

Escape From Tamnica

(The Wasteland Soldier Book 2)

By

Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2015 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2015

All Rights Reserved.

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

Also by Laurence Moore

The Wasteland Soldier Series

A Fractured World

Escape From Tamnica

Drums of War

Men of Truth

The Atlanta Mission

The Kina McKevie Series

Wiping Out Guilt

Chasing Answers

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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

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

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

To my Mum and Dad

### Valerie and Michael

### Thank you for all your support and belief

\--- One ---

It began to rain.

The candles were burning down and Dani watched vacantly as beads of hot wax trickled into a growing pool. She sat at the cramped table next to a curtained window, massaging and flexing her hands as Cristo finished preparing a meal of boiled potatoes, fried mushrooms and crispy wint. The potatoes were stolen; the mushrooms and wint grew in the forest. She recognised potatoes and mushrooms but was unsure if wint was the correct name for the green leafed plant that flourished in small bushes. It was a name she had heard before though it didn't really matter one way or another. It tasted horrible raw but delightful when cooked. Cristo had lightly seasoned the food with sprinkles of a nameless spice, a pale orange powder that had a mighty kick and would leave your tongue burning and gasping for fluid.

Her bones were aching more than usual today. Her knuckles clicked and Cristo glanced over his shoulder at the sound. He stared down at her hands, palms now clasped together, and a tinge of concern flashed in his dark eyes. He was a tall, lean man, with narrow shoulders and a sunken face, a shadow of the bright spirit she had known since childhood, racing along the riverbank on a sunny day, full of ideas and hopes about impending adulthood. She smiled back at him and mouthed a silent _I'm fine, I'll be okay tomorrow_ but she could see he was not wholly convinced.

It was draughty in the wooden shack, concealed deep in the bowels of the forest by a twisted canopy of trees and salvaged camouflage netting. The rain grew loud and heavy. It had been raining a lot more lately. After seemingly endless days of burning heat the weather was morphing into that period when the hours of daylight grew shorter. Winter would soon be upon them. Ice cold winds and snow. She felt the seasonal change acutely in her hands as the damp seeped into her bones. When she clenched or gripped, pain would flare. Sometimes she would drop things and bemoan herself for being clumsy. The change was definitely coming and she would suffer if they remained here.

"How long?" she asked, sniffing the air.

"Not long."

On one of his previous supply runs, Cristo had unearthed a collection of vividly coloured blocks with melted corners and rough edges. One or two had even bore teeth marks. The two of them had studied the blocks at length; puzzled at their purpose and the curious feel of the plastic they were constructed from. Dani had washed the dirt from each one and carefully smoothed off the scratchy edges but she could do nothing with the teeth marks. She had thrown them into a bag and they somehow looked different bunched together bright and clean. She had walked for two hours to Belsont, a town to the southwest, with a thriving trade. A small core of men and women were permanent residents but most of the population was transient and the people she passed on the streets were strangers, drifting from one place to the next, always looking to move on, to find a better place, a safer place, a place where you could sleep with both eyes closed and without a weapon clutched in your hand. She knew of no such place in Gallen so she had carried a long knife with her. She always carried a weapon into Belsont, she knew the dangers of being a woman unarmed and alone, and it wasn't safe for Cristo to go where he might be recognised and the knowledge traded. He tried to persuade her to take one of the shotguns but she argued it was impossible to conceal and would probably attract more attention and, anyway, ammunition was priceless and they needed every shell.

In a small shop, with grimy windows and a bell that jangled as the front door opened, she threaded by the clutter and jumble and junk and offered the owner the bagged plastic blocks. His eyes lit up at them. He knew what they were and how rare they were and would have a line of parents seeking his business for them. Dani knew it would be a good trade. She had returned with the orange spice, a clean blanket and a bottle of recently brewed alcohol. The bottle was clear, the liquid the colour of indigo, the merchant had explained. She had no idea what indigo was.

Cristo set down two hand carved wooden bowls with steam rising from them. He fetched wooden spoons and empty wooden drinking mugs, all whittled by Dani. She smiled as he reached for the bottle, studied it for a moment, then removed the plunger and sniffed the pungent aroma inside. He poured slowly, savouring every slosh over the rim of the bottle. They toasted in silence as the rain tapped a mournful symphony on the roof of the shack and shadows danced across the floor in the flickering candlelight. At first, there was no conversation, no heavy dissection of the plan or light banter to pass the minutes or soften the mood or even smooth away any apprehension; they possessed a near telepathic connection, actions simply knitted together, words were spoken when needed, never wasted, and at this moment they both wanted nothing more than to eat and drink. All the preparations had been made. They had exhausted all the details, motives, possibilities, outcomes and random spikes; there was nothing new or further to discuss. It had been plotted. It had been decided. Tonight would be their last night here. It had been a place of refuge for a long time but they would never return and it would be impossible to do so once the plan was executed. So they continued to eat, continued to drink; the rain fell, the wind blew, and then finally the words came.

"What did the merchant call it?" asked Cristo, taking a sip.

"He had a name for it," said Dani, crunching a mouthful of wint. "But I can't remember it."

"Did he have more than one to pick from?"

"No."

There was a time when drink was plentiful, so they understood, in bars and shops, but the concept was surely absurd. It was challenging to conjure the picture of a building filled with only drink, shelf upon shelf, row upon row; bottles of brightly coloured liquids with imaginatively designed labels. Some bottles would be hidden in boxes, so rare and precious were they. Each would have a unique taste. Each would have a unique aroma. Each would have its own identity. They had gleaned this tale from the shiny pages of a large floppy book of the Before, when the Ancients had ruled the land of Gallen, over one thousand years ago, give or take a century or two. They had been a similar looking race of men and women, though with subtle alterations; the skin appeared more cleanly scrubbed, bronzed, and stomachs looked well fed, too, and the clothing was bright and dazzling, splendidly cut and well fitted. It also seemed their version of Gallen had been a far greater one; a neatly constructed framework of an ordered and industrious society within which freedom and personal individuality flourished and blossomed.

The Before was a time of wonderful knowledge, of spiralling achievements, catalogued instantly for all to witness, if the fragments that remained had been correctly interpreted and were to be believed. Yet the Cloud Wars had shredded Gallen, the clans and tribes had clashed and the landscape had been brutally ravaged and the sky had wept blood. No one had kept records since the Cloud Wars as swathes of darkness, shame and death blighted the land. Stories carried through the generations. Legends grew. Myths were born. There were even tales of a city, fine and bright, behind high walls, where life bore a semblance of normality, of expectations past merely hacking out a life in the dirt; but it was in the Southern Deserts, across the arid wastelands, a place told in chilling tales of blood and horror. It was not a place they would travel to. It was not a city they would ever see.

Their plan would take them a long way from here. Their destination was beyond Gallen.

"It burns," said Cristo, coughing. He drove his spoon into the blackened mushrooms.

Dani smiled at him. Her deep brown eyes glowed in the light from the candles. Her black hair was straight, lank, curled onto her shoulders. She wore loose fitting grey bottoms and a ribbed jumper that covered her throat. It was not unduly cold but a blanket was draped across her narrow shoulders. She was in her early thirties, an age considered the twilight years in Gallen. Few lived beyond their thirties. Even fewer lived beyond their forties. She intended for her and Cristo to outlive them all.

"We should give it our own name," he said.

They reeled off names, each one more outrageous than the one before. The rain lashed the trees, splashing off leaves, turning the ground mushy. It was black outside and there were a number of hours before dawn. Cristo cleared away the bowls and spoons as Dani refilled the mugs. They still hadn't decided on a name for the drink but the game was exhausted. Dani twirled her fingers around the rim of her mug. She looked into Cristo's hooded eyes as he sat opposite her. Her lips were wet in the candlelight. He urged to kiss her but had long forgotten how to and was terrified of what might follow. Instead he gently massaged her hands, her skin pale and taut against bone. Then he pulled away as her eyes warmed with longing.

The shack creaked. A steady plopping sound caught his attention. He glanced up at the roof and saw a bubble of water weep through.

"Another one?" said Dani.

He nodded, went into the kitchen area and took a metal pan from the basin.

"Does it matter?"

He crouched and set the pan down on the floor, a metallic echo as it caught the first drops.

"It matters," said Cristo.

* * *

They relaxed on a bed of cushions, blankets, and material, backs against the wall. Dani wanted his arm curled around her but they sat apart. He had nothing more to say and nor did she. They drank in silence until the bottle was empty, listening to the persistent rain. In the corner of the shack was a bucket. Dani used it first, then Cristo. She held the shotgun as he unbarred the door, pushed aside the netting and carried it out into the wet night. He didn't go far and didn't bother to bury it. He was only gone for a minute but his clothes were drenched when he came back inside, dark hair plastered to his head.

Dani yawned. She recklessly kissed his cheek goodnight and saw him flinch as her lips brushed his flesh. She desired him now more than ever but she knew there was only coldness there and she would lay awake blaming herself for being selfish and that would quickly dampen her fire below. She buried her head against the pillows and he tenderly drew the blankets over her shoulders. He told her he would join her shortly but Dani knew she would be asleep before she felt his heat radiate next to her. Her pillows were lifeless and offered no support or comfort so she folded them over to cushion her head better. Cristo blew out all but one of the candles and sat in the corner of the shack, behind where they stored all their supplies and salvaged goods and weapons. She could hear his muted sobs above the drum of the rain, needing these moments without her, in the near dark. He had been back for more than sixty days but every night had been the same. He was an outline of the man who had been taken from her, a rough etching. She knew he would never be the same unless they succeeded. He spoke nothing of the time he had been gone. It was an inkiness that festered inside him. One day the words would come, she hoped, but she had no idea how to coax them forward nor was there anyone else to turn to, but if the plan worked, and it would work, then they would soon be gone from this place, far from this dark misery, into a better world, and then she would hold him and he would hold her and the tears would be but a memory.

She rolled onto her side. A bright flash of white light outside caused her eyes to flick open.

Then she was plunged into darkness as thunder growled. She never heard the second peel; she was fast asleep by then.

* * *

Mist clung to the saturated land, drifting slowly in a light wind that shook raindrops from the trees.

Dani checked her shotgun one final time and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. The ground was spongy underfoot, the long grass and tangled undergrowth shiny with dew. She glanced across the road and nodded at Cristo. His face was drawn and pinched with tension but he nodded back at her. They could both hear it; drawing closer to them, the sound reaching their stomachs more than their ears. The road was a three lane highway with cracks and fissures and potholes brimming with grimy water. It slashed mercilessly through the forest, the sky above grey, streaked with angry strips of red, like neglected wounds.

She looked past him to where the shack was concealed, an odd lump in her throat, a flutter in her chest. Day after day, night after night, she had dreamed of leaving the place, to bid farewell to the damp and draughty conditions. When Cristo had been taken she had followed but it had been a woefully vain attempt to reclaim him. There was nothing she could do. Wandering lost in the forest she had discovered the shack, a half-buried relic, long forgotten. She had marked her ground and claimed it for her new home, working tirelessly to improve the dilapidated old dwelling; but it had tricked her, lured her inside with a false sense of hope. The four walls had formed a prison around her thoughts and crowded it with tormenting whispers that plagued her during her those long spells of solitude - but she never gave up hope of reuniting with him, even during those darkest periods. She thought back to that day when she had brought Cristo here for the first time, stumbling upon him half-starved and wandering the ruined streets of Belsont, begging for food and water. He had gingerly stepped across the threshold of the shack, like a toddler taking its first steps.

Yet, here and now, on the cusp of this plan, she became aware, with alarming dread, how much of a wrench it would be to abandon the rickety old building, faults and all, reflecting upon it for too long as only a place for food and shelter, to plot and plan, never accepting its truth worth. As the mist swirled about them and the deep noise throbbed in the distance, her hands gripped tightly at the shotgun, pain flaring in her bones, and she realised, completely and utterly, that what she had ached for, what she had always desired for them both, was sitting beyond his right shoulder.

Home.

A flicker of doubt crept into her thoughts but then she slammed the door hard on it. Doubt would weaken them and weakness would see them dead. The deep noise was causing her insides to churn. Closer and closer it barked, flying across the miles at tremendous speed. The ugly distorted noise shook the ground beneath them; a succession of rapid bangs, muffled shots and explosions, layered with a repetitive thump, like an accelerated and amplified heartbeat. Finally, the sound was thickened with the snarl of the fume spewing exhaust and the roar of an engine. And then it shot forth out of the grey swirling mist, emerging like a mythical beast, bursting from the gloom. It swerved left and right, splashing through wide puddles, trees all around, burning rubber, headlamps on, twin beams scorching down the highway. The car was compact, brown with rust. Miles behind it trailed a pickup truck in similar condition. The booming noise came from the car. Always it came from the car. The windows were rolled down. Two men were in the front. Blue and white scarves concealed their faces. Sunglasses covered their eyes. The vehicle began to slow as the driver eased against the brake pedal but then he pushed down hard and the car skidded, bounced and squealed to a halt.

The noise continued until the pickup truck emerged, driving around them and only then was there silence.

Two men jumped down from the truck. Both carried loaded crossbows. Blue and white scarves were tied around their faces. One began to pace, his head turned toward the trees, his crossbow angled at the leaden sky. The men in the rusted car stepped onto the rain slick road. The four looked identical. Young, athletic, features hidden. One seemed shorter than the other three, more slender, and carried an automatic rifle. He slipped off the dark sunglasses and tugged down the face scarf. Dani and Cristo both saw it was a woman, not a man, with thin lips and a petite nose, crew cut black hair and eyes the colour of the rain sodden soil. She gave an order to one of the men, the driver from the pickup, and he complied immediately. He went to the back of the truck and opened the tailgate. It swung down with a loud clatter. He quickly untied the tarp cover and dragged a heavy looking crate to the edge of the flatbed but did not move it any further.

The young woman took a small container of blue tablets from her pocket and swallowed one. One of the men asked her something and she swore at him. He shook his head and ambled away, swinging his crossbow toward the line of trees. The woman looked down the empty highway, one hand at her waist. As she turned to open her mouth and say something her head exploded, her body sagged and the rifle clattered against the road.

Cristo fired from the other side of the road, slamming a shell into a man's chest, shattering bone and organs.

Dani fired for a second time, blasting one of the masked men in the shoulder, tossing him against the car. He cried out in agony and raised his weapon but she pumped the shotgun and finished him off.

The last man frantically swept his crossbow at the line of trees, trying to spot the gunmen. As his finger reached the trigger there was a deafening boom as Cristo fired and the man's throat exploded.

Cristo and Dani broke cover.

"You used an extra shell," said Cristo.

Dani said nothing. It wasn't a criticism, more a worry over the lack of ammunition they had and, even more importantly, concern over what had caused her shot to go askew.

Without saying another word, they hurriedly collected the crossbows and the automatic rifle and placed them on the flatbed of the pickup truck. They carried each body from the road and rolled it into the undergrowth. Dani set down her shotgun and sprinted into the trees to fetch the buckets of water. One at a time, Cristo took them from her and began to wash away the fresh blood. He glanced up as Dani dropped one. It clattered loudly and rolled into a pothole. She gritted her teeth and flexed her hand. Cristo looked at her, his face crunched with deep concern. He hesitated, and for a moment the plan unfurled and they wasted precious seconds worrying over her pain. The distant sound of grinding gears shook them into focus. Dani carried their backpacks from the grass to the pickup truck and put them with the weapons. Cristo bought the final buckets of rainwater and spilled them onto the road, cleansing the last of the blood. Some patches stubbornly remained but he was certain they would not be noticed. He saw the dropped container of blue tablets and flicked it into the bushes. The truck grew closer. Cristo looked over both vehicles. There was a large smear of blood on the car and he quickly wiped it away.

Headlamps speared the dawn mist. They both tied blue and white scarves across their faces and slipped on dark sunglasses. Cristo's right hand drifted and he squeezed his left forearm. Dani saw him jerk it away. Her scarf had a strong smell and she tasted something bitter and unfamiliar against her lips as she sucked breath rapidly. The truck bore down on them both. It was heavily rusted with a high and broad windscreen, an iron grill fixed across it. A jeep was alongside it, headlamps switched off.

Two men rode in the jeep. Two more in the truck.

Breathing hard, they stood in the middle of the road, shotguns in hand, the rusted pickup truck and car behind them.

* * *

"I'm Victor. Where's Anna?"

The man had black eyebrows that knitted together above his leathery nose. His eyes were crossed and his skin was scarred. He swigged from a canteen, swirled the contents around his mouth and spat on the ground.

"Warm," he said.

He was broad shouldered, with a thick neck and long arms. He didn't appear to be carrying a weapon.

"So what happened to her? It's the only good thing about this rotten drive. I look forward to seeing her."

"Chucking up her guts," said Dani, shrugging.

"What?" said Victor, hiking up his trousers.

"Too many blues." She made a gesture with her hand, toward her mouth. Victor had a throaty laugh.

"What's your name?"

As she told him, two painfully thin men dropped down from the back of the truck and began to unload large canisters. Cristo watched on in silence, his shotgun casually angled toward Victor. The men shuffled obediently from truck to truck, hefting the canisters one at a time and carefully stacking them on the flatbed. In no time at all they were sweating profusely. They wore ill fitting brown clothing, made from stretched animal hide and stained black with dirt and grime. Open sandals revealed grubby feet. Each man had been branded on the forearm, a sequence of shapes burnt into the skin. Behind dark sunglasses, Cristo's eyes welled with hate. He closed them, for a moment, as his finger strayed toward the trigger of his shotgun. He quickly opened them and took deep breath as he realised someone was speaking to him.

"Got a light?"

It was the driver from the jeep. A man of similar age and build to himself. His name was Enzo. He wore clean clothes and his neatly trimmed hair and beard were the colour of the sun. A white mask hung loose around his neck and he carried a pistol in his belt. He was holding a glass pipe, open at one end with a bowl at the other.

