken cover and fanned out; the first one heading for the door, the second one coming for the window, pretty much as he'd anticipated. The men barked a constant stream of gnarled and hate-filled words as they drew close, rapidly firing their weapons. Stone didn't budge. Dust clouds filled the room. He steadied his breathing as the first warrior edged along the side of the building.

A shadow filled the doorway and Stone lunged from his crouched position, driving the blade upward. The Shaylighter let out an agonised cry. Stone jerked the knife free and rammed it in once more.

Scooping up the crossbow, he moved into the street. The other Shaylighter was utterly exposed, his weapon pointing into an empty building.

Stone fired.

The warrior hit the ground and Stone ran, chasing down the final man, the one with the wounded leg.

He tore across the street and spotted a trail of blood leading onto a sidewalk and over a stony and grass covered lot. The trail disappeared over a half-collapsed wall and into winding alleyways. Stone ran for the nearest building, vaulted onto a ledge and scrambled onto the roof. His boots scraped against the gravel covered rooftops as he ran. The painted warrior turned and fired blind into the darkness, a steel ball looping through the air.

Stone dropped and skated beneath a long row of metal boxes once neatly bolted together, now rattling noisily in the wind. He reached the edge, dropped to one knee, raised his crossbow and fired down into the alleyway; his aim was perfect, the bolt struck the Shaylighter in his other leg. The man wailed and fell to his knees, clutching his thighs and grimacing in pain. He knew it was the end for him. Stone sprang off the roof and ran toward him, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder and whipping out his knife. He charged into the warrior, sending him sprawling. He straddled the man, roughly jerked back his head and placed the knife against the Shaylighter's throat.

"Where is she? Where did you take her? Where is the woman?"

The man spat words but they made no sense. Stone rolled him onto his back, the blade still at his throat.

"Can you understand me? Do you know what I'm saying? Look at me. You're not fucking dying yet."

"Le do thoil nach gortaitear dom."

Stone yanked one the bolts from the man's legs. He screamed.

"Where is she?"

"They... whore," he spluttered. "Fight."

He limply raised his hands, bunched them into shaking fists.

"She fight. She... she fight."

"She fought you? Good. Where is she?"

"Mo chosa," he said, grinning, blood running from his mouth. "She die. Mo chosa. Ennpithia weak."

Stone clambered off him and scratched around the alleyway, hunting for the weapon he'd dropped. He spotted it in the rubble. It was a steel ball firing carbine, utilising an internal slingshot.

"Impressive," he said, turning it over in his hands.

It had been skilfully constructed, metal and wood welded together, a hand grip and trigger guard at one end with a ridged sliding bar at the other, similar to that he'd seen on a pump-action shotgun. He raised the weapon with both hands and slipped his finger against the trigger. It was a good weight, naturally heavier than a revolver but lighter than a rifle.

"Where did they take her?"

Blood pooled around the warrior's legs. His eyes rolled. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Stone kicked him.

"Where?"

He squeezed the trigger, without waiting for an answer, but the weapon failed to fire. He dragged back the pump and it clicked as the sling tightened. A steel ball was released from the magazine into the channel. He'd seen all manner of custom made weapons in the wastelands but this was certainly a superior one. In accurate hands the steel ball would puncture flesh as deadly as any bullet.

"Beidh muid a mharu," said the warrior, slowly bleeding out. "Mharu, mharu, beidh tu go leir bas."

Stone buried the steel ball in his throat.

This time, Nuria was ready for her.

Kevane and Maurice had left on one of their many circuits around the property and she sat alone on the truck with her back to the house. The three of them had been mostly subdued through the evening. Kevane had attempted to entertain her with stories of drunken escapades at previous festivals but she really wasn't really in the mood and politely nodded and smiled through his many tales. Maurice continued to bring up Stone's foolish decision to venture into Mosscar. He began to recall the misery one of his neighbours had endured from contracting the sickness.

"She never went to Mosscar," said Kevane, sensing the tension in Nuria. "That's horse shit. She picked it up from that fire-eater she banged. You're a real cheery bastard tonight, Maurice. C'mon, it's time for an extra long patrol."

Nuria had mouthed a silent _thank you_ at Kevane and he winked as he led away his more serious companion.

With the crossbow at her side and an open bottle of wine in her hand, Stone rattled around her thoughts. She hadn't been able to think of anything else since he'd left. She should have gone with him. It was as simple as that. What was she doing here anyway? Why was she honouring a deal with a man she hardly knew and forsaking a bond with a man she was falling in love with? She tilted the bottle and drank. _Falling?_ He was inside the city now. The sickness would be sucking its way through his flesh. No. He was convinced. She patted the small item in her pocket. She should have given it to him before he'd left but his stubbornness had angered her. It would have to wait until he returned.

And he would return. _He would return._

The village was noisy. Lights showed from the green. The band still played. Men and women still drank.

She shut out the noise and listened to the steady and gentle crunch of footsteps across the ground.

"I know you're there, Kaya."

There was hesitation. The sea hissed against the cliffs. Stars blinked in the cloudless black sky.

"It must be nice," said Nuria, sipping the wine. "Waking up in a bed of your own with the sound of the sea in your ears."

She dropped from the truck.

"Why would you want to run from that?"

Kaya was crouched on the ground, attempting to slide beneath the vehicle and conceal herself once more.

"You keep getting it wrong," said Nuria. "Tomorrow is our last night. That's when you should try and hide yourself."

Kaya got to her feet and jutted out her chin, unsure if she was being mocked.

"I just want to leave."

Nuria pointed at the front gate.

"Climb over that then."

"How far would I get on foot?" she said, sullen.

"Why do you want to run?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. Tell me."

"Who are you?"

"Nuria."

Kaya looked over her shoulder.

"It's not them, if that's what you're thinking. My mother can be a hard bitch but it's not them."

Nuria swigged the bottle. She offered it to Kaya.

"You spoke to Stone today."

Kaya drank, wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"He's no monster under the bed."

"For some he can be."

A smirk touched her mouth.

"He has a nasty scar."

"He does."

"Do you have any scars?"

"Plenty," said Nuria, leaning the crossbow against her legs. "This is the one I hate the most."

She rolled up her sleeve. Kaya gaped at the trio of shapes burned into Nuria's fair skin.

"Did that hurt?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

Nuria took the bottle from her. "A sick man once controlled me." She swallowed a mouthful, handed it back.

Kaya drank.

"But not now," said Nuria.

The girl shuffled on the spot and looked at the closed gate, the sky, the truck. Nuria waited. Kaya made eye contact a few times, accompanied by an awkward smile but she remained silent and still Nuria waited.

Eventually, she spoke. "We call him the Predator."

"We?"

"I'm not the only one."

"Does he hurt you?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"We don't know."

Nuria waited.

"Can I show you something?" said Kaya.

"Of course."

"Will you believe me?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"No one believes me. No one believes any of us."

"Who did you tell?"

"My parents."

"And they don't believe you?"

"No."

"I'll believe you."

"Do you promise?"

She nodded. Kaya motioned with her head and stepped into the shadows along the side of the truck. Kevane and Maurice had turned the corner of the Earl's house but were busy checking the stables and outbuildings. Kaya grabbed the bottle and gulped down more wine. She handed it back to Nuria. Her hand was trembling. She turned away and gingerly pulled out the flaps of her shirt. She lifted it to her shoulders. Her back was narrow and pale in the moonlight. Her skin was smooth, unbroken. Kaya turned around, pulling down her shirt.

"You see?"

"Is this a sick joke?"

Kaya shook her head.

"You told me you'd believe me. You have to believe me."

"There's nothing there."

"The Predator is real. I swear on the Lord. He beats us, does... stuff... he beats us all."

"Go back inside and stop wasting my time."

"Over and over," said Kaya, eyes wet. "He's sick. He sends men to snatch us and then he beats us."

There was pleading in her face.

"No one believes me."

"There's not a mark on you," said Nuria, jabbing a finger at the girl, nerves shredded worrying about Stone.

She wanted Kaya to go back to the house so she could drink until the veil of oblivion smothered her.

"This isn't a game," she snarled. "What's the matter with you? Stone and I would kill a man for hurting a child."

"I thought you'd understand," said Kaya, crumbling. "That's why I want to run away. My parents don't believe me."

Nuria saw Kevane and Maurice approach.

"Go. Now."

"I'm not lying. The Predator is real. He touches himself, does it on us."

Kaya pulled at her hair. Tears rolled over her cheeks. She stamped her boots against the ground.

"I thought you'd help me. He's a monster, a real monster."

"Not this again." Maurice was calling to her. "Kaya, you have to stop doing this."

The front door of the Earl's house creaked open. The doorway filled with lamplight.

"Kaya. Is that you, Kaya? Where are you?"

It was the girl's mother, voice like a gunshot.

"I'm not a liar."

"Let's get you back inside," said Maurice. "This can't keep happening."

"You're a silly little girl, Kaya," said Kevane, shaking his head.

The Earl's wife stepped from the doorway. She was wrapped in a cloak. The waves pounded the cliff. The smell of seaweed filled the air.

"You have to stop him," sobbed Kaya. "I'm not making it up. I'm not. I promise. The Predator is real."

"Not him again," said Kevane, rolling his eyes.

"There's not a mark on you," said Nuria, turning away, lifting the bottle to her mouth.

"That's because he gets the one-eyed witch to heal us. She makes the wounds disappear."

Nuria spun round, eyes wide with shock.

"What did you say?"

ELEVEN

Jeremy looked crushed.

"I thought you'd understand," he said.

Quinn twisted her mouth into a grimace. They had taken her into the heart of the city where a vast building stood. It was so immense she couldn't even see around it. There were hundreds, possibly thousands of Shaylighters inside, in every direction she looked. It was a grand, open-roofed stadium with thousands of mangled and empty seats curving up at an angle toward a stubby overhang of rusted metal. There were gaping holes with greenery wound around exposed metal poles and fractured concrete where vegetation grew wildly. She glimpsed long rooms wedged between the seats and the roof. Fires glowed and shadows moved inside. The banks of seating, on all four sides of the building, surrounded an oblong stretch of overgrown grass where many of the tribe gathered. There were wagons, livestock and cooking fires blazing into the night.

It was a nightmare.

"You hate the Holy House for what it did to Clarissa and Daniel."

She said nothing.

"Talk to me. Please. I can get them to spare your life if you join us. They'll listen to me."

It was a primitive and roofless prison, a cage constructed from heavy beams lashed in place with rope with a single gate held tight by a length of chain. She was one of four prisoners; another woman and two men. Climbing out would be easy but the Shaylighters were no fools and her wrists were bound tight, the rope burning her skin. There were also three roaming guards and they carried fearsome looking slingshot carbines and leather ammunition bags. She'd never seen Shaylighters with anything more than spears or axes or daggers. They had only ever operated as a roving band of thieves. But this was a thriving community of men, women and children – this was an army hiding inside a diseased city, hiding within Ennpithia's borders.

"Mosscar didn't kill her." She looked into his eyes. "Tell me how you did it. How did you make Clarissa sick?"

"I didn't."

"It had to be poison. Did you put it in her food? Did you try and have sex with her and she refused?"

"No, she was my friend."

Quinn slowly shook her head.

"They're going to hang you, Jeremy. For killing her. For killing all my family. For killing those soldiers this morning. You'll shit yourself when they put that noose around your neck."

"I never touched Clarissa. I swear."

She pressed her face against the bars of the cage.

"Stop with the lies."

"It wasn't me."

"Then it was your best friends, the Shaylighters. How long have they been here? Like this?"

"The Shaylighters have existed here for centuries," he hissed. "Long before the Ennpithians came, throwing up villages and buildings and worshipping an even bigger lie than Mosscar."

"What do you know of the past?" She snorted. "What do you know about anything, stupid boy?"

"You would rather believe in a man nailed to a cross, would you?"

"You killed my family." She spat at him. "You bastard."

It dribbled down his face. He wiped it away on his sleeve.

"Quinn...?"

"Go away, Jeremy."

"Annie...?"

"Run off and play, little boy."

She turned her back on him; the boy she had nurtured, watching him alongside Clarissa. She was strong but her heart was breaking. Her mother had toughened her to life in the most horrific of ways but, here and now, in this awful place where certain death awaited her, she felt that inner strength crumble. She wanted to curl into a ball and sob. She wanted someone to put their arms around her and hold her tight. The boy she had cared for had aligned himself with the very tribe she had spent years fighting and killing on the road. It was a twisted irony and a terrible betrayal. She thought of Boyd, in Great Onglee, drinking with his friend, Earl Hardigan, reflecting on a good day's takings, unaware of her fate. He knew she was here but would not come looking for her. The two newcomers knew she was here but they would not come, either, not to a city of death. It didn't matter. None of it mattered now. The secret would die with her. The truth would be lost in the mist.

She wheeled around.

"I hope the Lord punishes you for your sins in the most painful of ways. I hope you burn in the Below."

"I do not believe in Him," he said, angrily slamming his hand against the bars. "Nor do you, Quinn."

She sneered. "You used to bore me to death with it. Are you no longer dazzled by His light?"

"I told you, Quinn, you just had to pretend. I kept telling you but you wouldn't listen."

She nodded.

"You did. You told me."

A loud hammering forced Quinn to glance over her shoulder. A space had been cleared in the middle of the camp and wooden stakes were being driven into the ground. Female Shaylighters beat them into the soil with large mallets. She realised, numbly, that she had never seen the female counterpart before tonight. They bore the same long hair, knotted down the back and, although their chests were painted with the inverted cross, a strip of cloth covered their breasts. The women wore face paint, angry strokes and sharp lines, looking more ferocious than any of the men. It dawned on her, pointlessly, why the noise box had failed to detect any sickness. There simply was none. It might have existed, once, decades or even centuries ago, but not now, and the painted freaks had hidden in the only place every Ennpithian feared to look.

"I'm a non-believer," said Jeremy. "I hate the Holy House. I attended so as not to draw attention. I'm not the only one."

He lowered his voice.

"Where was the Lord when my father beat me night after night? I prayed and prayed and no one answered me."

The female Shaylighters bound rope from stake to stake, creating what was obviously a fighting arena.

A lump ballooned in Quinn's throat.

"Please," he said, seeing the realisation in her eyes. "It's not too late. I can talk to Essamon. He will listen to me. He will spare you."

He slipped his hand through the bars and touched her arm.

"Will you join us?"

"You said you weren't the only one."

"I'm not."

"Who else is there?"

"Fight for us and you can meet them."

"I fight for my family. But my family are dead and you killed them. Daniel was a cripple, Jeremy, a ruined man. And Clarissa had so much to live for."

"It wasn't me."

"Then I'm _begging_ you, let me have the truth before I die. We both know it wasn't the city."

"She should have stayed away."

"Then you do know what happened?"

"They didn't know who she was."

"So these long-haired bastards killed her? Was it Essamon?"

"No, it was nothing to do with him."

"Then who was it, Jeremy? There's no one else here."

The arena was finished. He chewed his lip.

"You don't know him. It's too late now," he said. "I'm sorry. I always..."

His voice was drowned out by a cacophony of cheers and roars and whistles and loud banging.

Essamon had arrived.

He emerged from a long tunnel that pierced one section of the stands. His arms were raised. He carried the black box in one hand. The hat of feathers was wedged onto his skull and his eyes were concealed beneath goggles.

He strode into the crowd.

Fists pumped the air. Spears were rattled. Warriors screamed.

Quinn looked into his eyes. _It was coming. She could see it. She'd worn him down. He was going to tell her._

Then a group of rowdy Shaylighters bundled him forward. He cast a baleful glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the throng of cheering warriors. She shook off his betrayal and looked at her fellow prisoners; they were shaking with fear and little more than useless. She ran her eyes over the ground and spotted rocks dotted amongst the tangled grass. The warriors guarding the cage began to shift forward, rising on tiptoes. The noise from the centre of the stadium was deafening.

Quinn dropped to the grass and sifted the rocks. In no time at all she found one with a sharp edge.

She wasn't dying this way.

Frantically, she began to rub the ropes against it.

Lying flat on the roof, blasted by the cold wind, Stone swept his binoculars around the stadium.

He saw the cage of prisoners down below. Quinn was engaged in an angry confrontation with a boy that looked out of place amongst the bare-chested warriors. It was Jeremy, the nosy boy from Brix. She had trusted him and he had betrayed her. Further away he saw a fighting arena staked out and knew this was only going one way tonight. Time was running out. He looked down at the cooking fires. He could creep down there and spread fire onto the wagons, set loose the animals, create panic and chaos. He grimaced. It was a reasonable plan but there were too many warriors; he wouldn't even make it to the fires before he was spotted.

Frustrated, he trained his binoculars on Essamon. The freak held his arms aloft and silenced the rapturous cheering. He began to address his people, his gnarled words carried on the buffeting wind. Stone studied the man's shoulder. There was no axe wound.

"Shit," he muttered. He'd worry about that another time.

He flashed another look at the cage and surrounding area. There. A few paces away. In the shadows. That was it. A way in. A way out.

Possibly.

He scrambled from the roof and began to climb back down the stadium toward a vast sea of rusted cars, crammed across a large stretch of cracked black asphalt. His boots echoed as he dropped to the ground. He listened. The wind whistled through the dark, stirring centuries of dust and ash.

Clinging to the shadows, Stone edged along the outer wall of the stadium, gauging his location. He was bristling with weapons; the slingshot carbine on his shoulder, a revolver tucked in his belt, a sheathed sword at his waist, a leather bag of steel balls across his chest, the rapid fire crossbow in his hands. He counted on needing all of them to get Quinn out of this. He'd taken a few pot shots with the slingshot on his way through the deserted city. It was a fine and accurate weapon. The Shaylighters were more advanced and with greater numbers than Quinn or Boyd had thought or suggested. He'd need to worry about that another time as well.

Loud cheers rang out from the cavernous bowl of the enormous building. He was glad of the noise. It masked his approach. He glimpsed fires ahead, wood ablaze in metal drums. He could hear low murmurs. He dropped into a crouch. A knot of Shaylighters were prowling the front of the stadium. Several were lazing on rusted vehicles, wheel arches stripped of tyres, the rubber sliced and diced into armour and footwear. Stone counted six men; all bare-chested and long haired. Conversation drifted between them with sporadic bursts of laughter.

Stone was preparing to line up his first shot when a sudden pain jabbed into the nape his neck.

It was the tip of a spear.

"E a chur sios," hissed a voice.

The prisoners paid her no mind as she scraped her bonds against the rock. One of the men prayed. Quinn listened to his mutterings over and over again. Apparently, he had not given up, either.

Lord, give me the courage to face the Demon Soldiers. Please forgive my sins. Show me the light and save me from these heinous monsters.

Quinn worked at breaking free. No mythical hand was going to swoop down from the Above and scoop them out of this hellish place. They were alone. She froze at the rattle of the chain, averted her eyes and stared down at the tangled ground as warriors spilled into the cage. The other woman began to sob and shuffle away from the bare-chested men. The man praying was on his knees, head bowed, voice loud, making the sign of the cross, over and over again.

"Shut up," whispered Quinn. "Just shut up."

His faith had fuelled their choice. The Shaylighters jabbed with their spears. He cried out, tears erupting down his face, a dark stain appearing at his groin. The warriors laughed and dragged him from the cage. The man shook violently as he was pushed through the gate. The last warrior stooped to lift the chain. The rope around Quinn's wrists split and she raised her head sharply. The Shaylighter saw the flash of movement and reached for his spear but he was too slow and she was too fast. She barrelled toward him, her hands gripping his skull, her thumbs curling toward his eyes and driving through the slick texture. He screamed and thrashed as she blinded him. She climbed from his body, snatching his spear.

Shaylighters whirled around but Quinn was free and a spear was held in her gore spattered hands. She plunged the jagged tip into the chest of the nearest warrior. He grimaced as the steel tore skin and wedged against bone. She yanked it free and whipped the shaft into the face of another warrior, putting him down in the dirt. Legs apart, fists clenched, she howled at them, enraged; the bloodlust had descended, fear and betrayal had turned her primal. She stabbed at them, dying the way she chose to, as a warrior, rendering them the powerless ones.

An axe swooped at her and Quinn rocked back on the balls of her feet as the steel edge swept inches from her nose. The remaining two prisoners looked on with stunned expressions, too terrified to flee through the open gate. The Shaylighters were snarling and hacking at her, edging her back toward the open-roof prison. A carbine was fired and a steel ball whizzed past her ear, smacking into a wooden pole behind her. She went low and thrust upward with the spear, twisting it with gritted teeth, jerking it free, blood spattering her face. She lashed out with one leg, taking down a pair of ankles, and drove the spear down into a ribcage. She pulled hard and swore aloud as the spear jammed in his bones.

"Fuck."

Hands grabbed her. Fists and weapons clubbed her. She punched, kicked and scratched but there was too many of them now. She was smothered by bare-chested men. Her bruised face was pressed into the mud. They sat on her and tied her wrists a second time, punching her repeatedly. They rolled her onto her back and beat her until her face was crimson.

"Shabhail don reimse," bellowed a voice. Quinn peered through a half-closed eye, blood streaming down her face.

It was Jeremy.

"Essamon will be furious if she dies before the arena."

Slowly, Stone lowered the crossbow. It scraped against the hard ground. He began to stand, widening his arms, opening and flexing his hands, showing he was unarmed, the spear tip pinned against his neck.

The Shaylighter was talking to him but once more; it was a blunt language, spoken fast. Stone had no idea what was being said but it didn't matter because in a few seconds he'd gut the man. He stretched his body. He was at least a foot taller than the warrior behind him. The spear was now levelled into his back, poking against his spine. There was a new flurry of words, accompanied by rapid jabs with the spear, the gesture for Stone to move. He took a step forward, measuring his breathing. The six guards were only forty yards away but he still had the element of surprise as the hundreds of Shaylighters roared within the stadium to the words of Essamon.

He whipped around, moving fast, the Shaylighter startled by the quickness of the older man. One hand circled the shaft of the spear and gripped it tight, pushing away the deadly tip. The Shaylighter saw a knife in the bearded man's right hand. Stone thrust forward, stabbing the blade into his captor's throat, releasing the spear and clamping his free hand across the man's mouth at the same time. A muffled cry rasped against his rough palm. He jerked out the knife, the blade coated with blood and jabbed it into the man's stomach, a trio of rapid thrusts.

He cradled the falling body, one arm around his back, easing him down toward the ground.

Breathing hard, he cleaned the knife blade and picked up his crossbow.

He peeked around the corner of the stadium. The six warriors were gathered before narrow openings with rusted and faded metal signs above each one. Stone fired, his aim true, the first warrior toppling over with a bolt lodged in his head. He cranked the lever, began to move, firing and taking down another. The warriors scattered and carbines were lifted and steel balls whizzed through the air. Stone broke cover, firing repeatedly, spitting out bolts, the deadly crank of the lever. A steel ball whistled over his head and buried itself into the metal door of a car. He kept moving, weaving through the cars, boots kicking up dirt.

The remaining Shaylighters cried out in their native tongue. A spear went past him and clattered into a truck.

None of them had sent a runner to raise the alarm. They were confident of capturing or killing him themselves. Stone sprinted in a new direction, momentarily losing them. Then he burst into view, firing rapidly, the handle cranking, the bolts shooting fast across the maze of rusted cars. A warrior screamed, shot in the chest. His legs buckled and he disappeared from view. The Shaylighters continued to chase the bearded man though three of them were now dead and they had not even grazed him once. An order was barked and Stone saw one of them peel away and begin to run back toward the stadium to raise the alarm.

He ran hard, lungs burning, zigzagging across the cracked black asphalt, vegetation curling through open fissures. A steel ball went past him. He kept running and firing and then pain tore through him like fire. His hand dropped to his hip. The ball had ripped through flesh, right above where he had once been shot. He grimaced, raised a bloodied hand and kept firing until he heard another warrior cry out. He swept across the front of a car, scrambled onto the roof, aimed and fired, the bolt drilling into the throat of the last chasing Shaylighter, slamming his back against a crushed car.

Stone swivelled his head, grimaced from his wound. He saw the runner reach the dark openings of the stadium and raised the crossbow.

The Shaylighter hit the wall of the stadium. A low guttural cry slipped from his mouth. His arms flailed, fingers scratching against the pitted brickwork, and then he slumped to the ground, the crossbow bolt embedded in the back of his skull

Stone limped back through the graveyard of vehicles. He unclipped the magazine from the crossbow and saw it was empty. He discarded the weapon and winced at the pain in his hip. He peeled down his trousers and saw the flow of blood. He took a cloth and wiped it clean but the blood continued to seep. He reached into his tunic and drew one of Quinn's knives. He placed the blade in the flames of one of the fires and looked around, seeing no one.

Inside the stadium, the crowd was cheering. He was in no doubt that a fight was underway in the arena. He had seen the state of the prisoners, weak and broken. He hoped it wasn't Quinn who had been chosen first. He reckoned the Shaylighters knew who she was. She was the warrior who'd fought them on the roads of Ennpithia, denying them the bounty on Boyd's truck and killing their warriors. She would fight last in the arena.

Stone snatched up a dropped spear and broke free a piece of the shaft.

"Fuck," he whispered, hip stinging, forehead shiny with beads of sweat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He put the length of wood between his teeth. Bit down hard. Took the knife from the fire.

Then he pressed the blade to his wound.

TWELVE

" _Soirese!"_

The hairs on her arms prickled as they chanted her name. She wore black studded gloves and swung another fearsome punch. Her knuckles collided with the man's jaw and there was the crunch of bone, the rip of skin, and the spray of blood and yellowed teeth.

She nimbly circled him, slapping him around the face, poking him with a single finger, goading him, humiliating him. As he came at her, stumbling and directionless, she powered forward and unleashed a succession of rapid jabs into his chest and abdomen. He gasped and reeled away; weak and pathetic, no match for her battle hardened skills. Her fellow warriors clattered weapons and tools, the noise rising to an ear-splitting crescendo.

"Tabhair gra dom," she cried.

Love me, she demanded, and they did. The women wanted to be her. The men wanted to have her. But she took what she wanted and she took who she wanted. No one chose for her. No one stood in her way. She was the one they respected. She was the one they feared. She was the monster they whispered of in fearful stories, striding around the arena, six feet two inches tall, an immaculate body of lean muscle, an angular face daubed in streaks of coloured ointment, white scars on her cheeks and across her mouth, eyes the colour of the night, an upper lip flared above a row of jagged teeth. The inverted cross was painted down her glistening torso with a strip of cloth knotted across her near flat breasts.

She pumped her fists into the air and the crowd cheered. She rallied them once more and this time they roared.

She lifted the puny man from the blood stained grass and hurled his body against the ropes of the arena.

He was broken, the baying crowd spinning all around him. His face was a mess of blood, arms hanging loose, fingers uncoiled. He was desperately trying to form the words of a prayer but pain lanced through his body. The words tumbled ragged and without cohesion from his bloodied mouth. He had tried to fight her but he hadn't landed a single punch. He clung to his faith. The Lord would not desert him. He knew he was in the last seconds of his life and the realisation churned his stomach. People and places flashed before him but the memories were so fleeting and so distant that he could grasp none of them. And then another punch collided against his body and the pain was so deeply layered he could no longer feel it.

"Is e seo aon chomortas," she declared, bearing down on her prey, flickering torches lighting the ring.

"What did she say?" asked Jeremy, leaning forward, seated alongside Essamon on an elevated podium near the tunnel, surrounding by painted warriors armed with slingshot carbines.

"The man is weak. He is no challenge for Soirese." Essamon's voice flicked from his mouth. "She wants to fight stronger."

He applauded as another punch slammed into the man's face, breaking his nose, spilling blood and snot.

"Where is he?" asked Jeremy.

"Who?"

"The Engineer."

"He left days ago," said Essamon.

"I thought he would be here. I wanted to meet him."

"And do what? Would you fight him? You are a boy. He is a man. He did not know she was important to you. Do not speak of him again. Do you understand me?"

Jeremy nodded and rubbed his sweaty palms together, looking down into the arena. Soirese was toying with her opponent, keeping the warriors entertained. In combat, the man would have died within seconds but this was not combat; this was entertainment.

"She could have killed him a long time ago. She wants to put on a show."

Essamon nodded. "This man was beaten before he climbed into the arena."

"She is worshipped."

"Will Quinn be a match for her?"

The words crawled from his mouth, like a scaly beast dragging its belly over sun blazed rock. Jeremy was silent. His blood turned to ice. He had pleaded with Quinn to stay away from Mosscar. Now he would be forced to watch her fight. In a perverse way, it thrilled him. His groin strained in anticipation at watching two beautiful women brawl bloody and relentless. Brix was behind him now. He was a man. This was his destiny. He had helped murder Daniel and felt nothing. He had shot and killed two Churchmen and felt nothing. No elation. No remorse. Nothing. It was simply what had to be done to protect the plan.

"Soirese will kill her."

"That is good then," said Essamon. "Many of our brothers are no longer here because of her."

Essamon clapped a hand against the boy's back. He thought of the moment the child had wandered into Mosscar, talking to himself, wanting the diseased concrete to claim his soul, ordering it to kill him. Fluent in Ennpithian and Shaylighter, Essamon had listened and watched the child fall to his knees amongst the rubble. He had pushed aside the carbines of his warriors and when the boy spoke their native tongue, losing only a few words here and there, Essamon knew he had been correct in sparing him. The boy damned the Lord in the Above. He had been beaten and terrorised and no matter how hard he prayed no saviour appeared to him. The Shaylighter leader recognised hate and hate was something he understood and understood well. Hate was something he could mould and exploit. There was a twisted irony as he learned the boy's identity but chose not to reveal the alliance that had already been formed.

The man in the arena was on his knees. His ribs were cracked. It was agony to breathe. Soirese silenced the crowd. There was barely a murmur amongst the hundreds.

She cried out, speaking Ennpithian, the words awkward, stilted. "There is no Above. He will know this."

Her mouth twisted into a snarl and she snapped the man's neck before he could utter a single word. The crowd bellowed as his body slumped to the grass. Soirese pinned him with her boot and beckoned with her hands, demanding more worthy opponents. The crowd went wild. Jeremy watched the next prisoner being led into the arena. It was the second man that had been captured and he put up more of a fight, determined to rely on his fists and not prayer. He went toe to toe with her but failed to land a single blow. She was fast in the arena, darting about the assembled ring. She glided across the grass, hammering her fists into his chest, aiming kicks into his throat and back and groin, chopping and head butting and stamping until he fell to his knees, like her first victim. The man raised a shaking hand toward Essamon and begged for his surrender to be accepted.

The Shaylighter leader rose from his seat, arms outstretched. The wind whipped around his hat of feathers.

Soirese stepped back against the ropes, hands on her hips, torso filmed with perspiration. She glared at the Ennpithian. He was pathetic. He was no man. They were no match for her. She was irritated they had placed another feeble man before her. She wanted to hone her skills against the best. She craved the woman they knew as Quinn, the warrior who had slain many of her brothers on the road. She would tear her limb from limb.

Jeremy listened to Essamon's words, mentally translating each one, as he declared to his warriors that the man was a coward.

"An bosca," called the crowd. "An bosca, an bosca, an bosca."

The box.

Essamon motioned for the man to rise. Slowly, the Ennpithian was on his feet, gritting his teeth, unsteady, face racked with pain as he cradled a broken arm.

"An bosca," hissed Essamon.

The box erupted with light. The man whimpered as the white beam lit up his chest and his flesh began to burn. He screamed and tried to run but he was too weak and the beam was searing through him. His hair was alight, his legs buckled and still Essamon poured the white light upon him. The air filled with the stench of melting flesh and bone.

The man no longer screamed.

Soirese skirted around the mess. She signalled to the crowd. "Beidh me ag troid an da mna."

I will fight both women, thought Jeremy.

A group of Shaylighters rushed back to the cage. The fervent cheering evaporated and conversation broke out in the crowd. Food was passed around. Children grew suddenly bored and mock fights broke out with parents urging them on. Fires crackled and the blackness of the night cocooned the stadium. Soirese moved around the arena, keeping her body warm, fighting off any stiffness or cramp. She shadow boxed, growing impatient with each jab and swerve. Where were her next opponents? She glanced up at the podium and saw Essamon was becoming agitated by the delay. He nodded toward her and she galloped over the ropes of the arena and eased swiftly through the crowds.

She reached the cage. It was empty. The gate was hung open and the bodies of her people lay in the grass, throat's slit.

She howled and warriors rallied to her. One of them foolishly offered her an axe and she fractured his jaw. She had no need of a hand held weapon. She sent a runner to Essamon and then gathered forty warriors. She looked for the two women but they were nowhere to be seen. There was a second tunnel here, which burrowed beneath the giant stand of broken seats. Small fires burned inside and she glimpsed shadows fleeing.

Soirese pointed and let loose a blood curdling war-cry.

Quinn looked at the woman alongside her and knew she would not last. Fear would slow her down and that might see all three of them captured. She grabbed the woman, hands around her shoulders.

"What's your name?"

That rapid, clinical, punchy voice. The woman stared back at her, distraught, barely cohesive. She was in her twenties, a slight build, brown eyes stretched wide, freckled nose stained with tears, dirty black hair spread on trembling shoulders. Her stubby fingers were caked with mud where she had clawed at the ground in the cage.

Quinn slapped her. "What's your name?"

"Rita."

"Where are you from?"

"I... I'm..." Her teeth were chattering. Quinn slapped her again.

"Where?"

"Onglee. Great Onglee. I'm from Great Onglee." Her lashes bubbled with a fresh crop of tears.

"You want to get back there, right?" said Quinn, almost nose to nose with her. "So you must listen to me."

Stone waited, unmoving, half-crouched in the darkened concourse that ran beneath the stand, watching and counting the seconds. He held the slingshot carbine, right finger on the trigger, left hand curled around the pump slider, the stock pressed into his shoulder.

He gritted his teeth against the pain in his hip.

Quinn told Rita she had to run and she had to keep running and the reward would be her home.

Stone growled, "We need to go."

He handed Quinn her knife belt and led them past a long row of cubicles where fires burned in rusted metal drums. There were grime smeared counters and cracked tiled walls with faded pictures beneath rippled plastic covers. Shadows flickered across white washed walls. Rita let out a shocked gasp as she saw the first of the bodies, a man, draped over one of the counters, his skull bashed in, blood dripping into a large puddle. She saw more Shaylighters, men and women, sprawled and lifeless, blood streaking the grey concrete underfoot. She stuttered and the colour drained from her face. The bearded man had killed all these people. She began to shake and could no longer look at him. Her legs grew heavy and refused to budge, but Quinn took her by the wrist and yanked her forward. They started along a walkway, Rita being half-dragged, as the noise of the crowd ebbed into an ominous lull.

Stone guessed they must have discovered the empty cage by now.

They reached a vast hall where the wind whistled through gaping holes in the ceiling. A scattering of stars winked and shone in the black night. It was clear there had once been an upper level, a mezzanine floor, with access to further rooms and corridors and walkways, but it had crashed down long ago and was now only rusted and mangled steel. Stone glanced over his shoulder as he picked his way back through the rubble. He saw an outline of warriors gathering at the mouth of the concourse. He recognised the silhouette of the warrior woman from the arena and heard her roar, banshee like; then the outlines began to move, rapidly, and steel balls flicked toward them.

Rita screamed as her shoulder blade was punctured. Quinn sucked in her breath and watched as the poor woman lost her footing and jerked forward, speared on a jutting piece of twisted metal. Her back erupted and her arms dropped limply at her sides, fingers picking at the dirt.

Stone unleashed a volley, darting across the rubble as he fired. He yelled at Quinn that he would cover her, gripping the fearsome weapon in his thick hands, left hand pumping the slider and drawing taut the sling. The carbine carried ten shots but he would be overwhelmed if he stopped to reload the magazine. The Shaylighters found cover and poured steel balls at him. He moved constantly, unsure how long he could avoid being hit. He ducked as another one fizzed over his head. He glimpsed Quinn gently lift Rita's head. Blood ran from her trembling mouth. She was still alive, barely, but finished.

"Go," he yelled, firing off his last shot.

He slung the carbine over his shoulder and drew his revolver. The Shaylighters sprang at Rita, grabbing hold of her arms. Stone fired, a single shot, and planted the bullet through her head. He raced after Quinn and they emerged in an open air court. He urged her in the direction of the narrow openings that led outside. The night air was cool as they ran, pushing their muscles hard, hurdling potholes and debris. They bent and swerved, steel balls hissing all around them. They burst through the narrow tunnels.

They weaved through the sea of old vehicles, nipping around cars and vans and bikes, always folded over as they ran. Stone looked at her as they disappeared into the nearest street. She was strong, capable, but she'd taken a savage beating in the cage, face cut, one eye half closed, and she was already beginning to tire. Wordlessly, he gestured with his revolver and she followed him into a derelict building, pausing to catch her breath. Vegetation crept around the brickwork, silver in the light of the moon.

The building stank. The roof had collapsed. Stone forced a path through the debris and into another room.

Quinn placed her hand on his arm. "They're in the street."

He nodded, slowed, but kept moving. She followed him into a paved yard where wildflowers clawed through the cracks and wrapped around brittle metal poles. She could hear the shouts and running feet. Her thoughts turned cold. She focused her eyes on Stone and wondered why he'd come here. He had no noise box to detect any sickness. He was either stupid or very astute. She knew it had to be the later. She was banking on it. She watched him slip through a broken chain-link fence and into another building. He went gingerly through the rooms, the structure creaking and groaning as the wind ached through its fractured walls.

He stopped and waved her down. She waited amongst the dirt and the dust, heart thudding in her chest, gulping air, the dull ache of Jeremy's betrayal rattling in her head.

Outside, a few rusted vehicles littered the asphalt, angled against crumbling tenement blocks. A steel tower, its cables of energy ripped from the sky, had flattened a bus with markings and shattered windows. The city pressed in on her, suffocating, seeping through her clothes, clawing at her flesh. In those long seconds, the agony of her life swirled round and round.

She looked at Stone. He continued to watch the street, slowly reloading the carbine, one ball after the other, not a sound from him, his face stoic.

Soirese had quelled the wild excitement of her warriors, urging for silence as she strained to detect her prey.

They went past, making barely a sound, glancing left and right at the ruined buildings.

Quinn slowly drew two knives. Stone wet his lips, finger on the trigger of the carbine. Dust filled his nostrils and he stifled a sneeze as the war-band moved further along the street.

Then Soirese turned and clenched her fists, veins bulging, and screamed.

Bare-chested warriors rushed the tenement building, yelling war cries. A tall youth appeared in a broken doorway, his arm pulled back, an axe in his fist. He swung and Stone fired, lashing a steel ball into his stomach, putting him down. Quinn drove her blades into a warrior and jerked them free as he fell back. A brutish man slashed his spear at her and she lost her footing in the rubble. Stone shot him in the throat with the carbine. A blade whooshed before him and the weapon was knocked from his grasp. He piled a heavy punch into the head of a warrior, knocking him sideways. More of them were climbing in through gaping holes in the walls, pouring into the cramped and gloomy space.

Quinn was pinned in a corner with two warriors sweeping blades at her. She ducked, feinted right, attacked left with her twin weapons, slicing through a thigh and a kneecap, then stabbing a painted stomach and chest. A blade ripped along her arm and she cried out. A warrior thudded into her and she went down, on her back, gasping for air. The warrior leaned over her, spear raised, shiny tip poised. Stone, on the other side of the building, was too far away to help; clubbing Shaylighters with his fists, battering them as he fought to reclaim his dropped carbine.

The tremor was sudden, scattering them all like toys from a playpen. The ground tilted violently and they tumbled, fighting as they went. The street exploded. Asphalt was hurled into the air. Giant chunks rained back down on the Shaylighters. A sinkhole appeared, widening and deepening, swallowing screaming warriors. Mosscar was angry and the tribe began to panic. Soirese was losing control of her men.

Inside the building it was chaos. Half of the floor above had fallen down. Quinn rammed her knives into bare flesh. A brown rusted vehicle spun in the air and rocked against the building, toppling a wall and crushing men. Stone coughed inside a billowing cloud of dust. A warrior piled into him. He desperately curled his arm around the man's neck, holding him tight as he yanked his revolver from his belt. Punches jabbed at him. His attacker snarled and wriggled to free himself. Stone jammed the barrel against the man's chin and squeezed the trigger. Blood and gore spattered his face.

The ground shifted once more as the tremor showed no sign of abating. He kept hold of the body as a trio of Shaylighters emerged from the gloom, firing carbines. They peppered the corpse and Stone returned fire with his revolver, deadly and accurate; three shots, three bodies. More warriors surged toward the ruined building. There was no end to them. Stone fired until the chamber of his revolver was exhausted.

He let the body slide down and drew his sword. He slashed, and gouged the tip of his blade through painted flesh, but the warrior he was fighting ignored the pain and chopped down with his axe. Another Shaylighter came at him but he flicked the sword and ripped a line through his throat.

"Quinn," he shouted.

"Stone."

He twisted violently as the ground beneath him continued to vibrate and weapons hacked and jabbed at him. Sheathing his sword, he wrestled a carbine from the gloom, fished into the ammunition bag worn across his chest and dropped in a clutch of steel balls. He pumped the sliding mechanism and began firing, blasting the remaining Shaylighters and picking his way across the shaking rubble as he took them down.

She emerged from the choking dust clouds, filthy and blood stained. They ran through crumbling tenement buildings, the fury of the tremor pursuing them with equal verve. A second sinkhole opened up and the building they had fought in disappeared.

But more Shaylighters had streamed from the stadium. It was far from over.

They burst onto a wide avenue; gaping sinkholes and hanging clouds of dust and ash.

No more than blurry outlines, the Shaylighters continued to fire at them. Steel balls whipped through the air, without a single one even coming close, but the hissing sound as each ball pinged through the swirling dust clouds chilled their blood. They continued to flee, directionless inside the sprawling urban landscape. They vaulted over a low chain-link fence surrounding an enclosed area and slowed as oddly shaped obstacles loomed out of the dark. The ground was strangely springy, a carpet of artificial bark that appeared undisturbed. The two of them dropped behind a child-sized house of rusted metal. Panting heavily, they hurriedly reloaded the carbines they now both carried. The world was beginning to fall back into place and the cries of the Shaylighters were distant and muffled as the tremor finally ceased and the wind nudged at the dust clouds.

Quinn dressed her arm wound with a strip of cloth.

"They'll keep hunting us." She grimaced as she spoke. "They have to... to stop us from telling anyone they're here. I can't believe how many of them there are. They must have been hiding in Mosscar for years."

She looked at him

"How did you know it was safe?"

He prodded the vegetation. "This wouldn't grow."

"You didn't know that. Not for certain."

She wiped her face.

"You risked your life coming in here. You're fucking crazy. Is Nuria with you?"

"She's in Great Onglee."

"Then you're a selfish bastard, as well as insane."

He shrugged. "She said the same thing."

"She's right."

They weaved through the enclosed area, edging past flora covered steps and slides and tunnels and boats and rockers. Stone felt his skin crawl as the rusted steel frames creaked in the wind. He glanced toward Quinn; one eye half closed, the other drawn wide. She could feel the presence, too. It echoed with ghosts. This had been a special place, once, but the world had bubbled and blistered and now there were only whispers in the dark.

As they clambered over another chain-link fence Stone saw the Shaylighters had picked up their scent once more. He watched them loop around the enclosed area, even though it would have been much quicker to power through it.

Glistening with perspiration, they angled along a narrow concrete pathway that curved toward an underpass. Blackness smothered them. Faded graffiti covered the tilled walls. Boots echoed against the hard ground as they ran. Quinn glanced over her shoulder and swallowed hard as she saw a chasing pack of nearly twenty warriors.

The spearhead of the war-band was a tall, lean woman, arms and legs pumping furiously.

Soirese raised a single fist as she emerged from the underpass. Her warriors gathered around her, weapons ready.

Taut skin shiny, fists poised against her hips, she stood and listened, hearing only the rapid beat of her heart and the rustle of vegetation. The wind tossed her hair. Her eyes roamed the length of a rubble filled avenue, left and right. Deserted. She knew they could not have outrun them. Quinn was moving slow after her beating and the stranger appeared to be limping, too. They must have taken refuge within a building once more. Here the structures were single-storey with blasted windows and large faded signs. There were alleyways nestled between some of the buildings but she knew them to be dead ends; weeds and rubbish and old rusted dumpsters teeming with disgusting black flies.

She broke her men into search parties. It would not take long to find them. They were close; she could almost taste them.

Soirese led one group onto a grass covered bank that fringed the underpass. It was an excellent vantage point. Her warriors were poking through buildings and alleyways but finding nothing. She paced, frustrated. Behind her a four-lane highway, choked with hundreds of vehicles locked in torturous lines, curved around towering buildings that reached toward the clouds. She had been born here. In the very bowels of the tallest building. She saw flickering lights in the darkness. She would capture these murderous insurgents for Essamon, for the people of the stadium and for the families of the towers. She would bring Quinn and the bearded man to the arena. They would face her fists and Mosscar would reverberate with her strength and power.

She peered into a few vehicles, dropped to her stomach and looked beneath them, but her prey was nowhere to be seen. She slammed a bunched fist against the roof of a car. She scrambled down the bank and strode onto the street, waiting beside an immense vehicle that had rolled onto its side. It was the length of many cars and the height of several men. It was patched with brown rust and its giant wheel arches, thick with black grime, had long been stripped of their enormous tyres.

She glanced at it - once, twice \- and sneered.

They had gone nowhere; they were inside the metal beast.

The back window was smashed open and she glimpsed broken seating inside. It was a good place to hide.

She whistled and her warriors surrounded the vehicle.

Squashed tight against his body in the narrow luggage compartment, Quinn held her breath as the Shaylighters scrambled over the coach. The metal hatch overhead, in truth the side of the vehicle, she guessed, groaned as footsteps patterned across it. Stone's hip wound was stinging and he desperately wanted to scratch it but dared not move. The seconds dragged by as the warriors dropped inside the long vehicle and found no one hiding there. They heard the woman give fresh orders, clearly frustrated. There was the hammer of feet as the warriors jumped from the vehicle, landing back on the asphalt.

Minutes passed and they heard the woman lead her warriors along the avenue.

Stone shook his head.

Her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Rooted in the same position, Quinn felt her left leg turn numb. She tried to flex it but there was no movement. A dent in one corner of the hatch allowed a pocket of cool air to filter inside but she was feeling nauseous at the stench of the confined space.

There was the thump of horses and cries of Shaylighters. The patrol loitered for a minute or two before galloping away.

They waited for a long time. They knew it was impossible to remain hidden forever. Dawn would soon arrive and there would be no way out of the city then. They needed a blanket of darkness to escape. Stone wondered if Quinn had found her answers. He certainly hoped so. The size of the tribe deeply concerned him. She had described only a handful of road bandits but this was a small army, tucked away in place no one would ever look.

He turned his gaze toward her. She nodded back at him and he reached for the hatch.

THIRTEEN

Nuria snatched hold of the woman's wrist.

"No."

It was the first defiance Lady Hardigan had experienced in a long time. Kevane had described the Earl's wife as a _hard bitch_ and Nuria didn't doubt that for one moment. The woman's features had been shaved from steel. Rigid eyes the colour of slate glared from thickened crevices of skin. Her back was unbent and had probably never wilted once, not even during childbirth, but Nuria's grip was resolute, fingers clutched around the raised hand, the lined palm flat, the skin ice cold, the fingers extended, the nails scrubbed clean, neatly shaped. Kaya loitered beside Nuria, dishevelled brown hair tumbling onto her forehead, cheeks stained with tears.

Nuria attempted to force the hand down but there was stiffened resistance. The men gathered loose and ineffective.

"Leave her alone," said Nuria.

It was Boyd who attempted to broker a peace. "I'll pour some drinks." He began to clatter about.

The woman's concentration faltered, for a fraction of a second, distracted by Boyd's clumsy efforts at playing host. Nuria exploited the opportunity and pushed Lady Hardigan's hand onto her hip.

"Leave my house."

"Not yet."

"Stephen, throw this thing out."

"We need to talk."

"I don't know who you are but I have nothing to say to someone like you. Get out of my house."

"This concerns your daughter."

"Which means it's no concern of yours."