"You got a light?" he said.

"No," said Cristo, padding his pockets.

The jeep driver nodded sourly and sloped away.

"He doesn't have one," he said, addressing his companion in the jeep, who had remained in his seat, looking sullen.

Enzo turned, suddenly, looking back at the car.

"That yours?"

Cristo nodded, his finger edging closer to the trigger. The weak looking men continued to move the canisters. Victor wandered away from Dani, turned his back on her and began to empty his bladder.

"Nice," said Enzo, bending at the waist and looking inside the car. "That jeep is a pile of shit. That thing work?"

"What thing?" asked Cristo.

Dani listened to Victor urinating. The men had finished loading the canisters and lifted down the metal crate, slowly lowering it onto the road. The passenger from the truck dropped down onto the road and stretched his arms and legs. He ignored every one around him and went directly to the crate. He opened the lid with toe of his boot and looked inside. Dani saw an assortment of small containers filled with tablets. The man, a cap pulled over his light brown hair, crouched down and began to count them.

"That," said Enzo. "Are you stupid? The player."

Victor wiped his hands on his trousers and barked at the two men who stood idling, eyes downcast.

"It works," said Cristo, walking back to the pickup truck. Dani helped him tie down the tarpaulin cover.

Enzo pulled open the car door and slid into the driver's seat. It was more cushioned than the jeep and there was a nice smell. He tested his hands on the wheel and grinned. This was a top car. He really could see himself driving back in this. Maybe he could dig four graves and keep the car and Noah could keep his canisters.

"Enzo," called the Noah, standing at the crate. "Out."

"Yeah, yeah," said Enzo. "Just a fucking minute."

He reached toward the dashboard and jabbed buttons. The noise erupted, the car vibrated and Dani's stomach lurched. Noah launched himself to his feet and drew his pistol.

"Turn it off," he hissed.

Enzo blinked, stabbed the buttons and silence descended. The rainwater dripped from the trees.

"You fucking idiot," he said. "There could be bandits or marauders nearby."

He turned to Dani and Cristo. "Apologies."

"No problem," said Cristo, raising the gate on the flatbed and latching it into place. "We all done?"

Enzo strolled back toward them, sheepishly looking around, trying to avert his eyes from Noah's steely glare.

"Load the crate," Victor barked.

The two thin men rushed toward it, stooping at each end, but Noah stamped his boot down on the lid and held the crate in place.

"No," he said.

Victor frowned. Enzo scratched his crotch.

"Problem?" said Cristo.

"You're one container short," said Noah.

Dani, half into the pickup truck, dropped back onto the road, shotgun in hand, eyes hidden.

"What do you mean?" she asked

"There's a container missing."

"That's not down to us," said Cristo.

"I didn't say it was," said Noah, his pistol relaxed at his side. "But I am a container light. What will happen when I return? Do you know what will happen? I will take the blame for a missing container."

Cristo thought of the container he had tossed into the bushes and his stomach lurched. He had no idea it had been purloined from the crate.

"Give him the container," said Victor, stepping forward. "We all slip things into our pockets but this is a bad idea. If you have it, give it to him. No need for this to get ugly."

"Four graves," said Enzo, something dawning on him.

They all turned to look at him.

"Why are there only two of you?" he said. "Where's the other two? We bring four you bring..."

Dani was the first to react, the shell ploughing into Noah's arm, the pistol spinning from his grip. Cristo dropped to one knee as Enzo reached for his gun. Bullets fizzed past him and one smacked against the pickup truck. He pumped the shotgun, fired again and struck Enzo in the leg. Noah was on his knees as Dani fired her last shell, spattering blood and bone across the road.

Victor fled toward the truck. Dani grabbed Noah's pistol from the ground and fired. The bullet missed and punched a hole through the truck windscreen. The truck roared into life as Victor twisted the ignition. She fired again but he ducked as the bullet tore another hole in the windscreen.

There was a flash of movement from the corner of her eye and she saw the passenger in the jeep slide across and climb behind the wheel. She fired twice and his head rocked back.

Cristo closed in on Enzo, flipped the empty shotgun and jammed the stock into the young man's face. He staggered back, the glass pipe rolling from his pocket and shattering on the ground. Cristo lunged at him and battered him with the shotgun, turning the man's face bloody until his body no longer twitched.

He ran back to the pickup as Dani fired at the truck, pistol clicking empty. He snatched the automatic rifle and sprayed the vehicle with bullets, ripping holes in the tyres and splintering the windscreen. The truck stuttered to a halt. Victor sprang from the vehicle and began to run back down the mist covered road.

Cristo chased after him, catching up to him easily, and planted a boot into the fleeing man's back.

Victor rolled over.

"You can keep it all. I haven't done anything."

Cristo tore off the sunglasses, tugged down the blue and white scarf.

"You."

His pointed the rifle and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

The two thin men were on their knees, heads bowed, sobbing, begging to be spared.

Dani climbed into the pickup truck and left Cristo to deal with them. He saw them kneeling against the hard, wet road. He peeled off his heavy jacket and rolled up his left sleeve.

They gasped as he showed them the sequence of symbols burned into his forearm.

"Take the car," said Cristo, and left them with two of the crossbows.

\--- Two ---

Lena dipped her feet into the river and wriggled her toes. The sky was an insipid blue, torn with ugly red streaks, and she closed her eyes as the sun peeked from behind sluggish grey clouds. The warm rays touched her skin and the cool water lapped her ankles. She leaned back on her elbows and idly plucked at the damp grass, tugging skinny blades from the soil. Gently lifting her left foot out of the water she dropped it sharply, creating a splash, and then began to kick freely with both feet, giggling as the water soaked her bare legs.

"Lena."

Abruptly she opened her eyes and sat up. It was Mallon, head of the village militia, standing over her with three other warriors.

"Hello, Mallon," she said. "How are you?"

"You have work," he said, tightly, ignoring her question.

The four men carried round wooden shields and spears and wore loose fitting trousers and sandals. Lena stared at his feet, noticing how clean he kept his toes and how neatly shaped his nails were. She had never seen a man with such beautiful feet although she had never really bothered to look at a man's feet before Mallon.

"I was just taking a break," she said, lazily getting to her feet, smiling brightly. "You should try it."

She waited for a reply but there was none. She sighed. She revolved her day around where he would be training or patrolling, where he enjoyed a break or spent time washing, often arriving late at school or attempting to slip away early, but he barely noticed her and didn't seem to hang on her words the way she hung on every one of his. She lingered at his side for a moment longer, awaiting a response, but soon realised she was not going to get one. She sighed. He was so different to all the other men in the village, special and unique, perfect for her. The men were shirtless beneath the hot sun and her eyes unashamedly roamed Mallon's defined torso. He was five feet ten, the shortest of the four men, with slanted, wide apart eyes and a flat nose. His dark hair was very short and his skin was a glorious dusky brown colour and hairless. Most of the men in the village were pale, long haired and bearded, browned only from the sun.

"The water is lovely," she said. "You should dip your feet in, Mallon."

"Did you change the Centon this morning?" he asked.

The cheeks of Lena's face blazed as she realised she had forgotten to advance the marker.

"Not again, Lena," he said. "Do you not understand how important it is? What have I told you? How many times do I have to say that if you do not..."

"... do your jobs then someone else will have to do them," she finished, her tone flat. "I know, I'm sorry, I was late for school and I forgot."

"Never forget the Centon, child."

He had to do it. He had to use that word. Strip away everything she was and everything she was becoming. She hated the word. _Child!_ It was deeply insulting. It was as upsetting as when the other children called her or Nathan _lumpy head_ or _freak_ or _bony bones_ or _mutant_ and she would flee the school building and run and hide and sob until there were no more tears left inside her; but the village was her world and there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide and nowhere to even cry alone before an adult would happen across her and try to comfort her and lead her back to the school where Margaux, her teacher, would admonish and punish her tormentors. Then, a few days later, it would happen again and if it wasn't her suffering at the hands of venomous bullies it was Nathan. The children never used the names against the adults who looked like her. Children. If they were children then she _was_ a child but she really despised the way Mallon used the word. She was twelve years old and she was maturing and growing and learning and training and building and she would finish her schooling when she reached thirteen and couldn't Mallon see she would one day become a fearsome warrior and his life partner and their tale would rival the legends of the drifters who lived an entire existence in the wastelands.

"Go," he said, as she continued to idly daydream.

His warriors laughed as she sulked away and Mallon turned and told them to be quiet.

"You shouldn't laugh," he said, glaring. "She will think you are laughing _at_ her, teasing her like the other children do."

Mallon shook his head and watched her traipse back along the grassy bank and onto a wide road of red clay. Lena walked slowly, almost a shuffle, hardly lifting her bare feet, driving lines through the clay and dust. Her fair hair trailed down her back and her wraparound skirt was hiked above her knees. It seemed to become shorter every day. She swung a pair of sandals in one hand. She reached the bridge that spanned the waterway and began to cross but then stopped to look back. She waved and grinned at Mallon but he responded by jabbing his spear in the direction of the village, a furious expression across his face.

Across the bridge a haze of wood smoke drifted up from thatched roofs and hung above a large scattering of mud huts. The village hummed with the cacophony of chopping, peeling and slicing as food was prepared for evening meals. Children were being washed. A man was slathering mud against one of the huts that showed great cracks. There was the repetitive sound of hammering and sawing, the tentative first stages of a palisade wall. Men, women and children threaded busily along churned up red clay paths, voices loud.

Mallon smiled, delighted that work on the wall had finally commenced. He had argued with the village council concerning the building of a wall to surround their homes for many days. It did not matter how long construction would take or how many trees they would fell for wood; they needed protection. His passionate argument was countered by the notion that they already retained protection and that no walls or weapons or even militia would ever be required.

"I will not disband the militia," he had told them.

"Nor have we asked you to," spoke Margaux, teacher and councillor. "They are useful in resolving local disputes and settling minor issues between neighbours. Are they not?"

"We are more than that," he said.

"The militia will remain," said Ilan, the Elder Chief, a man of venerable age. His eyes were bright, his skin thick and lined. His words were slowly placed but silence had descended upon the hut the moment he had spoken. "This is not a discussion about the removal of the militia. Mallon is a proud man and trains his warriors well but they are not to provide protection for the village. The Centon is the only protection we need."

"That is not protection," he had hissed. "It's slavery."

The other council members had gasped at his sudden outburst but the Elder Chief raised one hand and brought the meeting to order.

"The Centon stood before you came to this village," he told Mallon. "It will stand when you are dust."

Lena stood at the Centon. It was an unremarkable landmark within the village, made from wood, with rows and columns of boxes the size of a clenched fist. It was lashed flat to a broad stone by lengths of rope and the village name Dessan was carved into the front with a sequence of shapes. A single stone, heavy and darkly coloured, was wedged into one of the squares. She lifted it and advanced it forward by one square. The base of the final square in the Centon was coloured purple. She felt a shiver as she looked at it and the hair rose on her arms and the back of her neck.

She spun round to wave at Mallon again but he had turned his back on her and was talking with his men.

She sighed, and then her forehead rippled and she pointed at the forest.

"Look," she said, though nobody could hear her.

Mallon glanced back to see Lena loitering next to the Centon. He could not believe she was testing his patience this way. Her attitude could earn her a purple ribbon if she was not careful and he would never wish that upon a child. Only a man should wear the ribbon. Not a woman. Not a child. Only she wasn't testing him. Something had taken her eye and he followed her line of vision beyond the boundaries of the village toward the forest where a motley group of men and women had emerged. Mallon raised his shield and pointed his spear. The group began to walk along the red clay road dotted with footprints and clumps of grass breaking through the soil, moving slowly in a loose formation.

"Lena," he shouted, and her heart skipped a beat. "Quickly, back to the village. Now."

In a whirl, beaming brightly, the young girl ran as a bell began to ring out from a watchtower. Work ceased on the construction of the wall, cooking was abandoned, forging weapons, picking from trees, working the ploughed fields, everything stopped as the bell continued to ring. The villagers hurried to the bridge, many of them still holding work tools or carrying babies. Some took a moment to fetch weapons, machetes and swords, but many were empty handed. There was a loud babble of voices and the villagers observed two men and three women dressed in rough clothing. Some showed bruises and several carried weapons.

Mallon raced his militia to the bridge, each man fast and strong. He saw the rest of his men crowd past the villagers and form a defensive position; a crouched wall of shields, bristling with spears. A second row of men stood behind them with bows and crossbows.

The strangers stopped.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Black feathered ollish birds scampered and clucked in a pen near the river and a woman set down a sack of feed. She slowly brushed her hands against a long apron she wore and began to walk toward the bridge. She was tall, plain, flat, angular. Her hair was the colour of corn, her skin flawless, lightly browned from the sun. Her eyes sparkled green. The archers parted as she walked onto the bridge but the spearmen kept the shield wall intact and did not budge.

"I am Justine," she said, her voice calm. "This is Dessan of the Eastern Villages."

She gestured behind her, then placed her hands on her narrow hips, smiling warmly at them.

"Can we help you, strangers?"

A bald headed man was about to speak but a slender blonde haired woman stepped before him. Her face was bruised and a holstered pistol hung at her waist.

"I'm Nuria," she said. "We're not here to attack you."

"You'd be foolish to do so," said Mallon, tightly gripping his spear.

One of the two men was tall, sweating beneath a long coat. A rifle was strapped to his back, an ammunition belt worn across his chest, a revolver sticking out of his belt. He was the one they were watching the most. He had a rakish beard and hard eyes that simply stared. Mallon was yet to see him blink. The second man, round faced and bald, appeared less of a threat, and seemed to be in engaged in a deep conversation with himself.

"We've tracked a long way. We're just looking for some shelter," said Nuria. "Maybe a small amount of food and water, if you can spare it."

She glanced down at the fast flowing river, the water clear, sparkling beautifully in the sunlight.

Licking her dry lips, Nuria left the heavy question dangling in the air between them. It was a great thing that she asked. This was Gallen, a mostly scorched landscape where so little existed, billions reduced to thousands, survivors somehow grinding out a meagre existence through the dark centuries after the Cloud Wars, the extinction period that saw the end of nearly all animal and plant life, founding a future for the generations to come and nothing was ever given freely, not then, not now.

"Do you have anything to trade?" asked Justine.

Nuria glanced back at one of her companions. Her eyes settled on Emil, a slight girl with brightly copper coloured hair, a patched right eye and scarred skin.

"We have nothing to trade," she said.

Justine nodded and glanced over her shoulder, as the men and women of the village grew restless.

"At least you are honest," she said. "We are building a wall. We need more workers. Men and women."

"We can all work," said Nuria.

She tapped her crouched spearmen on the shoulder and the men rose and parted, allowing her to step across the bridge. Mallon and his three warriors gathered about her as she approached the group.

"Are you willing to toil in the sun for a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs?"

"Yes," Nuria.

"Then you are welcome," said Justine, smiling.

A few cheers sounded from the villagers as she uttered the words. It had been a long time since strangers had come to Dessan and settled but their curiosity was to be short lived as the militia ordered them to clear the road and herded them back. People scattered; watching, pointing, muttering, and then slowly drifted back to work, in the fields and the kitchens and the groves. The bowmen marched away toward a large mud hut that served as the village armoury. Two men stood outside a doorway covered with a sheet of tarpaulin. They pulled it back and the column of men ducked inside, quickly hanging up their weapons. Justine led the dishevelled group over the bridge and past the Centon. She saw the tall man frown at it. The village opened before them, mud huts and winding paths, ploughed fields and trees with shiny fruit.

"Where have you travelled from?" she asked, as they walked, escorted by Mallon and his warriors.

Nuria hesitated at the question and glanced at the tall man. He gave an imperceptible shake of the head.

"The wasteland," she lied. "We've been moving through it for a long time. We're looking for somewhere..."

"I'm Sadie, I'm from Ford," said the other woman in the group, blonde haired and stocky. "It's a small town. In the Southern Deserts."

Justine shook her head.

"I've never heard of it," she said. "I've never been to that region. The nearest settlements to us are Le Sen and Agen. We make up the Eastern Villages."

She paused outside a medium-sized mud hut with a thick thatched roof and a small chimney. The walls showed cracks.

"You can share this one. It will need cleaning. It has been empty for sometime. I'll have some food brought to you. Later, I will present you to the village council. The Elder Chief will want to hear your story."

Justine cast her eyes across the silent members of the group and focused her gaze on the tall man. "All of your stories."

* * *

It was cool inside the hut.

There were several low beds with straw mattresses. Daylight filtered through cracks in the walls and slanted down from gaps in the roof. A blackened pit was beneath the chimney opening. There was rubbish and old clothing, broken spears and boots with worn soles. Stone propped his rifle against the wall and took off his pack and long coat. He eased himself down onto one of the beds and drew his revolver, emptying the bullets from the chamber. He opened his pack and took a wrapped cloth from it. He tipped out the contents of brushes and tools and began to clean his weapon.

Emil sat next to him. She had seen him clean it many times. She had seen him use it even more.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she scratched her eye, arched her back, yawned and said, "They seem friendly."

The bald headed man, known through Gallen as the Map Maker, sat down on one of the other beds, Sadie next to him. He ran a hand over his smooth pate and took out one of his maps. Carefully, he unfolded it. They were on the edge of the unknown regions of Gallen. No knowledge existed of this territory. There were no maps, no whispered stories, no rumours. This was the place he had never reached. He had spent a lifetime mapping. Born in a cell, given no name and having no memory of his family, he had shown from an early age a keenness to draw. His masters had put this ability to good use and his youth was spent mapping his home city of Chett, the only city in Gallen, deep in the Southern Deserts, where the land was burnt and blistered and cratered. He had marked on his papers all its roads and apartment blocks and factories and had even unearthed a network of underground tunnels, and then he had been dispatched from his home and sent into the wastelands. He had found buckled highways and devastated cities but he had also discovered small towns and settlements like this one, blossoming with life.