Her voice was stilted, annoying; she was stepping on each word, attempting to smooth away the rough edges, claiming to be someone and something she clearly wasn't.

Nuria cringed. "You'll listen to me. Both of you."

"Stephen, get this servant out of my house."

"My name is Nuria. I work for Mr Boyd and I'm no bloody servant."

The Earl listened to his wife's command but did not immediately respond. He studied the woman lingering in the doorway, grubby boots stroking the fringe of one of his precious rugs scattered across a flagstone floor. She was not a plain woman and he was intrigued by the conviction in her blue eyes and captivated by their beauty, too. Her tone was educated, that much was clear, and despite the crossbow on her shoulder and the sword buckled at her waist, she was no common mercenary.

He said, "Let her speak."

"Stephen, I want her out of my house."

"Enough." His voice snapped. "Let us hear what she has to say."

Nuria waited for the Earl's wife to bite back but she didn't. An awkward silence enveloped the room that no one was willing to breach until Boyd cleared his throat and presented a tray of goblets, brimming with wine.

"Why don't we all take a drink?"

Only the Earl accepted one. Nuria didn't even acknowledge Boyd so he shuffled away and sat beside a softly glowing lamp, the flame orange behind blackened panes of glass.

"Why are you prying into our family?" It was the Earl, his voice even, his question valid.

Nuria opened her mouth but Lady Hardigan weighed in once more.

"She's nothing more than a common vagabond, Stephen. Look at her. She stinks. I thought Quinn was a rough slouch. I didn't think it was possible to scrape any lower in the gutter, Mr Boyd."

"Insults are not helping, my Lady," said Boyd.

"He's right, Isobel," snapped the Earl. "No more of it."

He took a drink.

"This is a very stressful time for us with the festival. Kaya is our eldest and feels the stress more than our other children."

"Stop telling her our business," hissed Lady Hardigan.

"Isobel!"

His deafening voice silenced her. She sat grinding her teeth.

"Why do you persist with this behaviour, Kaya?" said the Earl.

Slouched alongside Nuria, hands tucked into the waistband of her woollen trousers, she shrugged.

"You know why."

"I can't hear you."

"I said, you know why."

"Kaya told me that..."

"We know exactly what she told you," said Lady Hardigan, her steely gaze on Kaya. "It's a pack of lies."

"Our daughter has to share our attention with her brothers and sisters. She doesn't cope very well with that. She feels starved of affection. This is her way of trying to..."

"That's nothing to do with it," said Kaya.

"It's everything to do with it," said the Earl. "You even told me yourself how you feel unloved by us."

"I feel unloved because you won't believe me. I'm not making it up. Why would I? He's called the Predator. That's his name."

Lady Hardigan threw her hands in the air.

"I would believe you, Kaya, but where is the proof?" The Earl paused. "You disappear for a day here, a day there and then return upset claiming some man has... has done things... but you don't know who he is or where you are taken and you have no marks..."

"She doesn't appreciate anything, Stephen. She has no idea how hard you work to maintain our home."

"You're our eldest, Kaya." The Earl's tone softened. "We love you very much but you have to..."

Kaya's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then show it and believe me."

There was silence. Boyd sank another drink.

"I want you in bed," said Lady Hardigan. "And I want to hear no more of these disgusting and impossible stories."

"The Predator is real. He's been doing it for years. I'm not the only one he takes."

"There isn't a fucking scratch on you," shouted Lady Hardigan, rising from her chair, eyes bulging, revealing her true breeding.

"That's because the witch heals my wounds."

No one answered her.

"It's true."

Silence.

"I'm not lying."

Silence.

More silence.

It was Nuria who spoke. "They're known as Pure Ones."

The Hardigan's turned at the sound of her voice. Boyd lowered his wine. Even Kaya craned her neck around. Nuria waited a moment longer, certain the venom in the air had ceased.

"A one-eyed girl born with scarred skin." She held up her hand. "They can heal with touch."

Kaya licked her lips.

"You're making it up," said Lady Hardigan, no longer smothering her voice, allowing all the strands to loosen.

Nuria snorted, shook her head. The Earl stared at her.

"Have you seen one of these Pure Ones?"

She nodded.

"I know of one healer. She's a friend. She lives in Gallen, where I'm from. I've seen her save lives, make wounds from bullets and blades disappear. She once drove the sickness from a woman, took away the red marks and the lumps. It's the most incredible thing to witness." There was a hush in the room. Even Lady Hardigan was silent. "Healers exist but it's rare to come across them. What Kaya is telling you is possible but I don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

It was the Earl asking the question. His wife was stony faced, jaw twisted into a snarl.

"Healers usually help people. It's strange to imagine one allowing this man to brutalise your daughter and then help conceal the crime."

"Is it possible she could be forced to heal?"

Nuria shook her head. She imagined Emil being forced to heal. It would have never happened. She wished she was here right now, standing beside her. The young girl would have tore strips off Isobel Hardigan. Sixteen, seventeen years old, Emil was the only healer Nuria had ever encountered; headstrong, stubborn and determined, with a tongue as fiery as the colour of her hair; she stood for no nonsense. Nuria understood why Stone had bonded with her so well. More than guilt, more than the death of Tomas, the two was so alike.

"Healers are compelled to help. It's an instinct. But... you can't force them to heal. The power comes from inside them, I think."

Nuria turned to Kaya.

"You need to tell us everything about the Predator; what he looks like, when he takes you and where."

"Do you all believe me now?"

The Earl wiped a hand over his face and nodded, glumly.

"I don't understand it, Kaya, but I don't think you're lying."

He looked around the room.

"Can you help, Boyd?"

Nuria saw a flash in Boyd's eyes. He seemed incredibly perturbed by the question. She watched the portly merchant from the corner of her eye. Then Kaya grabbed her arm, distracting her.

"I want to tell you alone. I don't want every one listening."

Dobbs forced open the front door whilst Farrell kept watch. The streets of the village were relatively empty with only a few men and women drifting home from the inn. Shauna could see he was trying to make as little noise as possible but the door was old and as he leaned into it the wood splintered beneath his weight and he crashed through into a gloomy room lit by a small fire. They carried swords buckled at the waist and wore masks to obscure their features but they shouldn't have bothered; she easily recognised them. Besides, there were very few men in Brix capable of threatening or beating or even killing a woman. She saw Farrell holding a hammer in his gloved fist and shivered as she imagined it shattering her bones.

She had purposefully left the fire burning. She had assumed Rush would send someone to intimidate her further. She wasn't as stupid as he thought and now knew for certain that the deacon planned to harm her. They had both assumed that only Jeremy was involved but now she wondered many others were part of this murderous plot? It would be impossible to trust anyone now. She couldn't go to her neighbours or the barracks or even Father Devon. They might all be pieces of the conspiracy.

Huddled down in the bracken, wrapped in a blanket, eyes wide, she felt miserable and alone. It was a rotten feeling. She had never been alone before. Not alone like this. There had been her family and then there had been Brian. Her shoulders, arms and hands were heavy and trembling. She listened as the two men stomped through her slovenly home; furniture was pushed over or kicked aside, their boots raked muddy trails across the floor. Her insides sparked with anger as their intrusion squashed raw fear and replaced it with a more useful emotion. She narrowed her eyes as their voices carried on the wind.

" _She's gone."_

" _Fucking little bitch."_

The two men stepped from her house and looked around. A man weaved by, singing a gentle tune, interrupting it with a resounding burp. Farrell tucked the hammer into his belt and Dobbs drew his sword, the iron scraping loud against the scabbard. He twirled and swished the blade, cutting through thin air.

" _Let's take a walk round the village."_

She could never go back there and it was an awful admission to make. She wanted to confront Deacon Rush; his polite manner and his calm voice and his caring eyes had ruined her life even more. She wanted to smash his face to a pulp and claw out those eyes. Bastard. The Holy House had deceived her again. She thought or running away to Touron, to meet with Brian. But that posed a more complicated problem. To expose the deacon would be to expose her own attempted betrayal and Brian would never forgive her.

Or would he?

No, his hatred for the Holy House burned. His devotion to hating them was as resolute as their belief in the Lord. She didn't hate them. She wasn't even angry. Not really. No, she was only sad, a deep sadness that the Lord had denied what He gave to every other woman she knew. Why had He made her this way? Why had He given her _the gift_ but robbed her of using it? It was sadness that dulled her life and coloured her daily thoughts; there were moments of anger, naturally, flashes when her blood cycle damned her childless, but no fervent hatred and no desire for violence and death. She had done nothing wrong. She had followed her husband and yet here she was, driven from her home and hunted like a wild beast.

The road east stretched into nothingness; long days and nights on foot along rutted and winding tracks, through low foothills and gorges and forests. It would be an arduous journey. She thought of the crowds and noise of Touron, hundreds of buildings pressing down on her. She wasn't going anywhere near the town. She needed family and her family was in Great Onglee.

Shauna watched Dobbs and Farrell melt into the gloom. She picked up her satchel and carefully picked her way through the dark.

She had to reach Great Onglee.

Nuria set down her crossbow and eased onto a hay bale, her eyes fixed on the young girl.

The old barn creaked. Lamplight still showed in the house. She imagined the Earl was drinking. She imagined his wife was cursing. Kaya shuffled around, languid strides, kicking at the ground and tugging at her unkempt hair. Nuria was beginning to recognise this behaviour from her. She waited patiently and watched her with open blue eyes. She possessed her father's handsome features but the poor girl's voice had shrivelled to nothing. Gone was the mischief. She was afraid. It was simpler when no one believed her. This was far more terrifying. Now people were getting involved and wanted to help and she would have to face the awful truth.

The sight of Kaya's unblemished back had sown doubt and raised her temper but even then Nuria knew the girl wasn't lying. The girl was her own reflection. She stifled a yawn. She was exhausted. She had barely slept since reaching Ennpithia and the confrontation with the Hardigan's had sapped more energy than she'd realised. She couldn't even muster the strength to think of Stone as she sat in the draughty barn, listening to the wind, springing her eyes wide open, waiting for Kaya to open up with much greater detail. Tamnica rushed from the dark and seized its opportunity, uncoiled its barbs and flicked away at her. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists as memories of her own suffering in that terrible prison flooded into her head.

Kaya turned her back and stared out into the night. Her voice was slow and numb and little more than a whisper.

Nuria listened with tears in her eyes and when Kaya finished she wrapped her arms around the girl and cried with her.

"Jorge."

The boy opened his eyes and almost fell from his chair. Father Devon smiled fondly at him.

"I wasn't sleeping, sir."

"It's not even dawn. You should be sleeping. How has he been?"

Jorge stumbled onto his sandaled feet and hurriedly straightened his clothes and black hair.

"He needs a lot of help. He can't do much."

"You're a good boy."

"Thank you, Father Devon."

"Mrs Renshaw is awake. She has a fire going. I imagine food and a hot drink are not too far away."

The eight year old boy smiled as the priest gestured for him to leave. He trotted off toward the kitchen. Mrs Renshaw was nearly sixty and her seven children were grown and working in Brix, Touron and Great Onglee. In the past few years she had turned a rambling and deathly quiet home into a small enterprise. Her boarding house was usually full this time of year but, thankfully, she had been able to accommodate one more guest.

The Map Maker was snoring. The candles had burned down. The window was shuttered.

Father Devon stood and watched him for a moment. Was he right? Was he right _this time?_

It was a humble room with stark furnishings; a wooden bed with a straw mattress, a chair, a sideboard with a basin and jug and a large cross hanging from the white washed walls. Father Devon set down the package and lit the candles. The narrow flames flickered in the draught that whispered from beneath the door. The Map Maker muttered and grunted as he stirred from the deep throes of sleep. Easing into the chair, Father Devon crossed his legs as he carefully removed the book. He noticed the Map Maker's clothes piled in an untidy heap on a dyed rug. He clucked his tongue at the mess and the bald man woke, startled.

"Who? What are you doing here?"

"I have consulted with Father William."

"You have what? With who?"

He sat up, blankets slipping to his waist. He rubbed his head with his wrists.

"Who's Father William?"

"He was priest when I was deacon. A long time ago. He retired from the work of the Holy House and now enjoys a more serene life; one of fishing, afternoon naps and wine. Though I imagine the wine precedes the afternoon naps."

He chuckled, nervously.

"It's still dark."

"It will be dawn in an hour. There is no time for sleep. We have to talk. We have to prepare you."

"Prepare me? For what? I follow my own path, Father Devon. I am my own law. No one dictates to me."

Astonishingly, Father Devon lowered his head. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you. It is hard to separate you from mortal form."

"From what?"

He blinked, peered into the corridor and saw Jorge was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is the boy?"

"He is taking an early breakfast."

"But I need him to help me dress.

"I can help you."

The Map Maker nodded. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, yawned, and wiped an arm across his face.

"You are so normal."

"What?"

"You are so like us. You have taken our form perfectly."

The Map Maker frowned. _Mortal form? Taken our form perfectly?_ Once dressed, he loitered beside the window as Father Devon took the chair.

"I have spent considerable time with Father William. He is a very honest and wise man. I had two issues to discuss with him. The first was to confess a terrible sin. Why are you shaking your head?"

"You people do not see the colours of this world the way I see them. You have to lift this mantle of sin, Father. Life is to be lived."

"You died for our sins," said Father Devon, crossing himself. "And I have perpetuated an awful sin by concealing a relic of the Before."

The Map Maker glanced at the book in his lap. "Books are not a sin. I have read books before."

"You can read?"

"Of course. I can read, I can write, I... I used to be able to write. What is that book?"

Father Devon hesitated. "A voice. A beautiful voice. A glimpse into what once was and how we reached where we are now. It is a diary of hope, strength, courage and truth."

The Map Maker noted how the priest caressed the cover. He could no longer hold his maps with such affection.

"Before the Cloud Wars, Map Maker..."

He no longer heard the priest. The voice was inside his head, soft tones gliding from his subconscious.

Your time has come, my son. You are walking amongst them and they believe in you. The priest will bow down before you. They will all bow down before your might.

"Before you judged us, Lord. Before you punished us for our sins."

He dropped to his knees and set the book on the floor. He lowered his head, gripped his cross.

"I beg your forgiveness, oh Lord, I beg your forgiveness for my sins and the sins of Man."

" _What?"_

The priest raised his arms and wailed, "It has been foretold you will rise and come again."

You are different, my son. Your knowledge has marked you out. I am so proud of you. I have waited too long for your return. It is time for you to put the pieces back together. It is our time.

"A millennium has passed since you laid judgement upon us and the world plunged into darkness."

The Map Maker stared at him.

"I am here to put this world back together," he said. "I see the world through my maps. I always have. I can see us together once more."

"Yes," said Father Devon, his voice waking the tenants of the boarding house. "Forgive us, oh Lord, flood the world with your Light. Save us."

The Map Maker spotted Jorge in the doorway, mouth hanging open, a cup in one hand, the contents trickling over the rim.

They will fear you, my son, and you will rule over them and they will follow you, my son, they will obey you.

"This coming Reverence Morning, on the day of the Summer Blessing, we will present you to the Archbishop and your Light will travel across Ennpithia and the land will know peace and Mankind will be saved from the Dark. It has been written. The Before has spoken. You _are_ our Lord. You have risen. You are the Second Coming."

Jorge dropped his cup.

Shauna froze.

The sword glinted in the dull light. His hair was long and hung loose around his bearded face. He was motionless, branches overhead, morning dew clinging to broad leaves.

Farrell.

Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw's boarding house.

The road out of Brix was heavily travelled but it was too exposed and she might easily stumble and twist her ankle its many grooves and ruts. She was certain that would happen. She was obviously cursed because it seemed the more she attempted to do the right thing the more the Lord punished her and sent trouble her way.

She had hugged the forest, the tall trees wreathed in light mist, but still they had tracked her.

And snared her.

Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw's boarding house.

Pockets of light began to touch the horizon. She had once loved the dawn light. Now she would hate it.

Cattle groaned. Shauna blinked away tears; there was no room for sentiment, no point to it.

Her breath caught in her throat. Men had failed her. She had trusted in them and they had failed her.

"I wasn't going to tell anyone."

"You were going to tell the deacon," said Farrell.

"I wasn't."

"You fucking were," said Dobbs, behind her. "You lying whore."

She pleaded. "I was worried about Brian."

"No one can know," said Farrell.

"I won't tell anyone."

Dobbs slapped her. "Too late for that."

She gritted her teeth, preparing her body for the intense flare of pain, the rupturing of flesh and bone and organs; but the two men sheathed their swords as they closed toward her and the hammer remained tucked in Farrell's belt.

Something cold and nasty crawled around her stomach.

"Deacon Rush doesn't want you dead," said Farrell.

"That's right. You're Brian's bitch."

"And we need the retard focused on the plan. He has to burn the beacon."

"Don't call him that."

Dobbs grabbed her arm.

"Shut up. Time for you to learn a lesson."

Four hundred paces from the village barracks; five hundred paces from Mrs Renshaw's boarding house.

FOURTEEN

The metal hatch scraped loudly as Stone nudged it open.

He clambered from the coach storage compartment, followed by Quinn, and they dropped onto the asphalt, carbines ready. They fanned out, taking cover amongst the rubble, watched and listened. The street was eerily silent; the only sound the rustle of vegetation. The concrete city appeared deserted. Stone beckoned with his head and they moved fast.

"No more patrols," he whispered. "Not since we heard that horn. I reckon it called them back."

They hugged the shadows of an open square ringed with tower blocks. Blackened windows peered down at them. They hesitated at the sight of a small fire burning amongst a pile of old debris but still they saw no one.

They kept going.

It was Quinn who broke the silence. "Jeremy killed my brother. He was supposed to take care of him."

Stone nodded. "Why?"

"To keep me from coming in here. He didn't want me to discover the Shaylighters. He must have hoped Daniel's death would make me go back to Brix. He really doesn't know me."

"Is Jeremy one of them?"

"No, he was born in the village. His father and his father before were born in the village. They're Ennpithians, through and through. But he knows their language and they trust him."

She shook her head.

"No one has ever seen more than ten or twenty Shaylighters at the same time."

Stone was silent for a moment.

"How many soldiers are in Great Onglee?"

"Why?"

"How many?"

"Do you think they plan to attack?"

"They have a small army."

"They've had a small army for a long time by the look of things. Why would they attack now?"

"Because now we know where they are."

They reached the outskirts of the city. Jeremy had missed her pack and weapons. She winced as she slipped her arms through its loops. She slung the carbine onto her shoulder and tucked the pistol into her waistband. Her horse, Blissful, had been taken but Stone discovered his still tied to a tree. Quinn curled her arms around his waist as they rode through the trees, pushing hard, streaks of light on the horizon.

She said, "Onglee has a garrison of forty to fifty men."

"What other villages are nearby?"

"Lower Fallon and Hallington are roughly a day's ride. Boxmere is probably a day and a half away."

"How many men?"

Quinn's hands tightened at his waist. "The Shaylighters have never attacked a village before."

"The lie is over. There's no need for them to hide now."

"I hope you're wrong."

Her thoughts dipped into a pool of blackness. Was the land about to be plunged into war again but against a new enemy? The Shaylighters had been a nuisance during the war with the Kiven, lurking in the background; the war had never touched them. They had observed and thrived in the chaos, picking at the leftovers, exploiting weakness, but had they always numbered this many? Had she kicked over a rock and exposed a nest of beasts? If Stone was right then the blood of hundreds would soak the grass. He had to be wrong. He _had_ to be.

"I was scared in there, Stone. I thought I was going to die."

He glanced over his shoulder, nodded.

"Only an idiot doesn't get scared."

"When I first met you I spoke to you like shit."

"I'm not easy to talk to."

She laughed, surprising herself.

"Why did you do it? I can see the blood on your clothes. Why did you risk your life?"

He tried to answer but didn't. He didn't know how to shape the words. Tracking through the scorched wastelands of Gallen with Tomas, then his only companion, the two men had spoken only when it was needed. He had watched Tomas grow from a boy into a man. Tomas the man knew how to talk. He knew the right words. He knew what to say and when to say it. Especially with women. Stone acknowledged he was not that man. Sometimes he wished he could be. But only sometimes. Men of words puzzled him. A man like Boyd asked but ordered. How was a man capable of that? He shook his head. Nuria understood him. That was all that mattered. She accepted him. Quinn would have to accept him. She was safe and Rita was dead and she should reflect on that and nothing more.

Quinn waited and realised he wasn't prepared to answer. Or didn't know how to. She wondered if he wanted _that_ from her, as a reward, but she was certain he didn't and he would be sorely disappointed if he did. She could normally smell that desire on a man - she had smelt it on Jeremy, even at his age - but there was no scent of it on Stone. He seemed motiveless. She curled against his back, holding on as he galloped from the city. She was disgusted at her admission of fear to him. She was not afraid to live in this world. She would not meekly lower her eyes and timidly accept the raw hand that was dealt. She stiffened her back and broadened her shoulders against any man or woman and had never been afraid to carry the fight. Quinn realised, horribly, she had crumbled inside that cage, beaten and bound. She had believed she was going to die. In some perverse reality she had wanted to die. She did not want the burden of Daniel's death and Jeremy's betrayal. The weight was too much.

"Did you find out how your niece died?" he said, suddenly.

"She wasn't my niece." Quinn choked. "Clarissa was my daughter."

"Who is he?" demanded Essamon, speaking Ennpithian. "This man from the water. What does he want?"

Jeremy stood inside a large torch lit room. The ceiling was discoloured and bloated. There were blankets on the floor and fires and a large table spread with a map. The stand above creaked in the wind. He was shoulder to shoulder with the most fearsome men of the tribe; Oxron the rapist, Callart the butcher and many more; men who had risen above their fellow warriors, men with hardened faces daubed in terrifying paint, men who were considered the most loyal, the most trusted and the most vile. Only Soirese was absent, her war-band still to return since the tremors and the sounding of the horn.

"His name is Stone. He came here with another man and a woman."

Essamon rubbed his shoulder. There was no wound. "I know. His woman struck me with an axe."

"She is called Nuria. Boyd hired them to guard his truck."

Jeremy nervously cleared his throat. He could hear his voice wavering.

One of the warriors's snarled, "Ait a bhfuil said o?"

"They're from Gallen," he answered.

"The desert land across the sea," said another, speaking Ennpithian. It was Callart the butcher. He was a monster of a man, towering over the others. His long face was marked by a protruding nose and chin. His forehead was deeply lined and his eyes were sunk into blackened sockets. A curved steel blade hung from his belt.

"I do not care about the sea," said Essamon. "The sea is meaningless."

Jeremy tried to calm his voice. "The second man is still in Brix. The Holy House is interested in him."

Essamon picked up his box of light. "Why?"

"I overheard Devon and Rush talking about him but it didn't make any sense."

Oxron the rapist growled. "We will decide what makes sense, boy. Tell us what they were saying."

"They were arguing over the man's identity. Father Devon believes he might be a great warrior sent to save them."

"Does this man have a name?" asked Callart.

"No, not a real one. He calls himself the Map Maker. He seems to think he's very important."

Essamon nodded. "I saw this man at the riverbank. He is bald and fat and has no hands. He is Ennpithia's _great warrior_?"

He grinned, cupped his hands around his stomach and began to waddle.

"The man is like cattle. Ta se ramhar. Ta se ramhar."

Laughter boomed around the room. His men began to mirror Essamon's actions, showing mock fear when confronted with each other.

"Then why does the Holy House show interest?" said Callart, raising his voice. His long face was humourless. "Why do they think a man who cannot hold sword or spear might be a great warrior?"

There was silence. The torches flickered. Jeremy glanced around the room.

"There are words written," he said. "Father Devon has a book. It talks of the Second Coming. When the Lord rises again to erase our sins. Father Devon believes the Map Maker is the Lord in mortal form."

The silence lengthened.

"We do not fear their faith," hissed Essamon. "Nor do we fear their Lord. This is not important. I will deal with this Map Maker when we take Brix. I will show the Ennpithians how mortal he is when I gut him."

He clenched his fist at his warriors.

"We will ride to Great Onglee and have revenge for our dead brothers."

"No, it's too soon," said Jeremy. "Duggan isn't back from Touron. You must wait for the beacon to be lit."

Jeremy saw the warriors take a step away from him. He was suddenly very alone and exposed.

Essamon came forward, dark eyes glowering behind his goggles, the hat of feathers wedged upon his skull, his face streaked with red ointment, the inverted cross upon his bare chest.

"Never speak against me." His hand grabbed Jeremy. "You are a non-believer and you have helped us but you are not of our blood."

"I'm sorry." The boy spluttered as grubby fingers closed around his throat. "It's just we can't..."

"You and Brian are tolerated. Nothing more."

"But the Engineer's plan is..."

"I warned you before. You do not mention the Engineer. You are nothing to him and nothing to us."

He continued to crush Jeremy's throat. Oxron the rapist grinned.

"Let me have him first, Essamon."

"Silence," said Essamon, releasing the boy. "We have promised him a place in the new world and Shaylighters do not break promises. We are not Ennpithians."

He patted Jeremy's cheek. "Mention the Engineer once more and I will give you to Oxron."

Jeremy coughed as the warriors laughed at him.

"I'm sorry."

"No more," said Essamon. "The moment has passed."

"What if the boy is right?" It was Callart. "If we attack Onglee before the beacon is lit, then the Archbishop will stay away. He will fear for his life and hide in Touron. The plan is to attack Onglee _once_ the beacon has been lit and the Archbishop has begun the Summer Blessings."

Essamon pondered the words of his most trusted man. He knew what the plan was and he knew the part the Shaylighters were to play but his thirst for revenge was driving him. The bearded man had stepped into his land and killed his warriors. Now he had come into his home, killing and stealing. Quinn was a prize to his people. She had left many of his tribe rotting in the dirt. He was seething with anger that he had not witnessed Soirese's destruction of this Ennpithian in the arena.

"This _will not_ go unanswered."

He looked at his men.

"There are many parts to the Engineer's plan. But if we do nothing, if we wait, then word will spread that there is no sickness in Mosscar. The Churchmen will rally their soldiers against us. We have no choice but to attack Onglee. This man Stone has forced our hand. Aon priosunaigh. Aon sclabhaithe. Great Onglee will suffer the true wrath of the Shaylighters. No more hiding. None of them must escape. Understand? None of them."

His tongue flashed across his lips.

"You, boy, go back to Brix and warn Rush what has happened here tonight. He must come to us."

Jeremy swallowed. "I can't go back. I killed two Churchmen. They'll be looking for me."

The slap stunned him, the blow colliding with his eye socket. The Shaylighters laughed.

"Do as I order," hissed Essamon. "Callart, prepare our warriors. Oxron, go and find Soirese, she should be back by now."

He kissed the box of light.

"Let us see how the cross protects Great Onglee."

"Her name was Francis," said Quinn.

Hazy sunlight picked sluggishly at the horizon. Stone could see the outline of the village, clouds drifting above it. A thin mist curled around the horse as he galloped from the forest. The sun would quickly burn it away and he sensed the day would be long and hot. He glanced over his shoulder once more. There had been no sign of any pursuit.

"She was a few years older than me. One day my mother discovered us together. I was in love."

Stone listened in silence. He wasn't sure if she was telling him the story or simply retelling it for herself. He pushed the horse hard, only a few more miles. The pain in his hip was little more than a dull throb. He had been shot there once before. Now his old scar would have a companion.

"My mother forced the Holy House to banish her family to Touron. Her parents were good people but weak and my mother had a lot of influence in the village. She worked at the Holy House. She cleaned, organised fetes, gathered donations of coin, spread His word to travellers." She snorted. "I can picture her now trying to convert you. Can you imagine falling to your knees in prayer?"

She winced as the sunlight touched her battered face, her skin raw and caked with blood.

"You kneel for no one. I can tell that. I think we're alike."

He steered the horse along the road, tossing up clumps of mud.

"I never saw Francis again. Once I had mastered a horse I went looking for her family in Touron, but I never found them. Touron is a huge town. Thousands of people. But I don't think they stayed. I don't think they liked it there. Who knows where they ended up? My mother prayed for my soul but in her eyes I was damned." Her voice was hollow, as if she was talking about another person's life, another person's pain. "I was the Demon from the Below, Stone. I was polluted with sin. Her words, her actual words to me. How could you say that to another human being? _Polluted with sin, Annie_."

Her hands dug into him. Her voice was a whisper. The horse trotted through the empty lanes of the village.

"So she made Daniel drive the Demon from me. He would be the _instrument of conversion_. He wouldn't, at first, he refused her; I was his sister and he was supposed to protect me. But she beat him and she beat him and she kept beating him and she convinced him that to disobey your mother was a sin and in the end he did it and he did it again and it twisted him and he carried on, even when she wasn't there to tell him. I learned to fight back and he never touched me again but by then it was too late and I was carrying Clarissa. I didn't know what to do. I was so scared. I was only thirteen so I hid in one of Boyd's stables. I was going to have the baby there. Like in the Great Book. In a stable." She paused. "You don't know anything about the Great Book, do you?"

"No."

"You're lucky being Gallenese. You don't have any Holy Houses there, do you?"

He shook his head. "We have our own breed of lunatics in Gallen."

"Boyd's family took me in. They shunned my mother and Daniel. I had the baby but I couldn't look at her. My mother took her from me and told Daniel he would have the responsibility of raising her. My mother concocted a lie in the village that the baby's mother had died in childbirth. So Clarissa became my niece. Daniel was... he was a good boy, a good man... despite... and a good father to Clarissa, even better once my mother died. A dark cloud was lifted when she passed. I pissed and shit on her grave when they put her into the earth."

She paused.

"I grew up hating my mother. Clarissa grew up never knowing hers. And she died without knowing."

Stone drew the horse to a stop on the edge of the village green, busy with stallholders laying out wares for the day.

"I still don't know how she died."

The air was thick with the stench of animal shit. He spotted Nuria, back to him, legs slightly apart. The horse snorted, stamped at the ground. Her head tilted. She turned, slowly, raising one hand, shielding her face from the early rays of sunlight. She let out a deep sigh and walked toward him, crossbow slung over her shoulder.

"No sickness then?"

"Something worse."

Her eyes were red, skin pale and gaunt. She was hardly sleeping or eating, only drinking and smoking. He hadn't recognised the toll it was taking on her, until now, until leaving her side for less than half a day. It shocked him and his chest burned. She saw the concerned look in his eyes. A half-smile crossed her lips and she patted his leg.

"We need to talk about Kaya."

"We have a bigger problem."

Quinn dropped from the saddle, bloodied and exhausted.

"You're finally here," grumbled Boyd, emerging from the back of his truck. "What good is a hired man if he's not around? I think I made a mistake with you, Stone. I should have taken on Dobbs and... Quinn? _Quinn?_ "

His mouth hung open. He crossed himself, hurried to her. Nuria saw the façade of a hard nosed businessman rapidly dissolve.

"What happened to you in there? Is this the sickness? Are you infected with it? Quinn? Quinn? Tell me what happened to you."

She looked at him numbly, as if roused from deep sleep. Her thick ropes of hair were spattered with dried blood. She rubbed her face with grimy hands, deep red grooves in her wrists.

"You should be thanking him, Benny, not shouting at him." She winced. "Do you have some water?"

A bottle was hung around his neck. He took it off, passed it to her. She popped the cork, gulped it down.

"There's no sickness in Mosscar." She lowered the bottle. "The city is full of Shaylighters."

"What?"

"Roughly a thousand of them."

There was astonishment on Boyd's face.

"They captured me." She gestured at her bruises. "I don't know how Stone got me out of there but he did."

Nuria looked at him, a warm feeling swelling inside.

"This is why the Churchmen could never find them," said Boyd. "I suppose it makes sense. Ennpithians are raised to stay away from Mosscar. Why would you ever doubt it and go in there?"

He shook his head.

"And they're using these," said Quinn, handing him the slingshot carbine.

"That's not possible." He turned the weapon over in his hand. "These are..."

"There's no time for all this," said Stone, suddenly. "Nuria, go to the barracks and raise the garrison. Tell them the village is going to be attacked."

"By the Shaylighters?" said Boyd. "You're wrong."

Stone scrunched his eyes at the man. "We know where they're hiding now. That changes everything."

"The Churchmen won't listen to me," said Nuria.

"You were a general once. Make them listen."

"I'll go," said Boyd, still holding the carbine. "Nuria's right. She's a stranger, they won't listen to her. I have some influence here. Sergeant Clayton is in charge and he's a friend. Quinn, get your arm stitched. When you're done have the truck ready to leave. We need to head to Touron."

"What?" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"We'll talk about it later."

The portly merchant moved quickly toward the barracks, a solitary stone building in the distance, ringed with a palisade wall.

"What's going on?" It was Maurice, with Kevane at his side, both men striding from the Earl's estate.

"I told you he wouldn't go there," said Kevane, gesturing toward Stone. "He was drinking and whoring all night."

He noticed Quinn.

"Who kicked the shit out of you?" he asked.

"The village is about to be attacked," said Nuria, before Quinn could reply. "Is there somewhere the women and children can hide?"

"There are caves on the beach," he said, the humour evaporating from his face, his hand gliding to the hilt of his sword.

"Then alert the village. Quickly, Kevane."

He nodded. "I can use the bell at the Holy House."

"Who's going to attack us?" asked Maurice, as his companion jogged toward the centre of the village.

"Shaylighters," said Quinn.

"The Shaylighters have never attacked a village. They don't have the numbers. You're wrong, Quinn."

"There isn't time for a debate," snapped Quinn. "How do you reach the caves?"

Maurice pointed toward Earl Hardigan's estate.

"There are steps in the cliff behind the Earl's property but they haven't been used in a while. I don't even know if there's a safe way down."

"Find out," said Nuria. "Please."

He looked at both women, shot a glance at Stone and then trotted back into the estate.

Nuria wheeled around at Stone.

"I need to find Kaya. Where will you be?"

He raised the slingshot carbine.

"Where do you think?"

FIFTEEN

Stone grabbed the man by his collar. "Where the fuck are you going?"

The man spluttered, startled by the bearded stranger with the hideous face scar. He had seen him roaming the festival the day before and had avoided him then. He wanted to avoid him even more right now. His young wife and children gathered around him.

"Get a weapon and fight."

He was strong and wrestled away from Stone's grip. His name was Bevan. He stood tall, in his early twenties, capable and healthy looking with long limbs and dark hair and a neat beard. His two daughters, no older than five or six, gazed up at their parents with frightened eyes as the village heaved with families rushing toward the Earl's estate. The air was filled with shouting, the panicked bleat of animals and the clanging of the bell. It was the second morning of the festival and no second morning had ever begun in this manner.

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid," said Stone. "Every man who stands will be afraid."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then why are you running?"

Bevan took the trembling hands of his children. "We all need to hide. I'm protecting my family by staying with them."

Stone shook his head as they disappeared into the jostling ranks of women and children, running for the caves. He took out his binoculars and scanned the open fields. There was no sign of the Shaylighters. It was only a matter of time. Less than an hour. He looked through the village and spotted armed men forming into groups. He went to the outskirts and took up position in an empty animal pen. There was plenty of cover and he'd already memorised his route back.

The early morning sun beat down on him and the wind rustled his hair. He licked his lips and his stomach grumbled. He thought briefly of the man who had fled and shook his head once more. The right thing was to make a stand, to repel those who wanted to take from another. It was nothing new, he supposed. Not all men could stand. He wondered how many warriors Essamon would bring. If he pressed two or three hundred fighters against Onglee it would all be over in a handful of minutes.

What the fuck was taking Boyd and the Churchmen so long? Was this man Clayton as stubborn as Captain Duggan? Were they arguing over the validity of an impending attack?

Probably.

More villagers clustered together. Men, women and young boys. Afraid, but resolved to fight. A few of them carried swords or crossbows but most were armed with hammers, shovels, rakes, picks, chopping axes, loose pieces of timber, lengths of chain; they stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where the attack would come from and who would be perpetrating it. That was unimportant. Great Onglee was under threat. They would not run and hide. He saw villagers older than himself and ones younger the traitor, Jeremy, many of them bemoaning the interruption to the second day of the festival. They jostled with good humour, an attempt to mask the anxiety in their eyes and the nerves that crawled around their skin. He knew most of them would be dead within the next few hours and he supposed they knew it to. Once more he thought about the man who had fled for the caves on the beach. Maybe he should tell these villagers to do the same and abandon the village. But knew he wouldn't and, more than that, he knew he simply couldn't. He had placed a marker in the wasteland since childhood. He had not walked away then. He was not about to walk away now.

Not without a fight.

The villagers grew more worried than ever as the humour flagged and the jokes wore thin and the stories became repetitive. Stone glanced back along the lane. He could see the Earl's estate where a patched up Quinn was hurriedly fetching horses from the stable. There was still no sign of the Churchmen. He had hoped they would have been here by now to organise the remaining villagers into an effective fighting force.

He fumed and dipped into the ammunition bag worn across his chest. It clunked with steel balls. He loaded the slingshot. He was ready for the bastards. He peered through his binoculars once more but still they were not here. Had he reasoned this out wrong? Were the Shaylighters no more than common thieves despite their numbers? Robbing only to survive? If they attacked Onglee it would be a massacre on a scale Ennpithia had not witnessed for a decade. Did they conceal themselves in Mosscar simply to be left alone? He had spent forty years in the wastelands of Gallen, believing it to be the only land his boots would ever cross. Now here he was, a stranger in a new world, a world that a few weeks ago he had never even heard of. Ennpithia appeared an ordered society of law and devotion, trade and production. Had he misjudged the Shaylighters? Had he got this all wrong?

He lowered the carbine as the doubts continued to kick around his head. The last of the women and children had arrived at the Earl's estate; walking, running, hobbling, being carried, the young ones wailing, the older ones more focused. Perhaps Kevane had been right when he'd teased Kaya. Perhaps he _was_ the monster under the bed, an old and scarred monster, used up and worn out and frightening no one. He knew so little of Ennpithia. He got to his feet. But then Ennpithia knew very little of him - the Wasteland Soldier, the Tongueless Man, the names went on and on - but if he was right and the Shaylighters were preparing to unleash an unprecedented wave of violence then they would need a monster such as him.

He clambered from the animal pen and went to the nearest group of villagers.

Crossbow slung across her back, Nuria hammered her fist against the front door of the Hardigan's house. A steady line of villagers trudged through the grounds of the estate, heading for the path beyond the outbuildings. Maurice assured her the way down the rugged cliff face was safe. She could see him hurriedly guiding them along the path, urging them to move faster. The noise of the sea filled her ears. The wind tickled the nape of her neck. There was still no sign of Boyd and, more worryingly, no sign of any soldiers. The influence he'd boasted was obviously proving worthless. Only a solitary Churchman stood watch at the gate of the barracks, taking a keen and nervous interest in the evacuation. The bell had stopped. Kevane would be on his way back.

With Stone safely returned from Mosscar, Nuria found her energy depleted. She was surviving on adrenalin and drink and little else. She needed rest but she knew there was no chance of any. She opened her canteen and tipped water over her head, shaking her tangled hair, dragging her fingers through the knots. She washed her hands over her face and banged on the door once more, lips twisted impatiently. Then she listened. The thick wood was warm against the side of her face; she heard a scraping sound, muffled voices, possibly footsteps and then silence.

Why were they refusing to answer?

Her pistol was tucked into the waistband of her trousers, hidden beneath the flaps of a crumpled shirt. She pulled it out, rested her finger against the trigger guard. Taking a step back, she arched her leg and drove her boot at the lock; once, twice, and the door crashed open.

Gun in hand, she moved into the house, sweeping it before her. She glimpsed the sitting room she had been inside only a few hours earlier. It already seemed a week ago. It was empty and the smell of stale pipe smoke lingered. She spotted the goblets Boyd had used. They were exactly where he had left them, drained, unwashed. She began to search, following the noise she had heard. It was a sprawling property of shuttered rooms filled with fine things. She saw a wooden staircase that led to a second level, the only building in Great Onglee with an upper floor.

Dust floated in glowing rays of dawn sunlight. Her grimy boots pressed against neatly stitched rugs.

There was no one around.

Nuria listened; the only sound was outside; the anxious babble of adults, the distraught whimpering of children.

She moved into a kitchen where a long table was scattered with abandoned plates and bowls and mugs. A cooking pot smeared with the residue of oats, a cloth wrapped around its handle, was still hot. A small fire burned in the stone hearth. They were here somewhere. She edged past it, the crackle of flames in one ear. She caught another sound. She nudged her finger down from the trigger guard and onto the trigger. She held her breath. There was a moment of hesitation and then the rush of footsteps followed by a laboured grunt and the swing of a long bladed sword. Nuria ducked and bent her body as the weapon swished through the air in a wide arc, clattering hard into the stone wall.

It was Earl Hardigan.

"Nuria? I heard someone break in. I thought we were being robbed. I didn't realise it was you."

She straightened, the pistol still aimed at him.

"Are you here to rob us?"

"I'm looking for Kaya." She lowered the pistol. "I kept knocking but you wouldn't answer. I thought something was wrong."

"Isn't Kaya was with you?"

"That was hours ago. Didn't she come back to the house?"

"No."

"Stephen, what's happening?"

That familiar ice cold voice, the woman made of steel. It rattled through the silent rooms.

"When this attack is over I will help your daughter. I believe her and I know you do."

He nodded. "I do but I don't understand it."

"You don't have to."

"Stephen!"

"One moment." He paused. "I need to speak with my wife. Then we can look for Kaya together."

Nuria followed him into another room with cushions and paintings. Lady Hardigan stood in an open doorway, a gaggle of children behind her. The room beyond was brightly lit with torches and candles. There were narrow bunks, folded blankets, crates of vegetables and fruit and wrapped loaves. The door was made of steel with a large internal handle. It was noticeably shorter and narrower than any of the other doors in the property. Nuria idled in the middle of the room as Stephen spoke with his wife. She saw the woman's eyes fill with venom as her husband attempted to placate her. Angry words passed between them. The children shrank from sight. Nuria paced, impatient. She ran her eyes over the steel door once more and noticed the front of it was fitted with a painting backed by stone that matched the walls of the room. She suddenly realised that, once closed, the door would become invisible. It was a secret annexe, a safety room. Her eyes flicked toward Lady Hardigan.

"Yes," she said, pushing past her husband. "It's a secret room and now you know about it. Stephen, you bloody fool. Why did you bring her in here?"

"I'm sure she won't say anything. Why would she?"

"How can you be certain? We're quite a prize for..."

"My only interest is in finding Kaya. Do you know where she is?"

"No," snapped Isobel. "Stephen has been worrying over her. The ungrateful little..."

"I've searched the grounds," he said, talking over his wife. "But I thought she'd left with you."

"I haven't seen her since we spoke in the barn."

"Do you think it's possible, I mean, do you think she's been taken again?"

"We have to search the village."

"Isobel, go and wait with the children."

She narrowed her eyes. A funnel of coldness blasted Nuria. Once more the façade peeled away ungracefully.

"I want you out of my fucking house. Get out. Go on, you scruffy bitch. Out. Out. Get out right now."

"Will you shut up?" barked Stephen. "Now look after our children."

" _Mummy."_

Isobel glared at them both, shaking with rage, but the trembling voice called a second time and the steely eyes weakened. She turned from them and stepped back into the room.

"Let's find your daughter," said Nuria.

"Oi, you!"

It was one of the villagers, pointing at Stone. He was a thick set man, his grey beard flecked with white. His skin was pock marked and browned from working in the sun. His shirt was open to the waist revealing a shiny cross hanging from a shiny chain, nestling in a bed of wiry grey hair. There was an old scar across his stomach, where he'd been slashed, years before, during a street robbery in Touron, the town he had been born in. His first wife had died in the same attack. He'd travelled to Great Onglee, a distraught and broken man, but found work with a family who bred pigs. He had a kind way with the beasts and took no pleasure when it came to the slaughter. His real name was Carl but men nicknamed him Hog. He married for a second time and now his wife and four young children were tentatively edging down the ragged path toward the beach, seeking refuge in the old caves beneath the Hardigan estate.

Hog had been elected spokesman. The men wanted answers and an explanation and this stranger appeared ripe for giving them both. He approached Stone, taking long and confident strides, brandishing a wooden club with jagged pieces of metal protruding from it.

"What's all this about? Who's ringing that bloody bell?"

"Kevane."

"One of the Earl's men? What's he up to?" Hog swung the club. "They only ring that thing on Reverence Morning or if the village is under threat and it isn't bloody Reverence Morning."

He crossed himself, gestured to the knot of men loitering behind him.

"We all want to know what's going on."

There were nods and grumbles.

"Mosscar is filled with Shaylighters and there's a good chance they're on their way here right now."

Hog grinned, and then burst out laughing.

"What's funny?"

"You ain't from here," said Hog. "Don't you know about Mosscar? There's a sickness in the city. No one lives there."

The bell stopped. A shutter banged in the wind. Stone turned his back on the man, raised his binoculars.

"What shall we do, Hog?" asked one of the men.

"Reckon we should head up the barracks," said another.

"I think this fella drunk a bit too much yesterday," said Hog.

There was another peel of laughter but then it tailed away, replaced by nervous smiles that rapidly shaped into stony expressions.

They could all hear it.

Thunder.

"Take a look," said Stone.

Gingerly, Hog raised the binoculars to his eyes.

"The Lord save us."

"Where are your men going?" said Nuria, Earl Hardigan at her side.

Clayton looked at them both. He was easily ten years older than her, fair haired, a neat beard, his armour emblazoned with the cross of the Holy House.

"I'm deploying them inside the estate. With your permission, Earl Hardigan. It's been a long established plan of defence for Great Onglee. We can protect the route to the caves where the women and children are and thankfully the Earl's estate has better walls than the ones we have at the barracks."

"Has this worked before?"

Clayton hesitated. "Great Onglee has never been attacked before. The war with the Kiven never spread this far."

"Then how do you know it will work?" Nuria was becoming increasingly frustrated with the sergeant.

"We can concentrate all our firepower in one area. A barrage of arrows will drive back the Shaylighters."

They had barely scratched the surface of the village looking for Kaya when the Churchmen soldiers had marched from the barracks; strapped down swords and bows and quivers bristling with arrows. Forty young men with grim faces. Ready to stand and fight.

She shook her head. "You're making a mistake."

Clayton was a man whose life revolved around the issuing and accepting of orders; from Captain Duggan, the war veteran in charge of all Churchmen Regiments across Ennpithia's hamlets and villages and towns; from the Holy House with its deacons and priests; from his wife and his wife's mother and quite often his own children. He was trained, organised and intuitive. His life was orders. And nothing was about to persuade him to listen to a complete stranger, a worn out looking woman who did not wear the cross of the Holy House and was practically a non-believer, if Boyd's assessment of her was correct.

"Miss, I'm already taking a bit risk here." He crossed his arms. "Mr Boyd is an old friend of mine and whilst I'm not convinced we're about to be attacked, certainly not by Shaylighters anyway, I'm willing to lean on the side of caution. And if the attack doesn't come then I'll strike it down as an honest mistake and we can all get back to celebrating the festival."

"Sergeant, the attack will come and you have to listen to me. This defence will not work."

"Don't lecture me on strategy. I have been in the Churchmen Regiment for a long time now. I know how to organise my men."

"Then your men will die. And quickly."

The soldiers making preparations behind the walls of the estate looked over at her, some with concern.

"And so will the women and children."

Boyd said, "Nuria, what would you do if you were in charge of these men?"

"We're going to be heavily outnumbered. Having all the firepower in the same place sounds a good idea but it will also give the Shaylighters only one target to aim for. Split the men into mobile groups. No more than five soldiers. Then hit and run. Use the cover of the buildings, the narrowness of the alleyways. Draw them into tight spots. Hit and run. Pull the Shaylighters all over the place and pick them off. Then pull back here as a last resort."

"That might work in theory," said Clayton. "But that would leave the women and children vulnerable."

"They're vulnerable anyway. You show your entire hand here and the Shaylighters will know there is something worth attacking."

Boyd nodded. "She makes a good point, Clayton. She was a General once, you know."

"Not in any army that I recognise, Mr Boyd. The men are under my command and we already have our strategy in place."

Nuria fumed. "How long will it take for the other regiments to arrive?"

"For now there's only us. Until I can establish if there is an attack."

"It might be too late by then," said Boyd. Nuria could sense even he was growing impatient. "Wouldn't it be a good idea to send riders to the other villages now?"

It wasn't a question. It was an order. It was Boyd's way. He asked nothing. He told everything.

Clayton, a man of issuing and accepting orders, flushed. The collar of his shirt was ringed with sweat.

"Sergeant, you need to send a rider to Brix, at the very least. The Archbishop will be arriving there in a day or so. If there is civil unrest in the area then the Archbishop must be made aware of it so the Summer Blessings can be postponed. We cannot risk the life of the Archbishop."

"And if she's wrong? What then? I'm sorry, Mr Boyd, I'm not sending my men on wild errands until I see this with my own eyes."

He was dug in. Nuria approached Earl Hardigan who had been listening to the heated exchange with interest.

Clayton called for her. "Miss, I need you to surrender that weapon."

Her hand brushed against the pistol in her waistband. She was surprised he'd even noticed it.

"You're carrying an outlawed firearm." He signalled to several of his men. "Under the laws of the Holy House of Touron no Ennpithian is to brandish a weapon of the Before."

He stepped toward Nuria, two armed bowmen at his side.

"You need to hand it over or I will arrest you."

There was a grating sound. Quinn emerged from behind Boyd's truck, the rapid fire crossbow in her hands, cocked and ready to fire.

"There are hundreds of painted freaks heading this way, Sergeant Clayton. Any minute now they might pour into this village. We need every weapon against them. Sinful or not."

The long row of Churchmen soldiers watched on in uncomfortable silence. They all knew Quinn. They all liked her and trusted her. And she looked bashed in. Someone was responsible for that. Possibly the Shaylighters. But Sergeant Clayton was their commanding officer.

"I'd rather shoot Shaylighters," she said.

Boyd cleared his throat and leaned toward Clayton. There was a brief and hushed conversation.

Nuria watched the officer nod. "Miss, I'm allowing you to keep the weapon for now but I'll need you to surrender it once this is over."

"Thank you, Sergeant." She had no intention of surrendering anything. "Will you consider re-deploying your men?"

"The men follow my orders. Not yours. We're holding this position. Now you're welcome to come inside before we close the gates and lock them."

"That's my property," said Earl Hardigan. "Perhaps you should consider this young woman's advice."

"Sir," said Clayton, addressing the Earl. "During a time of..."

But he was unable to finish the words. He heard thunder and saw the surging dark cloud in the distance.

"Inside," he yelled.

The air filled with the noise of horses, eighty to a hundred of them, galloping hard across open scrubland, kicking up grass and mud. Hundreds more Shaylighters covered the stretch of land on foot, a raging sea of long haired, bare-chested warriors, painted with the inverted cross, running fast toward the village. Loud shouts filled the air. Spears and axes were rattled. Slingshots were fired.

Boyd turned to Quinn.

"We're leaving. Right now. Get inside the truck."

"What?"

"These people are lost, Quinn. It's going to be a massacre."

"But we can't just run."

He strode toward the vehicle. The horses stamped and snorted.

"We have to go now."

Nuria went at him. "Are you planning on leaving us behind?"

"Stone should have stayed out of Mosscar. He caused this. There's a place on the truck if you want it."

The truck, thought Nuria. That's where Kaya is. Of course, she should have checked there first.

She scrambled across to it, dropped to the ground. There was nothing but grass and dirt.

"Earl Hardigan?" called Sergeant Clayton, the gate half-closed. "Sir?"

Nuria got to her feet. "I won't stop looking for her. It's better you protect your family. I'll bring her back to you."

The heavy gate slammed shut behind him. Boyd snatched the reins and nodded toward Quinn.

"We're leaving now."

"Give me one minute." She turned to Nuria. "He's wrong. I went into Mosscar. Stone followed. Get him and come with us. Look how many of them there are. I don't want you left behind."

"Stone won't leave. Not whilst we can still fight. And I won't leave without him."

Hog said, "Fuck."

He handed Stone his binoculars. "This isn't shaping up to be much of a nice day, is it?"

They came in three thick columns, pushing hard, bearing down on the village. The men stood in awe, rooted to the ground, unable to comprehend what was happening, what they were witnessing. Some of them had fought in the war. They knew what it was to face men on a field of battle. Never knowing how long each breath would last. Never knowing how many seconds your life held. But this seemed worse. It was as if the soil had been peeled back and the Demons from the Below had clambered out.

Stone glanced back at the Hardigan estate. He saw the soldiers huddled behind walls.

"Useless bastards."

Nuria was sprinting toward him, face red.

"What the fuck went on down there?"

"Sergeant Clayton," said Nuria, panting. "He's a prick. They're only willing to defend the estate."

"They're getting closer," said Hog.

Essamon rode in the centre; the woman Stone had witnessed fighting in the arena was on the right; there was a tall man with a long face on the left.

"They're going to break," said Nuria. "And flank the village. We'll be cut off. His warriors on foot will do the killing."

Hog swallowed.

"Boyd and Quinn have gone," she said.

"What?"

Stone glimpsed the truck surging along the dusty road back to Brix, bathed in sunlight.

"You saved her and she ran," said Nuria. "Bitch."

There was a terrible hissing sound. It churned Stone's stomach. He knew it only too well. He grabbed Nuria and bundled her into a doorway, yelling at the villagers to take cover. Two men were sent sprawling into the dirt, faces torn open as a barrage of spears and steel balls flew through the air. There was the blast of a horn and the Shaylighter's cavalry broke. The outer columns swept around Great Onglee and tightened the noose of death. Essamon pulled up his horse as his howling warriors streamed into the village. He rose in his saddle and aimed the black box. He flicked the switch and smiled gleefully as the solid white beam shot from it.

A man screamed as his flesh ignited. His pain was swiftly ended as a warrior buried an axe in his forehead.

"Ca bhfuil do tiarna," roared Essamon, unleashing the white light against the turf and thatch roofs. "He will not save you. I am your death."

Rolls of orange flame rushed across the tops of the buildings.

"Now we reclaim our lands."

SIXTEEN

Essamon watched his warriors swarm into the burning village. It was only the beginning.

He had commanded his tribe since the end of the civil war. He had heard of the great battles between the Ennpithians and the Kiven and had grown frustrated by the indecision of his leaders. They had idled and exploited little of the weakness. It had been their moment but they had done nothing. Yet when power was passed to him, and he bore the ceremonial trappings of the hat of feathers, he had struggled with the change. He was still the mighty warrior and his people knew the power of his spear and the strength of his axe. But now his cries for war and invasion and land were tempered by responsibility and balance and acceptance that the Churchmen, though scattered and few in number, were hardened fighters with superior weaponry to that of his people.

Consumed by the weight of his ancestors, burdened by the Old Ways of patience, Essamon had skulked within the crumbling ruins of Mosscar, as they had, watching the foliage take further hold. Their birth lands had been ripped away during the Age of Purification when the Metal Spears fractured the sky and billions had perished screaming beneath death clouds. The Ancients had fought the final war of the Before but survivors had emerged from the ashes, diseased and mutated, the will to survive unbroken.

And during the centuries that followed, in the aftermath, in the desperate second world, when it appeared, finally, that the last light of Mankind was about to blink out, when the power no longer fizzed and crackled, his people had shaped the future on a blackened landscape. But then the Holy House had been discovered and the cross had emerged from the mists and the men who followed were unlike them and the power they wielded was not measured with spear or axe; the violated world fought back, with thunder and flame, with root and plant, and wastelands became pastures, broken hills became forests, valleys became rivers and the men of the cross claimed a divine victory in the name of their Lord - and Ennpithia was birthed upon lies and division and his people were shunned, exiled to reside within the last city, the city of plagues, the city of certain death, the city they called Mosscar.

And for a decade Essamon had continued to pump life into the vein of weakness. Until the arrival of the Engineer.

A man of words. A man of action. A man with a plan.

"I am your death," said Essamon.

He nudged his horse into the village, followed by a dozen riders. Smoke swirled around him and he could feel the intense heat from the fires. The lanes were littered with bloodied bodies. Small houses and shops crashed down all around him. There were sporadic shouts in the distance as the last of the villagers were hunted.

It was Soirese who spotted the truck, fleeing along the bumpy coastal road.

"Quinn."

Essamon bunched his fists.

She signalled for riders to follow. As she wheeled her horse around, a steel ball whipped past her and struck it. The horse cried out and she swerved in the saddle. She saw the bearded man break from cover, leading a motley group, filthy and blood spattered.

Essamon switched on the box but they had already disappeared.

They kept moving, firing and reloading; but there were too many of them, even with this strategy; they needed the Churchmen soldiers, they needed extra men, it was becoming desperate.

The four of them – Stone, Nuria, Kevane and Hog - scrambled behind a wheelwright. The building was shuttered. The fire hadn't reached here but the air was thick with smoke. Their faces were half concealed by scarves. They were panting heavily as they leaned against the rough wall. The tradesmen who worked here had been some of the first to die. Their bodies lay in the mud, speared by the Shaylighters. Their hands had been broken. Stone had witnessed this more than once since the attack. The killing of a man or woman was followed by the breaking of the hands. It was as if the non-believers had a strange belief of their own.

A wrenching sound filled the air.

"That's Hardigan's gate," said Kevane. "They must have gotten inside."

There had been several flurries in the beginning; the loud twang of bowstrings, the deadly hiss of arrows, a sky streaked with black lines, Shaylighters cut down by the dozen, but it had tapered off over the last ten minutes and if the gate had been breached then the estate would become a killing ground in no time.

"We need to make sure they all got away," said Hog. "Even if we don't, right?"

"They got away," said Kevane. "Maurice would have made sure of it."

Stone looked at Nuria. He could only see her blue eyes. Her hair and clothes were matted with blood and grime.

"Nuria?"

"We were beaten before they got here," she said. "We have to run."

He nodded. She was right. They had hit. They had hit hard. But there was only one thing left to do.

Run.

"What about Kaya?" he said.

Before she could answer a trio of warriors rounded the corner. Stone whipped around and fired, a steel ball tearing up through the shoulder of the nearest one. The carbine was empty and Stone clubbed him to the ground with it, stamping on his head repeatedly until it cracked. A second warrior hacked at him with an axe but Hog blocked the lunge with his club, charged into the Shaylighter and hurled him against the wall of the building, driving his knee into a stomach daubed with the inverted cross. The man rolled, turning and swinging his axe, but Hog hit him with his club, jagged pieces of metal slashing open the warrior's arm. Then he buried the club in the man's skull.

The third warrior was already down, a single bolt lodged in his head. Nuria cranked the crossbow.

Shaylighters bore down on them. It was chaos in the smoke. It was getting harder to remain hidden. The fire forced them out onto the street. Nuria peppered the oncoming warriors with bolts, mercilessly cutting them down, exhausting her ammunition. She could no longer see Stone or Kevane but Hog was still with her. She slung the empty crossbow over her shoulder and pulled out her pistol. Her sword clanged against her legs. It would be her final weapon.

The two of them fled into another alleyway but saw more Shaylighters. Nuria fired twice, single headshots. The warriors went down. They sprang over a low fence. The ground was covered in straw. The building was intact. Hog raced for the back door. There was a war-cry as warriors leapt from the roof. Nuria fired, sending one of them sprawling, the bullet angling up through his nose. Two more cornered Hog, swinging axes. He blinded one with his club but grunted as the second one struck him, chopping into his arm and shoulder.

Nuria blew the back of his head open.

Hog staggered toward her, an axe in his shoulder. Near delirious, he wrenched it from his flesh.

Stone and Kevane fought like wild beasts, lunging and cutting with their swords. The bodies piled around them. Shaylighters were filling all the alleyways and they were slowly becoming boxed in. There was nowhere left to run. As the fires continued to spread, a gut wrenching scream ran out; someone had been left behind, too sick to move, too heavy to carry.

Kevane tilted his head. Tears fell from his eyes. Stone yelled at the young man but the warning came too late.

The spear shot through the smoke, angling down, tip glinting, punching into Kevane's back. He cried out, staggered forward, fell against Stone, choking, his sword slipping, blood gushing from his mouth. The Shaylighters roared and surged forward. Stone let the young man's body drop and flashed his sword in a wide arc, pushing them back. He jerked free the spear and hurled it at the line of bare-chested men, taking one of them down.

But all at once they did not fight back. The men parted and a tall warrior stepped forward.

"Fhagail do," he said.

He wore a grilled helmet, obscuring his long face. He wore a belt hung with locks of hair knotted with coloured ribbon. He wore pieces of metal armour strapped to his arms and legs.

He barked at the warriors gathered in the alleyways and they cheered him on.

"I am Callart."

He unsheathed a long and curved blade.

"You killed our brothers and sisters in Mosscar."

Stone lowered his scarf, spat on the ground and raised his sword.

"Retreat," shouted Clayton. "Into the house. Move. Come on. Move."

He took thirteen men and Earl Hardigan with him. All of his surviving men were wounded. Even the Earl was bleeding, nicked by a steel ball. The rest of his soldiers lay dead on the ground.

With the gate down, cavalry surged onto the estate and galloped toward the numerous outbuildings.

"Block this door."

It was damaged, from where Nuria had broken it open, but Clayton's men dragged furniture across it, reinforcing it. A wounded man had been left behind. The sergeant witnessed a Shaylighter behead him and then break his hands.

"Take him down," he growled, pointing.

Arrows whipped from the house. The painted Shaylighter twisted and dropped.

"Keep killing them."

The village was wreathed in smoke. His men sweated and fired until their fingers bled and their quivers emptied. More horses rode into the estate. Clayton saw a man very different to the rest. He realised this must be Essamon, the leader of the Shaylighters. He was an oddity; his hat of feathers, his goggles, his war paint. He had never seen the man before, only the veteran Captain Duggan had tangled with him. Essamon could not die. It was no myth. It was the truth. Duggan had put two arrows in the man's chest more than a year ago yet here he rode without a mark on him. Clayton cursed Quinn and Stone. None of this would be happening right now if they'd stayed out of Mosscar.

Heart racing, Clayton kissed his cross and rallied his men. "Draw your swords. The Lord believes in us. We fight for Him. We fight for the Light."

His men rattled their blades.

"The one with the hat. He's the one we go for."

Then a powerful light blinded Clayton and he screamed, his face on fire.

Waist deep in seawater, Maurice pushed the boat out. He watched the last of the women and children sail away. It was heart breaking to see the little ones crying and frightened. The women began to stroke with the oars. He had given each boat the same instructions; hug the coastline. By nightfall, or at least at dawn, they should reach the shoreline of Brix.

He jogged along the beach, heavy boots sinking in the damp sand, sword banging against his hip. He faced the last of the villagers with disgust; it was the men who had chosen to run.

"You get the last boat."

He had remembered the caves but forgotten all about the boats. They had been stored away during the war as part of an evacuation plan that would have taken the remaining Ennpithians across the Metal Sea and into Gallen, if the Kiven had taken control of the land. Only the Kiven had never passed Touron and the plans had never been implemented and the boats and oars and makeshift weapons had remained covered and unused.

The men dragged the boat to the water's edge.

"You should stand and fight," he said, as they pushed off. "You can hear the screams. You can see the smoke."

Maurice turned his back on them. "Cowards."

It was time to find Kevane. He drew his sword and ran for the path that wound up the steep side of the cliff.

Quinn yelled from the roof of the truck. "Shaylighters."

Boyd saw a score of riders pushing hard from the village, a shifting veil of smoke framing them. He looked on, grimly, for a few more seconds, and then whipped his six horses, urging them for more speed. The horizon rushed toward him as the truck thundered along the road, jolting from side to side as it gathered pace. Quinn spotted the leader of the war-band; it was the warrior woman who had pursued them in Mosscar.

The twenty riders spread across the grassland, galloping hard.

"Stone saved my life, Benny."

"I have to get to Touron."

She saw they carried slingshot carbines and spears. She jerked down as a steel ball flew over her head

"What about Stone and Nuria? Is going to Touron more important than their lives?"

"Yes."

The truck bounced along the road, hooves snatching against the sun parched track. A horse swerved alongside them and Boyd glimpsed the razor sharp steel tip of a spear. Quinn fired and the Shaylighter flipped from his horse, body smacking into the ground.

She cranked the crossbow.

"You can't mean that."

"I do."

"A messenger could've ridden to Touron."

"It's not as simple as that, Quinn."

"What are you talking about?"

He didn't answer as Shaylighters flanked the rusted vehicle and opened fire with carbines. Quinn threw herself flat, yelling. Boyd steered the truck left and nudged against them, tyres spraying dirt. They scattered and fell back. Hunkered down behind the metal panels that ringed the roof of the truck, Quinn aimed her crossbow and took down a single rider, his body barrelling into the dirt. She cranked the lever and fired again, bruised face shiny with sweat.

"I can't leave them, Benny."

"I'm not stopping."

"We have to go back for them."

"No, we must get to Touron."

Soirese hissed at her warriors, furious they could not halt the metal machine. It would be a magnificent prize to bring back to Essamon.

"Shoot na rothai," she ordered.

Her warriors galloped forward, raised their weapons and fired at the tyres. The truck rocked to one side. Quinn slid across the roof, crossbow skating from her grasp.

What the fuck was that?

She peered over the edge of the roof and ducked at once as a steel ball whistled past her.

Boyd looked back from his seat. The metal panels covering the tyres were marked with dents. One of the wheels was flapping on its axel. He gripped the reins, whipped the horses hard.

"They're going for the tyres, Quinn."

On one knee, she fired, cranked the crossbow, fired again, and kept firing. Her fingers ached. Her arms ached. She gritted her teeth and spat bolts at them, forcing them back. Steel balls whacked against the truck and the metal tyre guards but the Shaylighters were drifting and the further back she pushed them the more their accuracy was diminished.

She dropped from view. "Reloading."

Snapping off the magazine, she scooped out a handful of bolts from the bag she carried at her waist. Soirese had understood the solitary Ennpithian word. She urged her warriors forward. Packs of Shaylighters looped around the truck. One of the riders reached from his saddle and grasped at the iron spikes jutting downward. He held on and sprang from his horse. Boyd swerved the truck and the warrior's feet slipped and he bounced away, screaming as he tumbled. Quinn snapped on the magazine, cranked the lever, leaned over and fired at Soirese. The warrior swerved and the bolt narrowly flew past her head. Quinn watched her turn her horse out to the right.

She fired again, missing a second time.

"Benny, let me save them."

"I need you with me, Quinn."

She glanced at the horse galloping alongside them, its rider gone.

"I'm not leaving them to die. He came into Mosscar, Benny. He saved my life. He doesn't even know me."

The riders were closing once more, carbines across their laps, hurriedly reloading. She watched three riders peel away and race down into a low valley. They powered forward, horses tearing up the ground. She raised the crossbow to fire but stopped herself, realising they were already out of range.

"They're trying to get ahead of us."

"I know, I see them."

The wind was against the truck, slowing them more than the riders in pursuit along the floor of the valley. Soirese barked an order and Quinn saw two more Shaylighters race down there. Now five of them were below the wind and racing hard, about to swing in front of the vehicle. Boyd would be horribly exposed. They wouldn't need to shoot out the tyres. One well aimed spear would take him out and then they would slow the horses.

"What does Stone want from you?"

"He doesn't want anything."

"All men want something, Quinn, you know that."

"He wanted to help me find the truth about Clarissa."

"But I have to get to Touron."

The truck rocked again as another steel ball tore into one of the tyres. A Shaylighter screamed as Quinn took him down.

"Your family are in Brix, Benny. What's so important about Touron?"

She fired, cranked.

"I have to stop the trade agreement."

"The new treaty with the Kiven? Why? What are you talking about? What do you have to do with it?"

"They don't know the truth. I do. I have to stop the Albury's signing it."

Without looking at her, he held up the carbine she had brought out of Mosscar.

"You're too young to remember, Quinn. It's all lies. This is the proof. I have to take it to Touron."

Taking a deep breath, she leapt from the roof. "I don't know what you're talking about, Benny."

He wailed.

"Quinn?"

"Good luck, Benny."

She steered the horse away from him, swerving off the road onto the grasslands, heading back toward the village, using her knees to guide the horse, firing at the Shaylighters until the crossbow magazine was empty. Quinn heard the roar of Soirese and looked over her shoulder. The riders swung away from the fleeing truck. She knew Soirese would come after her. She was certain Essamon wanted no one to escape from Great Onglee but she had guessed Soirese's thirst for blood would win out. A few hours earlier she had been cheated out of a raw battle in the arena. She would trail Quinn from one corner of Ennpithia to the other to settle that score.

The way into the village was mostly clear. The riders who'd corralled the eastern flank had been the same ones who'd pursued them across the plains. She could hear sporadic roars of battle. Most likely Stone and Nuria. Smoke covered the rooftops as the fires continued to spread. A raw lump shaped in her throat. She loved Great Onglee.

Eyes drawn, she rode hard into the lanes, taking out her pistol and cutting down the warriors who flailed at her with axes.

Nuria tugged down her scarf. "It's deep." She pressed a thick cloth against Hog's shoulder. "Hold this."

He kept a shaking hand on the wound, grimacing as the cloth darkened with his blood.

"Do you understand what I need to do?"

He nodded, grimly. He understood. He understood only too well. His shoulder spiked with throbbing pain. He watched the blonde haired woman rattle around the small home they were in. The dwelling had two rooms and both were empty. A fire was still burning in the hearth. Simple possessions had been abandoned. Whoever the occupants had been they would never see them again. Hog tried to focus on who had lived here but his thoughts were cloudy and he had lost track of where they were in the village. The sight of the axe tearing him open bustled into his thoughts and his skin grew ice cold. He shivered, despite the fire and the warmth from the sun, its gentle rays poking through gaps in the window shutters. He must have looked scared because the woman stroked his face and told him it was going to be okay.

She was grubby and blood stained but he couldn't help but notice how curved, almost lopsided, her lips were. He guessed those lips had been kissed many times before. He wished he could remember her name but he couldn't. It was tucked away in the shadows, out of reach. She reminded him of his first wife, senselessly murdered on the streets of Touron. _What was he thinking? She looked nothing like any of his wives._ Were the gates of the Above opening for him? Was the Lord beckoning him forward? Was this the last woman he would ever see before he made his journey? He thought it might be.

He took his hand from the wound and the blood poured from his shoulder and he grabbed at the cross hanging around his neck and clasped it fervently with shaking palms as he ground out a prayer through clenched teeth.

Nuria whirled round.

"Keep your hand on the wound."

She pressed the soaked cloth onto his shoulder and reached for his hand but despite his weakening state he refused to let go of the cross. Nuria wiped the sweat from her forehead. It was too warm in the small house but she could not risk opening any of the shutters. His face was ashen. Blood gushed down his arm and chest. His lips moved sluggishly.

She forced a piece of wood into his mouth.

"I need you to bite on this. They can't hear us, okay? You're not dying on me, Hog. That's what they call you, isn't it? Hog? Because of the pigs. Now bite down on this, you stubborn bastard."

She took her knife from the fire. The tip of the blade glowed. He howled, twisted and thrashed. She sat on his stomach. Giant spots of perspiration erupted across his pale face. She rolled the knife around the wound, blackening the skin as the blood began to coagulate. The sweat was running off her. The heat from the fire in the hearth was intense.

"You hold on. You're not dying on me, Hog. You've pigs to take care of. Who's going to feed them if you're not here? We're not going let these bastards beat us today."

Her blue eyes filled with tears as she worked on his shoulder.

"I reckon you have a wife as well. Down in the caves. A wife, right? And kids? I bet you have lots of kids."

His head lolled to one side.

"I'm nearly done. You think of your wife, and your kids, all those kids, and your pigs. Don't forget the pigs, Hog. Don't forget them."

The piece of wood was dangling from his mouth.

"I've sealed it. You're going to live. You'll be okay."

His fingers opened around the cross.

"You're going to be okay."

Hog stared back at her. She leaned and kissed his forehead. Her tears splashed into his open eyes.

There was noise all around her but she could only hear her heartbeat. It was like a drum. She climbed off him and studied the knife in her hand, brought it close to her face. The tip was smeared with Hog's blood. Another victim. Her eyes glazed over. The world was awash with blood, awash with victims. _There was no one left. She was all alone._ She drew back her left sleeve, revealing the branding on her forearm. A trio of symbols. The mark of Tamnica. They still possessed her. Her body was still in the cells. Her body was still curled on the floor. Her body still worked the farm and breathed in the cold sea air.

Nuria hovered the blade above the branding. One. Two. Three. A circle. A triangle. A square.

Shaylighters ran past, howling, rattling weapons.

Her hand was shaking. Tears trickled along her nose.

And then she set the knife down; her head drooped and she sobbed into her blood stained hands.

Suddenly, her head snapped back. She looked around and sniffed. It wasn't the fire in the hearth overheating the room.

The building was burning.

She sprang to her feet as flames licked across the ceiling. Hurriedly, she crept to the door. She could hear the muffled voices of at least two or three men outside. She crouched and tried to see through the cracks but thick smoke blinded her vision. She licked her lips. Her clothes were drenched with sweat. The flames pressed toward her.

She raised the scarf over her nose, took out her pistol and burst through the doorway.

She put down two masked warriors. The pistol clicked empty.

As the smoke shifted Nuria saw six more Shaylighters gathered in the lane. She drew her sword.

SEVENTEEN

Stone grunted.

Swords clashed, steel against steel, ringing loudly as Great Onglee was consumed by fire. The heavy smoke coiled around them as they fought. But the warriors observing were drifting away, tiring of a dual that had yielded little blood and frustrated they were unable to intervene because the man fighting was Callart and only a warrior who considered his life worthless would dare interfere with one of his sword battles.

Stone was aware the numbers were thinning out and he kept a careful eye on any gaps appearing because no matter how much he feinted and hacked and slashed, Callart blocked every one of his attacks. He was no match for the Shaylighter swordsman. More than once Stone felt his heart quicken as the moment came when Callart had pinned him down or beaten his attack or snaked around his defence and in those agonising half-seconds he waited for the killing blow to come but it never did.

The Shaylighter carried a triangle shaped metal shield that was presenting Stone with all manner of problems. Two handed, Stone lunged at it, his strong arms swinging his heavy blade with repeatedly loud clangs. Callart slammed the shield into him and Stone reeled away. Once more the man lingered, failing to exploit the moment. Stone went at him until his scarred face blazed red but still he could not wrestle the shield from the man's grip.

The helmeted Shaylighter nudged forward, feinted deftly and clattered Stone, bloodying his face and sending him sprawling. Only a handful of warriors remained to offer a lacklustre cheer.

Stone rolled as Callart raised his curved sword overhead and cut downward. He bounced onto his feet and took several paces back, circling Kevane's body. He reached for young man's sword. Callart nodded, almost with appreciation, as Stone swung the two blades, balancing the weight, adjusting his feet. He had never fought with two swords before. He noticed the warriors had all but scattered. They had grown restless of Callart's toying. There were a few soldiers left in the Hardigan estate still firing arrows. The fun was there. Not here.

Horses sped by, heading for the estate, eager to slaughter the last of the Churchmen and hunt down the women and children.

Stone knew this man had him beat. He had laboured his attack moments earlier, deliberating raising his sword overhead, signalling the move. Stone was reminded of how Soirese had fought in the makeshift arena, playing with men who were inferior to her strength and skills as a fighter, but he was certain that Callart was not doing the same. He could have cut Stone down many times but had not. In truth, he had not even nicked him once. He had only drawn blood with the shield.

Stone realised the Shaylighter wanted him alive.

Callart looked around, saw they were alone.

He said, "You fight well."

Stone ignored him. He was not fighting well. He was being dictated to. He plunged the swords forward, targeting the shield, once more, swinging strokes heavy and clumsy and predictable. Then he bent his shoulder and slashed with his right hand sword. Callart was too focused on the dual attack against his shield. He brought down his curved blade but Stone's sword cut across his legs and the tall man winced in pain and staggered back and the shield slipped from his grasp.

"Now I am," he growled.

The Shaylighter came forward. The curved blade hissed through the air. Stone recoiled, losing Kevane's sword. He jerked sideways across the grassy lane, the sun burning down on him. Callart loomed in the grey haze and his sword crashed against Stone's blade, clattering it to the ground and finally Stone was beaten. The Shaylighter lunged. Stone reached for the knife in his boot but it was too late. The curved blade went to his throat.

Callart raised his helmet.

Stone recognised him; he was one of the five riders who'd shadowed them across the plains from Brix to Great Onglee.

"The Engineer is Omar."

Stone blinked.

"Not all of us want this war. Many of us only want justice."

Callart took a step back.

"You must stop the plan. It is evil."

There was the sound of horses.

"Callart," roared a voice, in the distance.

"Hit me," said Callart. "And run."

Stone viciously head butted him. Callart's long body sagged to the ground. Stone fled into the alleyway as a spear hurtled after him.

Boyd saw them stream from the valley. He guided the truck onto hard ground. It bounced and jolted across the brush. The Shaylighters leaned into their rides and steered toward him. They were in front of him now, rising in their saddles, levelling their carbines at him. Boyd turned again, curving back toward the road, swinging the vehicle around.

They bore down toward him, galloping hard, firing off steel balls.

Then he yanked on the reins and the horses brought the truck to a halt, slashed sideways across the road.

He disappeared as they split into two groups. Three riders burst around the left hand side of the stalled truck, two more from the right. The guns shocked the warriors. Spears and carbines raised, they had expected the portly merchant to be on his knees praying and begging for mercy. Yet this round man moved deftly, brandishing a weapon of sin in each fist.

Boyd kept firing, in both directions, expertly squeezing the trigger, never wasting a single bullet.

Five shots, five bodies; the horses trotted away, saddles empty.

He walked slowly amongst them. One of them twitched. He fired at once, drilling the bullet into the Shaylighter's skull.

Satisfied, he tucked both pistols into his coat and belted it. He brushed himself down, straightened the colourful ties around his neck and patted his horses before climbing back onto the truck. He lifted the reins and studied the empty road east toward Brix. Behind him, the smoke smeared horizon echoed with muffled screams and ragged bursts of gunfire.

Shaking his head, he kissed the cross around his neck.

Stone knew she was in trouble.

He darted through the alleys between the burning buildings, drenched in sweat and blood and grime, clutching only his knife. He ignored the intense heat. He had to get to her. The way ahead was smothered with flames. Roofs and walls were collapsing all around him. His neck scarf covered his nose and mouth but his lungs still burned from the black smoke. The desperate clash of weapons filled his ears. There was no time to find another way to her, no time for hesitation or rational thought.

He yelled and charged and burst through the raging fires unscathed. His heart was pounding. He saw Nuria pinned by a clutch of warriors. She held her sword with both hands. Still running, not missing a step, Stone dipped his shoulder and grabbed a spear from the ground and thrust it hard into the nearest warrior, lifting him off his feet and propelling him onto his back. Blood showered as he yanked it free. He placed himself alongside her, both hands curled around the shaft, thrusting hard as she hacked with her sword.

Nuria swiped away an axe and rammed her blade into the stomach of a warrior, splashing the inverted cross with bright blood as she pulled her weapon free. Stone spotted several warriors behind the advancing pack, armed with carbines, angling for a shot, but there was no gap for them to open fire without hitting their own men. He still carried the ammunition bag across his chest and was desperate the get hold of one of the slingshots.

They were wedged between the Shaylighters and the fire. She looked at him and he looked at her, faces obscured by heavily stained scarves, eye blue against brown, pupils flickering with the flames. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Sword and spear. They stabbed, slashed, hacked, blocked.

But was there a way out?

Stone began forcing a path around the warriors. An axe swung with furious pace toward his neck. He blocked it with the spear, hammered his boot into the man's groin and then gouged the tip of his spear into the warrior's shoulder. The man staggered back and he stabbed him a second time, rolling his sagging body around and using him as a shield. Nuria chopped a Shaylighter in the leg, putting him on his knees, and then hacked into his throat, half decapitating him.

There seemed to be no end to the bare-chested warriors. As one fell another took his place. The fighting had died away in the village. Survivors had been chased down by the Shaylighter's cavalry. Warriors ransacked bodies and dwellings, often risking the flames to steal an armful of possessions. The Hardigan estate blazed yellow and orange. The stubborn resistance was at an end.

Crunching over dead bodies, Stone dragged his makeshift shield closer to the edge of the lane where the warriors armed with carbines hovered. Two of them began firing at him. Steel balls whipped through the grey smoke and struck the chest of the corpse. A warrior prepared to hurl an axe and Stone plunged his spear into him, tearing into flesh and bone. It became rooted in the Shaylighter's body and his hand slipped from the shaft. He held his knife. He was only a few paces from the carbine wielding warriors who were rapidly reloading. The side of his face and the back of his neck tingled from the heat of the fire and crackled loudly in his ears.

Stone gritted his teeth and hurled the body into two men, ramming his knife into the one on the left - once, twice - then spinning around and throwing it at the one on the right, the blade sinking into the warrior's throat. He slumped to the ground, dropping the metal and wooden firearm.

Grabbing for the fallen weapon, Stone pumped the carbine. The sling tensed, a fresh steel ball dropped in.

He reached for the trigger and began firing.

Quinn spotted them; framed by burning buildings, knee deep in bodies. Blackened by smoke, exhausted and blood drenched, they broke out, Stone spitting steel balls at the Shaylighters, punching a hole, forcing the pursuers wide. Nuria followed, flailing with an iron sword.

She cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Stone, Nuria."

The village was a raging inferno. Her horse was gone. But she still carried her pistol.

"I'll cover you."

She opened fire and Shaylighters fell.

"Quinn."

The voice was twisted and barbed, a scream of hate. Quinn whirled around and saw a monster thundering toward her on horseback. Soirese carried no weapon and surged through the coils of choking smoke, leaning from the sandal, one gloved hand clenched into a mighty studded fist.

Quinn narrowed her eye, and calmly fired twice. Soirese was tossed from the saddle and Quinn grabbed the horse as it bolted past. Stone urged Nuria to run and continued firing at the Shaylighters.

"Stone," shouted Nuria, scrambling onto the horse.

The carbine was empty. There were no other horses. He signalled for them to go. He would make his own way out. He was scooping a handful of steel balls from the ammunition bag when two warriors raced toward him, brandishing axes. He hurled the steel balls, stunning one of them. The other leapt at him and bundled Stone to the ground. Quinn kicked at the horse and steered it toward the two men as they grappled. She passed her pistol to Nuria. She sprang from the horse, jammed it against the Shaylighter's skull and squeezed the trigger. Stone shoved the man off him, breathing heavy, covered in blood and tissue.

Nuria pointed. "It's Boyd."

Quinn twisted in the saddle. "You crazy bastard, Benny."

The truck swerved along the outskirts of the village and the three of them hurried toward it as the Shaylighters gathered around the body of Soirese.

Stone felt his eyes roll shut and jerked himself awake. The wares inside the truck were haphazardly stacked; boxes and barrels slid across the metal flatbed as the vehicle pounded the long road back to Brix. Nuria kept watch on the roof, scanning the landscape with binoculars. Great Onglee was an ugly mark on the horizon, fading slowly as the truck crossed meadows and pastures and open fields. There were no more Shaylighters. She dropped down through the hatch and took another long drink of water. Stone was sat with his scarf lowered, grimy face folded in deep thought. No words passed between the three of them, each languished in their own private hell.

It was Nuria who eventually spoke. "Hog was killed."

"And Kevane."

"Did you see Maurice?"

"No."

"I never did find Kaya."

"Did she confide in you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Nuria hesitated. "Later."

The truck rocked from side to side. He looked at Quinn.

"Should I thank you for coming back?"

"You'd both be dead if I hadn't. I mean, if _we_ hadn't. I didn't want to leave you behind."

Stone wiped his blood stained hands against his legs.

"So this is the promised land of Ennpithia where a man can live in peace beneath the sign?"

He snorted.

"At least in Gallen we don't pretend to be civilised."

"The Shaylighters have never killed on this scale."

"Then why did they?"

"It's like you said, Stone, now we know where they are."

"Why do they trust Jeremy? He's just a boy."

"I don't know."

"Are there more like him?"

Quinn shrugged.

"You need to think about why they really attacked Great Onglee," said Nuria, yawning, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. "They massacred a village to keep a secret? It doesn't make any sense."

No one wanted to think about it.

"How did your daughter die if the city didn't kill her?" said Stone.

"Daughter?" exclaimed Nuria.

More silence.

Stone drank.

Then he said, "What does _the Engineer is Omar_ mean?"

Quinn looked at him.

"I don't know."

"Who's the Engineer?"

She shrugged.

"Omar?"

"I don't know anyone called Omar."

"What the fuck do you know?" he growled, suddenly losing his patience. He held up his hand, an instant apology.

"What is it?" asked Nuria, shifting. She suddenly realised she had been leaning against him.

He told them of the sword fight with Callart and how the Shaylighter had him beat numerous times but chose not to deal the killing blow.

"It's a message but I don't know who he wanted me to give it to."

He scratched his beard.

"And I don't think I care, either."

"You do care," said Nuria.

"I really don't."

" _You do care. All of you do."_

She was wedged out of sight, scruffy and frightened, skulking behind the boxes and bags and folded tables. Her pale face emerged, eyes wide, thick hair spilling onto her forehead.

She repeated, "You do care."

"Kaya," said Nuria, reaching for her.

It was late in the afternoon and the truck was angled beneath a canopy of trees. Boyd stood in the bushes, taking a long piss. Stone, carbine slung over his shoulder, wandered over to him, and lingered in the shade of a tall tree.

"She must have snuck on," said Boyd, rocking on the balls of his feet. "During the attack, I mean. She was always trying to get away. Looks like she made it this time. I'll miss Stephen, he was a good friend."

He shook.

"You put up quite a fight in there, Stone. I'll put in a good word for you in Touron."

"Why do you have to get there?"

"I have business there."

"You have business in the villages this time of year. Not in Touron. Isn't that what you told us?"

"Things have changed," said Boyd, hiking up his trousers and wiping his hands down his coat.

Stone nodded. "Things _have_ changed."

"That's right. This means I need to go to Touron. You and Nuria will still be paid, if that's concerning you."

"I don't care about coin."

Boyd laughed. "You need to begin to care about it, Stone. If you want to remain in Ennpithia."

"I seem to be coping quite well without it." He paused. "Who's the Engineer?"

"The who? I don't know. Why?"

"What about Omar? Do you know someone called Omar?"

Boyd shook his head. "No."

"Was the message for you?"

"What message?"

"The Engineer is Omar. Not all Shaylighters want war. Stop the plan. That was the message. One of the Shaylighters gave it to me. Tall, ferocious looking, good with a sword."

"I don't know what..."

Stone pinned him against the tree. He shoved his blood caked face toward the merchant, nose to nose.

"You're lying."

Boyd was unflustered. "I don't answer to you, Stone."

Stone jammed his revolver against Boyd's chin.

"Then answer to this."

"Stone," shouted Quinn, and ran to the trees, pulling out her pistol. "What are you doing? Take that gun away from him."

"What's going on?" said Kaya.

"It's going to be okay," said Nuria, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. She realised her other hand was reaching for her sword.

Quinn raised her pistol. "He's my friend, let him go. He came back for us in the end."

"Well, what are you going to do now?" asked Boyd.

"You're very calm."

"The Lord will protect me. And Quinn."

Stone cocked the revolver. "An innocent man would be trying to convince me he's innocent."

Nuria's sword was drawn. She inched forward.

"Who are you?"

"I don't think so." Boyd pushed the revolver away. "It's empty."

Stone's finger was still on the trigger. "Are you sure?"

"You always know," said Boyd, calmly walking back to the truck. "Isn't that what you say, Stone? Now, I'm going to Touron. You can stay here waving your empty gun or you can come with me."

Stone dropped the hammer, tossed the empty revolver back into his bag. Suddenly, he moved at Quinn, jamming his left elbow into her jaw and snatching her pistol with his right hand.

He fired; the bullet pinged off the vehicle. Kaya gasped. The horses snorted.

"Nuria, check him for weapons."

She frisked the merchant without hesitation and tugged out the two pistols. Quinn stumbled to her feet, rubbing her jaw.

"What the fuck was that for? You bastard, Stone, what... Benny, why do you have those? Where did you get them?"

"Probably from your workshop," said Stone. "So who are you, _Benny?_ "

"There isn't time for this nonsense." He began to raise his voice. "We need to get moving. I have to reach Touron."

"For once, no one is following your orders. Because that's all you do, isn't it? You give orders. When you're asking you're telling."

Stone took a step forward.

"First an illegal truck, now illegal guns. You must make some hefty contributions to the Holy House."

"You'll have to ask them. I'm an honest man earning an honest living and minding my own business."

"There's little honest about you," said Stone.

"Benny, what's going on?" said Quinn. "Please tell me you're not one of them. Not you as well."

Stone circled the man.

"We're not going anywhere until you cough up the truth, Boyd."

"Last night," said Nuria. "Kaya's father asked you for help. _Can you help, Boyd?_ Those were his exact words. I remember that look on your face. I didn't understand it at the time and I'd forgotten about it until now. There was something in that look you gave the Earl. He wasn't asking an old friend or the local merchant for help. He was asking someone very different. Which means you're not who you say you are. You have another identity."

She nodded, smiled thinly.

"I've played the part before, Boyd. You're a spy. But who for?"

At once, Stone and Quinn said, "What?"

"Look at him. It's the perfect cover. The friendly travelling merchant. He can go anywhere, be anywhere, and talk to anyone. He's so obvious which is why no one recognises his true intentions."

"Who do you spy for?" said Stone, finger on the trigger. "The Shaylighters?"

"I came back for you all. Remember? Please, we can talk on the way but I have to get to Touron."

"He was talking about the treaty," said Quinn, suddenly. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. "Getting to Touron and stopping the treaty."

She wiped her sleeve across her face. "Is it true, Benny? Are you a spy?"

The sadness was crippling her. Boyd saw the child he had found lurking in his barn, her belly rounded, terror in her eyes.

He looked at them all.

"I couldn't tell you, Quinn."

"Didn't you trust me? I trusted you. You knew Clarissa was mine. I trusted you. _I trusted you._ "

"It was better you didn't know the truth. Safer for you." He let out a long sigh. "I don't work for the Shaylighters. I work for Governor Albury."

Stone and Nuria drew blank expressions.

"Governor Albury is our ruler," said Quinn.

"Then who is the Engineer?" said Stone. "And I'm getting really pissed off asking."

"A ghost," said Boyd. "Or so we thought. I began hearing his name before the winter came. There were rumours he was stirring up trouble in the Kiven city."

"What kind of trouble?" asked Nuria. She could feel the sweat on her forehead as the sun rose in the sky.

"Advanced weaponry," said Boyd. "Ten years ago there was a war in our lands. Between Ennpithia and Kiven. It was an ugly time. Many were killed. But a peace was brokered by Father Devon and a treaty was signed and for a decade there has been no violence and no threat of any violence. Rumours persist that the Engineer is attempting to rupture the peace. But now I know who he is."

"Omar," said Stone.

Boyd nodded. "If it's true, then it's shocking. Omar is the newly appointed governor of the League of Restoration, one of three factions that form the Alliance of Kiven. As Omar, he plays the political game. But as the Engineer, he develops new and dangerous military projects. You have to understand that the League is the most influential faction within Kiven. Thousands are swayed by them."

He cleared his throat.

"We are different people, Stone. They live in the past whilst we aim to build a future. Creating a new world, a better world, not trying to resurrect an old one."

"Your truck looks pretty much like a relic of the past," said Nuria, shaking her head.

"So what is this new treaty?" asked Stone.

"A trade agreement. Between Ennpithia and Kiven. Food from Ennpithia in exchange for iron."

"We have iron mines," said Quinn. "Why do we need more of it?"

"Do you really want a discussion on the worrying depletion of our iron mines?"

She fell silent. Stone lowered his pistol.

"So why do you want to stop it? Isn't that what you're all about? Trade?"

Boyd shook his head.

"The carbine you bought out of Mosscar is Kiven made. It was one of the weapons they used during the war."

Stone took the slingshot off his shoulder; metal and wood efficiently welded together.

"The Shaylighters never made that," said Boyd. "It's a Kiven weapon."

"But a few days ago you thought Mosscar was a city of sickness and that the Shaylighters were no more than a handful of bandits. You were wrong on both counts. How can you be certain of anything?"

"I am certain. I believe this man – Omar – has smuggled weapons into Ennpithia and armed the Shaylighters. The proof is in your hands. He must have gained access to the old stockpiles. Quinn told me you fought with Essamon and he attacked you with a box of burning light. Omar gave him that weapon. A contact informed me that the weapon was in Kiven during the autumn and was being worked on by a man he knew as the Engineer. I never heard from my contact again and now the weapon is with Essamon. The Albury's need the facts before they sign this new treaty. Great Onglee might have been attacked by Shaylighters but they were using Kiven weapons supplied by Omar."

Stone walked away, saying nothing.

"What if this Shaylighter was lying? What if he's trying to provoke you?"

"Did you think he was lying?"

Stone said nothing.

"I need you to escort me to Touron," said Boyd. "Jeremy has betrayed us but I can't believe he's alone in this."

No one spoke.

"You three are the only ones I can trust. With absolute certainty."

He waited.

"Hundreds are dead from Kiven weapons. The Engineer is using the Shaylighters to beat the drums of war."

"Why don't you call on that for an escort?"

Boyd curled his hand around the cross on his chest.

"You don't understand faith, Stone."

"I understand faith pretty well. I have faith in Nuria. And she has faith in me. That's good enough."

"I'll help you, Benny," said Quinn, her voice frayed at the edges. "It's what I've always done. Why stop now?"

"We'll help you as well," said Nuria, suddenly.

Stone whirled around, eyes blazing.

"But at a price."

Boyd nodded. "You're beginning to understand Ennpithia, Nuria. I knew you would. How many coins will it take?"

"None," said Nuria. "But when we reach Touron you release Sal Munton and drop all the charges against him."

"What? He's a monster. He kidnaps children, turns them feral."

"Don't call him that," said Kaya, speaking up. "He's the only one helping. Tell them, Nuria."

"It doesn't matter what you think of him. That's the price. Sal Munton for our help. And we stop at Brix on the way. We need weapons, ammunition, fresh clothes."

She offered Boyd his pistols. He tucked them away, nodded. "They might have hung him by now."

"You'd better hope they haven't."

She looked at Stone.

"We'll talk in the truck."

EIGHTEEN

"Omar"

Her back arched as she screeched his name; the palms of her hands slammed against the white washed walls. His grip tightened on her bony hips. Sweat trickled down his face.

He shuddered, cried out, his seed flowing into her.

They collapsed on the bed, panting and gasping, naked limbs tangled and shiny. The ceiling fan rotated with a monotonous click. He savoured the final moments of being inside her; the warmth and closeness, the peace, the calm, lost in the desire to remain this way forever; but then he opened his eyes and the room came into focus and he heard the fan and he heard the city and he was Omar once more and the feeling ebbed away.

Adina rolled onto her hip. Smiled at him. His hand glided along her taut body. The swathe of candles flickered.

"You're amazing."

"Yes."

"I think I love you, Omar."

"Good."

"And you?"

He smiled and walked to the window. The six-floor hotel had belonged to him within a few months of arriving in Kiven. It was a dilapidated building with old and pitted brickwork but the League of Restoration employed numerous work gangs to restore properties throughout the city. He had detailed the best one for this place. Already there were vast improvements. It was night and the hotel was mostly silent except for his men. He had twenty four hour security. He was taking no chances. He was fresh blood and he knew resentment still festered within the League and from the other two factions.

The night air was cold on his bare skin. He stared at the moon and stars, a majestic king surrounded by his army. He wrinkled his nose. He did not liken himself to the silver curve in the night sky. He despised the king of many shapes and despised his warrior stars and abhorred the foul blackness they lurked within.

"Are you okay?"

He hesitated. "I am okay."

"Nervous?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Half of the city was in ruins, flattened and cratered. He looked out across the sprawl of rooftops that remained and saw lights in about a quarter of them. He nodded. They had achieved much. It was noisy on the streets, people and several vehicles and always ripples of music. It was like nothing he had ever heard before or could even begin to understand. It boomed and rattled, vibrated and echoed from the crumbling blocks and the estates. There was no such noise in the wastelands. On the horizon stood the factory, giant stacks belching fumes into the sky. His hand glided down his scarred chest.