Yet had never found a place to settle. His spirit was restless. Only once, in a town called Ford, had he stayed for any length of time, cleaning a bar to earn food and lodgings. He glanced at Sadie, who was silently watching him. She had owned the bar but now she was here, with him, by his side, complicating all aspects of his life. She was nearly twenty and he was easily twice her age. He looked across the small living space at Stone and quickly put his map away. The man had stolen his maps once. He would not allow him to do so again.

"Why did you lie?" asked Sadie.

Nuria looked at Stone, who continued to clean the grit from his revolver.

"I don't think they should know we're from Chett," she said.

The Map Maker grinned.

"What did you do there, Stone? Who did you kill?"

"What does it matter to you?" said Emil.

She was sixteen and fire burned in her tongue. She had lost so many loved ones and Stone was the only one left that she felt safe with. He was not family or a loved one, but a drifter, a wasteland warrior, a man driven from one corner of Gallen to the other, spending a lifetime hunting down the man responsible for butchering his family when he was a child. His vengeance had been exacted but he had lost a close friend and now he was alone. Yet he had vowed to protect her, to keep her safe, for she too had lost Tomas, and that was their bond. She kept with Stone and Stone would keep with her.

He raised his eyes and smiled at the Map Maker, saying nothing.

"We could stay," said Sadie, not sure where her voice fitted in. "It beats sleeping in a tent."

She looked around the hut.

"This could work, if we stick together. I could clean this place up, get some more beds."

"I don't like staying in one place."

"I think Sadie's right," said Nuria. "I think we should stay. Work hard for these people and benefit from what they're offering."

No one responded.

"We could do a lot worse than here."

The Map Maker pushed himself to his feet.

"Why are you deciding stuff? I missed the part that made you important and put you in charge." He slapped and scratched at his bald head, his fingers raking the skin. "When did that happen? When did you get put in charge?"

Nuria cleared her throat. She had once been a General. Now she was an exile, wanted for conspiracy, treason, murder. Taking hold of situations would never leave her.

"I don't know you," said The Map Maker. "I don't know any of you. And I don't trust you, especially not Stone. And you, what are you supposed to be?" He focused his gaze at Emil. "They didn't seem to know what you are, did they? Maybe I should tell them what you are. Fill them in on what you can do. Maybe I'll get a place on the council. I can be a village elder. Can you imagine me as a village elder, Stone? Stone? Can you? Are you listening to me? Why are you ignoring me? Listen to me. If you had left me and my maps alone then..."

Stone dropped six bullets into the chamber of his revolver and snapped it back. He kept the muzzle aimed loosely at the Map Maker.

"Sit," he said.

Sadie gently held his arm and guided him back onto the bed, whispering into his ear.

"Let's see how things work out," said Stone, glancing at Nuria.

"I need some air," said Emil.

* * *

She stood outside with her arms folded, listening to the bustle all around her, savouring the fresh voices. It brought a smile to her face. She tried to forget the tension inside the hut. Stone made her feel safe but she couldn't imagine spending one night under the same roof as that bald headed weirdo and she had no affection for Nuria, either, a stray they had picked up escaping from Chett. Her nose twitched with a blend of sweet and sharp aromas and her stomach growled and lurched at the thought of the food being prepared all around her. They had survived on scraps for days. She wondered how long it would be until they would eat. Justine had assured them they would be fed and Emil had no reason to doubt her word.

She kept smiling. She was trying, she was trying so hard to adjust, to adapt, to continue as normal, as if nothing had happened, as if no one was missing, but it had and they were and she couldn't stop thinking about him. Her chest burned. The air had been robbed from her lungs. She closed her single eye and wished the ground would open and swallow her whole and end the unfair pain that tortured every word, every look, and every moment that she lived and he did not. Her eyelashes grew wet but she forced the tears back inside. She was in the middle of hundreds of strangers and had no desire to break down in front of them. She did not want their care. She did not want their sympathy. She did not want to tell her story. She wished she could hear his voice again, see his brooding eyes, feel his fingers intertwine with her own.

She wanted to leave this place. Leave right now. Run and run until her calves ached and she could run no more.

"Lumpy face," said a voice. Emil blinked her eye open and looked around. "Lumpy head."

Emil was barely five feet tall, a tiny part in a huge world, but the two children who stood before her made her feel giant-sized as they barely reached her waist. She looked down at them. One was a boy, wearing grubby red shorts and a frayed cap. His partner in crime was a girl, of similar height and age, shorts smeared with clay, sandals loose and a threadbare vest top. Her hair was black, twisted and tangled down her narrow back. Her knees were dirty and she had a bruise on her left shin. Her hands were thrust against her bony hips and her face jutted toward Emil with a sour look in her eyes.

"You can't stay here," she said. "You're a lumpy head. We don't want any lumpy bumpy scar heads here."

"One eye," said the boy. "One eye. We gonna call you one eye. You have to go, one eye smelly lumpy head."

Emil was speechless, unsure whether to laugh or cry, but before she could react a hand clipped both children hard about the head. The two little ones spun round to face a much older girl with long blonde hair. Her skin was rippled and her head disfigured. She glared at the two children and raised her hand again. They ran off down the path, kicking up red clay, laughing and making faces and shouting names, all of which Emil had heard a million times before.

"I'm Lena," said the girl. "Don't let them bother you."

Emil shook her head.

"Nothing I've not heard before."

"They hear it off the big kids. They think it's funny." Lena stared after the children. "They don't realise it can hurt."

"They call you names?"

Lena nodded.

"All the time. Sometimes it makes me cry. You're pretty short. I'm as tall as you. I'm twelve. How old are you?"

"Sixteen," shrugged Emil, not really quite certain.

"I'm almost as old as you," grinned Lena. "Do you want me to show you round the village?"

Emil glanced back at the mud hut.

"Sure, I'd like that."

"I can do this later," said Lena, propping a broom outside. "What's you name?"

They started walking along the path.

"Emil."

"That's a nice name. A girl in our school is called Emily. Is Emil short for Emily?"

Emil frowned.

"I don't know."

Two heavily sweating men rolled a cart past them, laden with freshly picked fruit. Lena swiped two apples.

"I bet it's short for Emily," she said, handing one to Emil. "You get names that can be different but they're the same. Do you understand what I mean? Where are you from? Le Sen? Agen?"

"No," said Emil, biting into the apple and groaning at the sweet taste. "Oh, that is good."

"So where are you from?" asked Lena.

"I was born in a village far from here. It's gone now. Men came and destroyed it. Killed every one."

Lena stopped at the Centon.

"That's horrible," she said. "That kind of things doesn't happen here." She gestured at the wooden box lashed to the stone. Emil gave her a confused look. "I'll explain all that later. Anyway, let me show you the best thing in Dessan."

She pointed at the four shirtless men armed with spears and shields that Emil had first seen on the edge of the village.

"That's Mallon," said Lena. "He's wonderful. Don't stare too much. I don't think he likes being stared at."

She looked at Emil.

"What happened to your eye?"

\--- Three ---

It was dark when Mallon arrived.

A wash of white lights blinked in the night sky. Clouds shifted in the wind and trees rustled in the distance, a gently swaying wall of blackness. Fires had been lit through the village and blazed and sparked brightly. There was vibrant conversation and excited laughter, singing and clapping. Many villagers sat outside on makeshift seats, enjoying the mild evening air, swapping conversation, eating and drinking.

Stone had spent a lifetime in the scarred wastelands. He had passed through villages and settlements before, never staying more than one or two nights, stopping only to trade for fresh supplies. At times, when his pack was empty, he would use his skills with a gun to take care of internal problems or mercilessly wipe out external ones. Here he had nothing to trade and the militia seemed organised and well drilled. He had passed a field of halk on the other side of the forest, one of the few wild animals that roamed Gallen, but the villagers already hunted them and had a plentiful supply of hide, fur and meat. He would have to work on the wall to earn his food. It was not the worse thing he had ever done.

He found Emil walking at his side.

"They like to enjoy themselves," she said.

Stone nodded

"I feel a bit suffocated here," she whispered.

"I understand."

Nuria was behind them, following alone. The Map Maker led their small party, excitedly talking with Mallon, rambling on about the people that had been exiled from the city of Chett years before and that he, Mallon, was a Chett descendent. Mallon simply stared at him, as if the bald headed man was crazy. He couldn't fathom the man's logic or his devotion to maps and he had never been to Chett. And he was not even Dessan born. Sadie lingered obediently at the Map Maker's side, listening to his every word, sensing Mallon's confusion and subsequent disinterest, urging him to slow down and take things easy and to wait until he spoke with the council.

Stone let out a sigh as Emil continued to open her feelings to him. He cared for the girl but he didn't know what to offer in return.

"Maybe we should go," said Nuria. "In the morning. If you are both unhappy here. What do you think?"

Emil stopped on the path.

"I thought you wanted to stay? You know, not everything is about you. I mean, why are you even here?"

"I've nowhere else to go," said Nuria. "And I helped you get here or did you forget that part? Why are you so damn hostile to me?"

"You really don't know?" said Emil, banging the heel of her palm against her head. "I mean, do you need me to explain it to you?"

Nuria shook her head. She could understand the young girl's bitterness toward her. She accepted she had been blamed for everything.

"I was following orders," said Nuria, quietly. "I never agreed with any of it."

"You and Gozan set a fucking bounty on my head."

Nuria fell silent.

"Problem?" asked Mallon, glancing round.

"No," said Stone.

The militia leader led them into the centre of the village, where a large mud hut stood with armed men on duty outside. The walls of the hut were smooth and the roof neatly thatched. A curl of smoke rose from a round chimney. Villagers brushed past them, quickly growing accustomed to the strangers that had arrived earlier in the day. Fires crackled and Stone and his group waited. A large curtain was drawn back and they were invited inside. It was warm and smoky with brightly weaved rugs laid upon a wooden floor. Shelves had been carved into the walls of the hut, bases painted black and crammed with colourful and decorated pieces of pottery. Some items were vastly different and heralded from another age. Lumps of moulded plastic from the Before. The centrepiece of the display was a fine looking sword, fashioned with a long clean blade, though the handle was worn. Two men with shields and spears flanked the three council members. Immediately, they recognised Justine. She rose, smiled and Stone felt her eyes on him.

"I present you, Ilan," said Justine. "He is the Elder Chief of Dessan. And this is Margaux, council member and school teacher."

Ilan occupied the central seat. His face was heavy, thickly wrinkled, a squat head on broad shoulders. His hair fanned behind him, unrelenting waves of grey, braided with colourful beads. His black eyes watched them closely and his greeting was a silent and respectful nod. Margaux, sitting to his left, was easily half his age. Her skin was smooth, the colour of night, glowing in the candlelight. She greeted each of the ragged group of travellers with a handshake. Her clothes were colourful and neatly pressed, loose trousers tied at the waist, a sleeveless shirt buttoned to the throat. She wore a decorative headband, hair braided to her shoulders. Shiny bracelets hung from her wrists. Her hands were slender, delicate, with long fingers and cleanly scrubbed nails.

"What happened to your eye, child?" she asked Emil, arching a single eyebrow.

Her voice was smooth, velvety.

"I was attacked," lied Emil. "In the wasteland. Scavengers."

Margaux nodded, took her seat.

"You will find our village a much safer haven," she said. "That I can promise you."

Justine offered them refreshments but before they could reply the Map Maker approached the council and unfolded his many maps. He began to engage them in conversation and initially they seemed intrigued by the landmarks he could point to in the south. They told him they had never travelled from the Eastern Villages. He also possessed a map from the Before but it did not show Gallen. This fascinated them less and their interest began to wane. Stone watched the bald headed man closely, with obvious mistrust of him. He had known of the Map Maker for many years, picking up his name from nomads and in towns, but had never courted the man's company until recently - when he had needed to rob from him. He had returned the maps once he had finished with them so felt no guilt. The Map Maker was rambling now and the council were feigning commitment to his words. Sadie cautioned him to continue his story another time and asked for them to be excused.

The Elder Chief, Ilan, nodded.

"He is a curious man," said Justine. "He appears to have achieved much with his life."

Outside, there was laughter.

"You do not say much," said Ilan. "What is your story?"

Stone scratched his burgeoning beard.

"I can work," he said.

"You carry a gun," said Ilan. "The lines on your face tell me you have used it many times."

Stone nodded.

"Are we hiring a labourer?" bristled Mallon. "Or a fighting man?"

"Mallon," said Margaux. "Do not address the council with that tone. No one is attempting to undermine you. Ilan is merely establishing the history of this man."

"I mean no disrespect, Elder Chief," said Mallon, bowing.

"Both men will work on the wall in return for food and shelter," said Margaux. "I would like Emil to help me at the school."

"I don't know anything about school," said Emil.

"Then you will be perfect," said Margaux, flashing a smile. "A teacher I do not need. Someone to frighten the difficult children is what I require. Someone with a good heart and patience. I can see you have both. That much is clear to me. And you are strong, too, a survivor."

Emil felt her cheeks flush pink.

"I can work on the wall as well," said Nuria, feeling forgotten.

"Your tongue is different," said Ilan, his words slow. "You told Justine you are from the wasteland but your manner is of one who has been educated and trained. Why do you hide where you are from?"

There was an awkward silence inside the hut. The Dessan people stared at Nuria, waiting for an explanation.

"She was a soldier," said Stone. "From a city far from here. She is lying to protect me. She has nothing to hide."

"Why are you protecting him?" asked Justine, of Nuria.

Ilan leaned forward in his chair.

"He killed people. That is what she conceals. He is a killer. A man cannot carry that many lines and not have spilled blood."

He thought for a moment.

"You and the woman will surrender your guns to Mallon. They will be kept in the armoury. There are no guns in Dessan."

Stone shook his head.

"That's not going to happen."

"I do not want you walking around with your guns," said Ilan.

"How about a compromise?" suggested Nuria. "Myself and Stone will keep our weapons but will no longer carry them in the village. We do not want to offend any customs you have here."

The fire crackled as Ilan pondered her words.

"I am not above compromise. Your guns will remain in your hut. You will not wear them or display them in the village."

Stone nodded. Nuria smiled.

"Tonight you rest," said Margaux. "Tomorrow you work."

* * *

Stone distanced himself from the others once they left the council hut. He wandered off along the nearest path, no patience for further questions or conversation. Stay or go, there was no other choice. Around him, there was celebration. Exotic food smells, succulent and spicy, tickled his nose. He saw pink meat roasting on spits, slowly browning, as a woman prepared more meat, cutting slabs into strips, sprinkling it with broken green leaves. He saw the concentration in the work and his curiosity raised eyes and brought smiles. He melted away and looked to the forest, gloomy and black, and for a moment Stone contemplated finding a spot in the darkness.

The village screamed in his head, chopping and slicing, singing, laughter - he wished it would dissolve into empty silence as the pain erupted inside, violent and corrosive. He saw his fists had clenched, ready to pound the face of the nearest man who bore a smile and waved a bottle of drink at him. He wanted to tear skin, shatter bone, spill blood and take back all that had been taken from him. He stopped and leaned against the side of a hut, trying to catch his breath as his heart thumped and his head spun. He flexed his fingers. Two women went past, carrying baskets brimming with broken biscuits. He had tasted one early, hard and dry. They saw him and flashed smiles. He had no true loathing for these people. Only envy. This was not his life; this had never been his life. He thought of his lost friend, Tomas. He had witnessed the boy's birth and raised him from a young age when his real father had fallen to sickness in the desert, repaying what his father had done for Stone, eight years old, wandering the wasteland, alone. Now, his companion was gone and no more would he hear his friend's telling voice of reason, the echo within, his line in the sand. He had taught Tomas to hunt, track, kill but Tomas had taught him much more. The child had become a son. The son had become a man. The man was now dust.

A drunken, toothless villager, reeking of sweat, thrust a bottle into Stone's hand and clapped him on the back. He moved on, dancing a jig that involving stepping forward, then back, then to the side and, finally, saw him tumble to the ground, laughing. Stone raised the bottle to his lips and washed the bitter taste down his dry throat, the brown liquid spilling over his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ventured through the village into an area brightly lit with fires. It was hot and beads of sweat pooled his face. Men and women sat on blankets spread across the clay, the men without shirts, drinking from bottles and wooden beakers, biting into pieces of meat and fruit. Children ran and chased in the shadows, innocent squeals of delight. Stone saw the watchtower, casting a shadow, and noticed it was empty. He poked his head through the open doorway and saw a floor strewn with rubbish. A ladder rose through criss-crossed wooden beams to a platform above. He placed his foot against the bottom rung and tested it. It felt solid enough so he climbed. The platform creaked beneath his weight. Gusts of wind swirled around his face and the cool air was refreshing. The bell hung from the roof of the tower, a heavy piece of iron with a simple rope and hammer tied to it.

He peered down at the people below, watching them as he finished the bottle. A smile crept upon his face. He had put a long distance between himself and the city of Chett where a death sentence awaited. He thought about the offer to stay here, work hard for a living. He had seen nothing to dissuade him from doing so. Though the curious box near the bridge, with the stone and the purple square, puzzled him. Perhaps it was nothing more than a child's game - but it was an oddity and something about it continued to unsettle him. Was it the squares? The dark stone? The purple colouring in the final box? No, there was something else about it, something familiar. He trawled his memory, picking through the past.

It was then, from the corner of his eye, Stone glimpsed movement on the outskirts of the village. He quickly forgot the strange box and the empty bottle in his hand and reached into his pocket for a pair of grubby and scratched binoculars.

He swept his vision along the road out of the village.

There.

A man on horseback.

He scanned the area below. Two warriors stood at the bridge and two more patrolled around the village but the rider would be upon them before the militia completed their circuit.

Stone grabbed the hammer and struck the bell.

* * *

"What is it?" said Mallon, rushing to the tower.