"It is nothing."

He turned.

"I've vouched for you, Omar."

"Do you regret it?"

"That's not what I mean. I just want to know you're committed to the plan. It was your genius that brought it to us,"

He strode back to the bed. She handed him a glass pipe. He sucked on it, drilled smoke through his nostrils.

"I am committed."

She stroked him.

"People are listening to you, Omar. You have the support of the League."

He kissed her. "Not all of them. Not yet. But most. Thanks to you."

She touched his face.

"By the end of the night you will control the Kiven Alliance. The other factions will follow and the fate of the city will be in your hands."

"You are beautiful, Adina."

"You are beautiful, too."

"I am not."

"You always say that."

"It is the truth."

He touched his old wounds; face, chest, stomach and hand. The skin was deeply rippled.

"I do not see it, Omar."

Her brown eyes flashed at him. The lashes were long and thickened with paint. Her dark brown hair was straight, worn to her shoulders, parted on one side. His women in the past had worn their hair wild and untamed and to their waist, not their shoulders. But once he had twisted it within his grip, it hadn't mattered anymore. She had urged him to cut his own hair but he told her he could not. It was a tradition amongst his people. Long hair. Short beards. She had asked him who they were but he had not answered.

"You are no longer one of them. You are Kiven now, Omar."

The following day, he'd instructed her to cut his hair. He kept his iron grey beard, neatly trimmed, jaw lines clean, but his head was now bald.

"How long before they arrive?" she asked.

"An hour or so. Unless they refuse. This is an unarranged meeting."

He passed her the pipe, slipping his hand between her legs as she dragged on it.

"Rondo will be back soon."

She groaned. "Do you think they've signed it?"

"Yes."

"Then how long will it be?"

He was thoughtful for a moment. "That will all depend on how much the Shaylighters antagonise them. It might take weeks. It might even take months. But I think it will be much sooner. Then it will happen."

She handed him back the pipe. He took a hit. There was a knock at the door. It was one of their servants.

"Governor Omar, the bath is ready."

The title never failed to amuse him. Though he showed them no humour, no warmth. They were his slaves. Nothing more. His inner circle addressed him as Governor, too, but he preferred the identity of the Engineer, though it was more than a name for he was truly gifted with machinery and weaponry and what he had uncovered within the factory was not only an engineer's dream but a warrior's one, too. His eyes simply narrowed faster than that of most men. Whilst they were still explaining the problem he had already reached the solution. His quick mind had kept him alive for many decades. He had come to the Black Region alone; a stranger, a wanderer savaged by the harsh and isolated wastelands, brimming with knowledge that matched and often exceeded their own. He had found the city, a ruined city of the Ancients, but unlike any he had ever seen. The city had been a beacon in the night, its many lights glowing in the darkness. He had heard the noise of people and vehicles and drank in the fumes of black energy. They had welcomed him and he had taken refuge within the League of Restoration.

And there he had met Adina, the League's chief advisor. He had been drawn to her at once and her to him, recognising all they wanted and needed. He was a warrior, a brilliant mind and an incredible lover. She was next in line to govern the League. Their affair had erupted like a fireball. But Adina had belonged to Governor Traore. So the stranger they had nicknamed the Engineer had plotted and schemed with Adina and they had murdered Traore without mercy. Set to be named the new Governor she had resurrected an old clause and bypassed the seat of power, handing it to her newly appointed chief advisor.

Omar seized the League.

There had been grumblings amongst the senior members, surprisingly more opposed to a stranger than a woman. Adina had weeded out the dissenters. She was practical and efficient. Problems were there to be eliminated and the dissenters disappeared. Any protestations at his succession diminished overnight. Within a few months, the long term members began to enjoy the rewards of Omar's knowledge and skills. There was calm in the League once more and the members were prepared to bask in his great achievements.

She told him how the Alliance had failed. Knitting together the heads of the factions for strength and unity had had the reverse effect. Their leaders had become weak. Men and women with power, who had once fought and bled on the battlefields against the Ennpithians, were now bloated, ineffective and voiceless, stifled by title and legislation.

"The Alliance has no balls. Not like you," she had told him. "I can see the plan in your eyes. You will avenge the many that have fallen."

"I will do more than that."

Though, sometimes, Adina caught him in a moment, a curious moment, for a second or two, when his eyes were distant and she knew he was looking back into the past. She was certain it was his wounds; they were terrible and it was remarkable he still lived. But that wasn't the full story. It was something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

There.

Just now.

Almost as if he was sleepwalking through the passion they had stoked minutes earlier and that none of this was real, none of this truly mattered. Once, during a bleak time for her, she had even suspected he might be a spy, an insider sent by the Ennpithians, but there wasn't betrayal in his eyes. She took another hit from the pipe, frustrated by her inability to penetrate the inner walls of his soul.

"My Queen," he said, taking her by the hand.

She glided into his arms.

"Am I?"

The tiled bath was sunk into the floor. The ceiling was supported by pillars, filmed in steam. There were the tingling scents of orange and jasmine in the air. The two of them slipped beneath the surface, moaning pleasurably as they were enveloped in its blanketing warmth.

Omar spread his arms, leaned his head back, momentarily closed his eyes.

Adina swirled in the water. "It's a brilliant plan, Omar."

He nodded.

"Since the war we have lived in the shadow of the other factions. Now we can show them how important the League still is."

He nodded.

"Sometimes I..."

She cut herself short.

"What is it?"

Adina hesitated.

"You are a direct woman, Adina. Speak."

"Sometimes I wonder why you're doing all this. With me. With the League. You are one of us, Omar, you have the soul of a Kiven man, but you're not Kiven born. You know nothing of the war and how we suffered as a people yet you want to punish the Ennpithians for it."

He was silent for a long time.

She swallowed hard.

"I have spent a lifetime in tents and on blankets beneath the sky. This is paradise. I want to reward you for allowing me to enter paradise. Your enemies are my enemies. It is the only answer I have."

Adina stared at him. "Paradise is what the Ennpithians believe awaits them in the Above. Do you believe in the Above?"

"When a man dies he is dust. There is nothing else."

A vehicle rattled past on the street below, engine growling, exhaust pipe snarling.

"I believe in what you're doing for the League. But sometimes I worry."

The water cascaded around her lithe body.

"Do you worry the plan will not work?" he asked.

"It's ambitious."

"Yes, but I am ambitious and that ambition is mirrored in you, Adina." He smoothed his hands over his bald pate. "And I am thorough. The title of the Engineer sits well upon my shoulders. I am no Governor, you know that. I am a man of plans and a man of decisive actions."

"And what am I to this man of plans and actions?"

"You are everything to him and he is nothing without you. He is a wanderer in the wasteland without you."

He glided across the bath toward her.

"You wasted years with Traore. I wish I had come sooner and found you."

She looked silently into his eyes.

"Understand this, Adina. They will remember us. A hundred years from now two lovers will sit in this same bath and they will relax in the beautiful water and stare across at each other and they will tell each other how strong their love is and then they will talk of the past and how they came to be here, together, in this bath, and they will whisper our names in awe; Omar and Adina, lovers from the past, the mighty warriors of Kiven and they will know, they will know what we have achieved."

"My father loved the past," said Adina. "He would tell me how we were one people before the time of the cross. One people united by the miracle of Ennpithia. It was a haven. Then they came and the wedge was driven between us and we were shunned for our ways. They banished the Shaylighters into Mosscar and drove us into the Black Region."

Omar touched his old wounds. "Your land has a confusing history."

She laughed. "My father would have liked you. You see into the core of everything."

He offered his hand. "I will take you across the Place of Bridges."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes," he said, folding her hands within his. "They will remember us, Adina. We will be in their dreams and in their nightmares."

He rose from the bath, walked to the window, and looked west, to the star drenched horizon of the Place of Bridges.

"We will make Ennpithia _beautiful_ once more."

Omar stood on the hotel steps, Adina at his side.

The night was warm, tinged at the edges with thumping music from the tenements; that deep sound he could not understand.

A nine vehicle convoy filled the avenue, engines idling, a snarling line of heavy armour, customised cars, jeeps and pickups; tyres straining against the ruptured asphalt, like feral beasts eager to be unleashed upon whimpering prey. A smile spread across his face as he admired his legion of war machines, his metal warriors cannibalised from vehicles of the Ancients. Bright streaks of paint obliterated the rusted bodywork, vulnerable wheel arches were protected by metal panels, windshields were covered with thick grills, hoods and bumpers bristled with spikes and dense coils of wire. The flatbeds of the pickups were mounted with an array of fearsome weapons; spike guns, cannons and bolt guns.

Two dozen soldiers were monitoring the surrounding buildings and rooftops; tan leather face scarves, goggles, white helmets, sleeveless tunics with assorted pieces of metal body armour. They carried slingshot carbines and crossbows, pistols and machetes. They were the elite foot soldiers. The League shaped the future and the foot soldiers enforced its vision. Loyal, ruthless and utterly dedicated, they served the Governor, whoever that might be, without question or hesitation.

Adina was dressed in black, legs slightly apart, a wraparound skirt slashed to the waist, a shirt slashed across her breasts. The wind shaped her. She wore twin leather holsters beneath a feathered cloak with a pistol slotted into each one. A machete hung from a decorative belt around her slender waist. The leather sheath lay against her bare leg as her skirt blew open. Bracelets and bangles jangled on her wrists. Strands of brown hair flicked across her cheeks.

The middle vehicle was an armoured transport with space for ten occupants inside and a turret fitted with a machine gun on the roof. A side door was opened and a man and a woman stepped out.

"Governor Cooperman, Governor Nichols."

It was Adina who greeted them, her tone flawless. Cooperman was in his late forties, tightly curled brown hair, no beard, pock marked skin. He was formally attired. She placed his right hand between her warm palms and leaned into him. The official could smell the freshness of her hair and feel the warmth of her glowing skin as she planted a breathless kiss upon both cheeks. His empty left sleeve flapped in the wind, a civil war memento. She moved to Nichols. The loose limbed and gangly woman was six years younger than Cooperman but looked much older. Her face was long with sucked in cheeks and dark half-moons beneath her eyes. Her hair and clothes were shapeless. There was firm handshake and nothing more.

"It makes a change to have an Alliance meeting at night," said Cooperman, looking around. "And without notice. I enjoy surprises."

He shrewdly left the throwaway comment hanging. It was his way and had served him measurably as Governor of the Ministry of Progress. A fool would underestimate him but Omar was no fool.

"I'm not happy about the time, either," said Nichols, with an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders.

Cooperman eased back, dropped into silence, allowed her to run with it.

"I think we would all prefer daylight hours, Omar. We have families. And daylight is much safer."

"I can only apologise," said Adina, smiling sweetly and not actually apologising for anything.

"We have a protocol for Alliance meetings," continued Nichols. "We have to be careful about meeting."

She looked around at the vehicles and heavily armed soldiers.

"If the city were to lose all three of us our factions would be cut adrift and within a day there would be chaos."

"Governor Nichols," said Adina. "We are well aware of the protocol for Alliance meetings."

"I know you are, Adina. Your former partner, Traore, was a well studied Governor but Omar is quite new to this."

Omar said nothing. He shifted his eyes toward Cooperman, the warrior and master tactician.

Adina said, "There has been a development that requires the attention of the Alliance. That is why protocol had to be ignored. But the meeting cannot take place here. We need to leave at once for the factory."

"But the Alliance greeting," protested Nichols.

"We can bypass the greeting this once," said Adina.

Nichols defiantly folded her arms, uncomfortable with the excessive military style escort and the arrogant dismissal of protocol concerning an Alliance meeting and the traditional greeting. As principal leader of the Society of Souls it was not the first time she had clashed with the League and, though many of their beliefs and policies overlapped, she was concerned that this disregard was yet another sign of the thinning ties that bound the Alliance. More and more she feared those threads would one day snap.

"I do not want this to occur again, Omar. I'll accept it as an oversight, your lack of understanding."

Omar bowed stiffly.

"Protocol is one thing _all_ factions must respect."

"This development must be very important," said Cooperman.

The four of them climbed into the armoured transport. Engines revved and the convoy roared away from the hotel, snaking through the city streets, the long avenues mostly deserted. Only low level criminal gangs were on the sidewalks now. Making deals and fighting over corners and tenement buildings. The minor factions were rogue, unassimilated within the Alliance, with structures and hierarchies of their own, but Omar had recognised the visceral levels of violence they inflicted and had already begun to slowly absorb their numbers into the ranks of the League.

He sat with Adina, hand in hand, looking across at his fellow Governors. The vehicle smelt of black energy. Nichols wound down the window. The air was cold but fresh. The sky was littered with stars. They travelled in silence toward the industrial region of Kiven where the factory was located; the heartbeat of the League, even the city itself.

It was Cooperman who probed.

"Have we heard from the emissary?"

"Not yet," said Adina. "Rondo is due back very soon."

"I'm sure he'll have been successful. It's quite an achievement, Omar, getting the Albury's to talk with us. I imagine if you had suggested this bold move to the Alliance we would have debated and debated and nothing would have actually happened. It was an inspired decision to act alone."

Omar nodded. "Thank you, Governor Cooperman." The bait was dangling. He counted the seconds.

"It's only an inspired decision if the agreement is signed," said Nichols, the wind in her face. "But once more Omar has gone against Alliance protocol."

She turned to him.

"This should have been a decision by the three of us. It was a dangerous move to link us with the Ennpithians. As faction leaders we cannot hope to keep our city working toward the same goal..."

Omar smiled and heard nothing. Her droning voice faded. He understood her many frustrations. It was not only protocol that troubled her. He was a newcomer, a stranger, but here he sat with equal power and equal authority, one third of an Alliance that ruled over thousands. She resented him and was suspicious of him and he accepted these basic responses. But, naturally, as with all women there were layers, and Nichols was no different; it was her primal lust for him that angered her the most. He smiled to himself. He knew women considered him a handsome man, despite his facial and bodily scars. He was tall, muscular and groomed and his voice was clean, urbane and calm. His charm seeped beneath the skin of _all_ women. He _knew_ they were obsessed with him and terrified by him. He knew, keenly, that they saw how he teetered on the edge, balancing the fine line between genius and madman. They saw it and hungered for it.

"I am sorry," said Omar, leaning forward, looking into her face. "I am learning. All the time I am learning. And I can learn much from you, Governor Nichols. I will be a pupil for you."

Nichols flushed. "From what I hear you're more of a teacher, Omar."

She laughed, almost nervously.

"First, you were the Engineer. Now a Governor. And I'm thinking of you as a teacher. How many titles do you want?"

He eased back in his seat. "All that matters is what I can do for the people of Kiven, Governor Nichols. Titles are meaningless to real men."

She flicked her hair as the convoy motored through waste ground choked with rubble. There was no one around. Even those who had fallen on hard times were not found here. The gangs did not fight over this ground. No one wanted these corners.

The factory rose out of the darkness.

Gates and wire fences and armed checkpoints and patrol vehicles with sweeping spotlights.

"Come," said Omar, smiling broadly.

NINETEEN

Shauna sat alone in the damp building, staring at the man on the cross. He had suffered. Now, so did she.

Once more.

She lowered her eyes from him. She had been washed in sin.

Her hands were shaking as she prayed. They had not stopped shaking since the incident. She couldn't call it what it truly was. She couldn't use the words for what they had done to her. The incident was all she could accept for now. Her skin was stained by them. Their smell was on her. Their seed was in her. She parted her hands, made the sign of the cross and lifted her head. She stared long and hard at the crosses on the altar. It was then a bald headed man stepped inside, glancing at her. He was slightly hunched with a round stomach. It took her a few moments to realise he was one of the strangers Brian had mentioned, the Map Maker. He walked between the pews and sat down, on the opposite side of the Holy House. She saw his head twitch in her direction. He nodded, politely, mouthing a silent _good evening_ but she turned away, her expression numb.

She had surprised herself in coming here but there was nowhere else left to go. The inhabitants of Great Onglee had been slaughtered and her brother and his family were presumed dead. Another misery had been inflicted upon her and once more she questioned her decision to step into this holiest of buildings. She wondered if she had wanted to find and confront the deacon and damn him for sending Dobbs and Farrell after her. Maybe she wanted to confront the Lord and damn him for giving her this life of torment. Nothing made sense, nothing was fair, nothing was worth carrying on for.

She thought about Molly, one of the few women she'd counted as a friend. She had killed herself two years ago. At the time, Shauna remembered thinking how stupid Molly had been to throw her life away. She was also angry that she now had no one to turn to. Then she was riddled with a crippling pang of guilt at her selfishness and stupidity in assuming Molly had taken the decision lightly. It was a terrible thing to have happened. She never rooted out the truth. No one ever did. Molly had a good life. To end it was senseless. Her husband spoke of the irrational unhappiness Molly felt in herself but even he didn't have a clear answer.

Shauna had turned to Father Devon.

"It is a sin to take a life, Shauna, and to take your own life is one of the most heinous of sins. To throw away the Lord's gift of life so cheaply is a shocking crime."

Shauna had crossed herself. "Yes, Father."

"Though you have to wonder how grim life must have been for Molly. She was a young woman, kind and friendly, with a loving husband and loving children. Yet inside her was pain. And although she has committed this terrible sin, Shauna, we are all sinners for failing her and not seeing that something was wrong. We are all guilty of this grievous sin."

Shauna gingerly touched her flat stomach. This was no doubt why the Lord had condemned her. He had given her womanhood but she had sinned and failed Molly and He had rendered her barren. She wondered why Molly was in her thoughts. She had not reflected on her old friend in a long time. Was it something she was contemplating doing? _This_ is what had brought her to the Holy House, she realised, in her distressed, confused state. She wanted to end her life. She wanted... she wasn't sure... His approval to end it? Or did she want to hurl her decision in His face and show Him what she thought of His world?

She winced, a gnarled flare of pain in her groin. They had bruised her. She closed her eyes, for a moment, and then rapidly opened them, panting. She did not want to see it. She did not want to experience it again. The horror would visit her during her hours of sleep.

But she would not sleep. She would never sleep again. Not unless she took the sleep that was devoid of dreams.

Her throat went dry. Nothing would ever be the same. One life had ended. A new one had begun.

The candles flickered. It was dark outside and there was noisy commotion in the village.

She was dead inside. She might as well be dead outside, too.

How could she tell Brian? If she told him of the... incident... then she would have to expose Deacon Rush and the conversation that had passed between them. And then her husband would know she had planned to betray him and that her hatred for the Holy House did not match his.

She looked up. "I don't hate you."

"I'm sorry?"

Shauna flushed. She had forgotten she was not alone. She looked at the moon faced man and shook her head.

"I didn't mean you."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

There was the stamp of boots past the building. It sounded like the soldiers. Brian had mentioned nothing about Great Onglee. Why hadn't he told her?

"What's your name?"

She hesitated. "Shauna."

"I'm the Map Maker."

She didn't answer him.

"I'm new here. In Brix and Ennpithia."

"Do you have a real name?"

He seemed offended. "What's wrong with the Map Maker?"

"I mean a proper name. What did your mother call you?"

"I don't remember her."

"Your father?"

"No."

Shauna swivelled on the pew, studied him, and noticed he was missing his hands.

"How did that happen?"

He dangled his stumps.

"I was kidnapped by a gang. In a city far from here. They cut them off. They liked torturing people."

She found fresh tears, blinked them away. "I'm sorry."

"They're dead now. Stone killed them."

"Stone?"

"My friend with the scary face." The Map Maker chuckled. "He chopped off the man's head."

Shauna recoiled.

"I didn't mean to offend you. You asked what happened so I told you."

She stared forward.

"Everything happens for a reason," he said. "That single act of cruelty brought me and Stone closer together and using my maps we arrived here."

"You sound like Father Devon. _Everything happens for a reason._ " Her hands were no longer shaking. "Are you a man of faith?"

"I might be."

"You must be a man of faith. You're here. Sitting in the Holy House. Why are you here if you're not a man of faith?"

"We have none of this where I'm from." He looked around the building. "But then I don't know if that's where I'm from. I might be from here. Well, everywhere, so that would make me a man of faith. A very important man of faith." He glanced around the building. "I'm on a mission, Shauna. All my life I have been making maps and moving in one direction. Now I'm here I understand this is where I have been heading since childhood. I can mend things that are broken. I can mend people and put them back together again."

His voice dropped to a whisper and she could no longer hear what he was saying. It took a moment for her to realise he was talking to himself. Her skin erupted in goose bumps. She told herself to stay quiet, to ignore him, he was obviously quite disturbed, but something forced her to inch along the pew.

I can mend things that are broken. I can mend people and put them back together again.

"Who are you?" she said. "I mean, who are you really?"

He didn't answer. A fog had descended over his eyes. He was staring right through her. His lips were moving but the words were intended for him only. He moved his arms as he spoke, gesturing with imaginary hands, pointing and circling, rubbing his bald head. She had never seen a man behave like this before but she couldn't take her eyes from him. There was something about his voice, something in the _way_ he spoke and the way he looked at her. His eyes had reached into her soul. She could tell he knew what had happened to her.

Had the Lord sent this man to her?

I can mend things that are broken. I can mend people and put them back together again.

Was he here to save her soul? Could he mend her? Put her back together?

Shauna got to her feet, surprisingly unsteady. She took a step and then another. She wanted to hear what he was saying. She wanted to understand his words and his gestures. Her head was swimming.

"Shauna, you're bleeding."

His voice was ridiculously loud, bloated.

I can mend things that are broken. I can mend people and put them back together again.

She looked down. The floor was moving but she was standing still. She saw the trickle of blood down her leg.

Then her vision blurred and there was blackness.

Quinn wiped her brow. Hands on her hips, she stared gloomily at the freshly dug grave.

"The Holy House makes you bury your loved ones up there."

She twitched her head in the direction of a graveyard scattered with wooden and stone crosses. It was ringed by a low fence and sandwiched between the land of the Holy House and the Churchmen barracks.

"Fuck all their laws and rules. I'll bury my brother where we were both happy. In our garden."

She glanced at the cottage. Sitting in darkness.

"The place must be cursed. Did Stone tell you?"

Nuria nodded. She leaned on her shovel, blood stained shirt rippling in the wind.

"It was my mother's fault. She poisoned Daniel against me."

A column of soldiers sprinted past in full amour, carrying swords and bows. They had reached Brix deep into the evening. The sentries had spotted the fast approach of Boyd's truck and sensed danger. He had spoken with the sergeant in charge of the barracks during Duggan's absence. Nuria hadn't caught the man's name but he seemed less stubborn than Clayton had been. Already a rider had been dispatched to alert the returning convoy and carry onward the news to Touron. She had also seen scouts mustered and instructed to roam the foothills in the west. Barricades were already being assembled. Men, women and children were helping ready the village. The assumption was clearly that a second attack was imminent. However, there were villages north and west of Great Onglee and any of them could be the next target. Perhaps the attack on Great Onglee had been in isolation, retaliation for Stone's interference inside Mosscar. Nuria reflected on the villagers who had died. There would be no one with shovels to dig graves for them.

"Do you have anything to drink?"

"There's a well at the top of the hill."

Quinn looked at her.

"You mean a proper drink? Sorry, come inside."

She hesitated at the door. She pictured her father sitting outside, on his favourite bench, smoking his pipe, smiling as she played, a stocky tomboy, scampering through the herb garden with a wooden sword. She looked at the bench. It was overgrown with foliage.

"I can wait out here if you want to be alone."

"No," said Quinn. "I want you with me."

Nuria followed her into the gloom. Daniel's body was still on the bed, covered with blankets. The air was stale. She threw open the shutters, letting in shallow steaks of moonlight. Quinn knelt beside her brother and cradled his blistered face, whispering to him.

"I hated him and loved him in the same breath."

Nuria found a bottle, uncorked it, wiped out two cups, poured, handed one to Quinn.

"It must have been painful having to pretend."

Both women drank.

"Sometimes I think that's why I spent so much time away from home," said Quinn, getting to her feet. "Not being able to tell Clarissa was heartbreaking."

"What _really_ caused her death?"

"It was the sickness. She had all the symptoms but I don't know how she caught it."

Nuria's cup was empty. She couldn't feel anything. She poured another.

"Could Jeremy have given it to her?"

"How do you give someone the sickness? And why? If he wanted to hurt her he could have... he could have taken her life in a more simple way. When I spoke to him inside Mosscar he was on the verge of telling me what had happened but then he was pulled away by the Shaylighters. He knows, Nuria, he knows what happened to her."

"Do you think he killed her?"

She stared into her cup.

"No."

"Will he come back here?"

"How can he? He murdered two Churchmen and betrayed his faith. They'll hang him if he comes back."

Nuria filled her cup once more.

"Do you think he killed your brother?"

Quinn was silent for a long time. There was hammering in the village and the rumble of wagons.

"The wind could've blown Daniel away." She laughed, bitter and empty. "Nuria, I watched that boy shoot two Churchmen in cold blood. There wasn't a flicker of emotion on him. All to stop me discovering the Shaylighters. So, yes, I think he killed Daniel."

"That's the part I don't understand."

"What part? I don't understand any of it."

"How does a twelve year old boy befriend the Shaylighters?"

Quinn shrugged. She didn't have an answer. She got to her feet and rooted through the cluttered cottage for a large sheet. She crouched, spread it on the floor.

"Will you help me with him?"

They lifted Daniel's body onto the sheet and wrapped it. Their cups were empty. Nuria refilled them.

"He speaks Shaylighter," said Quinn, suddenly. Nuria blinked. "Jeremy, Jeremy knows their tongue."

"Did he learn it from them?"

"No, he would've learnt it _before_ he got mixed up with them."

"So who taught him?"

Quinn shook her head.

"I don't know. It's not taught at school. Which means Benny was right. Jeremy's not the only one. There must be more of them."

They carried Daniel outside and lowered him into the grave.

"Why do the Shaylighters hate you so much?"

"Do you really want a history lesson?"

They picked up the shovels.

"It might take our mind off things."

Quinn sighed. "The Shaylighters believe they were here first. That they're direct descendents of the Ancients which means this land belongs to them. They claim nature reversed the damage inflicted at the end of the Before. But Ennpithians reckon they were here first and that the Lord restored Ennpithia and that they're direct descendants of the Ancients, children of the great sin. And you don't even want to know what the Kiven believe in."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "It's a lot of fun being Ennpithian. Hated on all sides."

"What do you believe?"

She stopped, gripped the shovel. "I believe none of it will bring back Clarissa and Daniel."

Backs bent, they tossed dirt into the grave.

"So what's the story with Sal Munton? You and Stone were the ones who got him arrested."

"How well do you know Kaya?"

"She's a mischievous girl, disappears a lot, I know that much. Why?"

Nuria hesitated. She knew that Quinn had suffered as a child. She wasn't sure how she would react to hearing Kaya's story. She had to tell her. Quinn was silent for a long time.

"But Sal Munton has the kids stealing and killing."

"Kaya says that some of the children are his own but most are runaways who have been a victim of the Predator and his healer."

"Is that even possible? To heal wounds with touch?"

"I've seen it done."

"So he's been _protecting_ these children from this monster? I doubt anyone will see him as a hero. He still encouraged them into a life of crime."

"I think he's a complicated man."

Quinn snorted. "Yeah, aren't they all?" She looked at her brother's grave. "How long have you been with Stone?"

"A while now."

"Do you love him?"

Nuria drank. "We travel together. We're not sleeping with each other."

"Do you want to be sleeping with him?"

"We're burying your brother, Quinn."

"A bit of girl chat isn't going to piss him off."

Nuria smiled. Her cup was empty. She reached for the bottle. It was empty, too.

"We're companions. That's all."

"Do you want it to be more? Does he?"

"We're good together. I think that's enough. For both of us. We've been through a lot."

"How did you meet him?"

"He took me hostage. He'd killed some people and used me to escape."

Quinn looked at her. "That should shock me."

"But it doesn't, does it?"

"No, it doesn't. He never gave up in Mosscar. I know he was wounded. I could see the blood. He was in a lot of pain. But he didn't care. He just kept fighting to get us out of there. Why did he save me?"

"Did you ask him?"

"He didn't really have an answer. I don't think he knows."

Nuria smiled. "He wants to help you find out what happened to Clarissa."

"But why? You people never knew my little girl."

Daniel's body vanished beneath the dirt. Quinn stared into the half-filled grave.

"It's what he does," said Nuria. "And he's good at it."

"Why do you keep staring at me?" asked Kaya.

Stone shook his head.

"Can't I stay with Nuria and Quinn?"

"They have something to take care of."

"One more body isn't going to scare me."

"I need you with me."

"Why?"

"I want you to be safe."

She was sat on a low wall, kicking her feet.

"My family might have survived. Dad has a secret room. They could still be in there."

"They're dead. You're on your own."

"Why do you have to say it like that? You don't know that. Why are you being mean to me?"

She leaned against him, sniffed, cried. He waited. Soldiers and villagers rushed this way and that. She cried some more and then wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Kaya had told Nuria everything; she was abducted, from time to time, by two men who wore masks. She never saw their faces, not once, she only heard their voices, but was certain they were not local men. She had been blindfolded and tied up and taken by wagon and given to another man with a gruff and older voice. He had stripped her and beat her and then abused himself. Bleeding and pleading for help, the abuser would fetch the healer and her skin would be repaired.

Stone had listened in silence, fists growing tense.

"I have a friend back in Gallen. She's a healer but... do you see this scar, Kaya, the one on my face?"

"The man with the whip did that to you."

"That's right. And he's dead. My friend, Emil, can heal any wound but she could never make them disappear. She could mend you but the scars would still remain. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Kaya's feet stopped swinging. "Are you're saying you don't believe me?"

"No. I'm saying this is a very powerful healer. And it would take someone with power and influence to control her."

She fell silent.

"Let's walk."

She trudged alongside him, swinging her arms, passing low stone buildings with turf roofs. The shops were closed. The animals were sleeping. Smoke drifted from chimneys. She could easily be home in Great Onglee. Stone saw the long road east toward Touron. He wasn't prepared to travel it yet. Nuria claimed that Sal Munton had been hunting the Predator for sometime, concealing the victims within his gang of thieves. There was no way he would talk if he still had charges against him. Boyd would have to ensure he was freed.

Unless Stone could root out the abuser tonight.

He could feel Kaya's eyes on him as they walked, that mischievous glint, the cheeky smirk on her lips. Then a cloud would descend and wipe it all away. He led her to the inn.

"I'm not allowed in there."

He winked at her. It was warm inside and the air was tinged with pipe smoke, ale and the sweat of men. Despite the threat against the village a large number of patrons sat at tables and lined the bar where Bertram poured drinks and engaged in idle chat. Stone let the door close.

"That was a quick trip," said Bertram.

He wore the same brown apron over a heavy woollen shirt.

"Children are not allowed."

"I'm not a child."

Bertram snorted. Someone along the bar chuckled.

"We won't be long," said Stone.

"It doesn't matter how long you are. The law is the law."

Stone rested his hand on the revolver in his belt. "I think the law has more important things to deal with tonight."

"Let her stay," said one of the drinkers. "Nice to have a pretty girl in here."

Laughter. "Let your wife hear you say that!"

More laughter. "You notice how Bertram only chucks out girls. I reckon we need to be careful around him."

Even more laughter.

Kaya blushed. She ducked her head, thrust her hands into her pockets. Thick hair tumbled across her forehead. Stone placed a large stack of coins on the bar, far more than was required.

"Two beers."

Carrying the mugs, he found a spot in the corner. The seats were rough hewn, the table uneven. Kaya coughed as her lungs filled with pipe smoke. She spotted the large wooden cross nailed over the hearth. She had prayed to the cross for it to stop. Prayed night and day to be left alone. Sometimes she thought the Lord had heard her and it was finally all over but then the men would grab her once more and she would disappear for a few days. Now her prayers had been answered in Stone and Nuria. They would kill the monster.

She leaned toward him. "What are we doing here?"

He sipped the beer, stared over the rim of the mug. There were nearly twenty men crammed into the inn. Kaya lifted her drink, swallowed a mouthful. She grimaced at the taste. Two men at the bar, watching her closely, laughed.

"That's horrible. How can you drink it?"

"Listen."

"To what?"

"You said the men who took you weren't from Great Onglee. Brix is the nearest village. More likely they're from here."

"But I thought we were going to see Sal in Touron."

"You've been seen, Kaya. If the men who work for the Predator are here then we can draw them out tonight and end it. We'll work our way through the village to find them if we have to."

An icy tickle shivered down her spine, despite the warmth in the room. Her lip curled with perspiration.

"It's none of these men."

"We've only just got here."

"I don't recognise any voices."

"We can sit somewhere else."

"I want to go. I don't want to be in here."

He turned in his seat. "You're safe with me, Kaya."

"How can you say that?"

"Bad things won't happen to you if I'm here."

She fiddled with her hair.

"Bad things always happen."

"Just stay."

She fidgeted. "Everyone's dead. I don't care anymore. He can do what he wants."

"Listen."

There was lively conversation all around, spiked with bawdy laugher, table thumping and back slapping. They were an amiable bunch, content to drink whilst their fellow villagers dashed about preparing for a possible attack. Stone assumed they didn't care or didn't believe trouble was around the corner or simply recognised that if Great Onglee had fallen then what chance had Brix with even less Churchmen on duty?

A gust of cold air rushed into the inn as the door creaked open. It was Dobbs and Farrell.

Dobbs walked to the bar, calling out. Farrell stamped mud from his boots and closed the door. The younger man had been in a fresh tussle. His nose looked bruised and there were scratches down one cheek. The older man, suddenly realising his partner was missing, turned from the bar and followed Farrell's line of vision.

"What the fuck are you doing back here?"

Stone stared at him.

"I don't want any trouble tonight, Dobbs," said Bertram.

All around the conversation petered out.

"Have a drink," cried one of the regulars.

"Did you hear about Great Onglee?"

Dobbs narrowed his eyes. His hand drifted to his sword.

"Dobbs," warned Bertram. "Don't do it."

Farrell cleared his throat. "Let's get a drink." He slapped his older companion on the shoulder, nudged him toward the bar. "Now, what's all this business about Great Onglee?"

Stone never took his eyes from them.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his leg. He glanced down and saw Kaya's trembling hand digging into it.

TWENTY

Words.

_Round and round in circles._ She was floating, somewhere, somehow. The day was lost. The night was lost.

How old was she?

What was the colour of her hair and eyes?

A husband, she had a husband, Brian, that was his name. Coming round, slowly, very slowly, bit by bit, piece by piece.

Words.

_Round and round in circles,_ the light punching through, remembering, puzzle pieces assembling, one after the other; the Holy House, the man, the man with the bald head, the man on the cross, the same, the same man, the blood, remembering, no, the blood, she was bleeding, she had pain, the pain, why did she have the pain? Where had the pain come from?

No!

Shauna's eyes flicked open.

"It's okay."

She was panting.

"You fainted."

"Get away from me."

She was unsteady on her feet. The blood was stained down her leg. She didn't recognise where she was; a poky room with stone walls. It was cold and her nose tingled from the dust and damp.

"Don't touch me. Don't come near me."

"Shauna?" It was Father Devon, his tone gentle, brow furrowed with concern. "What happened to you, child?"

She hissed. "Stay away from me. You're one of them. You're the same, hiding behind the cross, you bastard."

Father Devon gaped at the Map Maker. "Can you help her?"

"That bastard sent them after me. They raped me. Bastards. You don't know who he is. How can you protect him? He's going to kill him. They're all in on it. Brian, Jeremy, Rush."

The Map Maker blinked.

Father Devon shook his head. "What has happened to you, Shauna?"

He turned to the Map Maker. "Save her. Please. Wash the sin from her and save her soul."

You are taller than any of them, my son. You are their saviour. See how they kneel before you.

Our time is coming. Our time is soon.

His shoulders felt immensely heavy. He looked at the fragile young woman, near hysterical, one step from madness.

Brian, Jeremy, Rush? What was that all about?

"I can help you," said the Map Maker. His voice was soothing. "Let me help you, Shauna."

He reached for her.

"Let me take you away from the pain."

She felt his words. Looked into his eyes. Saw the warmth. He was here for her. Her prayers had been answered.

Father Devon held open the door as the Map Maker guided her back into the Holy House.

He watched them shuffle between the pews, Shauna's words swirling in his head.

_That bastard sent them after me. They raped me._ _How can you protect him? He's going to kill him. They're all in on it. Brian, Jeremy, Rush._

Father Devon needed to go to the barracks.

"I know," hissed Dobbs, pissing on the ground outside his house. "I'm not fucking blind. I saw her, too."

His speech was slurred. It was a long and loud piss. The wind echoed through the village.

"Then we should get out of here," said Farrell, leaning against the wall. "She might have told him already."

"So what?" said Dobbs, shaking. "What's he going to do? You afraid of an old man?"

"I'm not afraid of him."

Dobbs chuckled. "No, that's right; it's the blonde bitch you're afraid of. That cunt put you down like a girl."

"You backed off as well."

"Tram had crossbows on me. What the fuck was I supposed to do? You don't mess with a crossbow."

He reached angrily for the door.

"Look, so fucking what if Kaya says anything. She never saw our faces. It's her word against ours."

"But what about Shauna?" whispered Farrell. "What if she talks? I want to go back to Touron, Dobbs. There's too much shit for us around here. Shauna and now this girl showing up with Stone."

"We don't have enough coin to pay our debts in Touron. You know that. Look, I've got an idea about how we can..."

He cut himself short. There was an outline in the gloom. A man. Tall. Hands dangling loose.

Watching, waiting.

Dobbs reached for his sword.

Stone's right hand whipped to his revolver. The bang was deafening. The bullet splintered Dobbs' forehead.

He toppled back, a shocked expression across his face.

"Fuck," said Farrell. "Oh, fuck. No, no, no, no, no..."

Stone strode toward him, hooked him once, a meaty left. Farrell jerked and howled in pain. His head was spinning. Stone emerged into streaks of moonlight and Farrell saw the dead looking eyes of a living and breathing nightmare, a man who had been shot and stabbed, slashed and whipped and beaten but was still moving and was coming straight for him.

He threw up. "It was all Dobbs. I just go along with him. We owe coin in Touron. It wasn't me, it's not my fault, it was all..."

Stone cracked his revolver across Farrell's face and dragged him inside.

Quinn showed Nuria a comb, strands of brown hair caught in the teeth.

"It belonged to Clarissa. I can still smell her."

She held it for several moments before slipping it into her pocket where is nestled with her father's pipe. They were inside the cottage, drinking, the fire lit, Kaya curled beside it, head rocking, trying to fight sleep.

"She looks exhausted," said Nuria. "She's been through so much."

"What will Stone do to them?"

Nuria lifted her cup. "Everything they deserve."

The fire crackled. The village was mostly quiet now. It was black outside. And windy.

Quinn glanced around the cottage. "I don't think I'll come back here after tonight."

"Where will you stay?"

She shrugged. "Touron, I suppose. No more fetes and festivals with Benny. Those days are over."

Nuria looked at Kaya. "She's asleep."

The girl mumbled. "I'm not."

The two women smiled at each other. Quinn reached for the bottle. It was empty once more.

She got to her feet.

"I'm sure I have another."

Farrell opened his eyes.

He was inside, the door was wide open and he could see the black night. His head was throbbing. He could taste blood. His nose felt fractured. He tried to move but his ankles and wrists were bound to a chair. It came rushing back to him; Stone shooting Dobbs and then battering him unconscious. He heard a loud grunt and turned his head and saw Stone backing into the house, dragging the body. He let it drop and closed the door.

Moonlight filtered through the window shutters. Farrell opened his mouth to confess... but no words came out; he was gagged.

How can I tell you what I've done? Please, you have to let me speak. I'll tell you everything.

Stone came out of the gloom, holding a knife. He tore Farrell's shirt and slashed him once, twice.

Farrell screamed into the gag.

Tears sprang into his eyes.

No, let me talk, you don't have to do this. Please, don't torture me, it hurts, it hurts.

Stone slashed him again and again. Four lines of blood. Farrell's chest heaved, sweat ran down his face.

Please, no more, mercy, fuck, please, I don't want to die, it was Dobbs, it was Dobbs, it was...

Stone placed the knife at the man's groin. He lowered the gag. Farrell was sobbing.

"Now you know what I'm capable of," said Stone, leaning toward him, nose to nose. "Tell me who the Predator is."

"It was all Dobbs. I didn't want to do it. Please, Stone, please, I'm sorry. We have debts back in Touron. Big fucking debts, it was all Dobbs; he got us mixed up in all this shit with the deacon. I didn't want to rape Brian's wife but he wanted to send a message. You see, they have to light the beacon. It's all about that fucking beacon. Brian has to light it when he comes back. Shauna was going to blab. Rush had to stop her. I didn't want any part of it but we needed the coin."

Stone frowned.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I told you, I told you, it was the deacon. He wants the Shaylighters to take back the land. Brian's wife went to him, she was having doubts; she didn't want anyone to get killed so we were sent to punish her and make sure she didn't start talking to the Churchmen."

Stone jerked away the knife, straightened his back.

"What about the girls?"

"The girls? What about them? The girls? Is that it? What? You cut me because of them. Sure, we took them. What does that matter? Who cares about some kids?"

"Who is the Predator?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

Stone jabbed a fist into his face, split his lip wide open.

"Who?"

"I never met him. It was Dobbs. Dobbs made all the deals. You shouldn't have killed him. Why did you kill him? He was my friend."

Stone glanced over his shoulder.

"It would've taken too long to make him talk. I knew you'd break quickly."

He cupped Farrell's bloody chin, tilted back his head and raised the knife to his eye.

"I don't know. I swear on the cross."

"Means nothing to me. Where did you take them?"

"Winshead."

"Where's that?"

"A hamlet, north of here."

Stone nudged the tip closer to his eye.

"Where in Winshead?"

"The old farm. We took them there. Dobbs dealt with him."

"Did you take Kaya up there?"

There were footsteps and voices outside. Stone clamped a hand across Farrell's mouth and waited.

Farrell tried to cry out but his voice was muffled.

Then the footsteps moved on and the voices faded. Stone eased his hand away. He whispered in Farrell's ear.

"Did you take Kaya up there?"

"Yes, yes, we took her."

"You gave her to the Predator?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"Who else?"

"What?"

"Who else did you give to him?"

He was sobbing as he spoke. "Kaya, Megan, Lissa, Daisy..."

"Lissa? Do you mean Clarissa?"

"Yes, we took her. Tawny, Leanne, all of them."

Stone took the knife away. Farrell's breathing was laboured. His face streamed with blood and tears.

"One more question."

"I don't know anything more."

"Shhh," said Stone. "What's so important about Brian lighting the beacon?"

Farrell coughed, spat. "It's a signal for the Shaylighters... to tell them the Archbishop is here. Essamon will melt him and burn that fucking building to the ground. He has Ancient tech, a box with a light that kills. I'm sorry... it was Dobbs, it was all Dobbs... I'm so sorry..."

Stone patted him on the shoulder. Then covered his mouth and plunged the knife into his eye.

Farrell screamed into Stone's hand. He thrashed in the chair.

"I'll tell the girl's you're sorry," he growled.

Then he slashed his windpipe.

There was a frantic knock. Kaya snapped her eyes open.

"Stone," said Nuria, getting to her feet. She studied his face in the doorway. She saw the blood on his clothes.

"We need horses and ammunition," he said. "The Predator is in a place called Winshead. I'll be back in ten minutes."

He walked away, without further explanation. She watched him stamp toward the barracks, head bowed.

A crushing sensation gripped her. It was as if he was walking away for the last time and she would never see him again. Her heart burned. Tears sprang into her eyes. She was shocked at the sudden feeling. She had been around Quinn too long this evening. The drink was swimming through. Her bones were snapping and crumbling to dust. She wanted it over. She wanted it to end. She wanted to stop hating herself. It was time to put an end to it all. The monsters of Tamnica were far away. There were new monsters to kill. Stone wanted her, needed her.

" _Do you love him?"_

" _We travel together. We're not sleeping with each other."_

" _Do you want it to be more? Does he?"_

She stared at the cup in her hand, swirling with unfinished drink. She glanced over her shoulder at Kaya; looking up at her, eyes haunted.

She wanted an end to it, too.

" _We're good together. I think that's enough. For both of us. We've been through a lot."_

Nuria hurled the cup away. It was time to kill the monsters.

All of them.

Boyd led Stone through a torch lit courtyard. The ground underfoot was straw and mud. A handful of Churchmen patrolled the walls. One of the men swept the black landscape with a telescope. The merchant pushed through a door into a dormitory. There were neat bunks and wooden lockers and flickering candles. He could see through an open doorway into an armoury. The weapon racks were half-empty.

Stone spoke. Boyd listened.

"The Archbishop?"

He nodded.

"I don't think the attack on Great Onglee was part of their plan but when Quinn went into Mosscar the Shaylighters had to respond."

"So you had nothing to do with stirring them up?"

Stone shrugged. "I might have pissed them off."

The portly man ran a hand through his shock of grey hair. "Brian lights the beacon and that's the signal for them to attack here."

"You don't have enough men," said Stone. "Even when Duggan returns with the rest of the garrison."

Boyd held his cross. "And they plan to strike on the first day of the Summer Blessings? We need to pray hard, Stone."

"Sure."

"I'll send a rider to intercept the convoy. Duggan can arrest Brian."

"Make sure your men tear down that beacon."

He hesitated. "No."

"What?"

"Think about it for a minute."

Stone thought. He had nothing.

"I'm certain the Shaylighters are not aware of the exact timing of the Summer Blessings. Why would they be? That's why Brian constructed the beacon in the first place so he could signal them."

"What are you scheming?"

"What if _we_ light the beacon but only when we're ready for them? Draw them in and with the will of the Lord take them down."

"That's a dangerous game. And I just told you - you don't have enough men."

"We would have with the Marshal Regiments." He saw Stone frown. "The Marshal Regiments are stationed along the Place of Bridges. They are veteran units of men who fought in the war, there to protect us from any intrusions by the Kiven. There are easily six to seven hundred men watching a border where nothing has happened for ten years. If the Albury's sanction the release of half of the men we could ambush the Shaylighters here and wipe them out."

"The Shaylighters have three or four times that number."

"You've never seen the Marshal's fight. Three hundred men would be enough."

He saw the unease in Stone.

"We'll have to deal with them eventually. Why not now? We can use their own plan against them."

Stone shrugged. "I thought you were worried about the Kiven?"

"I'm worried about the Engineer. But he's only one man and now I have his identity I can approach the Kiven Alliance and disclose to them the truth that Omar is smuggling old weapons into Ennpithia. I will persuade them to have him arrested or the trade agreement will be finished and, believe me, they need that agreement. They need the food. The Black Region is a wasteland."

"What if this Engineer has been using the Shaylighters so you'd weaken your border with them?"

Boyd thought for a long time. "What choice have they left us? We don't have enough men. You said it yourself. And the Shaylighters will eventually attack. Whether the beacon is lit or not."

"Untying one hand to tie the other is a shit idea." Stone rested on his revolver. "I'm leaving for Winshead."

"What? You're meant to be taking me to Touron at dawn."

"I'll be back before then."

Boyd raised an eyebrow. "With hundreds of Shaylighters behind you?"

Stone said nothing.

"Thank you, Stone, for this information. And thank you for saving Quinn. She means a lot. She's like a daughter to me."

"You have a daughter."

Boyd shook his head. "I don't even have a wife, Stone. My family are employed by the Albury's to perpetuate my cover."

He glanced around the barracks. "Though I've had to reveal myself to take control of this situation. I think my spying days might be over. You should go; I'll take men to arrest Deacon Rush."

He paused. "What did you do with Dobbs and Farrell?"

"Forget about them."

Rush stood beside the beacon, buffeted by strong winds. It was a marvellous structure; branches of different lengths, shades and thickness, woven and knotted and bound without rope or string. He was impressed how it did not simply spring apart or tumble down into a heap. It reached high into the dark sky, as tall as four men. Brian had laboured on it for months, filling it with foliage, anything combustible. The people of the village had casually observed his work, now and then bringing him a plate of food and a jug of beer, free of charge.

The black robed man smiled, somewhat ruefully. Brian had created an impressive masterpiece; it was a shame it had to burn. Not that it would. There would be no signal. He knew it was over. Essamon would never see the flames. He could light it now - but what would be the point? The Archbishop was still on the road from Touron.

He let out a sigh and glanced down at the hand made gifts on the ground, carefully placed by the children. He had led them from the village school to inspect the finished beacon and their eyes had sparkled brightly and their heads had tilted back at the monument erected in honour of the Archbishop and the Summer Blessings. There were innocent chalk drawings and bead bracelets and smiling knitted dolls stuffed with wool and dried flower arrangements and crosses carved from bone and more drawings and brightly painted pots and wooden balls and wooden skittles and wooden swords.

The Archbishop would inspect the offerings and praise the children and then the items would be gathered into a chest and taken to Touron to be distributed in the orphanage.

Rush faced the dark sky.

"Where are you?" he said, softly. "Are you not going to punish me for my many sins? Why don't you show yourself to me? Just this once. Reveal yourself to me as you revealed yourself to the Patriarch."

The Patriarch; every man, woman and child in Ennpithia knew the tale of the wandering Churchman, the first soldier, the Holy Marshal of the Cross. Touron claimed status as the capital town, where laws were made, where the Archbishop and the Albury's resided, but it was at Brix, in the most hostile of landscapes, where the legend had been born, upon this very hill, upon this very spot, overlooking the Holy House, its sand blasted stone walls having resisted the terrible fury of the _Metal Spears_.

He had stumbled upon the building, hungry, thirsty, wounded, riddled with sickness, a rifle strapped to his back, a pistol in his hands. He had sought sanctuary, intrigued how the cross around his neck matched the cross on the roof, but as his shaking and blistered hand reached for the door a voice called to him and he followed the voice and climbed the hill of rock and ash and bent his knees. He looked to the Above and begged for mercy and forgiveness. And the clouds parted and he heard the Word of the Lord. The Lord ordered him to throw down his weapons of sin and that they would be forbidden.

The Patriarch, fearful of punishment for the wicked deeds he had committed to survive, cast aside his rifle and pistol and the Lord showed grace and mercy and He reshaped the world before the Patriarch's eye; His mighty strength, His immeasurable wisdom; He summoned forth the trees and the grass and they thrust through the soil blackened by Man. Where there were quarries the Lord made lakes. Where there were ravines the Lord made rivers. Then His mighty hand hovered above the last city, a city of steel and concrete, a city of Man, and He rued the greed and the folly of Man and he half-buried the city and told the Patriarch it would serve as a message to those who chose the path of the Before.

Rush lifted the cross from around his neck and pushed it into the beacon. The wind swerved around him, carrying voices from below.

They were coming. It would soon end.

"But you can't show yourself, can you?" he whispered. "You can't because you're not there. Maybe you were, once, maybe you did restore this land. Or maybe it was never broken to begin with. But you abandoned us. That much is certain. You allowed the Ennpithians to drive us from our homes. We will _always_ hate you for that."

Rush saw the tall bearded man they called Stone. He observed him leaving the barracks, striding with chilling menace. Boyd and a clutch of soldiers followed. Dobbs and Farrell were both dead and Stone would have made them talk. He wondered how the stranger had made the connection between his hired men and himself but he supposed it didn't really matter. He had no idea it had been chance alone. He wondered if Jeremy had slipped past the lookouts and escaped. He had hidden the boy for a few hours when he found him tapping on his back door and listened with a creased brow at how Essamon had unleashed his warriors against Great Onglee. That was not the plan. The Engineer had been precise in the order of things. The Engineer had wanted the Archbishop eliminated first, to strike at the very heart of the Holy House, to devastate them, to force decisive action.

Would the Archbishop even come here now? Rush nodded to himself. Yes, he was stubborn enough to do so.

He had told Jeremy to run but the boy had refused. He had foolishly murdered two Churchmen and exposed himself to Quinn. He should have let the woman stumble into Mosscar and suffer at the hands of _his people_. Now the boy was condemned to hang.

Jeremy had said, "I can find a way out."

And then he had left.

Rush saw the Churchmen approach his house.

His people...

He was a seed. His blood was Shaylighter. It coursed through his veins and pumped around his organs giving him the strength to maintain this persona. For centuries his people had selected newborns to be abandoned in the villages and settlements across the land, planting a future to come, if not for this generation then the next or the one after. A hooded woman had approached him in childhood, during a period of time known as Aibiocht for Shaylighter children. Her face was painted with the inverted cross, black from her forehead to her chin, black across her mouth and cheeks. She was youthful and beautiful and flawless and moved lithely and freely. She had declared her name Lannast and that she was a Cailleach. Her tongue was fluent Ennpithian and Shaylighter.

She told him of the children who feared the visiting Cailleach and how they would run and hide with their adoptive parents or feign interest and understanding only to plot and betray them to the Churchmen, though the Cailleach were never snared. Yet they were the lost children, the few sacrificed for the others who heard the raw tongue of Shaylighter and grew to tear Ennpithia from within.

Rush closed his eyes, fondly remembering Aibiocht, his time of growth and maturity and his meeting with the Cailleach. All through childhood he had known he belonged somewhere else and rejoiced at the moment when Lannast approached him. By then he had already infiltrated the Holy House, a boy who would become Deacon, a Deacon who would become Priest, though his faith in the cross and the man on the cross was already conflicted, even at such a tender age. He knew he was swimming in a sea of deception and Lannast had saved him from drowning.

He sucked in cold air, looked at the pistol in his hand.

Boyd and the Churchmen had searched his home but there was nothing to find. He kept no possessions. Unlike Father Devon. He smiled. Father Devon, the old fool, with his books concealed within the basement. His chest burned for his true home of Mosscar. Could he make it?

No.

He placed the barrel beneath his chin; the steel was cold. He eased his finger toward the trigger and his stomach wrenched. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Stone and Nuria ride from the village, heading north. He looked up at the clouds, surging overhead, hiding the stars, obscuring the moon. A few spots of rain touched his face. He liked the rain. The sun burned his skin, turned it red, and made him itch and peel. He hated the warm months; icy temperatures and fields blanketed in snow brought joy to his heart and relief to his pale skin. He would never see the snow again, he realised.

"Ni bheidh a fhios agat," he said. "Ni bheidh ort a thuiscint."

You will never know. You will never understand.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth...

North, they were riding north. Winshead was north. They know of the healer, he reasoned.

Rush snapped open his eyes. Stone and Nuria had disappeared into blackness. He lowered the pistol.

He had to escape.

"Take cover," shouted Boyd, and the Churchmen dived into the undergrowth as a volley of bullets raked the hillside.

"I can see him," shouted one of the soldiers, unleashing an arrow. He moved, crouching, whipped another from his quiver.

Then a bullet clanged against his helmet and tossed him onto the ground.

"Stay down. Just put arrows up there. Keep him pinned."

He signalled for several men to begin to flank the hill.

Lurking in foliage, breathing heavily, Jeremy listened to the ragged bursts of gunfire.

It was all beginning to unravel. Essamon should have held off from attacking Great Onglee. The plan was spinning out of control. The beacon would not be lit. The Archbishop would live. The Holy House would exert its influence over Ennpithians forever. He was angry. His eyes were tight, his lips drawn over his teeth. Reverence Morning would continue. His father would kneel and pray and sing and no one would know of his sins.

He looked at the cottage. Stone and Nuria were gone. He glimpsed Quinn with a brown haired girl.

Spots of rain touched his skin.

He licked his lips, took the pistol from his pocket and crept toward the cottage.

TWENTY ONE

Omar led.

Cooperman and Nichols followed several paces behind, accompanied by Adina. All four wore noise protectors but the deafening sound of machinery still penetrated them; the relentless slamming and hissing, cranking and grating. Men in heavily stained overalls with goggles and noise protectors ignored them as they marched through the factory workshops. It was late into the night, tipping into the early hours of the morning, but the area was windowless and it really could have been any time of the day. For Nichols, it was disorientating. She had heard rumours that Omar had introduced twenty four hours shifts to increase output and now she saw the proof of it. These men should be at home with their families.

The air was coarse with overpowering fumes, acrid and metallic and Nichols coughed as her throat spiked with flakes of ash. Ahead several men with power tools were crouched around a long metal tube. Cables snaked across the floor and she stepped over them. There was a shower of yellow sparks as they worked. The power had been here for centuries, beyond her comprehension and interest, in truth, but she was aware Omar had honed its usage, blacking out areas of the city to favour more production for the League. She was growing more uneasy at this rushed meeting. _He wasn't even one of them. It didn't matter that he held the title of Governor. He was not Kiven born._

They reached a caged area with red and black NO ENTRY signs. There was a guard with a submachine gun across his chest. He unlocked the wire gate and Nichols edged nervously around him as they were ushered into a sterile corridor illuminated by overhead lights. The noise of the workshops became more bearable the further they walked until it gradually faded. Nichols slipped off the noise protectors. The ceiling lights buzzed. They passed closed doors with lights showing behind panels of frosted glass.

"What are you working on at the moment?" asked Nichols.

"We have our supply lists from the city," said Adina, boots echoing along the concrete, hips swaying. "Naturally, they're our first priority. But we're always looking to restore new things that the salvage crews bring in. That is one of the mandates of the League."

Nichols was irritated by the arrogance in her voice and her mood was soured further by Adina's overtly suggestive walk. The woman was physically perfect. There was no need to flaunt it in these circumstances. It was wholly inappropriate. She glanced at Cooperman but he was mute and seemed content with the unfolding circumstances.

"I see you have moved to twenty-four shifts, Adina. The Alliance needed to sanction this increase. Once more it's a violation of protocol."

"I understand your concern, Governor Nichols," said Adina, sweetly. "You look around and worry that the military wing of the League is expanding too rapidly and that we will neglect what our citizens need. But you must understand that our mandate is broad and not only one of restoration. Our sworn duty is to protect and we need to modernise and improve to do this."

She paused.

"Restoration and modernisation require personal sacrifice. Only then can we reclaim our position in the Before. Those are the words of my father, Governor Nichols. Would you have ever questioned his passion or sincerity?"

There were no more questions.

They arrived at a set of double doors, plain, no glass, manned by two men armed with automatic weapons, curved and ribbed magazines.

There was an immediate drop in temperature and the lights were much dimmer than that of the corridor or the hectic factory floor. There were rusted pipes and cubes of metal overhead and a floor to ceiling metal screen at one end. Nichols adjusted her eyes to the gloom and saw a large table with a roughly sketched map of Ennpithia pinned to its surface. There were small pieces of metal dotted across the map. She let out a short gasp as four soldiers followed them inside, securing the doors. The men carried crossbows and wore holstered pistols.

Omar, who had been mostly silent, now faced them, smiling brightly, gesturing with his hands and rocking on the balls of his feet, acting as master of ceremonies.

"Governor Nichols, Governor Cooperman. Thank you for attending us at such a late hour. It will not be a wasted journey or an uneventful one. As you are both aware, I am not Kiven born but I do not see that as a negative. Indeed, what I bring is a more clinical eye. You see, what Kiven lacks, what it sorely requires, is an ultimate weapon, a weapon of such immense power that, when used, will allow us to trample the bones of our enemies as we turn the Ennpithian's ugly world of green into a paradise of dust and beauty."

They stared at him, open mouthed.

"What?" said Nichols.

"Enemies?" said Cooperman.

"Do you not have enough weapons? We've all seen your armoured vehicles, Omar. Your remit is to defend Kiven but not by waging war."

He shook a clenched fist. "The only way a man defends himself is to attack first. Fast and without mercy."

"The League did that once before," said Cooperman. "It failed. An ultimate weapon is dangerous territory. Look at me, Omar. This is the result of war. And you appear to have suffered in battle as well."

Adina saw a flicker of pain in Omar's eyes.

Then it was gone.

"The League's primary protocol is to aid in the restoration of what we have lost," said Nichols. "That is why you work closely with the Society. We underpin your work, bringing cultural aspects to your developments. Finding a joint path back to the Before, back to who we were. And Governor Cooperman's Ministry strive toward the future. This is how Kiven works, Omar, this is why the Alliance was formed. We are interlocked. We are balanced. No one voice is supreme."

He waited.

Then clapped, slowly.

"Noble. Truly noble. But I have made adjustments to the _primary protocols_ of the League and the Alliance. Now be quiet."

She looked to Adina. "What is he talking about?"

He yelled. "Silence, bitch."

Nichols recoiled. Even Adina was startled by the boom of his voice.

Omar swept an arm before him.

"Our enemies."

He signalled to one of his men. The soldier moved to the far end of the chamber and began to crank a large handle. The metal folding screen grated against the concrete floor as it revealed a pod of clear panels. There were bright spotlights angled toward it and Nichols and Cooperman were shocked to see it was occupied by three men, a woman and a child. The pod was empty except for the prisoners and there was nowhere for them to hide. At one end there was a door, clearly locked, and a simple ventilation unit.

Cooperman took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the cold sweat from his face.

"What gives you the right to take prisoners, Omar?" It was Nichols, voice hoarse with shock.

"They're not prisoners," said Adina. "They're test subjects."

The five prisoners flocked toward them, mouths opening and closing, fists beating, hands slapping, nails scraping; soundless desperation.

"You're monsters. Both of you. Let them out of there. Please, let them out."

The prisoners pushed themselves against the clear panels of the pod, tears barrelling down their cheeks. Cooperman heard a scraping sound from behind. The soldiers had drawn their pistols. He realised they would not leave here tonight and Kiven would blink from democracy to dictatorship.

"Ennpithians," said Omar, brightly. "Your enemies. Our enemies."

He stepped toward the pod. Nose to nose with the prisoners. There was nothing in his eyes as he looked at them.

"Healthy Ennpithians," he said, wheeling around. "Living, breathing, walking, consuming, procreating. Clean bodies living in an ugly world, worshiping an ugly being who is dead, but alive, and invisible, but everywhere, and is nailed to a wooden cross."

Omar shook his head.

"Their faith is as confusing as their world is hideous."

"You keep saying that," said Cooperman, dispelling with his games. He wanted answers. "What do you mean their world is ugly?"

"Do you not think Ennpithia is ugly?"

Cooperman frowned. The five prisoners wept against walls of the pod.

"No, of course not, what an idiotic thing to say. It's a beautiful land. This is one of the reasons we stupidly went to war with them ten years ago. We do not want to live in the Black Region."

"The Black Region is the zenith."

"It's a wasteland, Omar. Nothing grows here. It's a place of death, violence, plague."

"Yet you have survived," said Omar, beating a clenched fist into his scarred palm. "Adina has taught me your history. You have existed in the Black Region for centuries. Your people have thrived. Look how modernised you are compared to them. They are weak, they are nothing."

Cooperman shook his head. "You understand little of our history. Of the real cost of all this."

"Omar," said Adina, the urgency in her voice alerting him.

Nichols was struggling to breathe; bent at the waist, hands on her hips, she trembled and gasped for air.

"You must let these people go. Omar." She loosened her shirt. "Please, don't hurt them."

Cooperman cupped her elbow, straightened her. "Don't talk. Take long deep breaths."

The prisoners wailed in silence.

"He cannot let them go," said Cooperman, evenly. "It will be an end to the peace and trade agreements if the Ennpithians discover what is happening here tonight."

"Governor Cooperman understands," said Omar.

"No, Omar, I don't understand," said Cooperman. "I've accepted you, even though you're not one of us, because a man doesn't reach our age without guile and you certainly have plenty of that. I do believe there is a future in Kiven for you. But this, this is beyond the pale. _You_ are the one who engaged the Ennpithians for a trade treaty and now _you_ have kidnapped their people. I've led men into battle and I've watched them die for nothing. Don't make the same mistake as the men who came before you. Don't throw away this new treaty..."

"The treaty is a blindfold," shouted Omar. "Nothing more. By the time they remove it... it will be too late for them."

"You're insane," said Nichols, composing herself. "Adina, you must see what he is doing is wrong. It goes against everything the League of Restoration was founded on."

"You do not dictate the League to me," said Adina, firmly. "The Alliance is fat and weak and you are both a disgrace to your factions and the people of Kiven. Omar is the man to lead us forward."

Omar called out and a side door opened with a loud hiss. A bulky man stepped slowly through carrying a small case. He wore black armour and heavy black boots and his face was obscured by gas mask. He opened the case and carefully removed a grey canister. He disconnected the air supply and attached the canister to the ventilation unit.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with horrified looks, Cooperman and Nicholls saw a gas appear inside the pod.

"It will take an hour for the initial signs of infection to show. I will make you both more comfortable."

Omar nodded to his men.

"Tie them up."

Jeremy reached the door, took a deep breath and burst into the cottage, waving his pistol around.

Kaya shrieked; Quinn, dozing in her brother's chair, leapt to her feet and reached for her gun but Jeremy fired and a bullet ripped silently at her feet. She froze as he aimed at her, the muzzle fixed with a silencer.

He'd thought of everything, she guessed.

Jeremy snatched her pistol, tossed it.

"Put your hands on your head," he said. "Both of you. Do it. _Now_."

Seconds morphed into minutes, minutes formed an agonising hour as the gas floated and shifted around the clear prison. Nichols was crying. Cooperman was stony faced. With no fresh air supply it was impossible for the trapped Ennpithians not to inhale the substance.

Omar relaxed against the long table with the map. He ordered his men to bring food and calmly ate, chewing on freshly cooked meat, the succulent aroma swirling around the chamber.

"Soon," he said.

First came the sweats.

Then the eruption of red blotches.

And the griping pains. And the silent screams. And the bleeding... from the eyes, the mouth, the ears, the anus.

"I have aggressively accelerated the composition. The early test subjects were taking far too long. Some of them were lasting days. It was tedious, ineffective."

Nichols sobbed quietly, ashen faced. It was Cooperman who spoke. His voice was scratchy.

"Why?"

Omar scraped his teeth against bone. "The ultimate weapon."

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

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

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

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

"Who burned you, Omar? Was it the Ennpithians?"

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

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

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

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

"You're an abomination, Omar. The Ennpithians have spies. They will uncover your crimes and you will hang."

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

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

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

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

Omar hesitated. "Yet you stood by and did nothing."

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

"Omar, he's trying to save himself," said Adina. "Watch him."

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

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

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

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

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

"What is the gas?"

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

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

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

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

He paced as he spoke. Adina chewed her lip.

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

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

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

"Continue, Governor Cooperman. How will we defeat them?"

Her blood dripped onto the floor.

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

"You murdering bastard."

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

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

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

"The lowly Engineer who made Governor. An incredible story."

"Thank you, Governor Cooperman."

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

"I will fill the sky with _Metal Spears_ and history will remember me."

Cooperman snorted. "Those weapons don't exist."

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

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

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

"History will remember me."

TWENTY TWO

The night was filthy.

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

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

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

"She didn't."

"Too much to take in?"

"She's had a long few days."

"Are you certain Clarissa went there to kill herself?"

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

"She was being abused and it's a city that kills." He shrugged. "I don't know."

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

" _What about them? Sure, we took them. What does that matter? Who cares about some kids?"_

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

The guilty would die and they would die screaming.

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

Apart from Kaya, they were only names.

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

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

"Sometimes."

"What's the matter?"

"Who cares about some kids? That's what Farrell said to me."

"He's dead now."

Stone nodded. "He is."

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm here now."

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

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

"I seem to need you more and more."

"That's a good thing."

"I think so."

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

"Let's put this right. It's what we do best together."

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

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

"We kill her." She cranked the crossbow. "We kill everyone up there."

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

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

"I think that's the place," he said.

He handed Nuria the binoculars.

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

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

"Did you hear that?" she said.

"Horses."

"Do you think he's alone in there?"

"No."

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

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

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

They crept forward once more.

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

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

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

Stone sprang to the doorway.

"Are you hit?"

"No."

"How many?"

"Two."

"I'll cover you."

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

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

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

"Shaylighters," he whispered. "Three of them this side."

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

"What the fuck are they doing here?"

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

"I've still got two or more this side."

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

"I was hoping we wouldn't see these bastards for a bit," she shouted.

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

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

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

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

"What are they doing here?" she shouted.

"It has to be the healer."

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

"Fuck, this is why they think Essamon can't be killed."

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

"Next time stick it in his head."

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

"Is Essamon the Predator?" said Nuria.

"The freak has to be."

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

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

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

There was the snap of metal as the collapsed greenhouse was wrenched from the ground and skittered away in the wind.

A slither of lamplight caught her eye. She swivelled her head and saw the farmhouse door nudge open.

It was Essamon and he was carrying the box. He called out in native Shaylighter, his words fierce against the roar of the elements. He stepped clear of the farmhouse; confident, untouchable and immortal. War paint covered his face. He switched on the box and a beam of light curved across the withered fields toward Stone.

Stone dragged himself from the sticky ground, boots slipping in puddles and tried to scramble free as the beam cut toward him.

Nuria lined up the shot, heart racing. Aimed for the bastard's temple, just below the narrow brimmed hat of feathers.

Her finger curled around the trigger.

It came barrelling toward her, a long blur in the dark. A shoulder and head slammed into her and the gun went off and the bullet hit nothing. Her eyes rolled and she bounced onto her feet. A boot spun across her line of vision and her right hand erupted with pain. The pistol skittered away and disappeared into the mud. The boot hit her again, a rapid swipe across the face and she cried out, her mouth swimming with blood.

Soirese loomed above her, studded fists clenched.

No, Quinn killed her, took her out with two bullets to the chest in Great Onglee. Fuck, this is why the Shaylighters came here.

She towered over Nuria, six feet two inches tall. She grabbed her, wrestled the crossbow from her back, discarded it.

"Anois taimod ag troid"

Now we fight.

Nuria feinted with her left and swung with her right, wheeling in fast, but Soirese had brawled with men and women for years and had never been defeated in a fist fight. She had guessed Nuria's bluff; fooling her into thinking she had been fooled. Her long limbs stretched. As Nuria came in with the punch her ankles were kicked from beneath her and she crashed into the mud once more. Soirese stamped her boot into Nuria's face and rocked back on her feet, laughing.

"Easy."

Stone saw the fight from the corner of his eye. He recognised the woman from the stadium. _Soirese._ She had killed two men in the arena without much effort and even Quinn's gun had not been enough to keep her down. Her flat chest and abdomen showed no wounds from the gunshots, not that he could see much through the watery gloom as he nipped and dashed across the fields, chased by the searing white light from Essamon's box. He cracked off a few shots but his aim was loose and the bullets bit into the walls of the farmhouse. He glimpsed movement behind Essamon and spotted two figures in cloaks, one very tall, one much shorter. _This was the Predator._ It wasn't Essamon. This was the real guilty man with the healer at his side and they were lurking in the doorway, hoping to flee.

Dropping to one knee, Stone fired rapidly, forcing Essamon to take cover. The farm was plunged into sudden darkness as the light snapped off.

Soirese turned, for a moment, and Nuria lunged at her, grabbing hold of the woman and head butting her. She head butted her a second time, her bloodied face rippled with anger, eyes bulging. Soirese was dazed but struck back, her weighted gloves pounding into Nuria's kidneys. Gasping, Nuria fell away and Soirese smothered her, raining punches into her. Nuria rolled and tried to push her off but the woman was too strong. She furiously yanked her hair, drawing her close, and then gouged her eye.

Stone swung his revolver at Soirese but she was wrapped against Nuria, both women slamming and clawing. He couldn't risk a shot from this distance. He caught movement at the farmhouse and saw the cloaked figures sprint toward the outbuilding where the horses were kept. In the blink of an eye they would be gone and the trail for the Predator would go cold. Stone had a less than a split second to decide and he didn't hesitate. There was only one place he was heading. He ran toward Nuria, cracking off single shots at the farmhouse, keeping Essamon pinned down. He heard the snort of horses and Essamon shouting in Shaylighter but Stone kept running, revolver empty, yanking the carbine off his shoulder.

Nuria cracked a torn fist across Soirese's face, battering the bleeding eye, and the towering warrior was dazed by the blow. She was suddenly all over her. She dripped blood and sweat and tears but relentlessly slammed her clenched fists into Soirese, punch after punch. As Stone reached them, Nuria curled an arm around the woman's throat and the snapping of bone silenced even the storm.

She was panting heavily. An exhausted, lop sided smile spread across her bloodied lips.

Then she saw Essamon and the white beam angled across the farmland and she threw her weight against him, pushing him clear, and the heat was intense and the pain unbearable and her pulse hammered and her nostrils stung with the smell of cooked flesh and then there was only blackness.

Stone watched her body slump into the mud. His eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth twisted into a roar, and he charged at Essamon, screaming through the wind and the rain, furiously pumping the carbine, steel balls whipping through the air. The beam was all around him and he swerved and ducked and rolled to avoid it. A steel ball hit the box and the light blinked off and the device dropped to the ground.

The carbine clicked empty and the tribal leader wet his lips, pulling out an axe and long bladed dagger. Stone kept running, flipping the carbine in his hands, sweeping it in a wide arc and clubbing Essamon in the head. He struck him fiercely but it wasn't enough to put him down. The axe and knife still came at him. A sharp edge slashed his arm. A tip punctured his leg. But rage had descended and Stone felt nothing. He slammed the butt of the carbine into Essamon's face. The hat fell from his head. The inverted cross became smeared with blood. Stone kept hitting him until the leader of the Shaylighters lay crumpled in the dirt with his skull cracked open.

He tossed aside the blood stained carbine. Pulled out his revolver. Hurriedly dropped bullets into the chamber as he ran.

A horse burst from the stables.

He fired twice at the ground and it reared up. The smaller rider tumbled from the saddle with a thud and, for a moment, the larger rider hesitated, but then he urged the horse forward. Stone fired, shot after shot, loud and deafening bangs, bullets sailing harmlessly through the rain.

The small figure moved. He sent his boot crashing into her. She cried out. He jerked her to her feet.

"You have one fucking chance to live."

Then the wind tossed back her hood.

And he lowered his gun.

TWENTY THREE

Side by side, hands on their heads, they listened to the sporadic gunshots and the angry cries of the Churchmen.

The rain fell, a deluge, growing louder and heavier, hammering against the walls of the cottage and trickling through the roof. The wind rattled the door and the shutters and the candles flickered in the draught. Jeremy had grown up here as much as inside his father's house. His heart raced as he looked at Quinn. There was contempt in her eyes but he would soon change that; she had been a mother to him, an aunt and a rebellious older sister but tonight she would become his woman and then there was no going back. He knew the rumours about her and her preferences but none of that mattered now. He glared at the brown haired girl next to her. He could see she was trembling. He thought she was plain and boyish looking next to Quinn.

Quinn was a real woman.

She stood four or five paces from him; that familiar square shaped face dotted with faint bruises from her beating at the hands of the Shaylighters. He wet his lips. His heart continued to beat fast. Why couldn't she have joined them? He knew how much she despised the Holy House and blamed them for losing Clarissa. How could she take their side against the Shaylighters? Essamon would reclaim Ennpithia with the help of the Engineer and his weapons and the land would change forever and then what would she do?

The gunfire had stopped.

"Rush who killed Daniel. That was him outside with the gun. He's trying to escape."

She deserved to know.

"I was here when he did it."

Silence.

"He had no life, Quinn, you know that. He went peacefully. You should be glad he went peacefully."

Silence.

"It was all Rush. He hoped it would stop you going into Mosscar. He's a Shaylighter, Quinn. You used to tell me stories of the abandoned children. Do you remember the stories?" His voice dropped to almost a whisper. Kaya's stomach heaved. "I wish I'd been born a Shaylighter. I feel the energy of them."

Silence.

"I didn't kill Clarissa. She was my friend."

He turned to Kaya.

"What are you looking at?"

The scruffy girl ducked her head, brown hair tumbling into her eyes.

"Well?"

Kaya grimaced and closed her eyes, expecting the gun to explode at any moment.

"Leave her alone," said Quinn. "You have me. I know that's all you want. Just leave her be."

He rocked on his heels, digesting her words. Kaya faded from his vision. But then she opened her eyes and spoke and he jabbed the pistol at her once more.

"I thought I knew you. That's all."

"What? You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

"You sound like someone I know. That's all. You seem familiar."

"Why are you here?" he shouted, wind and rain battering the cottage. "You're spoiling it."

"Leave it, Kaya," whispered Quinn. "He's not afraid to kill."

Kaya glanced at her.

"Who is he?"

"He was my friend once." Jeremy heard a tinge of sadness in her voice. "But now he's no one."

He was stung and waved the pistol but Kaya no longer flinched and Quinn shuffled a little, creating a small gap between them.

"Do you know what they do with traitors, Jeremy? Do you? They're buried alive and the grave is never marked. That's what's going to happen to you. They make you dig the hole and then they strip you naked and tie you up and throw you in. They leave you like that for a day and the whole village throw shit at you and laugh at your scrawny cock and at night the men from the inn piss on you and then in the morning the soldiers bury you whilst you're still breathing and your grave is never marked. And no one will ever remember your name, little boy."

"Shut up! Just shut up! You're lying! They don't do that!"

His finger went to the trigger. Quinn shuffled again. The gap was widening. She'd soon create two targets, not one, and he'd have to choose, and in that fraction of a second whilst he deliberated, she would take him down.

"What good am I dead? You know what you want, Jeremy. Don't you want me alive for it?"

She moved again.

"My body will be better hot than cold. Let Kaya go and you can have it."

He swallowed hard.

Then a sickly grin covered his lips.

"Do you think I'm stupid? If I let her leave she'll get the Churchmen. She's staying, Quinn."

He shook his head. "No more talk."

"When you're finished with me you can kill me. I want to ascend to the Above and find Clarissa, my daughter."

"The Above doesn't... doesn't exist." He stopped. "What did you say?"

"She was mine, Jeremy. She wasn't my niece. I gave birth to her."

"But who... who was her father?"

"Daniel raped me. My mother told him to. She thought it would help me like boys. Clarissa was mine."

The colour drained from his cheeks.

"You didn't kill my niece, Jeremy, you killed my daughter."

He recoiled from her truth, damned by the words.

"I don't... but... I don't... you were taking care of him. Why would you do that if...?"

"Stone thinks Clarissa went into Mosscar to kill herself. What really happened in there, Jeremy?"

"She went in there to kill herself? But I told her I had... it's my fault, it's all my fault."

His shoulders drooped. The gun wavered.

"It was too much for me, Quinn. That bastard terrified me. Night after night he came into my room and beat me. He told me I was a child of sin and I deserved to be punished. He's a monster. I kept running away. You know that. And one day I knew what I had to do. I took my horse and rode into Mosscar and I sat in the ruins and waited for the sickness to kill me. I sat for hours. But it didn't work. That was when Essamon found me. I knew their words. Dad would use them in the house and taught me bits of their language. I once asked him if he was a Shaylighter and he broke my arm. Do you remember that? You made a splint for me. I was afraid of Essamon. But I talked and he listened. He saw fire in me and showed me the truth of Mosscar and truth of the Shaylighters. He showed me how to be a real man."

His arm dipped. The gun was low.

"I told Clarissa I'd thought about killing myself in Mosscar. But I never told her why or that I went there."

Quinn nodded. "She took your idea."

"No."

"Yes, she did. She looked up to you, Jeremy. What happened to her in there?"

"A patrol found her just inside the city. The Engineer wanted Ennpithians for an experiment. She couldn't speak their tongue. They took her with the others. She was exposed to something. They injected them all with a disease. I don't understand it but it made them sick and then they let them go. Clarissa managed to ride back here. I swear I didn't know, Quinn. It was the Engineer. He's the man who killed her."

He took a deep breath. "But why did she want to die? I knew something was wrong but she wouldn't tell me..."

"Clarissa suffered the same cruelty that I suffered. She was abused, Jeremy."

His eyes filled with tears. "Not Clarissa."

"Dobbs and Farrell were kidnapping children from the villages."

"Not her."

"The children call him the Predator."

Jeremy shook his head.

" _You're a child of sin. You deserve to be punished."_

They both stared at Kaya; her face had turned deathly pale, her eyes were closed.

"I know those words."

She opened her eyes.

"And you sounded like him when you said them."

Jeremy's mouth gaped.

"His father is the Predator." Kaya nodded. "It's him, Quinn. He's the one who abused me and Clarissa and all the others. And you as well, Jeremy. He even abused his own son. Your father is a bastard."

Quinn saw Jeremy's eyes shift to the young girl. The gap was wide enough. She sprang at him.

His finger jerked recklessly at the trigger and the bullet seared along the barrel and rifled through the silencer into her stomach, ripping through clothing and flesh and punching into her liver. Her mouth opened but there was no sound. He lost his balance, squeezing off two more shots as he fell. The first bullet lodged harmlessly in the roof but the second glanced off her temple and she collapsing on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and stared down at her body, the blood streaking from her stomach and face.

He pointed the pistol at Quinn.

"Look what you made me do."

Quinn dropped to her knees beside Kaya. She gently lifted the girl's head. Her eyes were open.

There was no pulse.

"Get up."

"Fuck you."

"Up," he yelled, twisting the thick ropes of hair in his fist and dragging her onto her feet.

He placed the pistol against her forehead.

"Do it, boy, there's nothing left for me."

Beads of sweat rolled down his face.

"You're getting used to killing, Jeremy. Why stop now?"

He blinked away tears.

"You're a bastard like your father. And he'll get his, Jeremy, mark my words. Stone and Nuria are heading to Winshead. Pretan's a dead man."

He lifted the pistol away, and then whipped it across her face, breaking open her lip.

"Take your clothes off."

"No."

"Do it, Quinn."

Blood ran from her mouth. She glimpsed the excitement in his trousers.

"That's never going to happen."

"Yes, it is."

"Don't be the monster he is."

"You're going to be mine."

The words sickened her but she spat them at him. "Well, Daniel got there first. You only get seconds, boy. Is that what you want? Seconds?"

He backhanded her across the face. "You bitch." He tore at her shirt. "Take it off. Take it all off."

Barnes was a raw recruit; seventeen years old, tall and big boned, with a flat and beardless face. He'd joined the Churchmen Regiment last summer after a failed apprenticeship with the blacksmith. Now he was on lookout duty by the river. It was unlikely the Shaylighters would navigate the waterway, no doubt the reason why he'd been posted here. He'd never seen a Shaylighter before but had heard all the wild tales from his fellow soldiers; monsters towering seven feet tall, chests painted with an upside down cross, an axe as big as a tree - and that was only the women. He'd laughed at the time.

Alone inside the wooden outpost, roughly a few hundred paces southeast of the barracks, he found less humour in the description. The building was partially concealed by undergrowth. He had a stove and a seat and a telescope on a wooden tripod angled toward the river; a long black line snaking through the canyon, dotted with heavy rain. The uninhabited southern islands, covered in vegetation, were in darkness. They were not even islands, in truth. More and more they were breaking away and disappearing into the water. Barnes was convinced that one morning the river would become the sea and the canyon would be gone forever.

It wasn't cold but it was damp and he warmed himself by the stove, waiting for a pan of water to boil.

As it began to bubble he reached into his tunic for a small pouch and tipped some herbs into a mug. Then he carefully poured in the hot water and stirred with a wooden spoon. He reckoned Captain Duggan would return by morning. He was excited at the prospect of the Summer Blessings. He knew the Archbishop was an old man but he spoke with such verve and Barnes had great respect for him. He wore the cross on his armour with pride and knew his family was proud, too. Secretly, he knew his father had always wanted him to become a soldier and not a blacksmith.

Barnes carried his drink to the telescope and peered through it. He could see the fishing boats moored at the dock, rocking from side to side.

He took out a biscuit, nibbled it, wiped the crumbs from his lips, raised his mug and hesitated.

He could hear splashing, more than normal, more than the rocks falling away from the walls of the canyon.

He leaned forward.

He strained his eyes.

The mug slipped from his gloved hand.

The river was filled with boats.

"Thank you for walking me home," said Shauna, numbly.

"Are you going to be alright?"

She hesitated. "I'm not bleeding anymore."

He said nothing. The village was mostly quiet. Lights glowed in a few dwellings. The two of them sheltered in the doorway as the rain lashed down and the dark clouds rumbled overhead. He could sense she was reluctant to go inside and his eyes betrayed deep concern for her. She had been brutalised, as he had, when Bastille had chopped off his hands in Maizan. He would never be the same man. She would never be the same woman.

In a slither of moonlight Shauna saw the lines around his concerned eyes, like painted dashes. The fleshy strokes told her the bald headed man was twice her age, at the very least. Father Devon believed he was a special man but Shauna wasn't sure about that, not yet. The only man she had ever grown close to was her husband. She had no intention of growing close to the Map Maker or trusting him but there was a beguiling quality about him and she was glad to be thinking of him and not the attack. And she was no longer thinking of Brian, either. Anger flared inside her when she thought of her husband. If he had chosen to stay away from this malicious plot then she would not have been attacked. She was so confused. And so frightened.

"You look frightened," he said.

"It's like you can read my mind."

"You don't want to go in there, do you?"

She shook her head. "No."

"They're not waiting for you."

He watched her glance at the falling rain.

"Do you want me to check?"

Shauna nodded.

The Map Maker prodded the broken door with his stump. It creaked loudly. He stepped into the gloom. Swallowing hard, he moved through the rooms. Empty, no one lurking in the dark, waiting to pounce on her. The men had gone through her home like a tornado. Furniture was overturned, clothing and crockery and personal items scattered. It was a horrible mess.

Shauna came inside and looked around and shivered. The Map Maker moved toward her but she took several paces back. She did not want a man near her. She looked down at the fireplace where she had been intimate with Brian the night before he left for Touron. He would return in chains.

The Map Maker said, "I'm sorry that was done to you."

"Then why was it?"

"I don't understand."

"The Lord hates me."

"Why does he hate you?"

"I'm a sinner. I must be. We're all sinners. He denies me children, he sends my husband to hang and my brother and his family are dead. He hates me. I know it."

The Map Maker rubbed his head. "What happened to your brother?"

"My brother lives... he lived in Great Onglee."

"They might be alive." He paused. "I'm sure the Lord doesn't hate you."

"But you're Him, aren't you?"

The Map Maker stared at the rain. "I don't know who I am. Not anymore."

"Father Devon thinks you're Him. In mortal form. Every one is talking about it."

"How can he be so sure?"

"You have to be him. You look different, sound different. There is something different about you."

She let out a deep sigh. "Where are you staying?"

"With Mrs Renshaw. Father Devon arranged it." He hesitated. "Do you want to stay there? You can have my bed. I can sleep on the floor."

He looked into her eyes.

"There's a lock on the door. I can sleep outside. You can have the room."

She nodded, smiled faintly. She looked on the verge of tears.

But then they heard a shout from the southern edge of the village. A single word. Over and over again.

" _Shaylighters. Shaylighters. Shaylighters."_

Her shirt tore. His nails dug against skin. She struck him with the heel of her palm and he swung his fist at her. She dodged the blow and pushed him back across the cramped cottage. He stumbled against Kaya's body but didn't lose his footing. As Quinn lunged at him he thrust his boot against her knee and her legs buckled. He was all over her, throwing her around, hitting her with the gun, no longer threatening to shoot her. He pushed her toward the bed. He wanted her alive. She knew it. He knew it. He wasn't prepared to lose his virginity with a dead body.

She clawed at him, tried to tear his eyes out, but he slapped her hands away and punched her. She went limp. He pinned her to the bed with his weight and ripped open her shirt, mesmerised by the sight of her chest. Her head lay to one side. Eagerly, he reached for her ample breasts but her head flicked round and he realised she had tricked him and her fist drove into his stiffened groin and now it was his turn to howl in pain.

Quinn rolled him off the bed and struck her boot across his face. Blood erupted from his nose. She grabbed the nearest thing to hand - an empty soup bowl - and tried to bash his head in with it but he slammed a punch into her throat and she staggered back, gasping.

He was on his feet, half-bent, wincing, one hand between his legs. He aimed with the pistol and fired in anger and the bullet whistled past her arm. She twisted and her arm stung and she saw blood. He was breathing heavily as he took a step forward. Quinn dropped the soup bowl and covered her naked chest. She glanced down at Kaya's body. He took another step. His tongue darted over his lips. She couldn't keep backing away.

Her pistol was on the other side of the room, where he'd left it. She frantically looked around and saw utensils and furniture, useless against his weapon. The blood trickled down her arm. She clamped a hand round it.

"I didn't mean to do that."

His words were meaningless. She saw the strain in his trousers once more.

"Please don't hurt me, Jeremy."

"Are you tricking me again?"

"What if I die from this?"

He glanced at her arm.

"I'm sorry."

She whispered. "I know you are. I know." She lowered her arm, exposing herself to him.

It was going to happen. _It was really going to happen._

"I didn't mean to make you angry."

He was lost for words.

"You can... you can do it... but... my arm stings... please don't hurt me anymore."

"I won't." His voice was hoarse. He gulped. "I love you, Quinn."

"I know."

He moved closer. She could smell him.

"It was always you, Quinn."

"I know."

"Never Clarissa. Always you."

Then came the warning from the raw recruit. That piercing shout into the rain choked night.

" _Shaylighters."_

Jeremy's eyes flicked to his left and Quinn lunged at him, knowing this was her last chance to put him down. She head butted him. He yelled. She roared as she swung at him and her fists were relentless and the pistol was gone and flying across the room and she rained her bunched knuckles into his ribcage and twisted his arm and the crunch was sickening as she broke it.

He sobbed. She kicked him in the groin, twice. This time he didn't get up. She took his left hand and snapped one of his finger and then another. A dark patch spread at the front of his trousers.

She spat at him.

Then hunted for the pistol.

His eyes looked up at her. He was unable to muster any words. Blood ran down her shaking arm and seeped onto her hand.

It didn't stop her pulling the trigger.

TWENTY FOUR

Stone listened to the mournful drip of rainwater.

The storm had passed. It was dawn and the sun was scrambling into the sky. A chill breeze rifled through the half-open wooden shutters. Nuria's breathing was steady. She had come round a few times, delirious. He'd tried to calm her but it seemed unlikely she'd even recognised him. He still held his revolver, leaning forward in a large chair, boots and clothes and hands caked with mud and blood. The girl had healed the stab wound in his leg and the slash wounds along his arms and chest from Essamon's axe. He hadn't needed to threaten her with the gun. She had healed them both without hesitation. She had wanted to help.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose. He glanced once more at Nuria, blankets around her shoulders, her blonde hair clotted with dirt. The sight of her burnt and bleeding turned his soul black and he lowered his head, holding back the tears. He had come so close to losing her and the thought of that caused his breath to shorten and his heart to cramp. Without the healer, Nuria would be dead. He heard movement and quickly raised his eyes. He looked at the girl, curled on a blanket, in the corner of the room. Her right eye was closed. Her left eye was patched. Her skin was badly scarred. She had come into the world marked. She should be dead right now, a bullet in her skull, that was what they had agreed, but then he had seen her and it had changed everything.

"Stone?"

He moved to the bed, handed her a canteen of water. She blinked, rapidly, began to sit up, suddenly realising her shirt was missing.

Stone looked away, tucked his revolver into his belt and reached for a bundle of clothes beside the bed.

"I found these in a bedroom."

He kept his back to her and listened. She drank and shrugged into a loose fitting cotton shirt, baggy and frayed at the elbows. She picked up a fleece and thrust her arms into the sleeves.

"I'm dressed."

Her face was pale, even in the sunlight blinking through the shutters. He sat on the edge of the bed.

"How bad was it?"

He nodded, saying nothing.

They stared at each other.

Slowly held hands.

"Did we get him?"

He told her. Soirese was dead. Essamon was dead. The Predator had escaped.

"But we know who he is."

He'd carried her inside, running through the pouring rain, her face and arms and chest blackened.

"Triplets," he said.

Nuria frowned.

"What?"

"Not twins."

She climbed from the bed, pulled on her boots. "What are you talking about?"

He got up, prodded the sleeping girl with his boot.

"Wake up."

Her eye flicked open and she jumped to her feet, startled, staring up at the tall man with the horrible face. Nuria looked down the bed; the girl must have been about eight years old. Her hair was long and fair. She was familiar but Nuria couldn't understand why.

"Jeremy's mother died giving birth to triplets, not twins. Jeremy's father, Pretan, knew what she was. He knew how valuable she would become."

The girl looked between the two adults, lips pressed together.

"Do you remember Quinn telling us last night about a dispute over land?"

Nuria shook her head.

"This land belongs to Jeremy's father. He got rid of the family living here and hid the girl. He knew one day she could help him cover his tracks. He hired a woman to raise her. Since the age of five she's healed all the children brought here so no one would ever believe they were being abused."

"Jeremy's father abused Kaya and Clarissa."

Stone nodded.

"Pretan must sympathise with the Shaylighters. That explains why Essamon appeared immortal to the Ennpithians. He would just run back here and get his wounds patched up and no one would ever know the truth."

Nuria swept from the bed. She saw her pistol, cleaned, reloaded. She curled her hand around it.

"Why did you help him?" she said.

The girl looked into the gun muzzle. Tears popped into her eyes.

"Why? He beat children, abused them. Why would you help him hide that? Why?"

The girl sniffed.

"Daddy told me to help or he would hurt my sisters."

Stone reached out, slowly took the pistol from her.

"She's not much of a witch."

Nuria glared at him, stamped from the room. He heard the farmhouse door slam.

"We're leaving now," said Stone. "And you're coming with us."

"I don't want to go with her."

"You don't get a choice."

"She wants to shoot me."

"No," said Stone. "She's angry. And scared. But that's all. She doesn't want to hurt you."

"I want to stay here. Daddy will be back for me. He'll be worried if I'm not here."

Stone growled, "He's never coming back here."

The girl's eye glistened with fresh tears. "Where are we going?"

"We're taking you home to your sisters."

The field was waterlogged. Nuria could see the body of the woman she had killed, sprawled in the mud. The trees swayed behind her. The undergrowth rustled. Arms folded, she closed her eyes, the sun and the wind rivalling for her attention; her skin delighting in the sharpness of one, embracing the tender caress of the other. She took deep breaths, filling her lungs with fresh air. She shivered, suddenly. She had been scarily close to her light blinking out once and for all.

Her eyes flicked open. She sensed it and dived as the gunshot pinged against the doorway. The shooter was clumsy. She heard Stone cry out her name and bullets whipped from the open window. She wrestled with the farmhouse door as he kept the unknown gunman pinned down. His revolver clicked empty as she threw herself inside, kicking shut the door with her boot. A volley of bullets splintered the wood. She crawled along the cold floor. Stone shoved the girl beneath the bed. He grabbed Nuria's pistol and skated it along the floor at her.

"I'll cover you," he said, reloading.

Keeping low, he poked his gun above the windowsill and cracked off a few shots. Then he rose, still firing across the muddy field, the sun blinking in his eyes. He heard the creak of the farmhouse door and Nuria's pistol cracked loudly as she sprinted toward the stable. She easily flanked the shooter and spotted him hunkered down in the trees; light coloured cropped hair, long black clothing. He was an amateur. She aimed, executed the shot. He let out a strangled cry. Stone looped around the field, revolver in hand, and they crashed through the undergrowth, immediately recognising Deacon Rush.

"Another one," said Nuria. "How many more of them are involved in this?"

Stone crouched, searched the body. "Nothing." He got to his feet. Nuria saw the look on his face.

"What is it?"

"I almost forgot." He took something from his pocket. "This came out of your fleece last night. It must have got broken in the fight."

Nuria realised what it was. It was the item she'd purchased in Great Onglee from a stall selling unique carvings. She took it from him silently, biting her lip. She glanced back at the farmhouse, waves of guilt crashing over her for raising a gun to the child. She turned to Stone with tears in her eyes.

"It's not broken," she said. "It's meant to be like that."

He frowned as she removed two small pieces of wood, curved and brightly painted with colourful slashes and swirls. The right hand edge of one and the left hand edge of the other was jagged.

"Look."

She placed the two pieces together. They were a perfect fit.

"A heart?"

"I bought it on impulse. It was supposed to be a surprise."

He held it gingerly.

"We each keep a piece. One part of the same thing. The woman who sold it to me said she'd made it for people who... people who like being around each other."

"People who like being around each other?"

"Seems a bit silly now."

"It's not silly. It's..." He wrapped it, carefully pocketed it. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. Let's go and get the girl."

They left the bodies to rot.