"A rider," said Stone, pointing.

The militia leader stared at Stone, undecided of the tall man with the grim look. He wondered if this was some kind of trap. There would be only one way to find out. He bellowed names into the crowd and sprinted along the road. Several men rushed to him at once, all of them grabbing shields and spears. Stone followed the militia, his pace more leisurely, his hand idling against his revolver which he had not yet concealed, as ordered to do so. The horseman grew closer and a large crowd spilled onto the road. A baby was crying. The fires on the edge of the village illuminated a young man, slumped forward in his saddle, bleeding heavily, clinging to the horse with all his remaining strength.

"It's Tristan," shouted Mallon. "Help him down, quickly."

Whispers spread through the onlookers and one of the militia ordered them to disperse but no one moved. Two of them helped Tristan down from his horse, lowering him gently. He coughed and spat blood as they eased him to the ground. Stone saw the crowd quickly part as the council emerged onto the red clay road, looking down at the injured horseman.

"Take him to the Saacion," said Margaux, gently holding Ilan's arm. "Hurry."

The onlookers began to clear the area, under the stern gaze of Justine, shuffling away, subdued.

"What's happening?" asked Nuria, appearing at Stone's elbow. "Who is that?"

Stone looked into Ilan's eyes and knew exactly who it was. The shattered look when power is stripped from a man, when the mantle of chief or leader or warlord melts into nothing, rendered worthless, and all that remains is a father watching his son bleed profusely into the dirt. He saw Emil, her single eye staring back at him, damning him for the secrecy, the lies they were spinning amongst these people. She looked down at Mallon, the warrior Lena dreamed of, the hero, the soldier, yet Emil saw only a man showing terrible fear as he scooped Tristan into his arms, blood seeping from his stomach and leg. Gallen was a world without medicine. Tristan would die tonight. He would suffer an agonising death from his wounds. Ilan would burn the body of his son and scatter his ashes. Mallon fled between huts with Tristan in his arms and Ilan could do nothing more than stare after them. Emil hardened her look at Stone. _You have to let him die, his expression told her. I can't, she said. I don't care if they know._

Emil ran after Mallon.

"Is she going to help?"

"Go with her," said Stone.

"Me? She won't want me anywhere near her."

"Keep an eye on her," he said, facing her. "Please, Nuria."

Unsure, Nuria hastened after Emil. The villagers began to scatter and the level of noise slowly increased. A warrior led the horse away. Ilan and Margaux followed. Stone began to walk in the opposite direction, toward the bridge. He had taken no more than a few paces when he became aware of a shadow. He stopped and turned, his hand reaching for his revolver.

"I don't think you need that," said Justine.

He relaxed his hand.

"Thank you for sounding the alarm," she said.

She stood in the near dark, huts behind her, fires raging, dancing and laughter all around, but she seemed apart from it. She was taller than most women he knew, a flat and narrow body in a long dress.

"What's a Saacion?"

"A mender," said Justine, stepping toward him. She saw Stone frown. "He's a ... a doctor, a healer."

"Can he save him?"

Justine shook her head. He could smell fruit from the trees, wildflowers in the grassland.

"Ilan's son?" he said.

"The only one he will recognise," said Justine. "You are quite observant of many things." There was a curve to her voice. "Though not everything. You've survived a long time out there, haven't you?"

She nodded beyond the village.

"The people you travel with," she said, walking slowly with him. "They seem different. You have not been with them long, have you?"

"No," said Stone.

They reached the bridge. The militia on guard looked back at them. The lilt of her tone softened his black mood.

"Do you know who attacked him?"

"No," said Justine.

He nodded.

"You're lying."

"People lie all the time."

Justine parted her lips into a smile. He noticed they were thin.

"What do you want?"

"You can walk me to my hut," she said. "That's all I want."

* * *

Mary was sat on a bed, feeding her baby, the infant suckling on her breast when Mallon burst into the hut, his face filmed with sweat, a man groaning in his arms, dripping with blood.

"Where is here?"

"Where do you think?" she said, shaking her head.

The room was lit by flickering candles. The floor was scattered with blankets. On a low table was a bowl of fruit, a basin half filled with water and empty mugs. A heavy chest was in one corner, covered with clothes. Mallon took the wounded man through an archway into a second room where there was a large table and a bed with a straw mattress. He gently laid the young man onto the table. Emil followed and saw blood gushing from Tristan's thigh and stomach. He had been stabbed numerous times. His hand showed defensive cuts and his cheek had been slashed.

"Get him," shouted Mallon, lighting candles. "Quickly, woman."

"I'm feeding my baby," protested Mary.

"Tristan will die if we don't have the Saacion," he said.

"Do you have a breast to suck on?"

Mary heard Mallon curse and ignored him. There was no need to stamp into her home after dark and bark orders at her.

"You don't need him," said Emil, but Mallon could only hear Tristan's worsening groans and knew that without the Saacion he would have to try and save his life by himself. The one-eyed girl had followed him here and he was confused at how she thought her presence might help. He looked around the room. There was a row of wooden shelves crammed with bottles of various liquids. He saw bowls of different coloured powders, a box filled with strips of clean cloth, a box of needles, a basin of water, a tray of knives and hand saws. He took a cloth, dipped it into the basin and wrung it out. He wiped the blood from Tristan's face but the wounds simply wept again and trickled down his chin and neck. His face was ashen in the candlelight and he was shivering and muttering.

"What, Tristan?" said Mallon, putting his ear to the young man's lips. "I can't understand you."

A shadow fell across the room and Mallon lifted his head to see Nuria appear in the doorway.

"Why are you here?" asked Emil, echoing Mallon's thoughts. "I don't need a bodyguard."

"Stone asked me," she said.

Mallon was blighted with abject despair as the two women exchanged bitter glances. He had no knowledge of the Saacion ways. He watched Tristan weep and gasp as his life began to ebb away, memories breaking, scattering, fragments now, floating away, in slow motion. He cursed his inability to react. He was strong, intelligent, well trained, yet this denied him, this rejected him and Tristan would die. A horrible death in a poky hut smelling of milk and sweat. He saw Emil snatch a knife from the shelf and rip open the young man's trousers, exposing a leg knotted with blood streaked hair.

"What are you doing?" shouted Mallon, grabbing her wrist.

"I can save him," said Emil.

He tightened his grip, shook the knife to the floor.

"What's going on in there?" called Mary, walking in circles, her baby on her shoulder, her hand soothing his back.

"Leave her," said Nuria. "She can help him."

Tristan coughed. His eyes were delirious.

"She can save his life," she said.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He kept trying to get the words out.

"Trust me," said Emil.

Mallon stared into her single eye and let go of her wrist. She quickly pressed her hands to Tristan's trembling skin and closed her eye. Mallon had witnessed many things in his years but he knew this would become a defining moment in his life, an experience he would never forget, until his final breath was taken. He stood with a blood soaked cloth in his hand, helpless, the slender blonde woman in the doorway, Mary burping her baby, and he watched with utter disbelief as the one-eyed child took away Tristan's pain and agony and knitted the skin back together. She rolled up his shirt and Mallon flinched at the torn skin slippery with blood. Calmly, her hands glided across his ruined stomach and Mallon felt a tear sting his eye as he saw the child heal once more. Emil reached to Tristan's face. She cradled his cheeks. The wound closed, leaving a scar. His rapid, laboured breathing began to ease. Colour was slowly returning to his face. Emil opened her eye and stepped back from the table. Nuria grabbed a fresh cloth, wet it, and began to clean the blood from the young man.

Mallon was stunned.

There was a sudden commotion in the front room and a long haired man lurched through the doorway, his eyes out of focus.

"I'm here now," he said. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"Go back to the tavern, Conrad," said Mallon, not taking his eyes from Emil.

Conrad frowned at the young man sitting upright on his medical table, gingerly feeling the skin where his wounds had once existed.

"I thought I was needed. It was an emergency. You rang the bell. Who rang the bell? Didn't you need me? I thought..."

"Sleep it off, Conrad."

He scratched his head and his dark eyes settled on Nuria. He looked her up and down.

"I'm Conrad," he said, straightening himself.

Nuria barely glanced at him. He reeked of drink, sweat and more unpleasant odours.

"What is your name, miss?"

She ignored his question and went to Emil. She had seen her heal twice before. The first time she had been consumed by sickness afterwards. Nuria understood it was a side effect, experienced by young healers. Then she had witnessed her heal again and there had been nothing except a mild headache. This time Emil looked fine. Only a fine sheen of perspiration covered her face but she didn't appear nauseous. She asked for water and Mallon fetched a cup for her. He was still dazed by what he had seen. He had never heard the rumours of Pure Ones, female children born with one eye, bearing scars on the face and body, blessed with the gift of healing, in a world devoid of medicine.

Tristan rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He stared at Emil, awed by her actions, scared of her, too.

"What happened to you?" said Mallon.

"Tristan?" said Conrad, hugging him. "I didn't know it was you, brother."

Tristan swung his legs off the table, once more studying where the blade had pierced his flesh, fingers touching the faint scar.

"They've arrived at Le Sen," he said, simply. "The levy has been raised to four."

\--- Four ---

The villagers daubed her _Magic Girl._

Five days had passed since Tristan had stumbled into Dessan. Ilan, the Elder Chief, had sought out Emil the following morning, faint drops of rain in the air, mist clinging to the land. He had personally thanked her for saving the life of his only son, the only one he acknowledged, and closed her small hands within his. He had kissed her forehead. His lips had felt coarse. Margaux had patted her on the shoulder as the older man had left the school. She told Emil he would be in her debt for ever and would see no harm would ever come to her. The children's rowdiness had simmered during Ilan's visit but, once out of sight, the name calling and yanking of hair and prodding the pupil sat in front quickly resumed. The school was on the far side of the village, a large area of wooden benches and roughly hewn wooden desks set beneath a broad tarpaulin canopy that rustled in the wind. It was circled by a low mud wall, uneven and pitted. There were no books or papers or instruments or charts or pictures but there was a large blackboard which Margaux had scratched numbers upon with a hardened piece of clay.

Nearby, the sound of hammering and sawing and faint singing filled the air as construction on the palisade wall continued.

Emil glimpsed Stone and the Map Maker amongst a group of men carrying wood from the forest. The trunks had been trimmed of branches and sharpened at one end into a point and were then laid on the ground in row. Other men then took over, hammering smaller pieces of wood horizontally. She saw Nuria amongst a group digging trenches. As each section of the wall was lifted and then sunk into the ground, another group were responsible for banking the lower portion of the wall with mud and clay. The work looked hard and repetitive and Emil smiled that she had been chosen to work at the school. She had frozen on her first day in front of the children. The two name callers she had previously encountered – Remi and Ninon - had attempted to abuse her once more but she told the thirteen children facing her that anymore name calling would result in a longer school day and no breaks for _all of them_. The other children had growled at the malicious pair and the teasing had ceased. Margaux smiled, confident she had chosen wisely.

Lena beamed at Emil, elevated amongst her peers, because she had befriended the _Magic Girl_ before anyone else.

"When did you know?" asked Emil, as she sat with Margaux, the children taking a break from counting. "Have you seen my kind before?"

"No," said Margaux, biting into an apple. "From time to time merchants come through the village, looking to trade for water, fruit and vegetables. They bring stories, things they have seen in the wastelands. I heard a story once of a one-eyed girl who could heal any wound, even that from a bullet. To be honest, I didn't believe it. How can anyone heal with simple touch? But then there are many things in Gallen that are puzzling. When I first saw you I did suspect there might have been a truth in the merchant's tale."

"I think I prefer Magic Girl to Pure One," said Emil, drinking water from a mug. "Another name."

Margaux smiled warmly and nodded.

"Do you think you will stay in Dessan? You could have a good life here." She gestured at the children. "I cannot teach them for ever. I am thirty five years of age. Soon they will grow up and work in the fields or carry spears. Then a new generation of children will come through but I will be older. I will grow wrinkled and grey."

She laughed, chewed her apple.

"You have beautiful skin," said Emil. "I couldn't imagine you with wrinkles and lines."

Margaux patted Emil on the shoulder.

"You are a very kind child. But, look, Emil, see beneath my eyes. Ah, lines, I am getting old. How old are you?"

"Sixteen," she replied, biting into a piece of hard biscuit. She had never tasted anything so sweet. "I think."

"How do you not know your age?"

"I lost a long period of time," she said, lowering the biscuit, her eyes glazing over. "I cannot remember my day of birth. My family used to mark the day with a celebration. It's hazy now. So I might be seventeen. I don't know."

"That's sad," said Margaux. "Your family were killed, is that right?"

"Who told...?" said Emil, cutting herself short as she saw Lena running with the other children. "My village was burned, I was the only survivor, I think."

Margaux nodded, gripped Emil's shoulder.

"I was right about you. You are full of courage." She glanced toward the wall. "Your friends are working hard but it's pointless labour."

"Why did you say that?"

"Oh, Emil, it is. The wall is Mallon's idea. He thinks we need protection but we don't. No one attacks us. It is a waste of time, materials and hours."

Emil nodded.

"He has taken your eye, hasn't he?"

Emil glanced at her.

"I'm sorry, I meant no offence. It's just an expression."

"It's okay," said Emil, smiling. "I know. He is very pleasant on the eye, I must admit, but I am not..."

Margaux leaned forward.

"Please be careful around him, Emil, I have heard some bad stories about him with girls your age and ones even younger."

Emil frowned.

"What stories?"

"Not here, not with the children nearby. Take care around him. You should warn Lena, as well, she too has taken a shine to him." She rose to her feet. "Now, I think we should push aside this dark conversation and instead declare you sixteen for ever."

"I'd like that," said Emil.

"Now, shall we have them back at their desks?"

Emil nodded and set aside the last of her biscuit, her appetite having waned. It was during the afternoon, tangling with numbers, working out how to evenly share food within a large group, that Lena suddenly thrust her hand into the air, straining her arm, a frantic and panic stricken look across her face. She blurted out that she had forgotten to advance the Centon.

"It is very serious to forget, Lena," said Margaux, the warmth and humour gone from her face. "Come here."

She took the girl outside and spoke with her for several minutes. Tears bubbled in Lena's eyes and trickled over her pebbled skin. She shook her head and kicked at the ground. Margaux returned to the classroom and asked Emil to accompany her to the Centon and ensure she returned swiftly. The two girls walked through the village in silence. Emil puzzled over this version of Lena - miserable and a touch angry – unlike the bright and talkative child she had met on her first day.

"Lena, is everything okay?"

"Sure."

"You don't seem your normal self."

"Okay."

"Was that a bad telling off from Margaux?"

"No."

Emil left it as they passed a woman hanging out wet clothes on a washing line tied between two huts.

As they reached the Centon Lena lifted the stone and advanced it forward one box, slamming it down. She glanced over to where Mallon stood practising with another warrior. They were using wooden swords and the sounded echoed loudly as they clashed. She lingered, her eyes never leaving him. Emil saw the young girl fiddle with her hair, straighten out the kinks and tangles.

"You should avoid him," said Emil.

"Why?"

The word snapped at her, surprising Emil.

"I've been told things about him."

Lena whirled round.

"I know what you're doing. It's because you like him, isn't it?"

"What? No, that's not the reason. I mean, I don't dislike him but I don't know him and you don't really..."

"I don't think I like you anymore," said Lena. "You're a one-eyed monster." She stomped away, back down the road toward the school, ponytail flicking angrily from side to side.

Emil blinked, shocked at the outburst. She turned to follow Lena when she realised the clack of the wooden swords had ceased and she could hear footsteps trotting across the wooden bridge.

"Emil."

She bit her lip, turned slowly on her heel, and smiled as Mallon approached her, sandals and trousers, bare chest filmed with sweat. He was wiping himself down with a large cloth as he drew close to her. She could smell his body odour, an enticing musky aroma, not the acidic smell that most men reeked of. He offered her a tentative smile.

"I keep trying to catch up with you," he said.

"Why?" she replied, her response far more frosty and confrontational than she had intended.

"Well, I," he said, rubbing down his arms. "I just wanted to talk to you, I suppose. It was incredible what you did for Tristan."

She nodded, saying nothing as Margaux's words continued to circle in her thoughts.

"It was unbelievable. Do you know every one is calling you the Magic Girl? I think it's a nice name."

"I have a proper name," she said, once again inwardly cursing her tone. "Look, I have to go. I'm needed at the school."

"I'm sorry to have kept you," he said, throwing the large cloth over his shoulder. "I was just making conversation."

He turned to march back across the bridge.

"Mallon," she said.

"Yes."

"Do you ever have an evening off?"

"I could have this evening off," he said, pausing. "Would you like to do something? We could share dinner."

She nodded.

"I will find you later," he said.

Emil spun round and headed back toward the school, ignoring the Centon. The darkly coloured stone resided in the penultimate compartment.

Tomorrow, it would reach the box coloured purple.

* * *

Stone wiped the sweat from his brow.

He was enjoying the hard work. He swung the axe into the base of a tree one final time and watched it crash to a floor of pine needles and leaves. Another man helped him lift it from the ground and they set it astride large wooden trestles where its branches would be trimmed and then the truck cut down. One of them men suddenly bellowed out it was time for a break and the constant noise of sawing and chopping ceased. He appeared to be in charge of the wall construction but Stone could not recall his name. Was it Sebastian? It didn't really matter. Stone eased his bare back against a pile of logs, stretched out his long legs and took a deep drink of water.

He glanced through the trees and saw that the other groups, where the burgeoning wall began, had also stopped. He watched Nuria half walk, half jog across the brush toward the shade of the trees. She had completed the walk every day to take her food with him beneath the trees. She smiled at him as she sat and unwrapped a lunch of seasoned halk meat and small potatoes. Sadie had spent the evening preparing the food for them all, carefully separating the portions and wrapping each one. She had also cleaned the hut and fixed up a screen so the women could wash with some privacy. The mud hut was a cramped, hot and awkward living space for five people with little in common, but it was safe and there was food and a short walk with a bucket provided fresh drinking water.

"She works hard to pull every one together," said Nuria. "Sadie, I mean. I don't really know very much about her."

"Her mother is a fearsome woman," said Stone, idly. "You'd like her."

"Did you ever find out anything?" she asked, whilst biting into a soft potato.

"No."

Since the night Tristan had rode into the village, bloody and near death, Stone had drawn meagre conversation from the men he worked with, gradually easing in questions about Tristan and what role he held in the village. He had gleaned little, only a handful of thin rumours, stories that overlapped, bearing grains of possible truth.

"Do they know who attacked him?"

"He claims to know."

He nodded toward an older man, sitting on a wooden stool in the shade. He was missing his left leg and was singing to himself as he ate. During the working day, he was responsible for shaving the poles into sharpened points.

"His name's Philip," said Stone. "Seems to have a lot of respect around here. Says Tristan is a spy. Watches the lands for the Collectors and they're the ones who attacked him."

"Why?"

"He doesn't know that but he told me the Collectors have been to Le Sen and Agen and will be here tomorrow."

Nuria lowered her bottle of water from her lips and leaned toward Stone.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know."

"You've never heard of them before?"

"No."

"I don't like the sound of this, Stone. I hope there isn't going to be any trouble."

He nodded.

"They have a large militia," he said. "And we both have our guns."

She glanced up at the sky.

"I could fall asleep right now," she said, as the sunlight touched her face. "Warm sun and a full belly."

He seemed deep in thought.

"Lean my head on your shoulder," she said. "And doze off for the afternoon."

Sebastian called for every one to return to work. There were several good natured grumbles.

"What do you think?"

He said nothing.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, suddenly. "Like Emil?"

"No," he said, smiling thinly.

She let out a short laugh. His hair was growing back. He looked better for it.

"Do you blame me for everything?" said Nuria. "The way she does?"

He got to his feet, lifted his axe, and offered his hand.

"I don't blame you."

She placed her palm against his, rough and hot, and he jerked her back onto her feet.

"Thank you," she said. She had sat with him for five days and he had never behaved this way before; talkative and demonstrative. "Sometimes, not like today, you can be really hardly to talk to. And it makes me wonder if you would be happier if I wasn't here?"

There was a flicker of emotion in his eyes. He appeared, momentarily, saddened by her words. That she would think he was angry at her or blamed her or did not want her around. She knew he struggled with the intricacies of conversation, adopting a more blunt approach. She had lived in a city of thousands for twenty five years, developing and honing her skills at military school from the age of seven, mentored by a former officer turned politician. Stone had spent most of his life in silence. They feared him across the wastelands. He was the Tongueless Man. Only he had a tongue and incredibly fast reflexes. It seemed strange to see him without his revolver and rifle. Once more he appeared a different man to her. Nuria searched rapidly for something else to say, to cushion her final words, but Sebastian's glare told her to get moving. Maybe she expected too much too soon from him. His only friend was dead and though she was not attempting to replace him she wondered if he still saw only a former soldier and officer when he looked at her, methodical and practical, organised and disciplined, and not the woman she truly was, now that her rank and uniform were buried in the past.

"I should go," she said, sighing.

He watched her walk away, a lack of spring in her step, her arms swinging without rhythm.

Behind a bush he emptied his bladder. As the leaves splashed, he whispered, "I'm glad you're here."

Nuria saw the wall was beginning to take shape. Many nights would pass before it encircled the village. She imagined the cold days would arrive before they finished. Days when the sky was pinched bright blue and the ground became hard and you witnessed the very breath from your lungs before you. Raised far south, she had never seen snow, but had heard stories of it and was eager to see a snowfall and place her hands in it. It already seemed colder here than it had in Chett but the villagers often complained of the heat. As she drove her spade into the moist ground, she glanced toward the trees and saw Stone emerge from a bush. From this distance, she reflected on the ugly scars that covered his upper body. He had known so much violence and pain. She felt an ache for him and, as she dug, thought back to the moment he held her hand, touched her skin, focused his eyes to hers.

"I've come to apologise," said a voice.

For a moment, she thought it was Stone, but she could still see him in the forest. She looked at the man addressing her. He stood clean and presentable, long dark hair combed back and neatly parted, beard trimmed. His brown eyes were clear, no longer bleary, and he was not stinking of drink. His feet were planted firmly against the soil and he stood with confidence, not wavering on the spot, threatening to topple over. He wore trousers, a shirt and waistcoat. The clothes had been scrubbed clean and the creases smoothed out. He smiled broadly, a glint in his eye, and extended his hand. She stood sweaty and caked with dirt and clay. She wiped her fingers down her trousers and shook his hand, intending it to be brief and informal, but instead he kept her grip, infusing her skin with his warmth, raised her hand and brushed his lips against it. She pulled her hand away as her fellow workers whistled and called out.

"I would like to introduce myself," he said. "I am Conrad and I apologise for being quite useless when my brother was wounded."

"You have nothing to apologise for and there is no need to explain your behaviour to me."

She had forgotten all about the drunken Saacion, the villager healer, Tristan's brother.

"You are Ilan's son?"

"I am dead to him," smiled Conrad. "He has only one son. At least I never have to find him a gift during the Winter Festival."

"I'm sorry," said Nuria.

"I have already thanked your young companion. She is a strange one. I do not understand magic. It made me shiver talking to her. Though that might be the after effects of too much drink. Or perhaps not enough."

Nuria couldn't help but chuckle.

"You see, my uncle was a fine Saacion," he said. "But I do not fill his shoes too well."

She glanced down at his feet.

"You're wearing sandals."

"Indeed I am," laughed Conrad. He caught a glare from Sebastian, who had come across from the forest. "I will be getting you into trouble."

He leaned into her, dropped his voice to a whisper.

"You all need to leave."

He eased back from her, smiling, as Sebastian took steps toward them, muttering about lazy newcomers.

"Meet me tonight for a drink," said Conrad, drifting away. "In the tavern."

\--- Five ---

"Doug?"

"That's not my name."

"It's the only one I'm going to use."

He kept his back to her, for a moment, but then relented, though his eyes remained low, unable to meet hers.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to."

Sadie had sought him out after a back breaking day of labour in the fields, harvesting potatoes. Her face was red. Her thick arms were dripping with sweat. Her clothes were dirty, hands caked with mud. She had found him on the outskirts of the village, a pack on his back, laden with food. He had stolen Nuria's pistol from the hut and the holster was fastened to his belt.

"I should have left you in Ford," he said. "With your family and friends."

He started across the bridge, making for the tree line, back to where they had camped before coming to Dessan.

"I didn't want you to come with me," he said. Sadie looked around for help. Someone had to stop him. "I didn't want you to leave you behind, either."

"You know I can't go back there," she said. "It's too far on my own. We barely made it here."

"I am sorry."

"I'm stuck here, Doug."

"That's not my name," he snapped. "I made it up. You wanted to call me something so I made it up. Doug, Doug, Doug. I am the Map Maker. That is who I am, Sadie. That's what I am."

"I don't want you to go."

"You don't understand. There isn't a choice for me. I have no say in it. I have to find it."

Sadie followed him over the bridge, the river gurgling beneath her. It was dusk and the land began to absorb the sun. The horizon filled with a shower of colour, oranges and yellows, reds and purples, streaking through the trees. She felt the warmth of the fading sun on her pale skin. There was the distant beat of hooves against grass. A mother called for her children to fetch water. Ollish birds clucked. Sadie waited, stomach turning, chest fluttering, hoping that the outline of the man who stood before her, with his somewhat handsome round face, would abandon this outrageous plan of exploration and adventure and stay here with her.

What was wrong with him? Why was he walking away from this life? It didn't exist and even if it did – what did it matter?

Breath escaped her. Her mouth turned dry. She had no idea how to persuade him to stay. What words should she use? She thought of her mother, far in the Southern Deserts, wondering what advice she would offer right now. Though she already knew exactly what she would say in a situation like this and it wouldn't have been pleasant. She did not want to go back to Ford, living in the ruins of the old Gallen. She liked it here, warming to the people and making friends, working hard in the fields and keeping the hut clean, preparing food, creating a home. She wanted Doug to share that home with her. More than that, Doug made it a home; without him, it was only mud walls and a dirt floor and a thatched roof.

Sadie brushed stubborn flecks of dirt from her hands as her bare feet padded slowly back over the bridge.

"Come with me?"

She kept walking, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, the sun continuing to sink. The world erupted inside her head. He was no longer Doug. He never would be again. He was the Map Maker. He had always been the Map Maker. She blinked back the tears. He cast a final look at her before slipping into the forest. She had never understood. She had never been able to grasp the indescribable power his maps held. One day, he would be able to knit the world back together, to heal the fractures, and she would fully understand that the reliance on weapons and the black energy would falter. The power was in his maps. The future was in his maps. When his organs failed and the flesh was stripped from his body and his bones became dust, his name would live on. He would be immortalised; the deeds of the Map Maker would reverberate through the centuries. Gallen lacked cohesive shape, lacked history, and his life, his achievement, his sacrifices, would define it.

Sadie had argued tirelessly with him that the world was not broken, was not asunder, but she was wrong, lacking in vision, blinkered to knowledge. It had always been his maps. It was so clear to him. Why could she not understand? Not one of them ever seemed to understand. Ilan, the Elder Chief, that fat, grey, foolish old man had attempted to humour him but the Map Maker had seen through his careful deception. He was a man of dark secrets and shielded a black heart. The Map Maker knew he was plotting to steal his maps and keep them for himself.

"No one will steal my maps," he said, pressing through the trees, glimpsing halk lazing in a nearby pasture.

He went by the camp he had shared with Sadie, a makeshift tent in a small clearing, peaceful until Stone and his companions had tracked them here. He had been ruthless in destroying their camps as they had crossed the wasteland, burying evidence of small fires and excrement, yet Stone had kept on his scent and followed him through the hills and grasslands and into the forest. The Map Maker idled in the clearing. He scratched his head, thoughts lingering on a moment of tenderness, Sadie astride him, naked, stubby legs grinding against his hips.

"You will have to stop one day, Doug," she had groaned, slapping her stomach. "You make me fat here and you'll have to stop and build something for us."

There was a noise in his head. Always a noise. He knew it contained words but he was unable to filter them out. He laboured against her and she trembled and collapsed on him, stinking of sweat. Afterwards, he stood outside in dwindling sunlight, pine needles against his feet, the air cooling the perspiration on his skin.

"No more maps," she had said.

He plotted his route north, through the forest, away from the Eastern Villages.

"Across the sea," Philip had told him, two days earlier. "That is where I was travelling. Ah, I was younger then."

"What's across the sea?"

"Ennpithia," grinned Philip. "Ah, the land of beauty."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, as trees were chopped and sawed. "Our land is Gallen."

Sunlight streamed through the gnarled canopy of trees. Philip was much older than any man the Map Maker had ever known. He was much older than Stone and appeared older than Ilan. His eyes grew wide when he spoke, his hands making shapes with the words. He spoke rapidly, barely taking breath and sometimes would end up choking and needing to swallow a mouthful of water. The Map Maker set down his tools to listen, intrigued by Philip's story.

"You believe Gallen is the only land in this world? Ah, that is a very silly thing to believe. You are foolish to think this. The world is a much bigger place than Gallen. North, far north from here, a great long way north is Caybon, a ruined town from the Before. There is a vast community of friendly people. It is a very special place indeed. Caybon is where the land meets the sea. Imagine living in a town where you can hear the waves of the sea and there is a beach where the clay is the colour of the sun and not the colour of fire. That is where you will find passage to Ennpithia. Ah, a beautiful land. Rich with forests, animals and people."

He continued to shave the poles into points. Stone hefted one onto his shoulder and carried it from the forest.

"There are cities with tall buildings that reach to the clouds, cities where a man can raise his family. The guards who heard you speak with Ilan, the day you arrived, they told us all of the wonder of what you possess. Ah, you are a clever man. You are a very clever man. You look into my eyes and you know I speak only the truth. Look into my eyes. Look. No, look, look, look into my eyes. Ah, yes, you know Ennpithia exists. You know it is there. All you have to do is find it. You have a lot of blank spaces on your maps. It is time to fill them in. Ennpithia is the missing piece."

The Map Maker wiped the sweat from his face.

"What did you call it?"

"It is the missing piece. You know it is." He clenched his fists and shook them. "You know the world is wrong. You know this in your heart."

"I have another map," he said, lowering his voice. A fellow lumberjack glanced at him, wondering when he would pull his weight around here. "It's very old. I think it dates from the Before. The map is huge with lots of islands and seas and enormous land masses with strange names... but I have found no mention of Gallen on it. I believe that Gallen is a small part in a much bigger world."

"Then you must find Ennpithia, my friend. You will find your answers there."

The fire crackled. He shared a bed with Sadie in the corner of the hut. She cried as he told the story of Ennpithia.

"Doug, how can you even think of leaving?" she whispered, between sniffs. The hut was empty but she had grown accustomed to talking in a low voice. "Based on the ramblings of an old man?"

"He is more than an old man," said Doug. "He is incredibly wise. He spoke to me as if he had known me my entire life."

He paused.

"I cannot stay in one place. Not for long. There is more than Gallen and I want to find it."

Sadie wiped her eyes, rested a hand on his shoulder, dug her nails in. "What if he's wrong?"

"I'm not stupid," he said. "I've travelled to many places, Sadie, and heard all manner of tall tales. But this man, Philip, I can hear the conviction in his voice. It's there, we both know it is."

"Then he's a good story teller, that's all."

"Do you remember the map you gave me?" She nodded. "It's a very special map from the Before. It's how our world once looked." He saw she didn't understand. "How can I explain it to you?" He scratched his head and reached into his pack for the old map. "Look at that town by the sea. It's named Cabourg. Do you understand now? Philip called the town Caybon but I think it's the same place – Cabourg, Caybon."

She was silent for a moment, absent-mindedly stroking his chest as her thoughts drifted. His unwashed fingers stabbed the map, pinpointing Cabourg and she watched him trace a line across a stretch of blue and stop at a jagged curve of green with the initials _En_ and nothing more. There was nothing further to see because the corner of the map had faded.

"E N," he said. "Ennpithia."

Was it possible? Could he be right?

"How will you cross the sea?"

"I have to seek out a man called Yannis. He lives in Caybon, Cabourg, whatever it's called. He is known as the Sea Warrior. He has made..."

"You're mad," she said. "I don't want to hear anymore of this."

She wiped her sleeve across her nose and eyes. She heard Nuria step into the hut and drop down onto her bed.

"You don't understand," said the Map Maker.

"I don't want to hear it."

"Sadie, when I think of Ennpithia the noise in my head clears. Sometimes I can begin to make out the words."

She stared at him.

"What do the words say?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I can't understand them but I can hear them."

"Why do you believe this man?" she said, his voice rising. "Why doesn't he live there instead of here?"

Nuria glanced across the hut.

"He tried to get there," whispered the Map Maker. "But he never even made it to the sea. The route is dangerous. That's how he lost his leg."

"And what happens if you get hurt? There'll be no one to help you."

The Map Maker stared at the pitched tent, alone amongst the trees. He sat on a cushioned ground of pine needles and eased his back against rough bark.

What happens if you get hurt? There'll be no one to help you.

He drew the stolen pistol, began tapping the muzzle against his head.

* * *

"Margaux," said Emil.

She spotted her carrying a basket of vegetables. She seemed distracted and almost failed to acknowledge Emil at first. She offered to carry the basket for her but Margaux laughed and said she could manage perfectly fine.

"I'm going home," she said. "Is something the matter?"

"Not here," said Emil.

It took five minutes to reach her dwelling. There was old rubbish piled outside the mud hut and the walls were pitted and cracked. The wooden front door had a broad split in it and did not swing freely. Margaux set down the basket and had to lift the door to pull it open. It was gloomy inside and Emil sniffed a bad odour. She offered to light a fire and Margaux nodded, silently, carrying the vegetables into the gloom of the kitchen. She emptied a bucket of stale water outside and mentioned she needed to collect some more but made no motion to do so. The fire began to burn and Emil lit candles. A fine layer of dust had settled upon the furniture, which was mostly broken, and scattered haphazardly through two rooms. Emil saw unwashed bowls and there was a buzzing sound coming from the second room. The smell seemed worse there. She wished she had stopped Margaux outside and questioned her there. The hut was oppressive, dampening her spirit. She was astonished at how an attractive, clean and well groomed woman could tolerate living in such filth and there was no other word to describe it. The hut had looked filthy outside and was even worse inside. She brushed down a chair before sitting.

"Mallon," she said, cutting straight to the point. "I was wondering if you could tell me about him."

"I see. He _has_ taken a fancy then. Oh, dear. Let me guess, has he asked you to spend an evening with him? Some food?"

Emil was silent for a moment.

"I asked him, I think."

"Oh," said Margaux. "I'm surprised. After what I told you about him. He cannot be trusted."

Emil pondered her words.

"You haven't really told me anything about him."

"I must clean up," said Margaux, finding a broom. "If you want to risk yourself with an overgrown and reckless boy like Mallon then go ahead." She began to sweep, driving the dirt from one corner to the other. "I thought you were much smarter than that, Emil."

She propped the broom against the wall and sighed.

"Did you say anything to Lena?"

Margaux frowned.

"How do you mean?"

"About me liking him. Not that I do. I mean I don't dislike him but I don't know him."

"You seem all tangled at the mention of his name," she smiled. "Emil, he really has you twisted in every direction."

Emil was confused. She seemed to be asking questions and hearing answers but the two did not match.

"I'll be careful around him," she said.

"Well, it's none of my business."