Brisk winds drove away the leaden clouds, exposing strips of blue and rippled lines of red. The child healer looked up at the sun, shielding her eyes with her hand. She rode with Nuria. Her brother and sisters had names. She did not. The trail south was sticky and the horses grew filthier as they splashed through muddy puddles. Last night, the land had been black and grey but now it revealed itself as a vista of gorges and woodland and meadows filled with stubby purple flowers. They could hear the rush of streams gurgling over rock and in the distance, on sloping hillsides, puffs of smoke lingered about the roofs of scattered stone farm buildings. White sheep grazed behind rambling wooden fences, resembling baby clouds that had tumbled from the sky.

Nuria felt the girl shiver and wrapped the blanket tighter around her slight frame. Her scarred face was pale. Her single eye was wide open. Her father had horded her in Winshead, a thing to exploit, manipulating the child's unique gift into a monstrous and heinous weapon. She thought back to her days in Chett, when her mentor, Gozan, had attempted the same thing. Healers were the rarest of rare people across the lands. The girl could have saved hundreds of lives by now, including that of Quinn's daughter.

Nuria still felt ashamed that she'd pointed her pistol at the girl but she'd rode to Winshead intent on killing a child abuser and the healer who'd allowed his crimes to remain hidden. She had sought only blood soaked revenge; for Kaya, for Clarissa, for all the innocents, and for herself, for the depravity _she_ had suffered inside Tamnica. Her abusers were dead, brutally slain at her own hands, but that wasn't enough. She wanted more blood. She wanted more death. Only it was much harder to squeeze the trigger when the co-conspirator was a frightened eight year old child, a victim herself.

Her grimy hair blew across her nose. She tossed her head and glanced across at Stone. He offered her a tight but reassuring smile and patted the pocket where he'd placed his half of the wooden heart. A rush went through her and she couldn't help but smile. She had woken to his brooding face and would never forget the expression he bore; one of relief that she had survived.

As they reached the outskirts of Brix her gut spiked and she knew something was wrong. Stone must have felt it too because he was already urging his horse from the rutted trail. Without question, she followed and he stopped in a clearing, surrounded by tall trees, branches dripping rainwater. He dropped from his saddle and scrambled onto the nearest ridge, boots sinking into the mud.

"Bastards."

He handed her the binoculars. Two Churchmen were on the trail ahead. They had passed sentries last night, there was nothing unusual in that, but now she could see another clutch of men, further back, the ones Stone had spotted, attempting to remain concealed behind a wagon. They were accompanied by a tall man with a lined face and white hair. She had seen him only once, on their first day in Brix. It was Pretan, Jeremy's father, the Predator. She nodded to herself. He had no doubt spun them a story and they had obviously swallowed it. He was a respected villager and they were outsiders. She swept her gaze across the village and saw wagons and horses. The convoy must have returned from Touron. Which meant Duggan was around and that would make things even worse.

"No one is going to believe us, Stone. Even with the girl. And Duggan's back. He _really_ isn't going to believe us. He hates you and ignores me."

She spotted Boyd and Quinn marching toward the barracks. She couldn't be certain but her arm appeared bandaged. There was no sign of Kaya. She wondered if the girl was hiding in the cottage.

"There are more villagers around. A lot more. Do you think they could have come from Great Onglee?"

"The Shaylighters took the estate," said Stone, grimly. "They would have found the caves and killed them all."

"I can see the Map Maker. Well, he has a woman with him; young, slim, brown hair. What is it with him and women half his age? Is it just those maps?"

Stone shrugged.

"What are we going to do about him?" she asked.

"He's on his own."

"We can't abandon him."

"You don't even like him, Nuria."

"I never said that."

"Besides, he's here to mend everything, remember? He doesn't need us."

Nuria snorted. "He's wearing a cross. I don't believe it. He's actually wearing a bloody cross."

She lowered the binoculars, handed them back. She climbed down from her horse, taking the child with her. The three of them stood in the mud. The child healer stared up at them both, turning her head one way and then the other.

"I hate it here," said Stone.

She listened.

"They've wanted to arrest us from the moment we arrived."

Still she listened.

"We should make our way back to the coast. Find a boat. Head for Gallen."

"And go where?"

"Follow the shoreline east. See what we find. Maybe a place we can stop. What do you think?"

"Is that what you really want to do?"

He scratched at his bearded jaw and wandered away, revolver dangling in his right hand.

She saw his left fist clench, unclench.

"We'd better get going then," said Nuria. "If that's what you want."

He turned around.

"What do you want to do?"

She placed her hand on the girl's head. "Put things right."

"I'm sorry," said Father Devon. "The Archbishop has fallen ill. He stayed behind in Touron. We must pray for his recovery."

"But you were going to present me to him," said the Map Maker. "You said he could verify my identity and confirm that I'm who we think I am. Do you think I should ride to Touron?"

"I need you here. Our people are frightened, Map Maker. It doesn't matter whether the Archbishop believes in you. I believe in you. And Ennpithia will believe in you once they hear you speak. I have known, all my life, that one day you would return and now in our darkest of hours you are here."

Father Devon placed a wrinkled hand against the Map Maker's chest.

"Your wisdom and kindness will save us. Your Light will flood the unknown days ahead."

Shauna placed her hand on the Map Maker's arm.

"You've already answered my prayers, Map Maker; you brought my family back from Great Onglee. We all heard the cry last night, thinking the Shaylighters had come for us. But you told me it would be okay and it was and you spared the families of Great Onglee. You conjured boats for them to escape. And the men who hurt me have been punished. An eye for an eye."

The Map Maker looked at them both. He had been _elevated._

Look how they worship you. Look at their hands upon your mortal body. You are a natural leader, my son.

"I think Father Devon is right. You _can_ do good here. We all need you. I need you."

The Map Maker looked down at the wooden cross resting against his chest. Father Devon had proudly hung it around his neck this morning. He had no idea it had belonged to the disgraced Deacon Rush. He looked out across the village and saw fear in the eyes of the villagers. The mutilation of his hands had brought him to this place and the Holy House had revealed his true identity. Yet there was something, a flicker in the dark recess of his brain, a tingle; he was no fool. He was missing something but he didn't know what it was.

You can hear me, my son. I have waited so long for you. You are finally here, after all these years.

"What?" he muttered.

"You look troubled," said Father Devon. "Do not be. I will be gathering the congregation this..."

"No, that's, that's not it."

Beads of sweat popped onto his forehead.

"What's wrong?" said Shauna.

I have waited a lifetime for your return, my son. I never gave up on you. Not once. It is now our time. You will reclaim what is ours, my son. You will lead us. You will lead us.

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Whatever it takes to reclaim our land, my son. You have been our most powerful seed.

"You can hear me?"

Father Devon and Shauna exchanged puzzled looks.

"Where are you? I want to see you? Hello? Hello?"

Ta tu sa bhaile, my son. Welcome home.

"Arrested?" said Quinn. "That's outrageous."

"Murder, kidnap, trespass, forbidden weapons," said Duggan, lowering his pipe. "I can't blame it on Sal Munton this time."

Sunlight filtered through a single barred window. She stood with her crossbow over one shoulder. Her arm was a dead weight, numb and sore, but thankfully the bullet had gone straight through.

"They were hunting a child abuser. This man abused Clarissa."

"Pretan isn't a child abuser."

"He used to beat Jeremy. Is that not abusing a child?"

Duggan nodded. "He can be loose with his hands but it hardly looks like he was wrong in beating the boy. Not after what you told me about him. He should have beaten him a lot more."

"So you believe me about Jeremy but not about Stone and Nuria. This poor girl, Kaya from Great Onglee even recognised Jeremy's voice and..."

"Well, she's dead so she can't help us. Look, I don't care who they _think_ they're hunting. This isn't the Black Region. We have laws here. We worship the Lord, we pay our taxes and we get on with our bloody lives. Now they have to obey the law like everyone else. I will not tolerate them marching from one corner of our land to the other doing whatever the fuck they want."

Quinn was startled by his outburst. "Do you envy them? Is that it?"

"Don't be so bloody childish."

She left it; she'd touched a raw nerve.

"Did you speak to Boyd this morning?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you about Great Onglee?"

"Yes."

"Then you know how bravely they fought. The people that arrived in the boats last night are only alive because of them. You can't do this, Duggan. Please, it's very wrong."

"I don't have a choice."

"I've never seen you this way before; angry, frustrated."

"War is a brutal thing, Quinn. And it's here. It's a horrible mess."

He shook his head.

"I'm not a cruel man, you know that, but I have to arrest them. I'll try to make sure they don't hang. Perhaps banishment. A lesser sentence for their crimes."

"Their crimes? This is insane."

She paced the cramped room.

"Did you know Boyd was a spy?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"And you never told me?"

"You're my friend, Quinn, but my loyalty is to the laws of Touron and the Holy House."

He let out a curl of smoke.

"It always has been."

"It's not much of a secret now."

"No."

"Will you arrest him?"

"What for?"

"His truck is from the Before. It's forbidden. And he carries firearms. Also forbidden."

"Boyd has an arrangement with the Holy House that allows him to..."

"For fuck's sake," said Quinn. "Do you have to be this pig headed?"

She washed her hands over her face. There was an awkward silence. Duggan cleared his throat.

"I was sorry to hear about Daniel. That must be very upsetting."

She nodded.

"And Jeremy."

"He murdered two of your men and an innocent girl. He was a traitor."

"And I would have preferred him to stand trial for it. You killed him and you killed him with a pistol."

"He was going to rape me. Should I have let him?"

"I didn't mean that. It's another complication. That's all."

"I'm sorry his cock was a complication. I'm glad the cunt is dead."

He lowered his pipe. Met her eyes.

"Boyd is leaving for Touron to meet with the Albury's. It's too late to stop the signing of the treaty but I can't see how it can go ahead, not whilst one of the Kiven officials – this Governor Omar - is smuggling weapons to the Shaylighters. That has to stop before we trade anything with them. And he also needs to discuss his plan with them. I can't share the exact details but..."

"We all know what he's going to ask. Everyone is talking about it. It's only a matter of time before the Shaylighters attack Brix. Rush escaped last night and once he tells the Shaylighters that it will be us lighting the beacon to draw them in then they're going to attack without hesitation."

"We don't need the Marshals. I can defend Brix with the Churchmen."

"That's what Sergeant Clayton thought in Great Onglee. And you know what happened there."

"He made a tactical mistake. We won't do the same thing here, Quinn."

"Go to Mosscar and you'll realise how much we need the Marshals. We need anyone who can fight. Including Stone and Nuria."

"What I need is for Boyd to arrive safely in Touron. The decision about the Marshals is for the Albury's; not you or me or Boyd. You're the best escort and you know the roads well. Will you do it?"

He waited for an answer. She remained silent.

"I know it's been a rough few days for you but I need someone I can trust."

"Then trust in Stone and Nuria. They've already agreed to take him."

"In exchange for freeing Sal Munton? A murderer? That will never happen. They're mercenaries, Quinn, nothing more. They're probably in cohorts with Munton. That incident with the shotgun might even have been planned to trick us."

She leaned onto his desk.

"Stone saved me in Mosscar and asked for nothing in return. I was dead, Duggan, make no mistake. And the way they both fought in Great Onglee against the Shaylighters, risking their lives to protect Ennpithians. You weren't here."

He raised his voice. "Dobbs and Farrell are dead. Pretan claims that Stone and Nuria went onto private land with forbidden weapons. They've kidnapped one of his daughters."

"The twins are at home. A neighbour is with them. What is he talking about?"

"I don't like them. I don't trust them." He rose from his chair, shouting. "They're faithless, Quinn. We can't rely on people like that."

The bells of the Holy House began to ring. Loud and shrill across the village. One bong after the other.

"Father Devon is calling a special congregation. He feels the people need it."

"So this is Ennpithia," she said. "Faith in the deeds of someone you can't see and mistrust in the deeds of someone you can."

She shook her head.

"Go talk to the women and children who escaped from Great Onglee. Stone and Nuria are heroes."

"Not in the eyes of the law."

"Then the law is shit and you're not the man I thought you were. You're a puppet, like the rest of them."

The bells continued to ring.

"You'll need to attend the Holy House service."

Quinn narrowed her eyes. "No."

"I'll have you arrested if you don't."

"I'm a servant. I'm excused."

"Your brother is dead. You can't hide behind him anymore. Escort Boyd to Touron and I'll overlook it."

"Fine, I'll do it."

He blinked, surprised at her acceptance. Before he could probe further there was a sharp knock at the door.

Duggan barked. "Come."

An excited soldier poked his head in. "Captain Duggan, sir, it's Stone. He's coming, sir."

TWENTY FIVE

Stone rode slowly toward the ambush.

The horse was old and grey coloured; he had pushed her hard last night, through filthy weather and across uneven terrain. He reckoned she was enjoying this lazy trot back into the village. The ground was flooded and the mud was clinging to her shoes as they plodded toward the two armoured Churchmen, sunlight glinting off their iron helmets, heavy swords hanging from their belts, bows held one handed, arrows notched, tips aiming at the ground. Although they carried no firearms it made him no less wary of their weapons; he knew the damage a single arrow could inflict when fired by a man who'd trained with a bow since childhood.

He nudged his horse forward, one hefty clump after the other. The trail began to slope and the low buildings took shape ahead, smoke curling from chimneys, the taste of freshly baked bread on his lips. Stone's eyes narrowed and shifted from left to right as he passed trees and undergrowth, still shiny from the heavy rain. His mouth was drawn into a tight line. The two soldiers were idly chatting, ignoring his approach, his presence unimportant, non-threatening; though he knew they watched him from the corner of their eyes and saw one of them glance furtively at the hidden men.

Still talking, the two men began to peel apart as he approached. Their voices had become more animated as the humour of the conversation increased but it was all a thinly disguised attempt to mask the purpose of the seemingly innocuous move. They had now become two targets instead of one and would attempt to flank him as he drew closer. Stone tugged at the reins, the horse stopped and snorted. He glared from his saddle. For a moment, no one spoke. The wind rustled the trees and the undergrowth and whipped at his shoulder length hair. The men realised he wasn't coming any closer. They took a few cautious paces forward.

"Good morning," said the first one. "Did you spot any Shaylighters?"

Stone said nothing, kept watching them.

"Finally stopped raining," said the second one, peering up the sky. "Do you mind getting down from your horse, sir?"

Stone climbed down, arms loose. He could see the heads of the bowmen inside the village, crouched with the white-haired Pretan, the tall man folded uncomfortably behind the large wooden wagon. The sentries began to move for him, the angle of their bows rising. His right hand was fast, too fast for them, and he shot the first man in the leg. He howled, dropped his bow and fell to one knee, clamping his hands around the wound as blood spurted out. Stone went for the second man and pushed the barrel into his face before he could fire off his arrow. He looped his left arm around the young man's throat, tightened it, and jammed the revolver into his back.

There was movement in the village as the soldiers emerged from the wagon, bows raised. Stone could hear Pretan shouting. He couldn't hear what was being said but it didn't take much to figure out he was encouraging them to shoot.

"What's your name?" growled Stone.

"Leonard," replied the soldier, his voice shaking. "Leonard, sir. Everyone calls me Lenny, sir."

His fellow soldier writhed on the ground, moaning, his leg streaked with blood.

"Listen to me, Lenny. Can you see your friend down there? Can you see him?"

"I can see him, sir. Yes, sir."

"Your friend has a leg wound. That's not too bad."

"It fucking hurts," he snarled, rolling around. "You bastard."

"Now, Lenny, you try anything and I'll put a bullet in your spine, not your leg. Do you understand what will happen if I shoot you there?"

"Please don't shoot me, sir."

"Do you know what happens if I shoot you in the spine?"

"I'll be crippled."

"That's right. So stand still in front of me so none of your men get the smart idea of taking me down with their arrows. Do you understand?"

"I won't move, sir."

"Do you understand me, Lenny? You move a single inch and I'll put a hole in your spine."

Lenny swallowed. "I'm not going to move. Please don't shoot me, sir. I have a son. Please."

"Then keep still or your boy gets to wheel you around for the rest of his life."

"I promise, I won't move."

"Good."

"What about me?" said the wounded man.

Stone looked down at him. "Shut up."

The soldiers edged along the trail, bowstrings tense.

"No further," called Stone. "Get Duggan out here."

Duggan and Quinn were outside the Holy House when they heard the gunshot.

Stone or Shaylighters?

He drew his sword. Quinn took her crossbow from her shoulder. The shot had come from the northern edge of the village. The two of them started in that direction but then the double doors to the Holy House were flung open and hordes of villagers stampeded down the steps into the bright sunshine. Hundreds of men and women and children began to swarm around them and Duggan and Quinn were swiftly caught up in a surging crowd.

Father Devon and the Map Maker stood in the open doorway, barely ten or twenty parishioners remaining. The bald headed man looked crest fallen as the crowd pushed along the lane. His moment had passed. He had not even been introduced to them. It was a sign. It was surely a sign he _was not_ who Father Devon thought he was. He massaged both temples with his stumps, attempting to conjure the voice, but was met with an eerie wall of silence.

"I want to see the book," he said, abruptly.

"I'm sorry?" said Father Devon, looking away from the disappearing crowd of villagers.

"The book. I want to see it. I have to know the truth."

"I've already read the passage to you. Your coming was foretold, Map Maker. Do you not know this?"

"I have to see it for myself."

"But the book is very personal to me; a voice from a millennia ago. I'm not sure it will do any good."

"Do you defy me?" said the Map Maker. "I don't want to ask again."

Father Devon nodded. "Then follow me."

"Now this is all very familiar," said Duggan, letting out a whistle. "I wondered how long it would take for a man like you to show his true nature."

He stood twenty or so paces from Stone, sword in hand, the blade angled toward the ground.

"Only this time you're the one holding a weapon to one of my men."

"But this time it's loaded."

Stone looked past him at the hundreds of villagers gathered on the trail. A few jeered and whistled.

"Whatever Pretan told is a lie," he shouted. "The man is guilty of abusing your children."

"My family have lived here for centuries," roared Pretan, waving his arms. "This man is a sinner. Are you going to believe his lies?"

The captain held up his hand, silencing the old man. "Pretan told me you went onto his land with forbidden weapons and kidnapped his daughter who lives there."

"He did, damn him. I was terrified. Shoot him."

Lenny began to fidget.

"Keep fucking still," said Stone.

Duggan stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"You murdered Dobbs and Farrell. Two well liked men. You shot Dobbs and you tortured Farrell. You butchered him like cattle."

"Dobbs and Farrell worked for Pretan," said Stone, addressing the crowd more than Duggan. He knew _they_ were ones he really needed to convince. "He paid them coin to steal your children and take them to Winshead."

"I've heard the story," said Duggan. He crossed himself. "It's sick and I don't believe a word of it."

The crowd was growing increasingly vocal. Duggan could sense the anger amongst them and hardly any of it was being directed toward Stone. The captain looked down at his man, white faced.

"Let my men go and we can talk about this privately. Just the two of us. I promise I will listen to you."

Stone was silent.

"I give you my word as a Captain in the Churchmen Regiment and a worshipper at the Holy House."

"He'll listen to you," said Lenny. "Duggan never goes back on his word."

Stone called out. "Did Pretan tell you about Essamon?"

Duggan frowned. "What about him?"

"Essamon is dead. The freak with the hat of feathers is rotting under the sun. I killed him last night."

There were gasps and mutterings amongst the crowd.

"Did you really kill him?" said Duggan.

"His box of light is no more," shouted Stone. "Anyone who was in Great Onglee knows how terrifying that weapon was."

There were cheers. Then he dealt his ace card.

"Essamon was at Pretan's farm in Winshead last night. And this morning the traitor Deacon Rush arrived."

Duggan tensed as the hostility swung toward Pretan and his soldiers. Stone had won the crowd. Quinn stepped forward and thrust her crossbow at Pretan, making things even tougher.

"How can you trust anything this man says? He was collaborating with the Shaylighters and his son, Jeremy, was a traitor."

The crowd began to heckle and swelled forward. Lumps of mud whipped through the air.

"Silence," shouted Duggan. "Stone has still committed two murders and carries a forbidden weapon and he's badly wounded one of my men."

"Who cares about Dobbs and Farrell?" shouted a voice. "They were kidnapping our kids."

"You should have done something about them years ago, Duggan."

The crowd continued to badger him. Duggan nodded to his bowmen.

"Take him."

A volley of shots burst from the trees and ripped the ground around the Churchmen. They halted.

"Send her down," called Stone.

The people watched as Nuria emerged from the trees, a pistol in one hand, the hand of a child in the other. Pretan shrank inside his wrinkled skin as they came down the grassy bank. Heads craned to study the girl; her eye was patched and her skin was deeply mottled but she still resembled Pretan's twin daughters. Even Duggan stared. A third child? The girl knelt beside his wounded man and calmly placed her hands against his shaking leg. The hundreds of onlookers were hushed in fascination.

"They've never seen anything like her," said Nuria.

"Let's hope it's enough."

"What's she doing?" asked Lenny.

"Shut up and learn," said Stone.

The soldier on the ground was speechless. There was no pain. Nothing. He could see through the hole in his trouser leg where the bullet had passed through but the skin appeared unbroken. Frowning, he tore at the fabric, exposing more of his leg, but there was no scar anywhere. Gingerly, he got to his feet and took a few steps. He shook his head, looked skyward and made the sign of the cross. Stone relaxed his grip on Lenny, pushed him away. He heard the bowstrings strain but Duggan ordered his men to lower their weapons.

He walked slowly toward the child healer.

"How did you do that?"

The girl looked at the cross on his uniform.

"Am I in trouble?"

"No," said Nuria. "You're not in trouble."

"It's all true," shouted Quinn, circling Pretan, her crossbow aimed at his head. "The strangers are telling the truth. You've seen it with your own eyes. The girl can heal with touch. That man had a bullet wound and now he's walking as if nothing happened."

Duggan wheeled around. "That's enough, Quinn."

"Dobbs and Farrell have been stealing our children and giving them to Pretan. They took my girl, Clarissa. Pretan beat her and abused her and used his own daughter to hide her wounds. This man used his daughter's gift to cover his sick crimes. He's a monster. The children call him the Predator. And none of us believed them. Tell me your children haven't come to you with this story. Tell me."

"Quinn, no more."

Heads dropped in the crowd. A child bent down, picked up a rock and threw it.

"Stone and Nuria are heroes. Pretan is your enemy. Pretan is the one who should be arrested."

"This is all lies," hissed Pretan.

"No, it's not," said Quinn. "You fucking cunt."

And she struck him, swinging the crossbow, cracking the stock across his face, splitting the skin.

"Cunt."

She planted her boot into his face. Repeatedly. Blood flowed. And then someone shouted.

"Kill the bastard."

And they rushed forward. Nuria scooped up the girl as her father disappeared inside the mob. Duggan rallied his men and sent them into the pack but it was hopeless and his men began to scatter, running back into the village. Duggan seethed. He could hear Pretan screaming as he was jostled and punched. His body was stripped. The villagers kicked him. Stone tucked his revolver into his belt, rested one hand on the butt and stood watching.

"Do something," yelled Duggan.

Stone smiled. "I did."

Churchmen streamed from the village and the people began to flee. Duggan pushed into the remaining crowd as his men circled the crippled and bloodied body of Pretan.

"You're finished here. All of you. I'll have banishment orders issued within the hour."

Quinn shrugged. "This was the right thing to do, Duggan."

Nuria carried the girl to him.

"Captain Duggan?"

He ignored her.

"Captain Duggan, now you will listen to me this once. You need to protect her. She's the most precious person in your village. Don't you think of turning your back on me. She's more important than you or the men in the Holy House or any of your laws and beliefs. She can save lives. She can heal the sick and dying. She can do real good for your people. You need to protect her."

He still said nothing.

"All we've tried to do is help."

"Your help has seen a man kicked to death. Two little girls have lost a father and a brother."

"A child abuser and a traitor," said Quinn. "Big fucking loss."

Nuria shrugged. "Well, they gained a sister."

Duggan looked at Stone.

"What are you going to do now?"

Nuria stepped into his line of vision. "We're going to escort Boyd to Touron. Like we promised."

"Make sure you don't come back."

"We won't."

Quinn slung her crossbow on her shoulder. She stood with Stone and Nuria.

"Not all of them want to fight," said Stone. "Talk to Boyd. You might still avoid a war."

Pretan's limp and blood stained corpse was lifted from the ground and carried toward the village. His hands dragged in the mud. His one-eyed daughter watched in silence.

"Where's Kaya?" asked Nuria. "I thought she'd be here. We need to tell her it's all over. Quinn, where is she?"

Her head dipped, her voice was hollow. "Jeremy was watching the cottage last night. He broke in. He had a gun."

Nuria bit her lip, leaned into Stone and pressed her face against his chest. He folded his arms around her and her shoulders shook as she cried. He stared over her dirty blonde hair and noticed the fresh bruises on Quinn's face and the bandage wrapped around her arm.

Nuria felt a tug on the hem of her fleece. She looked down at the child healer.

"Can I make you better?"

"No, sweetie, not this time."

Stone placed a hand on the girl's head, turned her around.

"Heal Quinn," he said, pointing.

Rondo was behind the wheel of the buggy as it streaked through the long avenues. He was in his early thirties, dusky skin, a thin moustache, loose black clothing. A rifle leaned against the passenger seat, fitted with a telescopic lens. There was an ammunition belt curled on the seat with a dusty looking backpack. He tossed open the flap, rooted inside for a chunk of bread. Darkness crawled over the city. Bread hanging from his mouth, he reached for the dashboard and the headlamps raked along the avenue, illuminating minor cracks in the asphalt and the sidewalks. It was good to be home. He grinned and swallowed the last of the bread.

A man recognised his customised vehicle and called out to him and Rondo raised his hand in acknowledgement. Rondo was known by many, feared by most, with an established reputation, hard earned, the right hand man of the League, the enforcer, trusted and loyal. He had served Traore and now he served Omar. Omar was a different breed, a man after his own heart. Traore had grown lazy through the years, his passion diluted by title and privilege. He should have fucked his woman more and honoured his responsibilities to the voiceless people of the League instead of allowing the lower level factions to thrive in the aftermath of the civil war.

There had always been gangs but the numbers boomed during and after the war; peddling drugs, whoring young women, stealing from businesses. A crippling life became even more desperate. The gangs didn't care. They fought over blocks and corners killing over names and colours. Food was scarce, it always had been, it still was, but the gangs held the noose and people died from starvation more than by gun or blade. Rondo had been born into the gangs, the Red Dog. He'd run with them, murdered and tortured with them, chilled the neighbourhoods with unprecedented violence, but then he'd walked away from it, sickened by the cruelty against the citizens of the League. He didn't care about the citizens of the Ministry or the Society. They chose to be victims. Kiven gangs were merciless and Traore had neither crushed nor absorbed them, the way Omar was doing.

Omar accepted their existence but controlled and manipulated the levels of violence thus reaping the respect and devotion of the Kiven people but still allowing the gangs to operate. This was a man who saw clearly and saw quickly, a man who seized opportunity and made things happen. Rondo liked that. In this life, a man who hesitated was a man who was beaten. The Alliance had hesitated for years, sullied by the weak Ministry of Progress and the even weaker Society of Souls; deliberating fools propped up by fawning sycophants.

Still, he imagined they'd been dealt with during his time away.

He slewed around a bend, racing hard. He passed the crumbling tenement blocks of his childhood, still gang central, the aged brickwork soot stained and defaced, iron railings fixed over empty windows. He swung over an iron bridge. The wind buffeted the fast moving, lightweight vehicle. He saw the stars in the black sky and the scattered dark clouds. Across the parched river were the shops and stalls, the thriving marketplaces of Kiven; bright and noisy and cheap smelling. He laughed at men who enjoyed the stalls, calling them weak and pussy whipped, but, in truth, he delighted in stopping and browsing, trading pathetic coin for objects he had no understanding of, no use for and no purpose in owning; yet he wanted to own them, to decorate his apartment, to impress the many women in his life that he was a refined and cultured man.

It was Adina who spotted his vehicle as it screeched into the underground car park, twin exhausts spitting trails of fumes.

"Rondo is back."

"Good," said Omar, relaxing on the bed, shirt off, revealing his scarred chest and abdomen.

She came away from the balcony; glanced at him. Conversation had been stilted and awkward since last night.

"We need to clear the air," she said.

Omar took a hit of the pipe. "I will accept your apology."

"I have nothing to say sorry for. You lied to me. You said we would offer them the chance to join us."

"Them? With us? We would have achieved nothing with them, Adina."

"Then why didn't you tell me that was the plan?"

"Did you have a problem with them dying?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what is the matter here? Be quiet, I need to think."

He slipped a hand toward his groin, stroked himself.

"That's not part of our discussion, Omar."

"It will be if I need it to be."

"You won't treat me that way."

"I cannot _think_ , Adina."

"You told Cooperman about your past. Before telling me. That hurt me, Omar. I know so little of your life before me."

He did not reply.

"The Society and the Ministry will want answers."

"Then you will give them answers. I am a warrior, Adina, not a politician."

"A warrior? Or a Warlord?"

He lowered the glass pipe.

"I once ruled a great tribe. Now I am here. I do not want to talk of the past. Only the present. With you."

She nodded, thought for a moment.

"This is why we should have kept Nichols and Cooperman alive. The city would have been easier to control with them as puppet leaders."

"They would have never been puppets. Especially not a man like Cooperman. You know nothing of a man like that, Adina. Men do not reach his age, my age, being puppets. We stand and we fight. The only solution was to kill them. Now we face down any dissenters and then move forward with the plan."

"How long before we head for the Place of Bridges?"

"Soon," said Omar. "Very soon. I want the vehicles and men ready. Once we hear from our spies that the Marshals have been redeployed to deal with the Shaylighters then we can advance into the final stage."

His hand touched his rippled skin. "I am waiting for your apology."

She shrugged off her jacket. "Keep waiting." Her shirt was tight, sleeveless. She still wore her twin shoulder holsters.

"Do you intend to use them against me?"

Her hands glided over the pistols, then slid over her breasts.

"Which ones?"

A smile lit his face. She sauntered back to the bed, twisted his foot. He reached for her.

"Rondo will be here any minute," she said.

"He can wait."

There was a bang on the door. Omar shook his head.

"Come in, Rondo, you bastard."

The man dumped his rifle and pack on the floor and looked at them, sheepishly, realising what he'd interrupted.

"Did they sign it?" asked Omar

Rondo went into his pack and retrieved a sheaf of papers. "Emissary Rondo is finally home."

He threw them into the air. The three of them laughed as the papers sailed onto the floor.

"They wish to begin trade runs in ten days. Ten years of peace and now we have trade with them."

Omar handed him the pipe. "Well done, my friend."

"I'm glad to be back. I want to wash the stench of Touron from my clothes. I need drink and pussy."

"There are plenty of both on the floor below," said Adina. "Any complications?"

"A few." He paused. "The Archbishop has fallen ill. He won't travel to Brix for the Summer Blessings."

"What?" said Omar.

"And the Shaylighters have already attacked. No waiting for the beacon. Great Onglee is gone. Hundreds massacred. Everything destroyed."

Omar and Adina exchanged looks. It was Omar who spoke. "Will they split their forces over the destruction of this village?"

Rondo shrugged. "I don't know. I only heard this when I was leaving. And there have been arrests. The rumours are the Ennpithian traitors have been captured or killed."

"Do these traitors know of our involvement?"

"I cannot imagine Essamon would've told them about us."

"What is he planning to do now? Will he still attack Brix?"

"I heard the Shaylighters are already advancing on Brix. Omar, the Holy House there is the oldest in Ennpithia. The Legend of the Patriarch. All that shit. Destroying it will strike at the heart of their faith. It doesn't matter if the Archbishop is there or not. He is certain to die from poor health anyway. They have no miracle medicines in Touron."

"But we cannot hold the Place of Bridges against all the Marshals. We do not have enough men and weapons. This is why we used the Shaylighters, Rondo."

"Rondo is right, Omar," said Adina. "The Holy House in Brix is more precious to them than the Archbishop. It would've been perfect to destroy them together but if the Archbishop is dying we will achieve both things anyway."

Omar looked at them, thought for a moment.

"They'll weaken the border," said Rondo. "It will come. It's only a matter of time. The lie of Mosscar is over and the Shaylighters will run wild. The Albury's have a new enemy to fight."

"Hmm," said Omar. "Let us hope they do not forget the old one."

Both men grinned.

"Well, this is not how I planned it," he said. "But perhaps things have fallen favourably for us."

He clapped Rondo on the back.

"Good work."

"Was there anything else?" asked Adina, taking a hit from the pipe.

Rondo nodded. "Just three strangers in Brix. Travellers. Two men, a woman. Brian says they came from Gallen."

Omar stiffened. "Gallen? Was the woman one-eyed?"

"No," said Rondo, and frowned. "I mean, he never said."

"Did he describe her?"

"In her twenties. Pale skin. Blonde hair."

"And the men?"

"One was fat and bald."

The colour drained from Omar's face. Rondo glanced at Adina.

"And the other man? Tell me. Quickly. Describe him."

"Brian said he was tall, with a scar down his face. He heard someone use the name Stone."

"Omar, what is it?" said Adina, but he'd turned away from her. "Do you know this man Stone and the others? Talk to me, Omar."

He clasped his hands behind his back, walked to the balcony, inhaled the smell of the city.

"I never thought I would see you here," he whispered.

Slowly, he faced them.

"Drink and pussy can wait, Rondo. Refill your buggy and drive back to Touron. You need to speak with the Albury's once more."

"Yes, Omar."

"This is what you must tell them."

Rondo listened intently, then quickly picked up his rifle and pack, nodded at Adina and left.

Adina rubbed the goose bumps from her arms. "Omar?"

"The woman is called Nuria. She is a fighter. The fat man is called the Map Maker. He is nothing. But Stone..."

He walked to her.

"Stone is the man who mutilated my body."

TWENTY SIX

"Thank you," said the Map Maker.

"You're welcome," said Shauna.

He'd planned on sliding the discoloured pages with his stumps but they looked too thin and he was concerned his clumsy method might even damage the ancient book. Father Devon had been reluctant to allow it from his sight but the Map Maker had confronted him in the basement of the Holy House and urged the priest to have faith and accept who he was and that the book was important. The Map Maker had pondered his declaration as he strolled back to Mrs Renshaw's boarding house.

Could it be true? Was he...?

He smiled warmly at Shauna. She seemed relieved to be inside the boarding house, away from prying eyes and acidic tongues. He noticed the way the villagers were looking at her since her husband had returned in chains. He now languished in the barracks and she had not been allowed to speak with him. A lot of the villagers had no real idea what was going on. Some of them were still unaware of the Shaylighter threat. The gunshot had seen hundreds of them flee to the outskirts of the village and the Map Maker had learned that a man had been killed and that Stone and Nuria were somehow involved. Confusion and ignorance were spilling into angry confrontations as neighbours clashed. There was aggressive finger jabbing and shoving and mouthfuls of foul abuse. Since the war, life had grown predictable, ordered, with Sal Munton the only sinful thorn, but now a dark cloud had pressed against Ennpithia; there had been bloodshed and betrayal.

Sunlight streamed through the open shutters. She sat on the corner of the bed, basking in its warmth. He sat alongside her, the book resting on his lap, a scrawl of words across the cover. She could smell his odour; it was different to that of her husband, refreshing and pleasant. She spotted a basin on a wooden sideboard and there were used cloths draped over the back of the chair. He was a well scrubbed man. It was curious that two men she had known all her life had been the ones to brutalise her yet a man she barely knew had shown her nothing but kindness.

All he wanted in return was that she would turn the pages of a book.

"Can you read?" he asked.

"I never went to school."

"Are you happy to do this for me?"

"My brother is alive. Dobbs and Farrell are dead. I'm more than happy to do this."

The refugees from Great Onglee had spent the night in the barracks. Exhausted, deeply traumatised, there was a collective spirit about them, a determination not to fold despite those who had been lost. They told stories of the small band of men and women who had resisted the swathes of painted warriors and the terrible light that had scorched buildings and melted flesh. But most of all they spoke of the man and woman, the two strangers, who had led the fight back and hacked the Shaylighters into the dirt.

"Would you like me to read to you?"

"Is it a sin?"

"Reading is not a sin."

"But this is from the Before. We're not supposed to possess or use anything from the Before."

"It belonged to Father Devon. He read it."

"Oh."

"And he's a priest. A man of the Holy House. You can trust him."

"I trusted the deacon."

"But he was a traitor. You couldn't have known that."

"No."

"Could you imagine Father Devon committing a sin?"

She didn't answer. She believes in me, he thought. She actually believes in me. He smiled.

"Sapphire Johnson. My diary. Age one three. Private. Keep out" He waited. "Please turn the page when I finish, Shauna."

He studied her hands, golden in the shafts of sunlight. He stroked the cross on his chest with his stump.

"Two nine dot one two dot one three. I wonder what the numbers mean. I've seen numbers in books before but I've never grasped their purpose. I think they're dates. But I don't fully understand them."

Shauna looked at the page. It was grimy and stained. There were lines of sloping words but most were smudged.

"Things are shit."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, it's written here."

"Oh. Who put the words in there?"

"A girl. I think it's a girl. I can't imagine Sapphire being a man's name."

"Why?"

"Because it's not very a male sounding..."

"No, I mean _why_ did put the words on the page?"

He stopped. "I don't know. Perhaps the same the reason I draw maps. Or used to draw them. It's a record. A piece of the past for generations to come. Are you interested in the past, Shauna? In history?"

She shook her head. "I know the history of Ennpithia. We all do. But it doesn't really interest me. I still don't understand why you put it in a book."

He paused once more. "I think so she can remind herself of what has happened in her life. She's making sure she doesn't forget."

Dobbs and Farrell flashed in her thoughts. She recoiled from the Map Maker. She wanted to vomit.

"Are you going to be okay?"

She nodded. "Please read some more."

The Map Maker lowered his eyes.

"Yeah. What the fuck am I... even like to... hate it... Dad is on about this no gad... gad..." He paused. "I don't know this word and I've come across it before. Gad get. Hmm. I'll read on... so here I am. You know I kept... about seven or eight. I wrote stuff about... the things... and stuff but Mum's not here now..."

He looked up.

"It's a shame most of the words are gone."

Shauna hesitated at the edge of the page.

"I think I should be with Brian. I should be trying to get him out of the barracks."

Her eyes glistened.

"Will you come to the barracks with me?"

He knew it was what she wanted but it wasn't what he wanted. He needed her to turn the page.

Go with her, my son. She needs you. She has been hurt by the Ennpithian barbarians. Care for her, my son. And she will be yours. You will plant your seed within her.

He rubbed his head with his stumps. "I'll come with you, Shauna, but I must read the final entry before we go."

She nodded and began to skip through the book. The words on many of the pages were no more than black smears. Sometimes they glimpsed drawings. They saw one of a giant cloud shaped as a common mushroom. Then all the pages went blank.

"Go back," he urged. "Hurry."

She flipped back and quickly found the page he wanted.

"Still winter," he read.

"I need to go, Map Maker, but I'm scared to go by myself."

"Please," he said, gently. "I will come with you. I promise. But I must read this final entry."

"Been cold for two years. Don't know where we are now. John says the maps... they have maps... John says the maps don't mean nothing now. Everything has... he's a fucking... is sick now. We pray for him. He'll go like Mum. I'm glad he... it's horrible to live... cares about this now... I used to hate writing... it's the only friend I have..."

He lifted his head, and repeated, "It's the only friend I have. I think she meant this diary; this book was her only friend. Like my maps are to me."

He glanced at the satchel propped against the wall, stuffed with the papers he could no longer write on.

"Dad says keep praying... like that's going to help... Dean reckons no one is listening now... says that the Lord is dead... punished us... sins... but Dad says..."

The Map Maker frowned.

"There is no mention of me. Why did Father Devon...?"

He stopped.

"Dad says he'll come again... across the sea... walk among us as a man... Dean reckons... get off the cross... Dean says we should keep our eyes... for a man with no hands who wants... us back together again... mend what we all broke... I have to put the pen away, we can hear the dogs, they're coming..."

He looked at her.

"Dogs!"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," he said, rising. "Let's go to the barracks."

They rode all day, galloping hard along the eastern road, consumed in solemn reflection.

"Duggan's angry," said Boyd, as Stone and Nuria pushed ahead. "He's responsible for the villages of Western Ennpithia. In his eyes, he failed them. And what happened this morning was humiliating for him."

"Tough," said Quinn.

"I'm a man of faith but even I accept that Pretan deserved to die that way. I was with Kaya when she tried to convince her parents of the abuse. Stephen eventually believed her, thanks to Nuria, but Isobel never did. That poor girl died knowing her mother thought she was a liar."

"Mother's have a way of hurting the most," said Quinn, numb.

"Kaya never really had much of a happy life," said Boyd. "She was shuffled off into the corner the moment another child was born into the family. Stephen was a bit obsessed with having a large family."

Brix faded behind them, consumed by hills and forests. Boyd noticed Quinn glance back as the village disappeared from view. He reassured her that any banishment order would be quashed.

"I don't know if I want to go back."

She glimpsed into the past; sitting on her father's bench, smoking his pipe and watching Clarissa flit amongst the herbs; a mirror of her own childhood when he was still alive. Now they were gone, they were all gone. She hated her brother and she hated her mother. And she loved them both, too. It would always be that way. But the cottage? It would echo with too many ghosts. Maybe banishment was a good solution. It was out of her hands. She didn't have to make a choice. It troubled her as to what might happen to it in her absence but she was forced to remind herself that her family would still be the first and last thing she thought of, each and every day, whether she remained in the cottage or not.

"I'm glad you decided to come along," said Boyd. "I always feel better with you alongside me, Quinn."

"You've got Stone and Nuria."

He nodded. "They're good fighters. I respect that. But I always think of you as family."

"Look," said Stone, pointing.

Nuria saw unnatural shaped greenery, thrust against the landscape, almost straining to burst through.

"Bits and pieces of the Before," he said. "Like Mosscar. Just on a smaller scale."

She seemed only mildly interested.

"We'll probably see more of it the further east we head. Closer to the Black Region."

She nodded.

The road was straight, well travelled. Boyd had supplied them with fresh clothes after Winshead and Quinn had replenished their ammunition.

"You can't stop thinking about Kaya, can you?"

"Listening to her confide in me that night, going through it, how Pretan had... the things he had said and done... it was like listening to myself talk to you."

Stone waited.

"She never even got to see the bastard suffer. But Quinn said she knew it was him. She recognised Jeremy's voice, said he sounded a lot like his father. So maybe that's something."

Still he listened.

"Last night already feels like a lifetime ago. It almost was."

"You did a stupid thing in Winshead," he said.

"What?"

"What if the healer hadn't been there? You'd be gone now. And for what?"

"For you. Would you have done anything less?"

She saw him clench the reins.

"No, but the thought of you not being here ..."

He shook his head. It was several minutes before she spoke.

"Did you still like the gift?"

He patted his pocket.

"More than anything."

"When I look at it I think of us together. Fighting together, I mean."

He said nothing.

She cleared her throat.

"I think Quinn's hiding something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know."

"Something from last night?"

"Jeremy knocked her about pretty bad. Put a bullet through her arm. Tried to rape her. You'd think that would be enough, wouldn't you? But I think there's something else. I can see it in her eyes. I just can't put my finger on it."

Before he could ask her anything else three horse drawn wagons appeared on the road ahead. Stone reached for his binoculars. Weatherproof sheets covered the flatbeds, lashed down with rope. The loads were bulky and misshapen. A grim faced man with a broken nose and a thick beard rode the lead wagon. A sword was strapped to his waist. There was a crossbow on his lap. Boyd pushed his horse alongside them, hurriedly reassuring them he recognised the small convoy but Stone was unconvinced and wheeled his horse from the road, taking up a left flanking position. He slowed his horse, stroked her mane, took the slingshot carbine from his back, pumped it, kept the weapon angled at the convoy. Nuria stayed on the road but her pistol was drawn and she cradled the weapon in her lap.

"There's no need to be that suspicious," said Boyd, once the wagons had passed without incident.

"You don't like the way we work?" said Stone. "You can always go back and hire Dobbs and Farrell."

"Not you," said Duggan, blocking the doorway. "I don't want Gallenese in here. I'm sick of you people."

"Do you understand who I am?"

"I know who you're claiming to be and it's laughable. Get out of my sight, Map Maker. Or they'll be a banishment order for you as well."

The man's eyes were blazing with anger. Shauna looked at the Map Maker and nodded. Duggan slammed the door as he trudged away, disconsolate. He went to the Holy House and dropped onto a wooden pew.

He stared at the man on the cross.

Was it him?

I know who you're claiming to be and it's laughable.

_He was a_ fragment of Sapphire Johnson's fantasy. That's all. How long ago had those words been written? A thousand years ago? Two thousand years? Father Devon was convinced he knew the timing of the Cloud Wars but no exact records existed and only small stories still circled of the decades of winter and the shifting of the lands when the Before collapsed. But it was all speculation. The man of faith was desperate to believe in anything and anyone and the Map Maker had foolishly obliged and indulged him. The moment he'd read the word _dogs_ he knew he was being mocked. How could Father Devon have been so cruel? Dogs didn't exist. They hadn't existed for billions of years. Or thousands of years. Or however long. It didn't matter. The diary was made up nonsense. He would return the book and find a horse and leave this place.

There was nothing for him here. Not even Shauna.

"I'm laughable." He lifted his stumps. "If you're there, really there, why did you do this to me? Why?"

You are special to me. You do not understand how long I have waited for you to hear me, my son. Many of my children die. You survived. You have outlived them all. I am so proud.

"Proud of what?" said the Map Maker, aloud. "I was stupid for even believing it. Father Devon is an old fool."

He is misguided, my son. His time is soon to end. He needs you to bring substance to his decades of service at the feet of a false Lord. Real men believe in warriors, my son. Father Devon has been brainwashed by the Holy House. But soon his time and their time will finish.

"When I was a child you were just noise. A horrible noise. Then I realised you were a voice but I could never make out your words."

You might not have understood the words, my son. But you have always understood their meaning.

I have called to you since the day you were born.

"I like talking to you. I feel safe. Are you from Chett? From the city?"

No, and you were not born there, my son, you were born here, in the arena of our people.

"You were born in Mosscar."

He sat forward. "What?"

The voice had come from behind him; the hackles rose on his neck, his mouth hung open.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I am your blood mother. I placed you here forty years ago. I crossed into Brix under the cover of darkness and planted you as a seed. It has been our way for centuries." Her voice was clean and smooth. "I left you on the steps of the Holy House. Your tiny eyes sparkled at me. Your tiny hands thrust toward me. You were a beautiful baby. But that night, as I left, raiders came and you were one of the many things stolen. I called to you. I have always called to you. Now you are finally here with me."

The Map Maker shivered.

"You've always known you never belonged in Gallen. Your path had begun elsewhere in this world."

"But how was your voice in my head? I don't understand."

He began to turn, slowly, and glimpsed a figure in a hooded cloak, head turned away.

The old world left gifts for the new one.

The Map Maker stared. "But you're half my age. You cannot be my mother. That's impossible."

"I have many gifts. And I have watched you since your arrival. That first moment you walked into the Holy House I was there. My name is Lannast. I am _Cailleach_. For generations I have planted our children amongst them."

"But I'm older than you."

"We do not see the world that way, do we? We see the world in different shapes and colours."

The Map Maker gasped. "Then, then I'm a Shaylighter?"

"Your birth name is Harron."

"I... I have a name? Harron?" He blinked. "Harron, Harron." His eyes were wet. "Is that my real name? Harron?"

"Listen to me," said Lannast. "We do not have much time."

You will instruct Father Devon to call another congregation for tonight. There will be prayer and song. During this time you will light the beacon. Essamon and Soirese are dead and Callart and Oxron will not come to Brix unless the beacon is lit. That was the Engineer's plan. Callart and Oxron will wait.

"They slaughtered the villagers in Great Onglee," said the Map Maker. "Surely you don't want that to happen here?"

"These are our lands," hissed Lannast. "Do not fail me, my son. Feel the surge of Shaylighter blood within your veins. Help us take back what they stole. For centuries we have hidden within the ruins, in the dirt. They sent us there and we died in our thousands until the disease killed us no more. Once we rode free beneath the sun. Once there were no walls around us."