* * *

Nuria asked directions to the tavern from the first villager she passed. The man curled his arm around her waist, grinned and pointed the way, offering to escort her. She brushed him off, as kindly as possible, and he continued on his way, dancing a jig, a half empty bottle in his hand.

It was at the edge of the village, on a swathe of long grass, a rounded mud hut with pitted walls. Smoke curled from a large chimney. Conrad was waiting for her, facing the other direction and Nuria indulged herself in the moment as he paced, craning his neck to see further into the early evening gloom. He stopped, sensing her, and looked over his shoulder. He greeted her, a warm kiss on the cheek, and took a step back to admire her. Her skin was glowing, scrubbed clean. Her hair, recently cut into a short bob, was already beginning to grow again and she had knotted it into a short ponytail. Conrad smiled at her simple outfit of sandals, trousers and a tunic. He held open the tavern door and gestured for her to enter.

A thick cloud of smoke lingered. Villagers sat at tables drinking and smoking pipes, engaged in loud conversation. A woman was singing and several men were clapping and rapping palms against the tables as musical accompaniment. They nudged through the throng of sweating bodies and ordered two mugs of the village brew. There was nowhere to sit so they loitered at the bar. Nuria raised the wooden mug to her lips and tasted apple and burnt wood. Conrad tried to talk to her but she could only see his lips moving. She pressed her hand against his mouth and gestured with her head to the door. He smiled and opened his eyes, looking very pleased with himself, but she playfully struck him and shook her head.

Outside, on ramshackle seats, with a light wind on their backs, Conrad took out two pipes, filled them from a pouch and handed one to Nuria. He fetched a light and they both puffed and drank, listening to the singing inside.

"Is every night in Dessan like this?"

"All but one," he said, licking his lips.

He dragged his chair close to her. His warm brown eyes roamed her athletic body, a pale neck of delicate skin, a slightly twisted mouth, blue eyes set in a face that still echoed with faded bruises.

"You are a beautiful woman," said Conrad. "Truly very beautiful."

Nuria had never been serious about men. There had been a few admirers and casual encounters but all had worn a uniform. Since leaving the city, a desire that had festered for years, she had already become aware of a subtle change within herself. The uniform had become a dark burden, teeming with regret, self loathing. Now she could breathe once again but her attention seemed to be drifting toward Stone. She wondered where he was and what he was doing and why she was thinking of him instead of Conrad.

"Do you tell Mary and your child how beautiful they are?" she said.

"Mary?" He drew on his pipe. "Mary is my aunt and a widower so, no, I do not compliment her in such a way. And I tell Ambre how beautiful she is every day. She is a bundle of mischief."

It had been a long time since a man had made her laugh. She raised her mug and supped contently.

"Your aunt? You're trying to convince me that Mary is your aunt? She is younger than me."

"My uncle like his women at least half his age... I can assure you I have no designs on my aunt, although she does possess a quite full and amazing..."

"That's enough," said Nuria, holding up a hand.

She thought of Stone once more, lurking somewhere in the village, no doubt alone and introspective. He had not returned to the hut after working on the wall. She really didn't want to think about him right now. Here was a refreshingly handsome and charming man who seemed engaged with her every moment and she wanted to distance herself from the man of few words.

"All of a sudden you are a lifetime away," said Conrad. "Your eyes. You say much with your eyes."

"I'm sorry."

She leaned into him, drew on her pipe.

"Are you Saacion Conrad or Conrad the Saacion?"

He chuckled.

"What an odd question. My father would say I'm Conrad the failed son. Most would say Conrad the drunk. I'm no Saacion, Nuria. I cannot heal a man. I can clean a wound and stitch but no more. Your friend is the one with magic. I was too drunk to remember anything from that night. Except you, of course."

"Oh, please."

"My brother would be dead without her."

He raised his drink.

"Do you have a more sensible question?"

She met his eyes.

"Why should we leave?"

"Because if you don't," he said, quietly. "You will learn about the one night Dessan falls silent."

"It's tomorrow, isn't it?"

"A day of sadness and shame," said Conrad.

"And this is why you warned me we should all leave?"

"I can leave with you, if you like?"

"Ah, I see. This is just an elaborate ploy to lure me off somewhere with you."

"Would you come?"

"You don't need to try so hard."

Nuria paused.

"Tell me about the Collectors."

Conrad fetched more drink, and then curled his arm around her and spoke in whispers, explaining everything. For a long moment, she said nothing, and then looked across the village, a haze of smoke above the scattered huts, men and women and children enjoying the cool evening with food and laughter. She raised her mug and drank, swirling the apple and wood flavoured brew around her tongue.

She looked into his eyes and then her hand was against his face, her nails raking his skin and she moved toward him to taste his lips.

* * *

She had concealed a knife in her boot but it was still there. Emil strolled away from Mallon's hut, beaming, leaving him alone in the candle light, a large table covered with food stained bowls and empty cups. The drink had made her head spin. Her cheeks were flushed red. He had talked and she had listened, her chin cradled against her folded hands. She had smiled and sometimes even laughed. And then her thoughts had clouded and she had seen Tomas lying dead in the sand. She knew he was gone and her gift could not bring him back and Mallon was here. He saw beyond her one eye. He saw beyond her mottled skin. He had held her hand, squeezed it. He remarked that she was the only woman in Dessan with copper coloured hair. She countered his compliment by stating she was the only one-eyed woman in Dessan with copper coloured hair. He had laughed and told her the blacksmith was one-eyed, although he was not a woman and his hair was most certainly not copper coloured.

"And he has a long beard," said Mallon. "Your beard is not so long."

She had laughed. Laying down his spear and shield had taken the sternness from his face. He had surprised her with a collection of pictures he had sketched, of the surrounding landscape, a tattered book he was attempting to read, square and made of board, with faded pictures of a dog on each page – "Hot... dog... c-c-cold... dog." - a rickety table he had whittled, a set of beads his mother had handed him before passing, a melted black object he had unearthed in the forest with curious buttons that were unresponsive when you pressed them.

Lena had been right, thought Emil, there was a lot to like about Mallon. She couldn't understand why Margaux was so concerned. There was no hint of seediness about him. He had not been suggestive or lurid in his conversation or actions. Incredibly, he was quite shy.

The bunched fist flew out of the blackness, driving into her stomach, forcing the wind from her. She doubled over and reached for the knife but her attacker was fast and the fist slammed into her kidney. She cried out, gasping for air. She was grabbed and punched square in the mouth. She lost her footing and saw the sky and the white lights flash before her.

Pinned down by her attacker the blows came fast, one after the other. She tasted blood and blacked out.

* * *

Emil opened her swollen eye, the world upside down. The ground beneath her was cold and damp. She rolled onto her side, wincing. She could feel the blood trickling down her face. She must have been out cold for only a few seconds. Her attacker had vanished into the night.

Gritting her teeth, refusing to cry out for help, she thrust out a hand, finding the wall of a hut, and dragged herself onto her knees.

The jolt sent waves of pain lancing through her face. She took deep breaths and spat.

Slowly, she staggered forward, one step at a time. She found the path and began to shuffle home.

The hut was empty.

She sank onto her bed and placed her palms against her skin.

* * *

Justine spotted Stone on the bridge, staring into the fast flowing river below, the water shimmering with moonlight. The wind was strong, the cloud low. Angry spots of rain warned of an impending downpour. He glanced at her as she approached but said nothing. She stood alongside him, holding onto the rail, the frothy water rushing beneath them. She turned her back on the waterway, swept a hand through her hair.

"Do you have another name? A softer name I can use?"

He picked at the railing of the bridge. The militia on the edge of the village glanced at the two of them.

"Some people know me as the Tongueless Man."

"That's a horrible name," said Justine, half-laughing. "It's not a soft name."

He said nothing.

"Would you care to walk with me?"

"No," said Stone. "I came here to try and think."

He gestured toward the village, the air ringing with laughter, the repetitive thump of primitive instruments, halk hide stretched over round wooden tubs.

"Is that all you came here for? You're here every night. Close to where I live and sleep."

She waited.

"Our people work hard all day, they enjoy a good night."

"Especially tonight," he said. "What happens tomorrow when the Collectors arrive?"

She turned away from him.

"I heard the levy is four. Tristan's words."

She sighed.

"The Centon counts the days. When it is complete, you make a wish. You wish not to be chosen."

She took his rough hand, thick and meaty, between her slender fingers, and sniffed the skin.

"The smell of a working man," she said.

"How long has this been going on?"

"The tradition has been part of the Eastern Villages for decades; my first memory was at the age of seven. My mother was chosen. I never saw her again."

"I could end it," he said, as she continued to caress his hand. "Ilan was right. It's what I do. I don't chop trees and build walls. I put people in the dirt."

She squeezed his hand tightly.

"You don't understand, Stone. You're not from these parts. This affects us all. Dessan, Le Sen and Agen."

"You all pay the levy," he nodded.

He broke free of her warm hands and walked to the Centon. He crouched before it and studied a sequence of symbols carved into the front, next to the word – Dessan.

"Did the Collectors give you this thing?"

"The Centon? Yes, one for each village," said Justine, nodding. "It is our protection."

"It's just a box and a stone," he said, tracing his fingers over the symbols. "I've seen these markings before."

"Where?"

Stone crouched next to Lucas and frowned at a series of markings burned into his arm. A sequence of shapes. He had never seen anything like it before.

"A man who was recently killed," he said. "These were burned into his flesh."

Justine lowered her eyes.

"I don't know what they mean."

"They mean he was branded. They mean you allow your own people to be marked as someone else's property." She could see the rage in his eyes. "I could smash this to pieces right now."

She stalked toward him, hands on her hips, as the rain began to fall.

"Do you not think I haven't dreamed of it? You're not the first mercenary to stroll through our village, Stone. And I have twenty five well armed militia spearman and bowmen. We could easily kill the Collectors. We outnumber them. I could lay a trap for them tomorrow morning and cut them to nothing on the road. Darrach might take more than that. He is the leader of their clan, deadly with a sword."

"One bullet will end him," said Stone, grabbing her. "Understand this, Justine. Men who take never stop taking. Not until everything is gone."

Her hair was drenched, clothes sodden, face streaming with rainwater. The clay path became soggy.

"The tradition cannot be broken. Do you see any rampaging marauders stripping us of our food and belongings, taking away the women and children? We pay the levy and we are kept safe. No one troubles our village, Stone. There is no carnage here or in any of the Eastern Villages."

He drew a knife from his soaking wet long coat and held it against the ropes lashing the Centon to the rock.

"I can end it all for you," he said.

She reached for his wrist but his grip was firm. One of the militia called across the bridge and she waved him away.

"Don't," she said.

"Why not? Is this why you allowed us to stay? Are we tomorrow's levy?"

She pulled away from him.

"No. You're not. I don't know."

He thrust the knife back into his coat.

"So tomorrow they walk into town and choose who they take."

"It's worse than that," said Justine. "They don't choose who to take."

She stared at him through a sheet of rain.

"We do."

He shook his head.

"How can you live like this?"

"Siense," she said.

"What?"

Lightning flashed across the landscape, thunder rumbled

"Siense," she repeated. "Quickly, we need to get inside."

They dashed between the huts, slipping in the deluge, the water drilling all around them. People rushed by, taking cover, the weather ruining the evening, silencing the music and singing and dancing, spoiling the final night before the Collector's arrival. They ducked into Justine's hut. Stone closed the wooden door and drew across a heavy curtain. A small pool of water seeped beneath it. It was the first time he had been inside having only walked her home the previous nights. He found himself in a small room, with two archways. A curtain was drawn across one of them. She went through the open archway and returned with a bottle of drink and two wooden goblets. She set them down on a low table as he began lighting a fire.

"What's Siense?"

She peeled off her wet dress, her naked body long and flat. "It was the fourth of the Eastern Villages. It is gone now."

She squeezed the water from it and draped it over the back of a chair. Uncorking the bottle, she poured. Stone dragged open the curtain, revealing a small room with a large bed.

"Did they resist?"

"Yes."

He drank, filled his cup. Her damp hair was draped on her shoulders. Her skin glowed.

"There was no hint of them fighting back. Tristan spies for Ilan, learning what he can from the other villages; even he hadn't seen anything to suggest rebellion." She raised her goblet to her lips. "The levy was only one then. One person. That was all. One sacrifice to keep us all safe. The Collectors are mercenaries, Stone, they would take us all and burn our homes but then nothing would be left. The one who pays them is much smarter. He allows us to live, to grow, to populate, that way we continue to provide him with people."

"You're a wildflower in the dirt," he said, stripping naked. "That he waters."

Her eyes absorbed his multiple wounds and scars. Her fingers delicately touched one, traced a line along it.

"When Siense refused to surrender another soul the order was given to destroy them."

He wiped a tear from her eye with his thumb.

"They raped the women and children. The men were kept alive and forced to endure the agony. And then they killed them all and burned the village to the ground. The ruins lie east of here. There is nothing but blackened ground and a pit filled with bones. The terrible screams lasted for two days. All day. All night. Nothing but horror. And then we saw the smoke. And we were happy, we almost rejoiced, because it meant that their misery had been ended."

She drank.

"After that, no one every fought back against the Collectors. This is our life, Stone, we accept it."

"What happens when someone you care for is chosen?"

"That happens every time," she said.

He lifted her into his arms, her long pale legs wrapped around him, and pinned her against the wall.

* * *

She woke in a cold sweat, panting. Her body ached, sore and spent. He was sat at the end of the bed, deep in thought, brooding and naked. She glimpsed fresh scratches in the flickering candlelight.

"You talk," he said, simply. "When you sleep."

Justine sat up, wiped her face.

"I still hear the screams and see their faces. Sharing the story with you brought it all back to me."

He turned.

"You went there, didn't you?"

"With Tristan. He's an expert rider and very good at not being seen. We watched from a distance."

Stone saw her eyes glaze over. No words would begin to describe what she had witnessed.

Outside, there was only the sound of the wind and the rain.

She crawled along the bed and curled her arms around his neck, pressing her narrow body against his back, feeling his warmth.

"I don't want to see those faces anymore."

He kissed her hands as they roamed his chest.

"Is Nuria your woman?" she asked, suddenly, nibbling his neck.

"No."

"I think she would have it differently."

She reached into his lap.

"I've noticed her eyes on you. And you spoke up for her, defended her against Ilan the first night you came here."

He still said nothing. She gripped him tightly. He throbbed between her fingers.

"You're planning to kill them, aren't you?"

He pushed her back onto the bed, rolled her onto her stomach and grabbed her hips.

"No more talk," he said.

She gasped as he thrust into her.

\--- Six ---

The early morning wind sent ripples across the river, distorting the line of trees mirrored upon its surface. The old wooden bridge creaked and groaned, almost with solemn reflection. The Centon was complete; it was the time of choosing, the day of purple ribbons. The village inhabitants emerged sluggish and dejected into a grey dawn light. They threaded along pathways to assemble on the main road through Dessan. The ground was horribly damp, filmed with a light mist that swirled about them. Clouds scudded across the crimson scarred sky. The fields were silent. The groves stood empty. Thin trails of smoke curled lazily into the air. Men, women and children, with heads bowed, stood shoulder to shoulder, sometimes holding hands. There was no music. No singing and dancing. The celebrations had passed and all that remained was fear, a naked primal fear, clenching hard at the throat, lodging deep within, steadfastly refusing to budge.

Justine had woke to an empty bed, momentarily forgetting the day, the warm surge inside quickly extinguished when she did so. She picked at a hazy memory of Stone slipping away before light. He had whispered to her, shared feelings, made a promise, but she had been too exhausted to hear his words and had gladly drifted back into the warm and enticing folds of sleep, his hand gently stroking her hair before leaving. She pulled a dress over her naked skin, stepped into sandals and wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders. Margaux arched an eyebrow at her unkempt hair and eyes clogged with grit as she entered the council hut. A fire was burning and Justine warmed her hands for a moment. There was fresh water and she took a cup, gulping it down. There was fruit and biscuits but, though her stomach rumbled, she had no appetite.

Ilan donned a black gown and fetched a long staff. The ceremonial trappings had belonged to his father. He emerged from the council hut, onto the red clay road that snaked through the village, his iron grey hair sweeping behind him in the wind. Justine and Margaux followed dutifully. Margaux was the giver. Justine was the carer. Ilan spoke softly in the tongue of the Ancients, or so the villagers believed, a mantra gifted through cycles of his family, an intonation only he understood. His lips moved slowly as he walked. His voice was dull and gravely. There was speculation to the meaning, perhaps he beseeched forgiveness for the undertaking of such a ritual or offered platitudes of respect that applauded the courage of those about to sacrifice their own lives. Only Ilan knew the true meaning of the words and no one really cared enough to ask him.

As the council passed each villager a deep sigh could often be heard. One woman fainted with relief.

Ilan continued through the village, the words slipping from his mouth, curious phrases overlapping, and then, finally, he stopped and drove the staff into the dirt. He did not turn his head to face the chosen man.

"Please, oh, no, shit, not me, no, fuck, I'm sorry, I mean, I work hard, Ilan, please, Ilan, please don't. I don't want to go. I don't want to go. No, please, please... NO."

Margaux stepped before him. Her slender hands were gloved. She tied a purple ribbon around his elbow.

"No, it shouldn't be me, no, I don't want to... take it off, please take it off, why won't you listen to me? Listen to me. I'm going to take this off. I am, I'm going to take this off, I'm not going."

Justine held his hands, stroked his face and whispered to him. His eyes bubbled with tears.

Ilan walked a short distance before stopping again and once more a man had been chosen, this one much younger, more a youth than a man, long haired, a ragged beard, shapeless clothes, slouched and nonchalant. He sought no words of comfort or wisdom as the ribbon was tied around his elbow and none were offered.

"Where is Stone?" said Nuria, further down the line.

"I don't know," said Emil.

Her cuts were healed but her face was bruised. The knife was still in her boot. She had every intention of using it this morning.

"And the Map Maker?"