Ennpithia belongs to us, my son. Now the Engineer has given us weapons that are superior to our enemies and promised us our lands back. You have grown into the most powerful of all our seeds. The Ennpithians trust you, Harron. They believe you have risen from the wooden cross to walk among them and wash the sins from their bodies.

Let them believe, Harron.

And then we can finally destroy them. The Map Maker is dead; Harron lives and Harron will lead us.

TWENTY SEVEN

The road shifted northeast, taking them away from the coastline and into hilly country, fiercely blasted by the wind.

The sea became a dark smudge between the green of the land and the reddish blue of the sky. After long hours in the saddle they reached the lonely looking hamlet of Featherun where they stopped and purchased vegetables from children tending the gardens of the Holy House. It was a more modest structure of wattle and timber with a thatched roof and a large wooden cross over the doorway. The priest was a short man dressed in black with a large shiny cross around his neck and Boyd addressed him as Father Ames. It was late in the afternoon and the children were tired after a long day but they perked up at the sight of visitors and eagerly plucked at the cucumbers and lettuces and tomatoes.

Nuria dug out a large handful of coins and dropped them into a dish carried by the eldest child. She had paid too much and the child shook his head and tried to hand half of it back but she patted him on the head and told him to keep it. She had no fondness for the metal currency and the children's faces blew away the cobwebs. Even Stone cracked a smile at the infectious bunch. As they prepared to leave Father Ames blessed them for the journey ahead but only Boyd responded. Quinn stared at the man with a numb expression.

The children waved them off with bright smiles. Further down the road, Boyd explained they were orphans.

They pressed on through the hills, the road dropping into a long gorge and then cresting a meadow of bright red flowers swaying in the wind. The horses kicked up clods of dried mud and the late sun beat down on them. Stone saw an abundance of ambush spots but there were no threats. Boyd carried two forbidden pistols, concealed within his clothing; he didn't need protection, reasoned Stone, he no doubt had plans for them. But Stone wasn't really bothered. He was glad to have left Brix. Pretan was dead and at least the children of Ennpithia were safe from the nightmare that was the Predator, although the truth behind Clarissa's death still eluded them, or so he knew. The Map Maker soured his thoughts further. He knew he would have to go back and collect him. He couldn't abandon him there with Duggan around.

"Touron," said Boyd.

Nuria detected a tinge of pride in the announcement as the town spread before them. Thatched rooftops were tucked behind high walls of wood and stone, fortified by watchtowers and ringed by a deep ditch bristling with thousands of wooden spikes. Armoured Churchmen soldiers roamed the battlements. A huge wooden drawbridge was lowered and the gates were open but manned by a cluster of sentries with swords and pikes. Men and women toiled in the fields outside, stopping to wipe the sweat from their brows and glance at the four riders in the distance. Beyond the south wall dense woodland surrounded a large lake, its rippled surface glinting with fading sunlight. There was a bustling lumber camp and the methodical chopping of wood rang in the air.

Boyd presented himself at the gates. The sentries knew him; he was the portly trader with the colourful neck scarves, always ready with a story or a joke or a bit of local gossip, and they recognised Quinn, his ever faithful escort, though she appeared humourless and distant. They studied Stone and Nuria but there was no challenge and they ushered them through into a wall of noise. As they trotted forward, Stone saw one of the sentries catch Boyd's eye. The plump man leaned from his saddle and listened. Whatever the information was the sentry received a handful of coins pressed into his gloved fist.

They rode in single column through crowded streets, hemmed in by buildings of wood and stone. Stone could feel the heat from his horse and she snorted impatiently as they were reduced to walking pace. Wagons rumbled by. People threaded back and forth. Cattle bleated, white feathered birds clucked. They reminded him of the black ollish birds found in Gallen. Nuria focused her gaze on the Holy House in the centre of town. It dwarfed the surrounding buildings, grey stone with towers and sloping roofs and spires and statues and crosses. Boyd told her it was the largest and tallest building in Ennpithia, though not the oldest. For some disconcerting reason it caused a shiver to dance her spine.

Stone glimpsed a tannery where red-faced villagers in aprons boiled and stretched animal hide. Children weaved about them; shouting, laughing, playing, brawling, stealing. There were solemn men in black robes and solemn men in brown robes, all bearing wooden crosses around their necks. And wherever they looked they saw groups of soldiers in full armour. It was clear that the messengers from Brix had arrived; Touron was prepared, aware that the Shaylighters were an imminent threat to the peace and stability of the land and that the Archbishop, the pinnacle of the Holy House, had been targeted. But the Archbishop had remained here and the beacon was unlit and the insidious plot was crumbling.

"I still think you're making a mistake," said Stone. "There are plenty of soldiers here. Why not send them to Brix?"

"Many of these men were boys when war erupted with the Kiven. What do they know of fighting hundreds of men? Nothing. The Marshals are hardened veterans, Stone. They'll rid Ennpithia of the Shaylighter menace once and for all."

The balmy evening caressed the town with a dusky veil as the sun unshackled itself and began to flee. White and grey clouds drifted slowly in the wind, feathered at the edges, tinged with red and orange. The farmers were trudging back through the gates, aching and sweating, looking to head home and clean up and pluck the youngest child onto their lap as hot broth was ladled into a bowl; others sought the nearest watering hole for cheap drink and cheap food, a hand of cards or a game of dice; some found their way into the back rooms and back alleys where the young women and young men were available at a price.

Fires were lit and Stone could taste wood smoke on his lips as they entered a large square. They saw beggars and fools and bullies and addicts. Dirt encrusted hands thrust toward them and were ignored. There were shouts and gestures and they were also ignored. A triple gallows, stripped of rope, creaked loudly. They reached a walled compound where numerous banners and flags fluttered from the rooftop of a large building. Boyd studied them and nodded to himself. The sentries on the gate were armed with pikes and carried swords. He addressed them briefly and ordered for their horses to be stabled. He.

"This might take a few hours," he explained, and pointed in the direction of a nearby inn.

"What did the soldier tell you when we first arrived?" asked Stone. "

"That both riders I sent arrived safely."

"What else?"

He hesitated.

"Sal Munton and his gang were hanged this morning. I'm sorry. Look, this man Munton was no innocent. Nor were his child thieves. They were guilty of murder and robbery and possibly even a rape. I know the man felt he was on a mission to protect these children but he should have come forward."

"Kaya's own parents didn't believe her," said Nuria. "No one would have believed him."

Boyd shrugged. "Pretan's dead. That business is over. Are we going to argue about this?"

"Over?" said Nuria. "Not for those children. It'll never be over."

Quinn looked at her and saw the pain in her blue eyes.

"There's nothing more I can do," said Boyd. "They're dead."

He took out a leather bag of coins, tossed it to Stone.

"Payment for your escort."

"There's no point brooding over the hangings," said Quinn. "Benny's right about Munton. He was a proper bastard. But the children..."

She left the words hanging, sitting with her hands in her lap, shoulders hunched, thick ropes of hair hanging around her bruised face.

"We still don't know what caused your daughter's sickness," said Nuria. "We know _why_ she went into Mosscar but it wasn't the city that killed her."

Quinn reached for her mug of ale, drank and said nothing. Stone watched her closely but had little else to add. Nor did Nuria, in truth. So the three of them drank and lit pipes and ordered food and passed the time listening to the conversations all around; bloated stories of the civil war, long winded jokes about a man with three wives, a discussion of faith and the rights and wrongs of the written word, excited chatter about the opening of the town's first bank, bits of gossip about a pair of well-known sisters who belonged to a wealthy family and frequented a male whorehouse. Few spoke of the Shaylighters. None spoke of the massacre at Great Onglee. They appeared detached from the problems in the west. Boyd had told Stone that Touroners, as he called them, were a different breed; it was all about the moment with them.

The hours drifted and the table grew cluttered with food stained bowls and plates. The inn was full. Men and women lined the bar and stood in groups. Outside, the streets turned dark.

It was left to Nuria to finally break the edgy silence.

"What else happened with Jeremy last night?"

Quinn lowered her pipe." He killed Kaya. He tried to kill me. I don't want to talk about it."

"But there was something else, wasn't there?"

"No."

"Why don't you trust us? Stone rescued you. We want to help. We're on your side."

Quinn bit her lip, fiddled with her thick hair.

"I do, I mean, I do trust you both, especially after Mosscar. But it's hard." She looked at them both. "You have to understand that I don't trust people easily. When I told you about Clarissa being my daughter it was because I was exhausted, my mind was shot. I just wanted someone else to know, not just Benny and Daniel."

She leaned forward, lowered her voice.

"Jeremy told me the Engineer killed Clarissa, this man Omar, the one Benny has been looking into."

She retold Jeremy's story of the experiments inside Mosscar.

"How do you inject sickness into someone?" said Nuria. She frowned. "Is that even possible?"

"Clarissa's dead. It has to be possible."

"Then this Omar is more dangerous than Boyd realises," said Stone. "This isn't just about arming Shaylighters with weapons."

"I don't care about any of that. I'm leaving in the morning. I'm going to Kiven and I'm going to find this Omar and kill the bastard."

She paused.

"Will you come with me? I know how good you both are in a fight."

"What about the treaties?" said Nuria. "If you kill this man it will be seen as an assassination – an act of war - it could easily spark a second conflict between Ennpithia and Kiven."

"Then we'll need to be far from there once it's done. I know little of the world beyond Ennpithia. But you two know plenty of it."

"We want to help you, Quinn, I promise, but think about it; killing this one man might cause hundreds or even thousands to die."

Quinn slammed her fist against the table.

"The bastard murdered Clarissa. My little girl. She'll never be my age. Do you understand that? She will always be eleven. Always. All those years were taken from her by this animal. We made Pretan pay. We'll make Omar pay. I'm not scared to face him and the League. I don't care about Ennpithia or Kiven but I can't go after him by myself. I need your help. Will you come or not?"

Stone plucked a piece of cold meat from his plate, popped it into his mouth, chewed slowly.

"I walked into Nuria's home city to kill a man and avenge my murdered family. I didn't think about the consequences and I didn't care about them. I'd carried that hate for more than thirty years and it ripped me apart inside. I was a man of hate, burning with it, barely talking, only hunting, year after year. Tomas and Emil followed me into Chett and it didn't matter who we killed or how many. Then he was dead and I still felt nothing. But..."

He placed a hand on Nuria's arm. She closed her eyes.

"But it helped me. It freed me and gave me a new purpose in a way I never expected it to. We have no idea what happened to the city once we left and we probably never will. Nuria is right. You have to think this through."

Nuria opened her eyes and whispered, "Clarissa deserves to be avenged. Despite all I said."

Quinn nodded.

"I can't bear life without her. I have to do this."

"We're going with," said Stone. "How important is this man in Kiven? In real terms. Who is he?"

Quinn explained of the three factions that governed the half-ruined city and how the Alliance was constructed to act as one voice.

"Omar is governor of the League of Restoration. The oldest and most hostile of the factions. They were the ones who sparked the war. The other factions simple followed. But Omar is not Kiven by blood. I know that much. Rumour is he only came to Ennpithia last year."

"That's a short amount of time to gain power," said Stone, easing back in his chair.

"So if we march in there and kill him," said Nuria, "there's no guarantee it would trigger a second war."

"Only if they suspect it was Ennpithians."

"We're not Ennpithians. Remember?"

Stone set down his mug. "Tell us about the city."

But then a messenger elbowed his way through the crowd; they had been summoned to present themselves to the Albury's.

As the messenger led the three of them back to the compound, twenty Churchmen soldiers assembled inside the armoury wearing full armour and carrying bows and swords. The sergeant leading the men remained at the door. He was a tall man with a short red beard and a thick neck. A long sword was strapped to his back and a shorter blade hung from his belt.

He formed him men into two columns and called for absolute silence.

Rondo was stretched across the back seat of the buggy, hands behind his head, staring at the roof of the barn.

He thought of the men inside the armoury.

And grinned.

A solitary sentry closed the gate behind them and came to attention. His armour bore the sign of the cross and he gripped a pike in his gloved fist. His bearded face was expressionless. The courtyard was empty. The night air was cool. Stone noticed the walls were clear of men.

All the doors were closed. All the windows were shuttered.

The hackles rose on his neck. His hand glided toward his revolver and rested on the handle. Nuria flicked her gaze at him, at once realising the same thing.

"This way," urged the messenger, a clean faced youth, no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

They crossed straw scattered flagstones toward a set of broad double doors flanked by statues of naked women with no hands and tightly curled hair. Stone kept his hand casually on his weapon. The messenger pulled open one of the double doors and gestured into a modest hall where a giant wooden cross hung from the wall. It was damp and draughty. A serving girl rushed by carrying a wooden tray. She didn't even glance at them.

There were no guards anywhere.

"Please," said the messenger.

He pointed to an open door where Boyd and another man stood in deep discussion beside a roaring fire.

Quinn went into the room. Stone and Nuria followed, looking back at the courtyard one last time.

Stone imagined a dour family burden with crosses and books of law, crowded by priests and advisors, righteous and blinkered in their views.

But the one Albury he met couldn't have been further from that.

"Lewis Richard Albury," announced Boyd. "Governor of Touron and Ennpithia's Principle Ruler and Law Maker."

"I have an additional list of titles," smiled Albury. "Trust me; they're boring and mostly redundant."

He was clearly educated and there was a spark of energy in his handshake. He was tall, six foot, with narrow, almost hunched shoulders. His skin was pasty white, hairless, with high cheekbones and hollow jowls. He was clearly a man who avoided the sunlight, whether through choice or not, and there was a somewhat faded and gaunt appearance to him, but not enough to dim the vivacity in his blue eyes. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, certainly a few years older than Nuria, whose hand he now gripped. Stone saw him hold onto it for a moment longer as his eyes sparkled at her.

At length, he thanked them, individually, for shattering the myth of Mosscar and their courage and bravery in fighting the Shaylighters at Great Onglee.

"I'm not a soldier. I rule with my head and my heart, not my fists. But I never forget the sacrifice men and women make in battle. With their lives and with their souls. What happened at Great Onglee will leave a deep scar. In the years to come, long after we have all departed into the Above, people will still talk of the massacre of our people and the courage that was shown by all of you."

He wore a cross but there were no more crosses in his chamber though there was a bookcase brimming with papers and scrolls. The stone floor was scattered with rugs. There were benches and low tables with bowls of freshly washed fruit and a drinking cups and a jug of wine. He invited them to sit and eat and pour themselves a drink. Quinn and Nuria accepted but Stone declined and remained behind them both, his right hand still resting on his revolver.

"You're perfectly safe here, Mr Stone. You can take your hand off your firearm. And, Benny, please take your hand away from your pistols."

"So you don't object to these forbidden weapons?" said Nuria, arching one eyebrow. "These weapons of sin?"

"Sin is determined by a man's actions," said Albury. "The tools he carries is irrelevant. In my view."

Stone smiled thinly. "The courtyard was too quiet. You should have left a few men on the walls."

The fire crackled, torches flickered.

"A good soldier will always spot a trap," said Albury. He appeared sincere. His voice was still bright and energetic. "But this is not one. Not unless you want it to be. If you tell me the truth then you will walk away from my chamber the heroes you were before you entered. But if not, then the twenty soldiers outside in the courtyard will subdue."

Nuria rose slowly to her feet. "Why are you people this way? You're no different to Captain Duggan."

"That's Ennpithians," said Quinn, speaking for the first time. "Saving all their gratitude for the Lord."

"Calm down," said Albury. "My soldiers are a precaution."

"But not a very good one," said Stone. "Because they're out there and we're in here, with you."

He whipped out his revolver and pointed it at a frustrated Boyd. Nuria hurriedly disarmed him and pocketed his pistols. Boyd fumed at them. Stone checked the door; silence outside and no one trying to force their way in.

He eased the chamber door shut.

"Am I now a hostage?" asked Albury.

He seemed unperturbed. He placed his hands on his hips, calmly drumming his fingers.

"What truth do you want from us?" asked Nuria.

Albury glanced at Stone's revolver. Stone nodded, lowered it but kept his finger against the trigger.

"Thank you, Mr Stone." He moved to the fire and folded his arms. "Since the winter we have received an emissary from Kiven. His name is Rondo and he is a member of the League of Restoration. He was dispatched by the Alliance to seek a trade treaty with us. Naturally, I was suspicious of this man, he was Kiven, after all, but the war was a decade ago and time does march onward. Rondo spoke of the changes in Kiven, the supply of energy into homes, the rebuilding of schools and libraries and the development of black energy to power motorised vehicles. He even spoke of a burgeoning religion. It's a city that fascinates me." He touched the cross around his neck. "Understand that I'm a man of the Holy House, a man of faith with devotion to the cross. But I'm not in agreement with every aspect of our religion and I have a mind and I have thoughts and I have opinions." Boyd grumbled. "Benny, we both take liberties with Holy law." Albury turned his attention back to his guests. "Life is too short. The Lord urges us to be fearful of the past and the period of history known as the Before because of the destruction that was caused. But I would prefer to be wary of it, rather than frightened. We want the Kiven to learn from us and allow the Lord into their hearts, yet it seems we do not want to learn anything from them. That's ignorance, in my view."

Stone kept thinking of the soldiers in the courtyard. "I knew a man once called the Thinker. He liked to talk, a bit like you. And when he finished talking he used the men around him to inflict horrific pain."

Stone nodded at Nuria.

"We tore his world apart."

Albury looked at them evenly. "I'm not planning on hurting anyone. But you need to understand why those soldiers are outside and that we are prepared to defend ourselves against you, Mr Stone. Or do I call you the Tongueless Man? Or is it the Wasteland Soldier? Well?"

Both Stone and Nuria stared at him.

"How do you know those names?" whispered Stone.

"Let him talk," said Boyd. "Time is running out and you have to understand what's going on here."

"Thank you," said Albury. "As you are now aware, Benny is one of our most important spies. The first thing he discovered about Rondo is that he is not a man suited to negotiation."

"I have sources inside Kiven," said Boyd. "Information can be smuggled out. He identified Rondo as the League of Restoration's enforcer. The man is a killer. Not a statesman. He served under the previous governor, Traore, and now serves the new one, Omar. The man we now know to be the Engineer."

"Benny showed me the slingshot carbine," said Albury. "It's a weapon the Kiven used in their war against us although I believe they have more advanced weaponry now. I also believe they intend to use it against us. The trade agreement is a ploy, a distraction, whilst they arm the Shaylighters to stoke up trouble in the west. We are on the verge of a two front war. And we do not have enough men to fight both enemies."

He paused.

"When Benny's messengers arrived I made the decision to recall four hundred Marshals from the Place of Bridges. The regiments will arrive at dawn."

"Then you've made a terrible mistake," said Stone.

"Benny told me your thoughts on the matter and I agree with you. That was an interesting analogy. Untying one hand only to tie the other." He nodded. "But the Marshals will not be deployed against the Shaylighters. They will remain here. Concealed. If this man, Omar the Engineer, has constructed an elaborate plan to weaken our border then, in his eyes, it will have worked. Now his hand will be forced. He will have to make his move. Let's see if he truly wants peace and trade or all out war. The Marshals can be sent back to the Place of Bridges if the Kiven invade and we will crush them."

Nuria frowned. "What about the Shaylighters?"

"I believe Captain Duggan is resourceful enough to counter them. He is forewarned of their intentions, unlike at Great Onglee. He has good men and a village prepared to fight. A messenger has already been sent to Brix to destroy the beacon. That will give them some time. The Shaylighters will wait and when they realise it's never going to be lit they will turn back to Mosscar."

"That's a gamble," said Quinn. "It sounds as if you're prepared to sacrifice Brix. That village is my home."

"Not anymore, I understand, isn't there a banishment order on you? In fact, on all of you?"

Stone shrugged. "We're going to ignore that."

Albury smiled. "I do like you, Mr Stone. You would make a fine Captain in the Marshal Regiment. I will write to Captain Duggan and have those orders scrapped. You will be free to travel back there. Now, to this other business with Rondo. A few days ago we finally signed the agreement with the Kiven to establish a trade route; food for iron. But a few hours ago Rondo drove back here with a wild story to tell."

"Is that his buggy in the stable?"

Albury nodded. "You have very keen eyes. Yes, the vehicle belongs to him. He's waiting for you to be arrested. He claims a man named Stone is an assassin, wanted in Kiven for the attempted murder of Omar."

"We've never been to Kiven," said Nuria.

"You can't trust them," said Quinn.

"I tend to agree with them, sir," said Boyd.

"I allowed you in here with your weapons," said Albury, smiling. "I would've hardly done that if I feared for my life. You shed blood fighting for our people. My heart tells me you're an honest man and my eyes confirm it, despite your surly nature and readiness to draw that weapon. However, my head wants to know more. Did you attempt to kill this man Omar in Kiven?"

"I don't know who he is."

"Do you know Rondo or anyone else in Kiven?"

"No."

Nuria said, "Did Rondo give you those names?"

"Yes, he did. But this is confusing. In the midst of such a dangerous plan why would the Kiven be so concerned about one individual?"

Stone's mouth curved into a grim smile.

"I think we should find out."

Rondo heard the voice and sat up sharply; he must have dozed. He grabbed his rifle, rolled in his seat. The young messenger ducked down, covering his head with his hands.

"Please, don't shoot me."

Rondo looked around the barn and saw no one else. He eased his finger off the trigger and jumped down from the buggy. The messenger was little more than a child. He lowered the rifle and demanded to know what he was doing here.

The boy slowly uncovered his face. "Governor Albury needs to see you urgently. He says the man is here and they have arrested him."

Smiling, Rondo put the rifle back into his vehicle. He had only expected to deliver the message; he had never anticipated Stone actually being here in Touron. Omar would be elated.

"Lead the way," he said.

The messenger pulled open the barn door. Rondo stopped in his tracks. A dozen arrows were pointing at him.

Omar was in the underground car park, standing with a mechanic beside a large armoured vehicle, when a car sped down the ramp and skidded to a halt. The driver scrambled out, leaving the engine idling, the door hanging wide open. His leather clothing was dusty. He tugged down the scarf covering his mouth.

"The Marshals have left the Place of Bridges, Omar. Long lines of them are marching west."

Omar hesitated. He saw the excitement in his scout.

"How many?"

"We counted four regiments."

He nodded, dismissed the scout and walked slowly away, leaving the mechanic staring after him. He unclipped the oblong shaped black box hanging his belt and pressed a button.

"Hello?" said a voice, hissing with static.

"This is Omar," he said. "Prepare the missiles."

TWENTY EIGHT

The Map Maker watched from the cottage. He knew it was the one place he would be safe.

No one would think to search for him here. Not that anyone would search for him anyway. He was no one worth searching for. Pathetic and useless, even his blood had abandoned him. Stone and Nuria, his only friends, had left him behind. He had brought them into the promised land but they had fled. Sadie had loved him. She probably still did. He wondered what she would make of the name Harron. She had called him Doug, an invented alternative to the Map Maker. His child would soon emerge from her belly. Maybe it already had. But he could not go back. There was no way back. There was no way forward. He was beginning to understand the only answer that remained.

What had he done? How had he arrived here?

It was musty and cluttered inside the cottage and he saw dark patches of dried blood on the floor.

Death and more death. _No!_

A pain gripped his chest and his brow dripped with sweat. He could feel the flare of stomach cramps. He had not experienced them in a considerable time; not since the city of Maizan, where he had been captured and brutalised. He knew fear sparked them. And he was afraid, miserable, alone and horribly afraid.

He shrunk from the window and retreated into a chair that creaked beneath his weight. He swallowed hard, an uncomfortable feeling in his throat. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick. He doubled over and dry retched. He looked at his stumps and began to cry thick tears.

Duggan claimed that only thieves had their hands chopped off. Not prophets. He was no thief. But he was no prophet, either. He was a fool, a stupid fool. After all these years he had allowed himself to be tricked.

The Messiah, the Second Coming, the Bringer of Light...

No.

The overweight, bald, aging, handless fool...

He could hear singing from the Holy House. He listened with salty tears and remained in the darkness where he belonged.

Lannast.

She could not be his mother, it was impossible, he would not accept it; she was half his age. Yet she had steered him here, his inner voice, calling to him for a lifetime, across thousands of miles. He wasn't from Chett. He wasn't even from Gallen. He was a man of deception. Mosscar was his home; his bloodline was wreathed amongst its ruins. But Lannast wanted him for a singular purpose. To use him as a tool. Like the men in Chett had used him. He had mapped their desert city, street by street, building by building, even discovering the underground streets with the metal lines. He had spent his entire youth mapping the city, committing every aspect of it to paper and memory, only for them to steal it from him and toss him out into the wasteland to suffer at the hands of marauders and thieves and men like Stone; the drifter, the warrior, the wasteland soldier; a man who could steal his maps in one breath and behead the man who had brutalised him in the other.

Where was he? He needed Stone. Stone needed Nuria. The three of them should have remained together.

What would happen once the beacon was lit?

He already knew the answer.

Harron.

His people would come.

And hundreds would die.

He did not want Shauna to die.

Harron.

"It's a stupid name, stupid, I hate it and I hate you. Get out of my head. Go away, go away."

He was panting. He stumbled onto his feet.

Light the beacon, Harron.

"No."

Callart awaits your signal. Our warriors grow restless. We must strike. We must taste their blood once more.

"I won't do it and I can't do it. I have no hands."

You will do it, my son. Tonight. Now. Light it. Light it. Light it. Return to our warriors and lead them.

"You light it."

Silence.

"Well? Why don't you do it? Show yourself, Lannast. I'm not scared anymore. Not of you."

He vaulted from the chair. Shook his head. Rubbed at his temples with his stumps.

"Get out. Get out. GET OUT!"

He dropped to his knees.

"You're not my mother. You're not my mother. You're not my mother."

The cottage door creaked. He tasted bile in his mouth. He spat. His stomach churned over. Dripping with sweat, he mustered the effort to push himself onto his feet.

The beacon will burn, my son.

Rondo was silent.

Albury had reasoned with the man, drawing upon the friendship they'd awkwardly shared since that first meeting, but a mask had come down upon the face of the Kiven emissary. He was now a captured soldier behind enemy lines; expressionless, eyes betraying nothing, and whatever had gone before was forgotten in an instant. Albury, visibly disappointed, instructed Boyd to question him, in a more vigorous manner, but the beating did nothing to break the man's resolve. Boyd rubbed his bruised knuckles. Time was being wasted. Stone demanded to be allowed at him but Albury refused. He wanted his own people to handle this. Reluctantly, he ordered the man to be taken below for torture.

"Where's he going?" asked Nuria, as they were escorted back into the hall.

"To pray," said Boyd. "Governor Albury presides over a society where a man stands trial for the crimes he has committed and is found innocent or guilty by Holy men. He does not advocate torturing prisoners, the way his father had in the past, but he knows time is running out."

Dangling from the ceiling of a basement cell, chains cutting into his wrists, Rondo said nothing as two men stripped off his shirt. Even if he confessed, he would be put to death, immediately or at trial. He gritted his teeth and grimaced as they sliced his flesh. He cried out as they pulverised his groin with clubs. He screamed as they burned his feet. He choked and sobbed as they took him down and plunged his head into a bucket of water. But he never spoke. He never said a word. Not one.

Upstairs, in the hall, Boyd was deep in conversation with Quinn.

"What do you think that's all about?" said Nuria. "Do you think she's telling him about Omar and the sickness weapon?"

Stone shrugged. "Do you think we should?"

"I don't know. I want to help her," said Nuria. "And I know you do. But what are we going to do about this weapon?"

"I was thinking about that."

He motioned with his head. She followed him outside into the courtyard. It was night. The sky was filled with stars. Soldiers manned the walls of the compound. The town was lit by hundreds of fires.

Nuria folded her arms. "Well?"

"Let's say this Omar is going to attack and use this... this sickness weapon... how will he do it?"

She thought for a moment. "You're not going to get close enough to inject a soldier with it."

"No, that's what I thought, which means he has another method of deploying it."

"A cannon?"

Stone nodded. "That's what I was thinking. He places all this... sickness weapon... inside a container that will open on impact. Then fires it against the Marshals."

"A cannon isn't very mobile."

"No, but they have vehicles in Kiven. Assembled on a flatbed, constantly moving and firing, it could be devastating."

"He's devious, this Omar."

"He is."

"And he claims you tried to kill him."

"I don't know anyone named Omar."

He walked away, into the shadows, leaned against the wall of the compound. Nuria followed him.

"I've killed a lot of men, Nuria. But I don't remember the name Omar."

"Well, this is one you tried to kill."

"I don't leave them alive."

They were both silent for a moment.

Nuria shivered. "You left one alive."

Stone brooded. His brow clenched.

"It can't be."

"We were in Tamnica prison for a long time. Long enough for him to have made it across the sea and carved out a new life."

"No."

"Perhaps Omar is his real name. You never knew it, did you?"

"No."

Foulness rippled through his stomach; his skin prickled.

"Think about how elaborate this plan is. You told me how he held the children hostage in Ford, using their own explosives against them. Albury said Omar is not Kiven blood. Where else could he be from?"

He stood over the Cleric, on the harsh sands of Gallen's Southern Desert, darkness all around them. The warlord of the Blood Sun tribe was alone, his vehicles destroyed, his men dead. The blood on his clothes belonged to Tomas, his corpse miles away, stabbed to death whilst Stone was held captive in a truck, helplessly listening to his only companion die.

"I should have killed him."

"We did the right thing that night."

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

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

Stone wiped his hands over his face.

"I caused this. This is all happening because of me."

She grabbed his arms.

"Don't you fucking do that. You're not responsible for that man. This is not your fault."

His hand went to his revolver.

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

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

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

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

She said, "We have to go."

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

"Check on the vehicle," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

He passed one of the patrols.

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

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

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

Duggan kept watching.

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

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

"Tell him," said Stone.

But Rondo sobbed and remained silent.

"Tell him about the Cleric and the sickness weapon."

There was a flicker in the man's eyes.

"What weapon?" said Boyd.

"Who is the Cleric?" asked Albury.

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

Stone cocked the revolver.

"Your last chance, Rondo."

His finger went to the trigger.

"The sky will fill with _Metal Spears_ ," said Rondo, coughing blood. "You'll die screaming."

Stone hesitated.

"What?"

His head began to drop.

"Where are they? Where are the Metal Spears?"

Rondo muttered, dribbling blood.

"Bastard."

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

His body slammed onto the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stone kicked Rondo's corpse.

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

Nuria came through the double doors.

"Only thousands will die, not hundreds. He'll turn your world to ash."

Still no one reacted.

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

Still they looked at him.

"He doesn't see the world the way you do. He believes everything he does is right."

Albury cleared his throat.

"Are you describing Omar or yourself?"

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

"That was uncalled for," said Albury. "My apologies."

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

Boyd frowned. "How? We've seen through him."

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

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

"We've done exactly what he planned," said Albury. "Haven't we?"

Stone nodded.

"One target."

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

Boyd lowered his head. "I'm sorry, sir."

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

He shook his head.

"Before noon look to the skies."

"There are only ever clouds in the skies, Stone," said Albury, skirting around Rondo's body.

"Not tomorrow there won't be."

"Then the burden is on me. I can't imagine we can evacuate thousands of people that quickly. And where would they all go? Can we stop these... _Metal Spears_? Can you stop them?"

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

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

"We have a solution to that," said Nuria.

Stone cornered Boyd. "You're coming with us. We need a secret way across the Place of Bridges."

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

"And we're low on ammunition. You must know someone here who peddles in illegal weapons."

Boyd's head recoiled, he clasped his cross.

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

Stone patted him on the arm. "I'm sure he'll keep a seat for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said, "You cannot hurt me."

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

But the Nearly Men had let them pass.

"You're one of them. Like the Nearly Men. I cannot kill you."

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

She shrieked into his mind.

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

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

He ran onto the hill.

"Kill me," he shouted. "Cut me down, I'm going to light the beacon. I'm going to summon the Shaylighters."

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

"I..."

"Hasn't there been enough blood today?"

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

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

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

"Look at her. I can't kill her."

"Look at who?"

The Map Maker whirled around. She was gone.

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

Duggan took him by the elbow. "I think you'd better come with me."

"She was here," said the Map Maker. "I'm not crazy. I'm one of them. She made me one of them."

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

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

"Just... keep... going... east," stammered Boyd, as the lightweight vehicle bounced and rocked.

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

"They should turn back," said Nuria. "We should warn them."

Stone's foot remained against the accelerator.

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

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

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

"Nothing," he said. "It's always been this way."

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

"Crazy man."

He shrugged, walked to the door, and hesitated, absorbing the weight of the cross on his armour, knowing it was a symbol of what he fought for, of who he was as a man. He turned back, rummaged for a cloth, dipped it into a basin of water and wiped the sweat from the man's face. He turned him onto his back and draped the damp cloth across his forehead and adjusted the blanket so he was properly covered.

"You're a curious man," he said.

The Map Maker's lips continued to move, the words silent.

"I'll pray for you."

As he made the sign of the cross one of his men called from outside. Duggan hurriedly climbed a ladder onto the battlement. He was handed a telescope. He lifted it to his eye and scanned the horizon, wind blowing in his face.

Flames roared into the black night. There were maybe thirty or forty Shaylighters gathered around a carefully built funeral pyre, several miles out. He could make out two or three bodies engulfed in raging yellow fire. He shifted his gaze and saw a long line of horsemen in deep rows, impossible to count. The warriors looked even more ferocious in the reflection of the wild flames; faces daubed with war paint, bare-chests marked with the inverted cross, long knotted hair trailing from their scalps, bristling with spears and axes and slingshot carbines. A man with a long face rode along the line, a curved sword at his waist, his fist clenched.

Duggan lowered the telescope. "Get everyone from the Holy House."

TWENTY NINE

The scrubland turned from black to grey as the first pieces of dawn scratched at the day.

Stone switched off the headlamps and glanced at the dashboard. A quarter of the black energy remained. Nuria watched the landscape brighten. She felt sick inside. It was still too much to comprehend that the Cleric was here, in Ennpithia, with a stack of _Metal Spears_ at his disposal. It had to be a bluff. Or something. She glanced at Stone and saw his face creased with the same worries as her own. They had been born into a world scarred by Metal Spears. They understood the bleak power they wielded. The kiss seemed a lifetime ago.

The engine had a distinctive snarl and the tyres kicked up clouds of dust. The buggy was very visible in the exposed wilderness. The Marshals knew they were coming. They had passed at least two signal outposts, half-concealed in the dirt, no doubt forwarding messages with a sequence of flags and lights. The vehicle jolted over a bump in the road and Boyd flicked open his eyes, unaware he'd been asleep for the past hour. He saw Quinn staring, the bald and featureless land reflected in her red rimmed eyes; her world had collapsed, the pain looked unbearable.

The sun rose and blazed over the wasteland in long streaks. This was the eastern frontier of Ennpithia.

There were no trees and no undergrowth. There were no meadows filled with flowers and no gorges covered in vegetation.

There were no scattered farms, no animals, no villages and no hamlets. There were no voices and no songs, no prayers and no decrees.

There was no green. There was no blue.

But there were rusted cars with shattered windshields and flattened roofs, half-buried in the parched ground. There were twisted steel pylons, metal limbs gnarled and discoloured, toppled flat across the earth. There were low walls of brick coated with dust, outlines of what were once buildings; a village or a town or even a city. There were ravines, like slash wounds. There were ragged craters filled with blackened rubble. And there were towers, eerie markers dotted against the horizon, strung along the Place of Bridges. The wind coursed through the land, rattling and tossing pieces of a long forgotten past. Stone narrowed his eyes, wishing he had goggles. There was no respite from the wind; summer or winter, it punished them, spiralling down from the torn sky, howling mercilessly into their very bones.

It blamed them for everything.

When the buggy shook Stone assumed one or more of the tyres had burst. He wrestled with the wheel as the vehicle rocked from side to side. He could hear Boyd shouting. Nuria held on tight as he slammed his grubby boot against the brake and they skidded down the road, grinding to a stop in a shower of rock and dust. The buggy was vibrating. The ground was trembling. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. A black line began to snake toward them, catapulting chunks of rock into the air. He saw with horror as a rusted car disappeared. He stamped on the accelerator, the wheels spun and the buggy surged forward. Behind them, the roadway of packed earth disappeared into a yawning chasm.

His scuffed knuckles turned white. Voices shouted at him but there was only the road ahead and keeping everyone alive. The buggy began to tip. The wheels were lifting off the road. There were tears in the land all around them. Stone eased off the accelerator and the left side slammed down hard against the roadway. He suddenly swerved as a sinkhole opened ahead. The buggy juddered across rough ground. He was lifted from his seat and tossed abruptly back into it. _Was this the Cleric? Had the bastard got the weapons working?_ He looked at the sky. There were no _Metal Spears_ , only clouds. It was another tremor.

Nuria clung to the door, breathing hard. She looked at Stone, his face pure concentration as he manoeuvred around the cracks, skilfully handling the lightweight buggy. The tremor showed no sign of abating. Black lines splintered, like a shattering windshield; vehicles and bricks were swallowed into darkness. She saw another sinkhole begin to open before them, wreathed in clouds of dust. It was too late to turn or brake; they were going too fast. She heard Stone shout. The buggy lurched forward and left the ground and her stomach folded over and over until the vehicle crashed down hard.

There was a loud screech as he spun the wheel and forced it back onto the road.

"It's behind us again," gasped Boyd.

Stone's eyes went to the mirror. He pushed down on the accelerator.

There was a grinding crunch followed by a succession of bangs. The tyres had shredded.

He lunged at Nuria, pulled her close.

"Hold on."

The buggy flipped over, skated on its side, the rough terrain gouging the metal with ear-piercing shrieks. The ground convulsed. Ravines erupted in all directions. The buggy shuddered to a halt. The four of them clambered from the wreckage, no broken bones, only cuts and bruises. Stone led the way. He tasted fear. It was palpable. This was an enemy he couldn't outwit or beat with his fists or put down in a hail of bullets. They ran. All of them. Hard. Cheeks puffing, lungs burning, weaving and tumbling and falling from side to side. He realised his left hand was wrapped around Nuria's right and he was dragging her along. The ground rocked, tilted. They could hardly keep on their feet.

Boyd was trailing behind. He was the slowest of them. His face blazed red and poured with sweat.

"Come on," shouted Quinn.

The soil howled as it was ruptured, the noise near deafening. A sinkhole opened up behind them and the buggy slipped from view in a shower of dust.

"Boyd!"

Stone heard the cry against the roar of the tremor. He whirled around and saw only Quinn, bent over, screaming. They ran back. As they reached the sinkhole they saw Boyd clinging on, eyes wide with fear, skin shockingly pale.

"Don't let go," cried Boyd.

Quinn gritted her teeth as she held onto him, both hands clasped around his left arm. His right hand clawed and flailed to gain hold against the edge of the sinkhole but the soil was crumbling between his fingers.

"Save me Lord, please."

Quinn gasped. "Too heavy." Her boots were sliding into the dirt.

The soil gave way and she pitched into the sinkhole. Stone sprang forward. His long arm curled around her waist, grabbing her at the last moment. Nuria skidded onto the ground and thrust her arms toward Boyd. Stone grunted as he held onto Quinn, dragging her back, pulling up Boyd at the same time. Nuria barked against clenched teeth as she pulled at the merchant's right arm. The four of them tumbled back, collapsing against the shaking dirt.

"Move," shouted Stone. He coughed. "Move."

He snatched Nuria's hand. Boyd stumbled alongside them. His palms were bleeding.

There was a terrible wrenching sound as a steel pylon somersaulted. Long pieces of rusted metal snapped free and flew at them. They ducked, throwing themselves into the dirt.

The pylon jammed into the soil, and then all at once the tremor stopped and there was silence except for the wind.

Stone lifted his head; the metal pylon was now upside down, swaying.

He took a deep breath.

There was the rush of boots and the jangle of weapons. Shadows fell across them. It was the Marshals.

"That was a rough one," said a voice.

Stone realised he was still holding Nuria's hand.

Omar peered through the binoculars. The lines around his eyes became more pronounced.

"Rondo is dead," he whispered.

His men bristled angrily.

"Soon," he said.

He continued to watch. The Map Maker was not among them. Nor was the one-eyed mutant, Emil, who had saved his life in the Southern Desert, forcing him to live as a deformed freak, like her, his beautiful skin pebbled and disgusting. He would bury Ennpithia into history and take his new vehicles and his new men into the Black Region. They would cross into Gallen and he would become Warlord over all. He had no love for the Kiven city. He did not care for the League or the Society or the Ministry. He suspected she knew. But like a woman she chose not to. She was weaker than he had anticipated. He had seen only strength when she colluded with him to murder her husband and Nichols and Cooperman. He would think on her later once his work here was complete.

"You have a new scar," he said.

His men listened, saying nothing, as Omar continued to train his binoculars across the Place of Bridges, observing the two men and two women who had survived the tremor.

"Nuria, you appear wearier than I remember. You followed a monster. You should have followed a ruler."

He swept the binoculars onto Stone once more.

Nuria studied the towers. They stretched north and south, along a winding canyon. There were two for every bridge. But there were also towers where there was no bridge and that puzzled her. A palisade wall ringed each one, circling a stable, quarters and a storehouse and she could make out a ballista on the roof. Commander Eddis was in charge of the Place of Bridges. The man was in his fifties, balding, a tidy beard of grey, lined skin deeply browned, a broad and solid face. His tunic bore the cross of the Holy House and a row of symbols with ribbons. Nuria assumed he was a decorated man.

Boyd, once his breathing had levelled out, presented a document to the man, penned by Albury.

"I thought you were a merchant, Mr Boyd," said Eddis. "Not a bloody errand boy for Touron."

He chuckled. He had an even, friendly and no-nonsense tone. He was a soldier. His world was men and hard work and the battlefield. He took them through an open gate where the ground was scattered with straw. They saw wooden benches and stacks of wicker baskets and several outbuildings. He ordered one of his men to fetch water and the four of them readily gulped it down from leather skins. Then Eddis led them into the tower. The climb was steep, the air musty and gloomy, lit by wall torches that flickered. Boots scraped against the stone steps. They followed the commander onto the roof where two Marshals manned the ballista Nuria had seen from below. The men were grim-faced beneath their helmets.

"How many bridges are there?" said Stone.

"Eleven. We used to have seventeen."

"That's why you have towers and no bridges at certain points," said Nuria.

"That's correct, miss. The ones on their own are where the bridges used to be. They're still manned, though we're a bit depleted now, naturally, with four hundred men in Touron."

"Did the tremors take down the six bridges?" asked Stone.

"We lost the first bridge during the war. It was in the final days. The Kiven were retreating." He pointed along the canyon, hesitated for a moment. "We were chasing them down but they'd mined the bridge. A lot of men died that day. The other five bridges collapsed through the years. The tremors can get pretty aggressive this side of Ennpithia, as well you know."

He swept his arm forward.

"Anyway, down to business. This is Abigail, the shortest bridge of the lot."

"Abigail?" said Nuria, with a half-smile.

"We named each one, miss. Abigail was my mother's name. The Lord keeps her soul now."

Boyd crossed himself but Eddis did not. The cross was on his armour but not around his neck.

Stone and Nuria walked to the edge of the tower. The land had splintered horribly, its rugged sides as lovers torn from an embrace. The drop had to be a thousand feet or more. The bridges were shaped from the rock, nature was the constructor here, and they stretched and curved across the canyon. There was something captivating about them as they held sway over Ennpithia and Kiven, pushing them apart like squabbling siblings and drawing them back together when it was time to make up; though there was something eerie, too, how they stood always alone, exposed, blasted by wind, drilled by rain, remembered and forgotten in the same breath.

The crossings were marked with two or three towers, though the number of soldiers milling about was now heavily depleted. Stone glanced south, in the direction of the sea. The land was stapled to the sky and the canyon disappeared against a mountain range on the horizon.

Stone said, "Where's the rat run?"

"At the base of this tower," said Eddis. "But it'll take three hours to navigate. Not enough time because the cocky bastards are here already."

"What? Where?"

Eddis gestured to one of his men. The Marshal handed them telescopes. Across the bridge they saw broken ground and a handful of ruined buildings with pitted walls and gnarled undergrowth.

Beyond lay a range of low hills, dotted with dead looking trees, surrounded by open plains.

They could not see any vehicles or men.

"Nothing," grumbled Stone.

"There," said Nuria. "They're using camouflage netting."

Stone narrowed his vision and looked again. He spotted the shape of a pickup truck with a weapon mounted on the flatbed.

"Ingenious," said Eddis. "And effective."

Nuria lowered the telescope.

"We had some of it in Chett but brown for desert terrain."

"I count six vehicles," said Stone. "Omar is inside one of them. But I can't see any Metal Spears."

"They rolled in last night," said Eddis. "Switched off the engines. Took them hours to hide. Doesn't matter what the bastards throw at us. Even with those machines. If they attack we can hold them for days. Long enough for my men to return from Touron."

"Are they at any other bridges?"

"No," said Eddis. "They're targeting Abigail because it's the shortest distance for them. But we won't let them cross her."

Stone took the rifle off his back. "They don't plan to cross."

He walked slowly onto the bridge, alone, grim and unsmiling, thumbs hooked into his belt, six shot revolver jutting from it.

"Cleric? Show yourself, you bastard."

His angry words echoed through the canyon. He stopped, took out his revolver, leaned forward, set it down.

He extended his arms, turned in full circle.

"I'm unarmed and out of arrow range."

The wind buffeted him. The bridge was wide enough for the Cleric to string at least two vehicles across her width.

He glanced left and right. Scraped his boots against the bridge. Waited with the sun on his face.

"Rondo's dead, Cleric. He was tortured. He told us everything and then I blew his head off."

"He's not a very friendly negotiator, is he?" said Eddis, leaning over Nuria, who was beside the palisade wall, on one knee, pistol in her right hand, cupped with her left.

"He knows this Omar. He knows how to bait him."

"Stand toe to toe with me," called Stone. "One on one. Man to man. Or man to freak. Are you too afraid to show that messed up face of yours? You're no longer the beautiful warlord of Gallen, are you? Who would have though a Blood Sun Cleric would prefer to hide in the dirt than fight like a warrior?"

An engine fired into life and idled. Stone swallowed. The driver revved for a few moments and then a pickup truck crashed through the undergrowth and accelerated onto the bridge. The crash bar was spiked. Trophies hung from the hood. Metal grills covered the tyres. The flatbed was mounted with a twelve tube bolt gun, manned by a Kiven soldier, his face obscured by a curious mask. Stone had seen masks like it before; it was a gas mask. There were two men in the vehicle and both wore the same masks. Stone gritted his teeth. The hair rose on the back of his neck as the pickup barrelled toward him. He readied himself to dive for his revolver but then the driver slammed on the brakes and the vehicle skidded to a halt. The driver left the engine running. It ticked over loudly. The soldier on the flatbed leaned against the bolt gun, hand resting on a crank handle.

The passenger door creaked open.

He stepped onto the bridge, slowly removed the gas mask and placed it on the hood, not looking at Stone. He washed his hands over his shaven head and walked out in front of the truck. He appeared unarmed and strode with confidence and purpose. The two men stood twenty paces apart, the wind whistling around them.

"You have a new scar. It suits you. You look more hideous than ever, Tongueless Man."

"And you have no hair," said Stone. "We're both changing. Great. Surrender the sickness weapon, you bastard."

Omar smiled. "The soldiers of the League outgun you, Tongueless Man."

"I don't think I like that name anymore."

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

"Something we have in common, Governor Omar."

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

Stone said nothing.

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

"Where's your famous tribe, Cleric?"

"This is my new tribe and my new war machines."

"No more role of Cleric within the Blood Sun?"

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

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

"You people have made countless mistakes."

"It was a clever plan," said Stone. "I'll give you that much."

"It still is."

"Do you really have Metal Spears?"

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

"And you've loaded them with the sickness?"

Omar nodded.

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

He looked around.

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

"I don't kill innocents for fun."

Omar clapped slowly.

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

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

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

It was Stone's turn to clap.

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

"Where are the missiles, you lunatic?"

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

"Do you remember Clarissa?"

Omar frowned.

"Who?"

"Yeah," said Stone. "That's what I thought."

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

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

THIRTY

Stone stood over Omar and whispered.

" _For Clarissa. For Tomas."_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's coming," shouted a Marshal. "You need to get off the bridge."

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

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

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

Stone saw men shredded by metal.

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

Omar was speaking into the walkie-talkie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cupped her hands. "Quinn? Boyd? Commander Eddis?"

She ran further, called again.

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

"Stone's stranded over there," she said. "What's the nearest bridge?"

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

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

"It'll be quicker to ride to the next bridge? Where are your horses?"

He stared at her, slowly shaking his head.

"We didn't just lose Abigail. We lost them all. We're cut off."

Gunfire cracked; the ground continued to shake.

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

Nuria swallowed. Her face was ashen. "I'm not waiting."

"You can't do it by yourself. You need help."

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

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

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

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

"Keep at it," he bellowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shit," he said.

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

All armed.

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

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

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

Stone reckoned the Ancients were dumb fucks.

Touron's streets were crowded with Marshals and Churchmen, suppressing panic among the thousands of citizens. The stories of the Shaylighter numbers had spread like wildfire but now the whispering and gossiping had turned to the events in Kiven. Rumours had spread of a man known as the Engineer, possibly orchestrating a terrible plot against Ennpithia and during the sacred period of the Summer Blessings, the most Holy of times. Was the land tilting into war for a second time? Surely not, surely not. Men recalled the battles they had fought a decade before; women dwelled on the husbands and sons who had not returned. The Holy Men called for calm, called for devotion; townspeople prayed, long and hard, but some slipped away and drank and whored.

Governor Albury visited the ailing Archbishop. He held his cold hand and listened as the bloodless lips shifted slowly up and down. He'd come for advice and wisdom but the Archbishop spouted hate for the Kiven and the Shaylighters and damned them all to the infernal fires of the Below.

Albury listened; patiently, respectfully, and then reassured the Archbishop he would pray for Ennpithia.

"I will pray for peace," he said.

"No," croaked the Archbishop. "Pray for victory."

He left the fledging hospital feeling worse than when he'd arrived. It was located within the grounds of the great Holy House of Touron, staffed by volunteers and orphaned children. Unfortunately, the hospital achieved little, beyond dressing minor wounds. His people possessed a meagre understanding of medicine and healing. It was an art that continued to elude them. The Archbishop's bile had turned his stomach cold. He left the hospital with an even heavier burden upon his shoulders.

He rode back to the compound with his bodyguards. Hundreds of townspeople had gathered and were kneeling in the dirt, wailing toward the clouds. He was escorted through a gaggle of Holy Men and informed that signals had been sent from the Place of Bridges; Ennpithia was under attack. He'd thought those flags would have never been used during his rule. He asked to be left alone to contemplate the development and disappeared toward his private chapel. He locked the door, took a drink of water and wiped his hands over his face. _The Albury's._ He snorted. There was no one to turn to, no one to seek clear advice from. His advisors were trapped in the past, chained to an old way of thinking, only willing to solve matters of state head on. Radical thinking was required.

He looked at the altar of crosses, made the sign, but then exited into another chamber.

It was poky and windowless. He lit candles, closed the door behind him, felt the tension in his shoulders relax. There were tools hanging from iron pegs and workbenches sprinkled with wood shavings. He took down an apron. This was his _true_ private chapel where he could think on the problems at hand. The chair he was working on was almost finished; it required only sanding down and buffing at the edges. He looked around at the bookcase and table, both half finished, and opted to continue with the bookcase. He secured a piece of wood in a vice and marked where it needed to be cut. He fetched a saw. His brow glistened as he worked, grinding a path through the wood.

His family were all dead and had died in rapid succession through illness. He was the last in line of a wealthy and influential family who had heard the Word of the Lord and carved Ennpithia from rock with bare hands to rule for centuries. Boyd knew of the pretence. It had been his suggestion. The deaths were concealed; the burials had been without fanfare or ceremony. Boyd maintained the lies through the villages; the people of Featherun believed the Albury's to be visiting Brix, the people of Brix believed them to be visiting Great Onglee, and so on. A travelling merchant with such an honest reputation as Boyd was beyond reproach. And if there were suspicions then they were never raised publicly. It was important to maintain law and order. Death in authority brought fear and fear brought unrest and chaos.

Albury set down the saw and thought of his spymaster approaching the Place of Bridges with Stone and the two women. He wondered where they would fit in once this crisis had been averted. And he was confident it would be. His shoulders felt lighter, his stomach less distressed. He picked up the saw, shook free the loose shavings clinging to its jagged teeth, and likened it to Stone; a working tool, nothing more. He was a blunt man but a resourceful one and possibly a critical one in this new world. He appeared to need the woman and the woman needed him and there was a bond between the two of them, that much was obvious. Once this had passed, he would ensure a place for them both in Touron.

He took off the apron, blew out the candles, returned to the chapel and muttered a short prayer.

It was then an advisor rushed in, unannounced.

"Governor Albury, sir," he said, breathing laboured. "There's something in the sky."

By the time Albury reached the courtyard, the missile had long passed, streaking through the sky with a terrifying roar, trailing fire and fumes.

His people had been stunned into silence. He craned his neck but it had disappeared into the clouds.

THIRTY ONE

Duggan walked the battlements of the village barracks. His men were pale and sickly looking; bows in their hands, quivers of arrows strapped to their backs, short swords hanging from their belts.

"Kill one then kill another," he said. "Stick them your sword, cut them down with your arrows. Kill one then kill another and keep killing the faithless bastards until they piss themselves and run back to Mosscar. We're Ennpithians. We're not sinners. They outnumber us but we are stronger because the Lord is with us."

But it wouldn't be enough and he knew it.

Duggan walked among the villagers. His people were pale and sickly looking; men, women and children with no armour and only crude weapons.

"This is your bloody village, your home. Don't let the bastards take it away from you. Remember Great Onglee. Kill one then kill another. Strangle them, jump up and down on them, hit them with whatever you can. The Lord is our master. His Light will shine strong and protect us."

But it wouldn't be enough and he knew it.

Today, Brix would fall and the Holy House would be destroyed. The oldest building in Ennpithia would die. From the ashes had come hope and hope had begun in Ennpithia within the Holy House of Brix. But now it was destined to fall and its people with it.

"By nightfall," said Duggan. "We'll eat and drink and that long haired scum will be running for the hills."

But it wouldn't be enough and they knew all it.

He wiped a hand across his beard and glanced at the beacon on the hillside. The damn thing was mocking him and that bastard Brian was still breathing. He'd hang him once this was all over or perhaps turn him over to the villagers and see him torn apart like Pretan. Duggan reflected ruefully on a murder by the mob. It had happened once before when he was young, a long time ago, but none of that was important now. They would all die at the end of a Shaylighter spear today. As would he. No one would see the sun fall this evening. He wondered what fate had befallen the villages of Lower Fallon and Boxmere and Hallington. The Shaylighters were no longer bandits or common thieves. They were a mobile army and had already invaded and taken half of Ennpithia. No longer were they on the verge of war; it had come swift and bloody and with shocking brutality.

"The Lord is watching you," shouted Duggan, as the wind blew across the barracks. "He will protect you. He will protect you because you are good people who work hard and give thanks."

Father Devon stood on the steps of the Holy House, sadness in his eyes. He had prayed for peace but once more his beautiful land was blighted by war.

Confused by the Lord's plan, he leaned forward and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. She smiled at him. She was incredibly resolute. Her father had been murdered before her eyes but it had not touched her in any visible way. She had gained two sisters who were wary of her strange appearance. He could not rationalise the gift she possessed. Last night, he had taken a blade to his hand and asked her to stop the flow of blood. She had sealed the wound effortlessly and his palm had shown unbroken.

"The Lord has sent us a miracle," he'd told her. "Tomorrow, you will save many lives. You might even save our land."

In a moment of weakness it had crossed his mind to flee with the girl but the Lord had gifted her to Ennpithia and he knew it was right to stand shoulder to shoulder with his parishioners. His life's work had been vindicated. For years doubt had crept in and he had clung to the forbidden diary in the hope that He would rise again and walk amongst them to heal this broken and fractured world and root out the sin. He had been fooled by the words of the Map Maker. He had seen the severed hands and believed he was the Second Coming. But the man had performed no miracles. He saw the way Shauna trailed after him, transfixed, but she was a child lost in pain, broken by men, abandoned by her neighbours for her husband's crimes, and if the Map Maker's spell was in manipulating women then he was certainly no Holy warrior.

Father Devon ruffled the girl's hair.

"We should go to the barracks. They will need us there the most. You will have to heal the soldiers."

"What are we going to do?" said Shauna.

The Map Maker sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. Equipment and clothes were scattered across empty bunks. Dust drifted down from the roof as men clattered overhead.

"We? There's no _we_ , Shauna. I came here to... mend the people of our world, to put them back together. I was called here before I knew Ennpithia even existed but it was the Shaylighters that called me. And they want only bloodshed. What have I achieved, Shauna? Nothing. I've failed in everything."

She leaned against the wall, listening to his sad and empty voice. He helped her forget, for the narrowest of moments. She thought it would be better now they were dead but, in a perverse way, it seemed worse. She had been robbed of confronting them, exposing their vile and heinous crimes to the village; their brutal deaths were hazed in suspicion. Were they killed for abducting children and handing them over to Pretan? Or for partnering with Rush and carrying out his dirty work? Or both? Or were their deaths link to rumoured debts owed in Touron? Shauna knew the doubts would linger and the gossips would mutter and there would be veiled suggestions that she had got what she deserved.

"You know what I am." He nodded, glumly. Then snorted. "I'm one of the faithless bastards."

"I don't care about any of that," she said. "I just know I feel safe when you're around. I don't know what it is about you."

He thought of Sadie, back in Dessan; she'd whispered the same words to him as he'd laboured sweating against her, planting his seed.

"But I'm no spiritual leader." He got to his feet. "I'm not the man on the cross, walking amongst you spreading miracles. I'm a charlatan, a fool for listening to Father Devon. He wanted me to be some stupid... I don't know what... a symbol for your people. He wanted substance for all his belief and service to the Holy House. I'm no one, Shauna, no one."

"You're Harron."

"That isn't my name."

"Then what is? The Map Maker? That's a title. Not a name. And that isn't you. Not anymore."

He took a step back.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"No."

"You need to stand up and be counted.

"No."

But Shauna could see he wasn't listening. He looked past her. She turned but no one was there.

"She's here."

"What?"

"Lannast."

There is fire in your belly, my son. You were brave to try and destroy me. Maybe all is not lost.

"What do you want?" he said, wearily.

"I didn't say anything. Are you...?"

She cut herself short and looked around once more. There was still only the two of them present.

"What is it? You were like this before. Can you see something?"

"Her name is Lannast. She claims to be my mother."

Accept me into your heart, Harron. Today you take your rightful place at the head of our people. We will slaughter the Ennpithians and burn the Holy House of Brix, shattering it brick by brick with fire. Many of my warriors have forgotten the old path. They have rejected us but they will remember the way of the Cailleach when you rise amongst them

"Why can't you see her?" he said. "She's right next to you and her voice, Shauna; her voice is in my head."

Shauna stood by his side. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."

He shook his head. "Make her go away. Please, Shauna, make her go."

Stop blubbering, my son.

Shauna straightened her back, stiffened her shoulders. "Get out, you bitch. Leave him alone."

She vented hatred for every injustice in the world, despising the men who had betrayed her, despising the women who shamed her. She had uncovered a lost soul in the Map Maker, a man with the heart of a child, a rare curiosity in a hard world; he was everything Brian was not, he was everything most men were not. She would stand with him, fight with him and together they would kick out this evil spirit.

"Get out, cunt." She was shaking. "Is she gone?"

"She's gone. It worked. Your anger drove her away. How is that possible?"

"I don't know. But what I do know is your name. And it's Harron. Not the Map Maker."

"What about your husband?"

"Brian betrayed me. I don't want to be near him. I just want to be near you. I believe in you."

"But I'm no miracle worker."

He walked to the doorway.

"Look at Father Devon, with the girl, the healer; he already has his new miracle. He doesn't need me. And what kind of a man is he? Why isn't he racing to Touron with the girl to help the Archbishop? He wants the Archbishop to die so he can take control of all the Holy Houses. He's no different from the rest of them."

"I don't care about Father Devon or the Archbishop. I care about you, Harron."

"Stop using that name."

"It's your name. I won't stop using it."

"I don't want to be one of them."

"Does it matter what the blood in you is? Does it? I was raped. By two men. They poured their filth into me. I might end up fat with their babies. That's real life, Harron. Whether you're one of them or one of us or no one – it doesn't matter, it doesn't fucking matter."

She began to cry.

"People listen to you. You don't realise it, do you? You talk and people stop and they listen."

"What can I do?"

"You told me you came to Ennpithia to mend everyone. In an hour we'll all dead at the hands of the Shaylighters."

She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Mend us."

Adina ran to him as he emerged through the undergrowth.

A blood soaked shirt was wrapped around his shoulder. He loosened the straps of the ribbed body armour and winced as he carefully removed it. There were two angry bruises on his scarred chest, the impact of the bullets from the sniper rifle. He'd assumed, correctly, that Stone had goaded him onto the bridge to take him down with Rondo's rifle. He wondered, briefly, who had pulled the trigger.

"The men are chasing Stone into the junkyard," he said. "He'll try to lose them and double back for the missiles."

"Omar, something is wrong with the battery. Baltan cannot launch the other missiles."

"What?"

He stamped toward the scientist,

"I'm trying to fix it," said Baltan. He was hunched over the control panel. "There's a fault with the communication. It was the tremor. It rocked the vehicle. The circuitry has been damaged. I need to re-establish a link."

Omar narrowed his eyes.

"You have one minute to repair this."

He slammed his open hand against the flatbed of the truck, gritting his teeth as pain lanced through his arm.

"One minute, Baltan."

Adina saw blood trickle from beneath the wrapped shirt.

"We have to cauterise that wound, Omar."

"There is no time." He aimed Stone's revolver at Baltan. "You will work fast now, Baltan."

"Omar, you're losing too much blood."

"It will not matter unless the missiles are... this is what we have been working toward."

Baltan was no soldier, no fighter. He was a man in his twenties, far happier with his nose in papers or sifting through pieces of Ancient tech. He gulped as the firearm was levelled at him. Sixty seconds to live. Perspiration thickened his brow. He had not enrolled in the League for this. He believed in the project of Restoration but not in the violence that seemed to taint this third of the Alliance. There were ugly pockets of the world where men died for nothing but he was not prepared to be sucked deeper into such a bleak hole. Progress was the answer. Progress was the path to redemption for mankind.

"I can't do it in that time."

"Fifty seconds."

"Let him work, Omar."

"Forty seconds."

"But, Omar, please, I want it to work but I cannot function under such duress."

Omar cocked the revolver. "Thirty seconds."

Baltan frantically uncoupled the last of the cabling.

"Twenty seconds."

He removed the panel. Reached into his tool bag, extracted a pair of tweezers.

"Ten seconds."

His hands were shaking violently. He dropped the tweezers.

"Zero."

Omar squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell. The weapon clicked empty. He chuckled.

"Work faster," he said, patting Baltan on the back. "We must hurry."

Adina shook her head at him. "There is no time for games." She eased him down and slowly removed the shirt. His skin flapped open where the steel ball had torn through his shoulder.

"Do it," he said.

He stared at the sky as she prepared a small fire. She unsheathed her machete and placed it across the flame.

"We lost all our vehicles at the Place of Bridges," he said, swigging down water from a leather skin. "Many soldiers are dead."

"We have more soldiers in the city." She paused. "Why is the sky clear? I thought we would have seen it from here."

He flinched as she cleaned the wound. "I don't know."

Adina picked up the machete. The blade glowed.

"By nightfall all your enemies will be dead, Adina. But we _must_ fire the rest of the missiles."

As she took hold of his arm there was the sound of distant gunfire.

"Six men will not be enough against Stone. You must get to the junkyard. You will be a match for him."

He licked his lips.

"Now close the wound."

No one paid much attention to him as he walked from the barracks into the village; too much had happened to care about a man with missing hands who _might_ have represented something from their faith. Father Devon had already moved on to his new miracle. The Map Maker saw men, women and children nervously lined behind makeshift barricades, armed with farm tools and household implements. Only a few of them carried swords or axes. Several men had crossbows. Parents glanced at children with looks of reassurance accompanied by a squeeze of the shoulder or a pat on the back or a ruffle of the hair. Slightly older children, more understanding of the impending carnage, were afforded a mature nod. The adults knew that no one would survive to bury them or their young ones.

The Map Maker looked to the horizon where the deep ranks of Shaylighters had gathered. The blood thirsty warriors yelled and chanted and stamped at the ground, waving spears and axes and carbines, impatient to be unleashed.

He heard a forlorn sob. It was a woman with three young children clustered around her. She wiped the tears on her sleeve and clenched a hammer in a fist that shook with naked fear.

Soon the tears will be our tears of victory, of rejoice, when these foul people are dead and bloody on the ground.

He looked at Lannast, standing beside him, young and robed and beautiful, ageless and invisible.

A gift from the old world.

"Come with me," he said.

She had dictated his entire life, manoeuvring him from place to place, plucking at the strands of his existence until he'd found this land of green and blue. Now he ordered her and she followed.

His face showed nothing as he circled the barricades.

You will not return to that bitch, Harron. She is beneath you.

"I no longer want her," he said. His voice was cold, desolate. "I know the blood that is in me, Mother."

He ignored the trail that fed into the trees and opted for the long grass. The wind was warm on his face. He strode with confidence, aware of Duggan and Father Devon on the battlements, pointing at him. His stomach no longer toiled in the face of certain death. Lannast walked with him, casting no shadow. He could taste her energy, her raw power. The grass swayed, curling around his thighs. He grew closer to the warriors. He could hear the snort of horses. His boldness intrigued the massed ranks of Shaylighters.

Good, my son, I knew there was a warrior in you. You are no meek and humble thing, you are from my line, you are a leader.

"My name is Harron," he cried. "I am a seed. My blood is Shaylighter. I replace Essamon."

The armed warriors bristled with uncertain anger. Two horsemen trotted forward; brutish looking, knotted hair and painted chests. One had a long face and wore a curved sword on his belt. It was Callart. The second one carried a fearsome axe across his back. It was he who spoke.

"I am Oxron," he declared, from his saddle. "Who are you? What is this shit you mouth?"

He must know of your bloodline, Harron, before he attempts to kill you.

"Not yet," said the Map Maker. "I will tell you when."

Oxron nudged his horse forward. "Brix will bleed for the deaths of Essamon and Soirese. But it is I who will command the slaughter unless you wish to challenge me, fat man."

There was a ripple of laughter behind him. The long-faced rider remained silent, one hand on his sword.

"Look at this," said Oxron, dropping from his saddle and raising his voice to a loud cry. "This is the great warrior of the Holy House, sent to destroy us. This is the warrior Jeremy told us of. The fat man with no hands."

His fist whipped out, snatched the cross from around the Map Maker's neck and hurled it away.

"I no longer needed that," he said, calmly. "It was the wrong way round."

"No more of this nonsense," hissed Oxron, drawing his axe. "No Shaylighter would speak or act this way."

"Tell him, Lannast. Fill his empty head."

Oxron raised his axe.

"You dare utter the sacred name of the Cailleach. You will die slowly, fat man."

He held his axe, fingers curled around the shaft, but it never swung down toward the Map Maker. Callart frowned at him. Beads of sweat broke out across Oxron's face. Fear flashed into his eyes as the axe grew impossibly heavy, straining his arms, forcing his shaking hands down until the weapon slipped from his grasp and dropped into the grass, lying with the cross.

Oxron shook his head and took several paces back.

"You're a Conjurer," he whispered, scratching at his temples. "Get out, get out of there. What is it? No, no."

The Map Maker stood impassively as Lannast crawled through Oxron. Callart strained in his saddle, intrigued. Oxron dropped to his knees, crying out. Tears ran down his cheeks. He sank into the grass, curled in a ball, began to sob.

"Enough."

As you wish, my son.

"Get up," said the Map Maker. "On your feet."

Oxron scrambled from the ground, cowering, shielding his tear streaked face.

"My name is Harron. I am the son of Lannast. I lead. You will follow. Tell them."

But Oxron scampered away, riddled with fear. Callart climbed down from his horse, whipped out his sword and thrust the blade toward the sky.

"Harron is from the bloodline of Lannast. He is our leader. Oxron is no one."

There was immediate obedience; warriors thrust their weapons toward the sky then beat axe against spear. The noise was deafening, a rumbling thunder across the grassland.

"You have been amongst them," said Callart, as Oxron scampered away, balefully glancing back. "Is there news of the Engineer?"

"His promise of these lands is a lie. He intends to destroy everything and everyone. Omar is a monster."

"So the tall stranger carried my message? Good."

"His name is Stone. He is hunting Omar and will kill him. But Omar has lied to you. There will be no great victory."

"I do not want any victory. Many of us regret Great Onglee. We just want land to work. We want to be left alone."

What is this? I have made you leader, Harron. Lead our people to glory. Have you tricked me?

"Easily," he said, turning his head and smiling.

I will torture your soul. I will show you glimpses of the past, pictures of the future, I will make you beg for death.

"Then my life will be the same," he shouted. "You've tormented my mind for forty years."

He shook his head.

"A few more will not hurt."

The Map Maker faced the hordes of Shaylighters.

"Lannast has spoken to me all my life. Convincing me that I needed to come here and mend the people of this land. But all she wanted me to do was drive them further apart. Lannast wants blood."

Warriors cheered. A worried look spread upon Callart's face.

"But there will be no more killing," shouted the Map Maker. "You do not have to like the Ennpithians. You do not have to trust them. But you have to learn to live with them. There can be peace. You will have the land you are owed. The Engineer has lied to you. He is not your friend. He doesn't care about the Shaylighters. He intends to destroy you all."

A whistling noise filled the air.

Ennpithians and Shaylighters looked to the sky as the missile broke through the clouds, angling toward them.

"Look," yelled the Map Maker. "This is the weapon of the Engineer."

Minutes passed.

The missile was half-buried in the soil, steadily vibrating from the impact, smoke curling from one end.

The warhead was intact.

Men circled it, stunned by its appearance. Nothing travelled in the sky. Nothing but the clouds.

Pulses racing, the Map Maker saw fear all around him. He knew it was his last chance.

"This is the work of the Engineer. He has betrayed you. He wants death, destruction, no land for Shaylighter or Ennpithian."

Some walked away, disgusted by his words, but many lowered their weapons and listened. Ennpithians streamed from Brix, led by Father Devon and Captain Duggan. The Map Maker thought he glimpsed Shauna but could not be certain.

"A Metal Spear," gasped Callart. "This is not possible."

"This is your enemy." He jabbed at the missile. "It does not care if you are Shaylighter or Ennpithian. It will kill you without mercy. Nothing will stop it. We have to take it from here."

"Mosscar," said Callart, nodding.

There were cries of dissent.

"If we are to begin again and ride free then we must forsake the city. We are caged like wild things inside its walls."

"No," said the Map Maker. "People believe Mosscar is a city of death. The lie must end. We will carry the Metal Spear to the cliffs and throw it into the sea. It has no part of our new world."

Hundreds gathered in the long grass. There was anger, seething resentment, a few scuffles, but Callart had control over most of his warriors and Duggan subdued his Churchmen and the villagers who had lost family at Great Onglee.

For the first time there was a common enemy.

Shauna went to him, cupped his elbow, smiled.

"She's still here," he said, his breath ragged. "I don't... I don't know... she is strong, Shauna. She is..."

She placed her hand against his cheeks. His skin was burning.

"I can't believe it. You did it."

He leaned against her.

"She is... no, no, leave them alone... you wouldn't, please, don't... I... no, you're finished... you... a boy... it's a boy... I have a son... and you cannot hurt him... no... you cannot, you cannot!"

Shauna stumbled as he collapsed against her. She couldn't hold him. His body went down into the grass. She cried out. A few people rushed over. She dropped to her knees, cradled his face.

"Just breathe," she said.

His eyes were wide open.

"Harron. Harron."

She felt for a pulse.

"Help me. Someone help me. PLEASE!"

Father Devon broke through the knot of people. The Map Maker was lying on his back, staring at the sky.

"Save him," he said, urging the child healer forward.

Adult eyes peered at her. She placed her hands on his chest. Her single eye closed. Then popped opened.

"Is he okay?" said Father Devon.

"I sent the bad woman away," said the girl.

There was a sudden scream. Shauna looked around and saw an old woman standing in the grass, wrapped in a hooded robe. Her skin was blackened, her long hair burning with fire.

Lannast's mouth opened but the scream was soundless. Her flesh crumbled, pieces carried on the wind, and the hooded robe dropped to the grass.

Shauna grabbed the Map Maker and pulled him up. "Harron?"

Slowly, his eyes came into focus.

THIRTY TWO

Silence would be his ally.

He couldn't stand toe to toe with six well trained and heavily armed soldiers; he'd be wiped out or captured in seconds. Crouching beside a four-high stack of rusted cars, Stone hurriedly stripped off his ripped fleece and shirt. His thick chest was littered with old scars. The sun felt good on his bare skin. He tore a few strips from the shirt and knotted them around his arm wound. Then he tied the rest of the shirt around his face, covering his mouth and nose. He'd glimpsed one of the weapons that would be ranged against him and was taking no chances. He opened the ammunition bag and scooped out a handful of steel balls, carefully mixing them inside the leather bag of coins from Boyd.

Knife in one hand, a makeshift cosh in the other, Stone closed his eyes, hearing the wind whistle through the old vehicles, rattling bumpers and hoods, wings and exhausts, grilles and arches, tossing dust and dirt. He kept his eyes closed, steadied his breathing and picked them out, They were calling back and forth as they cleared the long aisles of the junkyard, moving cautiously but with speed, looking left and right, up and down. He isolated each voice, each scrape of the boot, each creak of weapons or jangle of equipment. He opened his eyes and jogged. He closed in on a soldier over six feet tall, dark haired and clean shaven, rapidly expanding the hunt, finger around the trigger of a crossbow. There was a shout from nearby, another aisle clear, but the crossbowman ignored it, wanting to draw no attention.

The masked shirtless man was a blur. The knife spun through the air and lodged in his throat. The crossbowman gurgled and staggered, caught between firing his weapon and flailing for the knife buried in his flesh. Stone swept into his path and settled it for him, lunging with the leather bag of coins and steel balls, fast and decisive, one swift strike, a toe-curling smack across the face, putting him down in the dirt.

Stone yanked out his knife, took the crossbow, melted away.

Voices; calling and shouting, urgency in them, coming this way, five soldiers all converging on his location, rushing to find only a body.

Hit and run.

But Stone didn't run. He moved fast but he didn't run. He was twice the age of the soldiers hunting him and his body was aching. He'd hardly slept and barely eaten; he needed to conserve every ounce of energy. Omar was still out there with the remaining missiles. The bastard had fired off one but how many more did he have? He couldn't even begin to think of the stark devastation the first missile had inflicted across Ennpithia. He pushed it from his thoughts. There was nothing and no one in his head but taking out these men. He knew Omar would have told them how effective he could be against superior numbers and superior weapons. But men were men and there would be a fraction of a second when they would underestimate him, reasoning that youth and strength would be what swung the pendulum in their favour. And Stone knew those were the moments he thrived inside and would take them out of the hunt and push them violently from this world.

Two of them.

Moving in his direction.

Long aisles stretched left and right and behind him. They were coming in from the right. He loaded the crossbow. He would only get one shot with it. There was no cover to fire, reload and fire again. He needed a shield. He listened once more. What had he heard? He tuned in. There, a buzzing sound, overlapping with the wind. He tilted back his head and saw a score of black flies darting rapidly from a vehicle above and then flitting back inside.

The sun beat down upon his back as he climbed. He slid into a faded and rusted car, three vehicles up.

Beneath his mask, his nose wrinkled at the smell of stale black energy and decomposition. He shifted his weight into the back where the body was crawling with hundreds of black flies. They swirled around him. He didn't swat them away. He didn't move. He let them explore his damp skin.

There was the jangle of equipment and amplified breathing and then two Kiven soldiers came into view. Both men wore gas masks. One of them carried a slingshot carbine but Stone didn't recognise the weapon of the second man. It was black and tubular, like a bolt gun, but with cables running from it, connected to a large grey canister strapped to his back. It was the sickness weapon. It was the weapon that had prompted him to mask his face. This was how they must have used it in the beginning, in Mosscar, with Clarissa.

Stone eased his left hand against the body, slowly lifted it, moved his right arm around it, but then the wind blew harsh and the car shifted an inch and the crossbow scraped against metal and the two soldiers looked up at him.

"Shit."

A steel ball smacked against the rotting corpse. Stone squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. The bolt hit the soldier with the sickness weapon, punching into his shoulder, but he didn't go down. The other soldier fired again. Once more the dead body was an ideal shield and absorbed the steel ball. Words passed between the two men and they fanned out. Stone rolled around the corpse, flies crawling through his hair, reloaded the crossbow and fired again. The soldier with the carbine cried out, the bolt lodged in his leg. He limped away, leaving a spotted trail of blood, firing back as he sought cover.

The man with the cylinder on his back raised his weapon and Stone saw a cloud of gas emerge from it.

The wind caught it, swirled it around.

He leaned forward, skin glistening with sweat, and fired. His aim was deadly. The bolt shocked the eye piece of the gas mask and the Kiven man slumped to the ground.

Stone held his breath, dropped hard on the dirt.

The surviving soldier fired. Stone gritted his teeth as the steel ball glanced off his shoulder. He ran at the man, knife in hand, and took him off his feet, burying the blade deep into his stomach. He wrestled the gas mask from the soldier and head butted him. Quickly, he discarded his soaked shirt and tugged on the mask. He hated the damn thing at once but the gas was somewhere. The Kiven man clawed at him and Stone slashed open his windpipe.

He grabbed the carbine and fled.

"These cables have been disconnected," said Omar.

Baltan nodded.

"The quake must have shaken them free."

Leaning over the control panel, he continued to work, aware of Omar's inquisitive stare.

"Did you do this, Baltan?"

"Did I do what?"

"Did you tamper with the control panel?"

"No, of course not."

"Have you stopped the missiles from firing?"

The young man stepped back, lowering his tools.

"No and no. I fired the first one. You saw it, Omar. I fired it. Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because the sky is clear. Why didn't I see the cloud? Why didn't it explode?"

"I promise you, Omar," said Baltan. "I 'm loyal to the League. I've been a member of the scientific branch since childhood."

"You are a terrible liar, Baltan. What did you do, Baltan?"

"I'm sorry."

"Tell me."

Baltan took a few paces back and stared at the machete in Omar's fist.

"I can't let you murder thousands of innocent people. You've seen no explosion because there wasn't one. The missile was harmless."

Omar hissed. "What?"

"I disabled the warhead. And the control panel is beyond repair. You will never get these missiles airborne."

He swept the blade, slicing open Baltan's throat. The scientist stumbled, dropped to his knees.

"You will not rob me of greatness. All of them will burn."

He buried the machete in the man's skull.

"All of them."

They'd ignored the outer edges of the rubble and worked in the centre, clearing down toward the rat run. It was a dangerous approach and Commander Eddis was gravely concerned that the outer ring might shake loose and collapse on them - but it appeared a risk his men were prepared to take. They worked in silence and bore grim expressions as they shifted the rubble and carried away crushed bodies. Nuria worked amongst them. Eddis admired her grit. There were cries and groans from the wounded as the medics worked on them. He knew, sadly, most would probably die. A few of them, already patched up, struggled over to help, bandages staining with fresh spots of blood as they lifted away the dust coated stones.

No one spoke of the missile that had passed overhead.

"There it is," said Commander Eddis, handing a ring of keys to the nearest of his men. Nuria arched her back, wiped her glistening brow, rocked impatiently on the balls of her feet as the Marshal opened a large wooden hatch, revealing a shaft. A line of iron rungs disappeared into blackness.

Eddis blocked her with his arm. "Not you. Not yet. We need to establish whether the landings and tunnel are intact."

"But...?"

"You'll wait here for now. That's a damn order."

Frustrated, Nuria paced, hands on her hips, as two men descended into the shaft, one of them holding a brightly burning lantern. She watched the pool of light grow smaller and smaller.

Within a few minutes she called out. "Is the tunnel still there?"

"Be patient," said Eddis. "They won't have reached the first landing yet. It's a long way down."

She walked away. Boyd offered her a weak smile. Quinn looked dazed. Smoke swirled around them.

She stared along the canyon, north and south, hoping they were mistaken, hoping they had gotten it wrong, hoping that at least one of the bridges had survived, but she knew the truth and the truth was cold and the truth was remorseless and her heart burned because of it.

"Nuria," called Eddis.

The Marshals were climbing out of the shaft.

"The tunnel's filled in," said one of them. "And the landings have collapsed. It's pretty bad down there."

"How long will it take to clear?" said Nuria.

Eddis looked at her.

"Nuria, it took nearly two years to construct the shaft and the tunnels into Kiven."

Stone tracked the fourth man. He was roaming a series of short and tight aisles, cars haphazardly wedged together, squeaking in the wind.

Hating the gas mask, he closed in on the soldier, finger on the trigger, ammunition bag jangling lightly on his hip. There was a steady trickle of blood from his shoulder but nothing too serious. The Kiven man heard his near-silent approach and whirled round, angling his body. He was armed with the same weapon. Both men fired. Both men missed. Stone pumped rapidly and fired again and this time the man cried out. His hip erupted with blood but he managed to get off a wild shot. A steel ball landed between Stone's feet.

Yanking back the slider, Stone heard a familiar sound inside the carbine as the frayed slingshot snapped.

"Shit."

He slammed into the Kiven man, discarding the busted weapon and whipping out his knife. The two men wrestled into a wall of metal that shook and teetered. Stone veered his head from a punch and jarred his neck. He slashed with his blade but the Kiven man, half his size, was nimble and light on his feet. He jerked back, despite the flow of blood from his wound, and swept out a leg, dropping Stone. He landed a kick and a punch and Stone had nothing in reply. They could both hear the remaining men closing in. Stone thought he'd heard a woman's voice amongst them. The agile man came at him once more and Stone raised his knife, clearly signalling a throw. As the man sprang forward, his focus on the knife, the makeshift cosh appeared in Stone's other hand. He saw it too late. It wheeled in with pace and accuracy, loaded with steel balls and metal coins. Pain shot through his temple, his vision went black and he hit the ground.

Stone whirled round and threw. The knife spun through the air. He _had_ heard a woman; the blade punctured her chest and she gasped and her black hair fell across her shocked eyes and her body sagged and the pistols she was carrying dropped and Stone ran at her, breathing hard, scooping the firearms from the ground, the last two soldiers appearing with weapons raised, squeezing the triggers as they rounded the corner, howling into the gas mask, sweat pouring down his body, one shot after the other.

He lowered the pistols, took short breaths. He walked back to where the agile man twitched on the ground and shot him through the head. The woman was still alive. She was panting, eyes swimming with tears. He jerked the knife from her chest and cleaned the blade. Her hands flapped at the wound.

She choked. "Why? Why?"

He ignored her and tucked one of the pistols into his waistband.

"Why did you hurt, Omar? Why?"

Stone put the pistol against his head and squeezed the trigger.

Omar looked up from the control panel. He'd heard the rapid burst of gunfire followed by the solitary shot. He lowered his tools. He looked along the road and stared up at the hill of dead trees. He licked his lips. Minutes passed and still there had been no more gunfire. He glanced at the missile battery as he worked. Baltan had tampered with the first missile but the remaining five were armed and he had repaired the control panel. He prepared to engage the firing mechanism when he heard a scrape behind him.

He stiffened. "The final shot. I should have known."

There was no answer.

"Her name was Adina. She had a name, Stone. Unlike you."

Slowly, Omar turned. Gas mask pushed on his head, Stone aimed the pistol at him.

"Get away from the truck. Start walking."

"Where? The Place of Bridges? The bridges are gone, Stone. All of them. There is no way back for you."

Stone frowned.

"What?"

"Already, there are vehicles coming from the city. You will be..."

Stone fired as he lunged for the control panel, drilling bullets through his hand and arm.

He dragged Omar screaming and bleeding from the truck, tied his wrists, and set out destroying it once and for all.

"There has to be another way," said Nuria, as the sun dipped and the land grew dusky.

She thought for a moment.

"How did the Kiven smuggle weapons across to the Shaylighters?"

"They have tunnels," said Commander Eddis. "But we don't know where they're located."

"Shit."

She cleared her throat.

"Do you have any maps of this area?"

He nodded at one of his men.

"Impassable mountains north," he said, pointing. "We've tried them. You won't make it that way. Down south you have marshes and stinking bogs. If you can wade through the shit and muck you'll reach another range of mountains."

"What about the sea? Are there any bays or rivers?"

"I don't know anything about the sea. My boots stay on dry soil."

"I'm not giving up on him."

"I'm not telling you to, miss," said Eddis. "But the bridges are gone and there's something you should think on. When we went to war with the Kiven they only attacked us from the bridges. Never from the mountains and never from the sea."

She chewed her lip. "He risked his life for you people."

"I know that and I also know the name of every man lying dead or dying a painful death. We've all paid a heavy price today in stopping these bastards."

"Look," said Quinn. "It's Stone."

He stood on the edge of the canyon, bloody and filthy and shirtless, a gas mask pushed back on his head. He was kicking and dragging a wounded man at gunpoint.

"Who's that with him?" said Eddis, staring through a telescope.

Nuria raised her binoculars.

"Omar," she said. "The Cleric."

Quinn stepped forward and raised the sniper rifle.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She put the stock against her shoulder and peered through the scope. Omar was on his knees, wrists bound, bleeding heavily. His head was thrown back and his mouth was moving. His eyes suddenly focused on her and the rifle and his lips stopped.

The shot echoed through the valley.

Stone rolled Omar's body into the canyon. It spun toward the smoking wreckages and disappeared into black smoke.

Nuria was watching him through binoculars. He stared back at her but he couldn't stay here much longer. The area would soon be flooded with soldiers from the League; he'd seen the convoy of vehicles emerge from the city. He needed to scatter into the wasteland they called the Black Region or, even riskier, head into the city itself where there would be more weapons and supplies and information on how to get back to her.

She hadn't moved.

He swallowed and was about to duck back into the undergrowth when he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small wrapped gift she had given him. He curled his grimy fingers around the wooden piece of heart and pressed it against his scarred chest.

By the time Nuria lowered the binoculars, blue eyes streaming with tears, he was gone.

THIRTY THREE

"No," said Governor Albury.

Boyd nodded.

"The letter states the Alliance has reformed. They have new leaders and the League has purged the dissidents."

Albury listened.

"All the traitors have been executed."

"By whom? Them? No, by us, Benny. It was Stone who captured Omar. Not them. I don't care about their claims and promises. Kiven are born to lie. It's good the bridges were destroyed."

"I understand."

"I didn't mean that," said Albury, softly. "I'm sorry he was left over there. All he tried to do was help."

"I'll send word to Commander Eddis that any further communication is to be destroyed."

"That's what I want."

"Yes, sir."

Summer had passed. The trees were turning orange, yellow and red. His carpentry tools were covered in dust.

"What of Great Onglee?"

"The death toll is keenly felt. Generations were lost. There's been a string of revenge killings against the Shaylighters and they've started to retaliate, tit-for-tat murders. Captain Duggan and the Shaylighter leader, Callart, are working at eliminating these. Duggan has completed the drawing of new borders although over half of the Shaylighters are staying inside Mosscar."

"I see," said Albury. "I hope they appreciate the concessions we're making."

"We're only giving them land we don't use."

"Do you think we should give them more?"

"I think we should learn to live alongside them."

Albury glared. "I think I would like to visit the site of Great Onglee and witness first hand the devastation."

"We lost twenty men to infection clearing the area. It might not be safe yet."

"Twenty? Trinity could've saved them."

"The men were being transported here. They died on the road." He cleared his throat. "How is the girl?"

"Happy, I think. I have no experience of young girls, Benny. They all seem to laugh and smile a lot. I assume she's happy. The hospital worship her."

"It's a shame her sisters couldn't accept her."

"Yes, I suppose. Is there still unrest toward Archbishop Devon?"

Boyd glanced out of the window. He studied the rooftops of the great Holy House of Touron.

"It hasn't gone away. This new breakaway order continue to question why Devon took so long in bringing the child healer to Touron when he knew the Archbishop was gravely ill. They're attempting to build a new house of worship. I have a man watching the situation closely."

"And what of the Map Maker? Have you located him yet?"

"No, he disappeared with a woman from Brix. He gave us a place to begin with the Shaylighters. Maybe in some way the crazy man did put us back together."

"Hmm," said Albury. "The conscription laws will still be enforced. Every other boy will bear arms. We will not be left vulnerable."

Boyd remained quiet.

"How is the work progressing in Winshead?"

"Slow. The hamlet was abandoned for many years but the farm buildings belonging to Pretan have been demolished. The refugees from Great Onglee will take up residence by winter."

"That's something positive." His voice was distant.

"Yes, sir."

"I think we're born to fight," he said, with a defeated sigh. "It's our nature to conquer and kill and take what the other has. That was the way of the Ancients and it's the way of us. Do you not agree?"

"No, sir."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't agree with you, sir."

"But the Shaylighters and the Kiven; liars and killers."

"Not all of them. Omar was a man who arrived at the right time with the right amount of charm. He managed to enlist the disenchanted of the Kiven people. But they're not all like him. And Callart, the Shaylighter warrior, he wants only peace. He has a wife, sir, and children. He is just a man. Like you, sir. So, no, I don't agree with you."

He touched his cross.

"You might be Ennpithia's ruler, Lewis, but you're still a man and you're hurting. Rondo and Omar were willing to murder thousands and turn Ennpithia into a wasteland of death. And you welcomed them and attempted to forge a bond with them. They humiliated you. But you have to get past this. Ennpithia needs that vigour you possess, that bright spark to take us beyond the greed and hatred of men like Omar and Essamon."

He paused.

"Maybe you should make a table. I'm sure it helps more than prayer."

Albury smiled, wryly.

"You are a good friend, Benny; you will make an ideal advisor."

"I prefer the road, sir."

He patted Boyd on the arm. "Where do you think they are?"

"Still trying to find a way across the mountains."

"It was good that Commander Eddis spared ten Marshals to travel with them."

"The mountains have never been crossed. I pray for Quinn and Nuria and the soldiers with them. They won't give up looking for him."

"Do you think he's still alive? Two months have passed."

"He's a resourceful man."

"And all the smuggling tunnels have gone?"

"Yes."

"So there is no way back for him?"

"No."

"This man saved our people and we don't even know if he's dead or alive."

"A lot of lives were lost that day."

"Is there nothing we can do, Benny?"

Boyd straightened.

"No, sir."

"Then prayer is all we have," said Albury, grimly. "And carpentry."

Rain slithered down the window panes. It was a newly constructed building on the corner of the parkland, the only gardens within the city where trees flourished and flowers grew and citizens paid to walk its winding pathways. But it was autumn and the riotous colours had faded and the trees were bending in the harsh wind and the lawns were covered with fallen leaves and the sky was grey and red and the only place to be was inside.

The three of them gathered around an open fire, sipping brandy from cut glasses; two men, one woman. The ratio had to be maintained. The Society, the heart, would always provide a woman; the Ministry, the vision, would always provide a man; the League, the fists, would always provide a soldier.

"They have been rooted out, executed," said the soldier. "Omar and his followers are the past."

The woman spoke. "Have you found the stranger?"

"No."

"Are we certain he's still here?"

"The quake destroyed all the bridges and the smuggling routes. The stranger is here."

"What are your thoughts on that?" asked the man.

"During his short time in power Omar constructed relationships with many of the street level gangs. He used them for special assignments that could not be linked to the League."

The fire crackled. The windows rattled in the wind.

"You mean assassinations?" said the man.

"Yes," said the soldier, without hesitation. "We have exploited these partnerships to flush out the stranger. We also have a network of spies and informants but rapid communication is a problem." He paused. "Kiven is a huge city. I'm sure you realise that."

"And its people must never know how close we came to a second war," said the man. "Missiles are not progress. Not in the eyes of the Ministry."

"Nor the Society," said the woman. "I cannot fathom how this Omar was able to take us to the brink so easily."

"We have made changes to our old laws," said the soldier. "A man like Omar will never be allowed to murder his way into such an influential position. The League will burden all and any blame. However, the imbalance in our city provided a conduit for him."

"What imbalance?" said the woman, lowering her glass. "I'm not sure I appreciate your tone."

"Half of the city is in ruin. Half of the ruins are occupied. But all of the occupants belong to the League."

"What are you suggesting?" said the man.

"I'm a soldier therefore I suggest nothing. I speak as I find. There is an imbalance in Kiven. Omar exploited it. That is fact. The League sacrifices the most and suffers the most. That is another fact. I am a fighting man. I do not play word games."

The man and woman looked at each other.

"What about all these weapons at the factory?" she asked. "Have you destroyed them?"

"No, of course not. Any hope of peace with the Ennpithians has gone. We fired a missile at them. They will never trust us. Never. One day that crime will be answered. We must be capable of protecting our borders."

"Back to the matter of the stranger," said the man. "You mentioned the street gangs?"

"Yes, they understand he is to be killed."

"After all what has happened," said the woman. "Is this really the only resolution? Using _death squads_?"

"He cannot be allowed to live," said the soldier. "Not only is he responsible for the murder of League members he is the only surviving witness to what really happened at the Place of Bridges."

"One hundred thousand citizens believe in the Alliance," said the man. "And it has to remain that way. Even those who occupy the ruins. It took years to stabilise our city after the first war. We cannot afford a second one."

The man raised his glass. "In memory of Governor Cooperman."

The woman raised her glass. "Governor Nichols."

The soldier raised his glass, but offered no words.

"The meeting is concluded," said the man.

The glasses were set down. They formed a triangle; the soldier clenched his fists, the woman touched her chest, the man placed his hands above his eyes.

"Kiven," they said, in unison.

"The stranger will be hunted down," confirmed the soldier. "He is outnumbered and outgunned. He will be dead before the snows fall."

The boy was six years old; wild stringy hair, clothing of cotton and animal fur, idly playing on the worn stairs, racing his two wooden cars with wooden wheels. The building resonated with noise, his excitable and animated voice blending into the tapestry of tenement life. Large families with multiple jobs lived here. Large families with little coin and little opportunity to earn more lived here.

The lobby door creaked open. The boy felt the cold air on his skin but he didn't look up. There was no need. He knew the neighbourhood belonged to a gang. He knew the gang protected the families. There was no reason to be frightened or intimidated.

But he was curious.

His cars stopped in mid-collision and he peeked from the corner of his eye. The boy counted three men. He knew numbers, he was bright with numbers, adored them. Bandanas were wrapped around their faces and the sleeveless vests they wore were emblazoned with the head of a mythical creature. Their bare arms bore ink, dark curls and swirls, numbers and letters. The door eased shut. The cold air was gone. The men carried black pistols. They patted the boy on the head as they crept onto the stairwell.

The boy put down his cars and stood. He tilted his head back and watched them edge along the landing toward a closed door where the stranger lived. The man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun. The child waited and watched with fascination. It was raining outside. It was windy outside. Thrust into adolescence, the rain and wind would always remind him of this day. He wet his lips as the three masked men reached the door.

Shockingly loud gunshots splintered the wood. The boy cried out, slapping his hands over his ears. One of the masked men toppled over the railing and hit the filthy floor with a wet smack.

The gunshots brought his mother rushing into the hallway. She frantically grabbed him as there was more firing from above.

"It's going to be okay," she said, rubbing the back of his head. "Don't look at him, don't look at him."

The man's skull had cracked wide open and the floor tiles were streaked with blood.

The child raised his head and stared up at the landing. He saw the bodies of the other gang members.

Then he glimpsed the man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun.

And then the man was gone.

"Why did the stranger kill them?"

"Because they wanted to kill him. That is the way of things."

"Is the stranger a bad man?"

"No," said his mother, warmly, looking up. "The stranger was a good man."

"Will he come back?"

She hesitated. "No."

"Where will he go?"

She picked up his wooden cars.

"Into the wasteland."

THE END

Thank you for reading Drums of War. I hope you enjoyed the book.

The story continues in...

Men of Truth