"Gone," said Sadie.

The words came out flat. Her eyes looked red, cheeks puffy. Nearby, black ollish birds chirped and scampered.

"Just the women then," said Emil, and laughed, bitterly, as a sharp blast of wind curved through the village. "Looks like we're going to have to get on after all." The people around them glared fiercely at the sound of Emil's laugher. This was not a time for humour. "Why are we standing here?"

"I don't know," shrugged Nuria. "We don't care about any traditions."

Ilan stopped for a third time and repeated the motion of planting his staff into the moist clay. The purple ribbon was in Margaux's hand but the woman resisted and jerked away from her.

"I have a family," she said. "Choose someone else, please, not me, send someone else away. I'm not going. You can't make me. I don't have to go. None of us should go."

Justine offered her hands and the woman, Alize, slapped them away and spat at her.

"No," she said. "Not me."

Mallon, despite the appointed leader of the militia, carried the identical burden of his fellow villagers and lined the road with them, as vulnerable as they were. He knew the name of every one in Dessan and who they shared with. He knew where they worked and what they were good at and what they were shoddy at. He knew the disputes and rivalries and petty squabbles and he resolved each and every one of them until they flared once more and he was again forced to step in. He knew the secrets, the lies, the deceptions, the betrayals and the confidences. He knew every hut and every path, every tree and every blade of grass, and in these terrible moments, when Lena moved the stone to obscure the purple square and the Collector's were possibly only an hour from his home, this knowledge seemed to pale and count for so little and he glimpsed the unravelling of a life, his own life, all twenty five years of it; the words he had failed to speak, the secrets he should have shared, the friends he had lost.

His time would be soon. The council tolerated him, no more than that, and one day Margaux would tie that ribbon around his arm and he would be bundled from here and Dessan would fade into memory; his hair would lengthen, his skin would line, his bones would ache and Dessan would be a shadow, only a name, a surreal place that he would visit in his dreams and, maybe, in that alternate existence, he would kick his feet in the river with Lena and he would finish building his wall and he would most certainly hold Emil in his arms and kiss her on the lips.

Mallon stepped from the line, went past Justine and reached for Alize. She collapsed against him, choking, sobbing, incoherent. He had no words for her. He held her close but could offer her nothing. His shirt became soaked and she was desperately gasping for air. Her life partner was named Rayan and he looked on passively. He worked the land, ploughing and sowing. Alize's lover was a much younger man named Gabriel. He was training as a blacksmith and fashioned spearheads. He had two young sisters, one of whom had no vision. Alize would visit him when his sisters were at school. Mallon saw nothing in the young man's eyes as the ribbon was finally tied around Alize's elbow.

Ilan lifted his staff and took several paces forward as Mallon felt Alize's body sag. He steadied her and several women around him took hold of her. One of them went to fetch a bottle of drink. Mallon's stomach knotted and his fists clenched and unclenched. His temper had already flared this morning when he learned from Emil that she had been attacked. One of the men who stood with him had viciously beaten an innocent girl last and, once this slave ritual was complete and the Collectors had left, he would begin to investigate. By nightfall he was certain to take the man into the forest and beat the life from him.

He focused his gaze across the road and spotted Conrad grinning at him, indicating the damp patch on his clothing. The fool of a man could find childish humour in any situation. Conrad was the _only_ man he knew not responsible for beating Emil. He had been at the tavern with Nuria. This much he knew. Besides, his best friend might be a clown but he had never struck a woman. He was harmless but still Mallon had to suppress the urge to knock that smirk off his face, or at least hurl a remark or two at him; yet the time of the choosing was one of revered silence and so he glared instead until but he realised that he no longer had the Saacion's eye. His long haired childhood friend was observing the council and his face had drained of all mirth.

Suddenly, Conrad broke the line.

"Ilan," he said. "You cannot, please..."

The wooden staff stabbed into the ground and Nuria's expression of shock was quickly replaced with disgust at the old man, for lacking the courage to face her. Resolutely, Ilan's eyes stared ahead, his lips no longer moving. Her stomach toiled and a pain jabbed in her chest. Where the hell was Stone? Her pulse was racing. She felt she would be violently sick at any moment. Where was he? No, she wasn't accepting this. She hadn't thrown away her former life and travelled all these miles to become the victim of an insane village ritual.

"No," she said.

She heard Conrad protesting and saw him step from the line and admired his loyalty to a woman he hardly knew. He had warned her last night, told her the truth behind the Centon and the tale of a fourth village, Siense, who had refused to be subjugated by the Collectors. She had wanted to speak with Stone, to retell Conrad's story, but he was nowhere to be found and now he had disappeared. The dawn light had grown gloomy and large spots of rain began to pelt down. It was all too late now. It didn't matter anymore. She had been chosen. She was the fourth levy. The past had caught up with her. Punishment was due.

Nuria shook her head as the dark skinned Margaux walked toward her, a single purple ribbon held in her gloved hand.

"Keep that away from me or I'll break..."

Margaux smiled at Nuria, and there was a stunned collective gasp as she hurriedly tied the ribbon around Emil's arm.

"Margaux," said Justine. "Ilan chose Nuria, not the one-eyed child. You have placed the ribbon wrong."

Ilan's eyes seethed at Margaux. She had usurped the laws of the Centon.

"Take that off her," said Justine.

"No," said Ilan, as whispers and mutterings broke out amongst the villagers. "The declaration must never be undone. The child has been chosen."

"I want to take mine off," wailed Alize. "We should all take off our ribbons. It's not fair. I'm not going with them."

"Remember Siense," called a voice.

"You have to go," shouted another. "To save us all."

"Quiet," said Ilan.

He turned to face Emil, rainwater trickling down his face. He had never made eye contact before with the wearer of a purple ribbon.

"You saved the life of my son, Tristan. I will never forget that. I will carry the shame of what has happened." He placed a hand on her shoulder but Emil shrugged it off. "Know that Margaux will be punished and will now stand in line with the rest of you from this day onward."

"You think I care about that?"

"I hope that your magic can save you."

Emil lunged at Margaux, snatching the woman by the wrist and peeling off one of her gloves to reveal bruised knuckles.

"You poisonous fucking bitch."

She hit her square in the face, splitting her lip and reached for the knife in her boot. Margaux held up her hands. The blade flashed and drew a line of blood across her palms. Mallon sprinted along the road and threw himself at Emil, taking down both her and the knife.

"You disobeyed the Centon," said Justine. "You're finished with the council, Margaux. No ribbon can ever be removed. You know this. If one can be removed then all can. Mallon, have your men dump take her to the punishment pits."

A group of militia broke from the line and held Margaux, who was smiling and chuckling with glee.

"The Collectors will receive a wonderful prize this time," she said. "You one-eyed freak."

Nuria ducked into the hut she shared with the others and searched beneath her bed for her pistol but it was missing.

"Freak," screamed Margaux. "You little slut. You ugly monster. "

She hunted for Stone's rifle and revolver but they were gone, too. Who had taken her weapon and where the fuck was Stone? He shared no bond with the Map Maker; he had once even robbed the man of his prized papers. He had not eloped with him. And he wouldn't have left Emil behind. With no weapon, she stepped back outside, and saw Margaux being marched away. Mallon stood with Emil. Her battered face looked numb. A purple ribbon fluttered at her elbow.

"I knew," she said. "Lying on my bed last night, I figured out who had attacked me. I knew I would be chosen this morning."

"You were not meant to be," said Justine.

"Thanks," said Nuria. "Bitch."

Emil reached for the ribbon, to remove it.

"You cannot," said Mallon. "Please, Emil, if they do not receive the levy of four they will kill every one here."

She hesitated. He had told her last night the fate that had befallen the fourth village. He had tried to encourage her to leave, to avoid being chosen. He had even intimated that he might consider leaving with her. She had no idea that Nuria had experienced the same conversation with Conrad.

"Do you want that to happen?"

"No," she said.

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I would wear the ribbon instead of you," he said. "Only it cannot be removed. If one person can remove the ribbon then so can every one."

"Good," said Nuria. "How can you stand there defending this? What kind of a man are you?"

"I do not defend it," said Mallon, raising his voice at her. "I do not agree with it. It is slavery and I hate it. I am only explaining it."

Emil looked into his eyes.

"Are you going to let them take me?"

The bell began to ring. The Collector's had reached the outskirts of Dessan.

"Where is Stone?" said Justine.

* * *

The horses trotted slowly into the village, wagons rolling behind them, wooden wheels grinding deep ruts into the clay road. A silence fell across the people and the watchtower bell tolled no more. The lead horseman carried a great sword on his back and wore patched together pieces of armour crafted from iron and animal hide and thick fur. He was bearded, his long face pitted and scarred. Six men rode behind him, fearsome eyes glaring from faces obscured with scarves and helmets, a menacing array of weapons hanging from belts and saddles.

The grim levy claimed from Le Sen and Agen was inside two wagons. Iron cages bolted to wooden flatbeds. Four men, each wearing a blue ribbon, Two men, one woman and one child, each wearing a yellow ribbon. Some villagers remained on the road and stared with defiance as the convoy rumbled by. A baby began to cry and a woman sobbed. The Collectors threaded through the village at a relaxed pace, untroubled. The wagons creaked, the horses snorted. Four more horsemen followed at the rear, each one armed with sheathed sword and a rifle.

"Run," said Nuria. "Run now. Back to the forest. Get away from here."

Emil shook her head.

"I can't," she said.

"You don't owe these people anything."

"I know that."

"Then go, Emil... fuck... just run."

Yet there was a resigned look across the _Magic Girl's_ face. Alone on her bed last night, staring at the thatched roof above, the mud hut empty, she had figured it out quickly enough. She had healed her cracked nose and cut skin but the pain of the beating lingered within and her gift could not heal that wound. She had measured the fists that had struck her to reason her attacker had been a woman. Margaux had warned her away from Mallon and she had learned from him, last night, over a bowl of cooked apples and halk meat, that he endured a bitter relationship with the woman since her son, Davide, had died.

"To be honest, it goes back further than that. Davide's father was sleeping with another woman. In a village, secrets do not stay secret for too long. There was a terrible fight near the tavern, where Rosa worked. Margaux was humiliated. What made it worse for her was that Rosa - I don't want to be unkind – but she is not an appealing woman. She is lazy, foul mouthed and enjoys more than one person's portion of food. You have to understand that Margaux is a woman who values appearance, sometimes more than what is inside a person."

Mallon touched his chest. Emil was disappointed that he had chosen to wear a shirt for the evening, although it was worn loose, so she could at least enjoy some of his chest.

"Margaux turned on me, told me I should have informed her of what was going on. Maybe I should of." He sighed. "Her son, Davide, was a new recruit in the militia. He was fourteen. A little old to start. Normally, we train them from the age of eight. He was a quick learner but he lacked instinct. He always needed to be told what to do, how to react. One day, out hunting halk, he stumbled and broke his ankle. The poor boy screamed so much that the halk went into blind panic and one trampled him, catching his throat and crushing the life from him. It was a tragic accident. There was nothing anyone could have done. I left that morning with seven warriors but returned with only six. Margaux blamed me. Once more. She has tormented my life for many years. I do not let her gossip trouble me. I know what she says. I don't want to think of that vile woman anymore."

The Collectors were greeted by deep bows from Ilan and Justine.

"You all know me," said the lead horseman. "I am Darrach, Warlord of the Collectors. The levy has been raised to four. The Centon is complete and payment is now due. I will give you a moment to choose your fourth one."

He leaned from his saddle, spat.

"But then you already know the new rate, don't you? The next time I see a spy I'll take the bastard's head and drag his body through Gallen."

He raised one hand and his mercenaries sprang from their horses, like a pack of woodland beasts freed from traps. They snarled and howled and immediately grabbed the two men who bore the purple ribbon. Hastily bound in iron, they were shoved, kicked and bundled into the wagons, where the other prisoners huddled meekly, eyes downcast. One of the mercenaries took a cart of freshly picked apples and wheeled it back to the horses. He slowly unpacked the fruit into saddle bags and then shoved a few apples through the cages. Alize fought as the Collectors grabbed her. She shrieked and pleaded for her fellow villagers to help her. Hands clenched, thoughts raced, but eyes looked away, the seconds counted until it would be over. Rayan, Alize's life partner, folded his thick hands. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. One of the Collectors slapped Alize hard across the face and then squeezed her chest. Rayan's left eye twitched as the man continued to maul her.

"Stop that," said Darrach. His voice was a growl, a brutal rasp. "They do not belong to you."

Alize shook with terror as they clamped her in irons. Tiny drops of blood spilled onto her chin. She was hurled into the wagon. She crawled into a corner, shaking violently.

"Where is the fourth one?" called one of the Collectors.

"Tell Stone," Emil said to Nuria. "And I'm sorry. For blaming you. I was angry. I'm sorry. Please, just tell Stone."

She turned her eyes to Mallon.

"Help me."

"Ilan," he said. "I will go in her place."

Ilan leaned against his staff.

"Take her," said Darrach, from his saddle.

One of the Collector's strolled toward Emil, swinging a set of chains.

"Ilan," said Mallon. "Answer me, I beg of you. Tristan would have died without her. Is this how you..."

"Enough," said Justine. "You know he will never change who is chosen, Mallon. There is no point asking the blind fool."

Ilan looked between the two of them, holding his staff, saying nothing. Nuria stood before him and spat on the ground.

"It was Margaux who chose Emil but you picked me, you old bastard."

She turned and suddenly angled a punch at the Collector, striking him across the chin and then swiftly drove her boot into his knee, turning him round. The man plucked a sword into his hand and swung, the tip of the blade narrowly missing her stomach. He sprang forward but Nuria was agile and her boot struck the man hard in the groin. He howled, dropping to the ground, where she booted him again, putting him down. Another Collector appeared, his sword already drawn, but Mallon lunged at him, taking him from the side, pushing him from the road into the dirt. He punched him and wrestled the weapon from his grasp,

Darrach leapt from his horse, drew his long sword and swung the fearsome blade at Mallon, holding it beneath his throat.

"Drop it, boy."

Mallon let the sword fall.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" he said.

No one spoke, shocked by the sudden defiance against the Collectors.

"Do you not remember Siense?"

His booming voice echoed around the village.

"Is that what you want?"

He signalled to his men and they came forward, weapons drawn. Mallon was struck, across the back of the head. He stumbled onto his knees and Darrach drove his boot into the young man's face, sending him sprawling to the ground, where he planted his boot into his stomach. Two men pounced on Nuria and clubbed her with the hilts of their swords. Conrad had vanished but now re-emerged on the road brandishing a sword, the blade that had rested in Ilan's council hut.

"Conrad," said Ilan. "How dare you?"

"Conrad, no," said Justine.

The dark haired man looked down at Nuria, lying in the dirt, blood running from her nose and mouth.

He jabbed the sword toward Darrach, who chuckled, his gloved fist brandishing his giant sword.

"Are you challenging me, you stupid little bastard?"

Conrad's eyes did not waver.

"How good a swordsman are you, Conrad? Because every one here knows how good I am."

Darrach edged forward.

"Do you want really to die in the pissing fucking rain?"

Conrad's mouth twisted. Slowly, he lowered the sword.

"Get the girl."

"No," shouted Mallon, as Emil was marched away, wrists in chains. Justine felt an ache in her chest. Her breathing became rapid. Her skin began to burn. Her stomach was shredded. She had begged Stone not to end this but as she stood in the heavy rain, the horror of Siense flooded her thoughts, and she wished he was here, cutting them down in a hail of bullets. She shut her eyes and wanted to flee this insane world and find a better place, with Stone at her side. She had seen it in him the moment he had strode across the bridge - a man who might stamp upon the tradition the Eastern Villages clung to. Mallon deemed it slavery and he was right. She lowered her head with shame and reached for him, lifting him from the dirt, as the strange girl with the copper coloured hair was bustled into the wagon.

"Justine, why did you send Emil away?"

It was Lena, hair and clothes soaked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I didn't," she said.

"She was my friend and I was horrible to her. Margaux said that, she said that, said Mallon and Emil were laughing at me, making fun of me, and I called Emil a monster and now I can't say sorry and I..."

"Take that sword back to the council hut," said Ilan, to Conrad, and the Collectors gathered to watch, jeering.

"You're talking to me, Father," smiled Conrad, staring along the blade. "Does this mean you acknowledge my existence?"

Ilan grabbed Conrad's wrist and attempted to shake free the sword but the younger man's grip was firm.

"It's my sword, Father, or have you forgotten?"

"It is you who has forgotten," hissed Ilan.

Conrad shook his head.

"I have not forgotten anything, Ilan."

"If you fucks are all finished," said Darrach, his booming voice causing the villagers to shrink away. "With your touching family fucking reunion there is one more piece of business left."

The rain lashed down on him.

"There will be no wall in Dessan. Do you understand me, Ilan?"

The Elder Chief nodded.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Darrach, we understand."

"Louder," demanded Darrach.

"We will destroy the wall," said Justine. "We understand."

Darrach grinned, his eyes roaming her narrow body. Justine tightened the blanket around her.

"I look forward to the day you wear a purple ribbon," he said, sheathing his sword. "Make sure that is all you wear."

His men laughed and sprinted back to their horses.

Mallon stood by the wagon, holding Emil's hands though the bars. He had seen the Centon complete time and time again and witnessed the taking of so many innocents. He had cared for all of them. He had loved none of them. The anger welled inside him. He gripped her hands tightly. He knew that if he never saw her again it would destroy him. She appeared calm. He had expected her to cry or plead but there was an inner strength he had yet to learn of.

The wagons jerked forward. Alize screamed and one of the other prisoners told her to shut up.

Emil stared at Mallon.

And said nothing.

* * *

"Are you okay?" asked Conrad.

Nuria nodded, brushing herself down. She shivered in the pouring rain. She watched Mallon follow alongside the wagons until he was harried away by the horsemen.

The convoy rolled on, heading for the bridge.

"Where do they go?"

Conrad shook his head.

"I don't know."

"I do," said Tristan, nodding at his older brother.

"Where?" said Nuria. "Quickly."

"They follow the dirt road for a few hours," he said. "It reaches a highway and they travel west through the forest."

Nuria nodded.

"That's where Stone will be."

"How do you know that?" said Conrad.

"A road through a forest," she said. "A perfect place for an ambush. He wouldn't walk away from this."

Mallon marched past them. He walked with purpose, taking long strides. Justine followed him, calling to him, but he ignored her. He reached the bridge as the convoy began to recede up the winding dirt road, into the forest. He stared at the wooden box and grabbed it suddenly. He tried to wrestle it from the rock, tugging at it, but the ropes held firm.

Conrad approached him, offering him his sword. Mallon snatched the blade, wielding it with both hands. He slashed the ropes and split the Centon in half. Face red, filled with loathing, he hacked at the wooden box, splintering it into dozens of pieces. He brought the sword down again and again until Justine gently took his arm.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at the group who had gathered around him.

"Where do you keep the weapons?" asked Nuria.

* * *

Conrad found his father in the council hut, his old hands resting upon an empty shelf, where the sword had once lain. Now it was sheathed, buckled to his belt. He opened his mouth, but knew only a childish remark would come from it so, for once, he saw the pain he continued to inflict upon his father and chose to remain silent. It was cold and damp, a sadness permeated in the air.

"How many of you are going?" croaked Ilan.

"Mallon, Nuria, Justine."

He turned sharply, his eyes filled with disappointment.

"We will disappear from this world." He began to walk back to his chair. "The men and women will be tortured, violated and murdered."

"Isn't that what we've allowed for years, Father?"

"Do not address me as such," said Ilan, his temper rising. "Your mother bore you but not from my seed."

Conrad strode toward him, his right hand balanced on the hilt of his sword.

"You do not know that for certain."

"You disrespect me and the Eastern Villages. What are you? A drunk and a fool with women."

"It is you that made me drink, Father. Your hatred for me drove me to it. Your damn stubbornness over the Centon."

"I banish you from Dessan. I will notify the militia."

Conrad snorted.

"This is my home. You will not drive me from it."

Ilan eased into his chair.

"You shouldn't have allowed Margaux to manipulate you."

"We had chosen Nuria," he said. "Not the one-eyed child."

"Even worse," said Conrad, throwing up his arms in disgust. "A stranger. This is how you repay a newcomer to our village? Do you know something, Father? There is a man out there who is about to risk his life for people he doesn't even know."

"He knows the child," said Ilan.

"He had already planned to attack the Collectors _before_ Emil was chosen," shouted Conrad. "He is a brave man, miserable and humourless, I agree, but he'll face down your enemies whilst you sit here, a coward, living in the past. Mother is dead. The sickness took her. What does it matter what she did or didn't do? Maybe she made a mistake. Maybe she didn't. Anyway, you took a new woman to have Tristan."

"That is different," said Ilan. "I need an heir for this seat."

"An heir? An heir to what? Look around you, Ilan; it's a hut of old relics."

He shook his head.

"Today, I'll fight not just to free the prisoners in those wagons but to save Dessan. What will you do, Father?"

\--- Seven ---

Sheets of driving rain lashed down upon the clay road that snaked through the forest.

Head ducked against the fierce weather, Darrach ordered two riders to scout ahead. He had had no need for scouts when travelling between the villages, the land was sparsely populated, mostly scrubland and low hills, and no one would attempt to lay traps or tangle with the Collectors but, within a few hours, his men would reach the highway and the journey to Tamnica was five days through dense forest and barren lowlands and here he might encounter bandits attempting to steal his levy. A raid upon the convoy had been attempted once before but his men had beaten off the hopeful thieves. As punishment, they had nailed several of the captured robbers to the trees, a stark warning to any who would dare threaten to steal from his clan.

He could hear the prisoners moaning and crying in the wagons and passed word for them to be silenced. This was the part of the business he detested the most. The ride from Tamnica to the villages was an enjoyable one, days spent in the saddle, nights gathered around a roaring fire, eating, laughing, drinking, sharing a woman if they had took one with them. The return trip was a dull journey, loaded down with a miserable cargo that whined and sobbed, consumed rations and required guarding through the dark hours when they needed to defecate. He vehemently despised the men they rounded up, too cowardly to stand and fight like real men. No, these worthless fucks would prefer to crawl on their hands and knees and be enslaved. All three of the villages held a Centon and the spineless weaklings honoured the pointless wooden box that charted when they would return, sacrificing a few so the rest could remain. Siense had showed spirit and guts. Darrach had respected that. He had still unleashed his clan upon them to violate and butcher without mercy, but he had acknowledged their spirit. Siense had defined them through Gallen. The land had reverberated with the horror and the terrible story travelled through the towns and settlements and cemented fear.

Only a fool would defy the Collectors.

Darrach galloped forward, spraying clumps of red clay, rain and wind in his face. He drew closer to the highway and spied the first rendezvous his convoy would make on the return trip. The pathetic villages had believed his demands that the levy had increased to four. What would they do? March to Tamnica and confirm the fact? No one would ever know. Tamnica had set the levy at three. Darrach had increased it to four. This was an extra slice of the pie for his clan. He reached the highway, turned left and his horse vaulted a gaping pothole. He saw the vehicles parked two hundred yards ahead, a car and a small van, rusted and battered, his scouts already dismounted and waiting for him. He pushed his horse along the highway, hooves clattering against the cracked, rain slick surface. Darrach slowed, dropped down from his saddle and banged a fist on the roof of the car.

A young man climbed out. His raised a hood over his shaven head. A blue and white scarf hung around his neck and he rocked on the balls of his feet as the rain soaked his clothes. His hands were clasped over his groin and he held a pistol, the muzzle pointed at the ground. Two men sat in the car behind him. One more in the van. Another youth in a balaclava patrolled with an automatic rifle. All the men wore blue and white.

"Something wrong, Loic?" asked Darrach.

Loic blinked the rain from his eyes and looked around at the silent forest.

"You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

Behind them, the convoy had arrived. Four horsemen dismounted, one of them carrying a large bunch of keys. The prisoners looked around, desperation in their faces. Alize began to sob once more until a Collector cracked his sword against the cage bars and told her to keep quiet. Emil drew her knees to her chest. There was no way of breaking open the chains. The wagon stank of sweat and urine. She was soaked. She glanced through the bars at the overgrown forest, towering trees with great branches reaching toward the sky, unburdened. She fancied climbing one and reaching for the clouds to float away from this world once and for all. She wondered what had happened to Stone. Crossing the desert, after Tomas had been killed, he had sworn to keep her safe, to protect her, to keep away the men who would abuse her gift to heal, who would attempt to use her, the way he had shamefully tried to. That was in the past, she had reminded him, understanding the hatred he had carried for a lifetime. She accepted who he was and what he was but she wondered why he had abandoned her. _And he had abandoned her._ He was nowhere and she felt the walls of her life beginning to cave in.

"William, what's going on?"

One of the six prisoners - William - craned his neck to look along the road. He saw the Collectors talking with a small group of masked men.

"I don't know. I thought it took a long time to get to Tamnica. That's what I heard."

Four of the prisoners were from Agen and wore yellow ribbons; the two men, a woman and a child. The child looked the same age as Lena. Her face was pasty white, deep brown eyes rimmed with tears, thick black eyebrows that met in the middle. The smell of urine was coming from her. The woman had her arm around her and was whispering words of comfort but her breath was wasted. Emil could see the child was numb with shock, frozen in time, unable to scrape a meaning into what had happened. Today would have begun like any other day for her. She would have woken and emptied her bladder, lit a fire, heated up water and bathed, slipped on her dress and nibbled on a small breakfast before taking her place in the line, waiting for this tiresome and adult tradition to pass, if the other villages adopted a similar ritual to Dessan, and Emil assumed they did, and then it had happened, a ribbon had been tied to her elbow, and her life had ended and she was still there, locked in that incomprehensible moment.

"What's Tamnica?" she asked, wiping rainwater from her eye.

"A place," said William, looking her over. "Far from here."

"Have you been there?"

"Have I been there?" choked William. "What kind of stupid fucking question is that? Shut up, child."

"Don't be so hard on her, William," said the woman. "Ignore him. I'm Louise. What's your...?"

"Silence, you shits," roared one of the Collectors, clattering his sword along the bars. Darrach glanced back at the wagons and then turned to Loic once more.

"No one?" he said.

Loic spat on the ground.

"Left every one for dead. Took all our canisters. That's some serious energy, you understand?"

"Interesting," said Darrach. "Someone stupid enough to kill Tamnicans and Maizans."

"Need to watch your step going back to Tamnica," said Loic, shuffling on the spot. "We lost four people, two vehicles, a chest of tablets. Dangerous fucks roaming in these woods."

Darrach reached into his saddle bag for an apple and bit into it. It made a loud crunch.

"Let's see what you got," said Loic, gesturing with his pistol.

The clan Warlord walked him to the wagons where his men had lined up Emil, Alize and the woman from Agen, Louise. Loic grinned at the two women and nodded. Then his eyes fell on Emil.

"What the fuck is that supposed to be?" he said, looking her up and down. "Nobody gonna want a thing like that."

"She's nice and young," said one of the Collectors, squeezing Emil. "She smells clean."

"I'll take that one," said Loic, pointing his pistol through the bars at the young girl who reminded Emil of Lena.

"No children," said Darrach, chewing his apple. "These are the three. Unless you want one of the men?"

The Collector's laughed and Darrach walked back to his horse, offering the rest of his apple to her. Loic signalled to the truck. One of the Maizans climbed out and opened up the back. He took out a wooden box and set it down on the road next to Darrach, prising the lid open with a blade. Darrach crouched and saw bullets. He nodded. The three women were marched along the road.

"Thing I don't get," said Loic, wandering back, soaked through. "How the fuck did they know? The robbery, you understand? We meet with the Tamnicans once every thirty days, something like that. We need that black energy, you understand? How did they know it was happening? The robbers, you understand?"

Darrach was silent for a moment. The heavy rain drilled down on them.

"You have something you want to say, Loic?"

"Nope, not me. Just wanna get this exchange done and get the fuck away from here, you understand?"

"Oh, I understand," said Darrach. "You think because we travel this road a lot that we had something to do with this robbery?"

Loic shrugged. He tugged at his crotch. The gun bobbed around in his hand.

"You think the Collectors took your canisters?"

He stroked his horse's mane.

"I don't know if you noticed, Loic, but look, I ride a horse and horses, well, they don't need black fucking energy."

Darrach's men began to laugh and Loic felt his pale skin turn crimson. He saw a few smirks from his own men.

"Where would I put it? In her mouth?" He stamped to the rear of his horse, patted her soaking wet rump and lifted her tail. As he did so, the horse deposited a heap on the road, with a loud splatter, and Loic grimaced at the smell. "Does it go in here?"

He whipped out his long sword and raised the blade at Loic. Loic's men stopped smirking and sprang to life, pointing weapons.

"Don't ever accuse the Collectors of something we haven't done," said Darrach. "Do _you_ understand, you little prick?"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck, okay," said Loic, holding up his hands as Darrach suddenly glanced at the trees, eyes narrowed. "I didn't..."

There was the crack of a rifle and Darrach felt the bullet whistle past his head. It drilled through Loic's hand, spraying blood and bone. He screamed and collapsed onto his knees.

* * *

Stone fired a second shot, the bullet slamming into one of the masked men.

The women screamed and he saw Emil shout at them and lead them into the undergrowth. Stone moved, sprinting through the trees, stopped, and fired twice more, one shot wild, the second glancing off the head of a Collector. He moved again. The plan was two shots and move. He saw Darrach hurl himself behind the car as another Collector was struck and fell from his horse, clutching his bleeding neck. The driver of the car, a thin man wearing a scarf, climbed out and raked the forest with automatic fire, a hail of bullets spraying the undergrowth. Chunks of sodden bark exploded. Stone threw himself against the soil and crawled through the mud as the bullets pinged over him.

Breathing heavy, Stone grabbed one of the six crossbows he had taken from Dessan's armoury, the guards subdued, bound and gagged. He aimed and fired. The bolt hissed from the trees and thudded into the gunman's eye. The man screamed, fell backward, finger still jerking at the trigger.

Darrach barked orders at his men. Four of his riders pressed into the trees on horseback, drawing rifles.

The ground was drenched and the horses moved slowly. The men began firing off loose shots.

Stone sprinted further along the roadside, picking up another loaded crossbow and firing immediately, taking down Loic this time, the bolt piercing his shoulder. He discarded the crossbow and jogged further through the trees. He cracked off two more shots from his rifle, one bullet smacking against a horse, the second shattering the cheekbone of a Collector. He moved again and fired another crossbow. His plan was to intimate a larger force was attacking them, striking hard and fast, creating chaos, and it was working, but he knew the Collectors were experienced and hardened mercenaries and the ruse would not fool them for too long. He needed to kill as many as possible before it was exposed.

Stone saw the horsemen picking through the trees, firing in his direction. The wet ground sloped and dipped and he had chosen his spot for an ambush well. One of the horses reared up and refused to go any further. The Collector sprang from the saddle and fired his rifle. Stone swerved through the trees, heart thumping. Now they had seen him. Bullets tore at the soil. He fired off the last crossbow, hitting nothing. He pressed his back against a tree; rifle in hand, ammunition running low. There were shouts from the road and he glimpsed a Collector drag Emil and the two other women from hiding. He was waving his sword at them.

Stone rolled from the tree, looked down the barrel of his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The bullet stung one of the horsemen in the shoulder but the Collector stayed in his saddle and returned fire. Stone threw himself into the brush as bullets flew past him. He took up a new position, knelt and fired, drilling the bullet into the Collector's head, unseating him from his horse. Another Collector came forward on foot, firing, and a bullet narrowly missed his head. Stone's rifle was empty and he used the stock to club the man in the face. He heard Emil scream and knew he had to get to the road.

He crashed through a tangle of trees, branches whipping at him, flying bullets and shouting men behind him.

He emerged past the convoy and the parked vehicles. Drawing his revolver he fired, splintering the leg of a Collector, dropping him to the road.

The man howled and crawled beneath one of the wagons, a long trail of blood smeared on the wet road.

Stone saw Emil, collapsed over a Collector, a sword in her hand, the blade deep in the man's stomach.

"It's just one man," yelled Darrach.

He grabbed Loic's pistol and began to fire at the tall man in the long coat, watching him move deftly across the road. He hadn't seen anyone else and there was no one firing crossbows at them now.

Two bearded Collector's charged through the undergrowth and burst onto the road, wildly hacking at Stone with swords. He fired twice, killing both instantly. A horse thundered toward him, the heavy beast pounding along the hard road. He hurled himself onto the verge, the rider slashing at him with a long axe. Stone grimaced, his arm burned. The blade had ripped through his coat and shirt, cutting a deep groove into his flesh. He kept running, toward the van, firing his revolver until it clicked empty.

His arm throbbed and bled as he ran. The horseback axe man was surging toward him and he fled from the road, back into the trees. Branches whacked and tore at his face. He kept running toward Emil. She was so close now. She hadn't moved. He heard an agonised cry and saw a Collector sprawl against the road, a spear lodged in his back. _What?_ He burst from the tree line, leaping onto a Collector and driving a blade into the man's groin. Emil looked up at him and he grabbed the chains. He saw another Collector fall, peppered with crossbow bolts. _Surely not?_

Holding onto her chains, they ran for the trees and ducked down, panting. Stone quickly reloaded his revolver, his arm numb.

He kissed her head and pushed her down into the dirt.

Stone emerged onto the road, dripping blood, revolver in his right hand. Darrach was on his horse and charged at him, swinging his long sword. Stone fired, the bullet missing. He squeezed the trigger again and drew a spray of blood from the horse. The huge sword swept above him as he rolled clear. Darrach turned and charged at him again and then a spear whistled past Stone and plunged into Darrach's horse. Stone saw Mallon. He could hear the clash of steel in the trees.

He gave the man a short nod as Darrach's sword clattered the ground in front of him. A gloved fist, heavy and studded, crashed into Stone's face. He grimaced with pain and lost balance. He brought up his revolver but Darrach kicked it from his grasp and then dragged his boot against Stone's ankles, dropping him onto the road. Stone felt the hard surface slam into his back and knock the wind from him. The sword clanged inches from his head. He dived for his revolver but Darrach feinted with his sword and then kicked him hard, sending him sprawling.

Stone picked himself up, groggy and bleeding, and ran at Darrach, making himself an easy target for the man to hack him down. The sword cut in an arc but Stone swerved at the last moment and dived for the fallen horse, still whining and bleeding.

He yanked free the bloodied spear but as he drew back his throwing arm he saw a surviving Collector thunder toward him on horseback. The rider thrust out an arm and swept Darrach onto the horse. Stone hurled the spear at them, missing, as they galloped along the road.

He scooped up his revolver and walked slowly along the road. Loic was crumpled beside his car, gasping, his hand a bloody mess, a crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder.

Stone shot him and went toward the wagons.

A Collector ran from the woods, Conrad chasing him. The man stopped and swung at Conrad, who easily blocked the sword thrust, then drove his blade into the man's chest and twisted it. He yanked the sword free and turned to Stone, his dark hair loose and wild, his shirt covered with blood. He was panting heavily. Stone turned his attention back to the wagons as a shot rang out. He saw Nuria shoot the locks from the cages and free the prisoners. They set about breaking the chains and the villagers stood on the road, uncertain at what to do. Mallon looked around and began to call for Emil, his voice becoming increasingly loud and desperate. Stone tapped him on the shoulder and turned him round as she stepped from the trees. Stone saw the look in the young man's eyes as he sprinted across the road and threw his arms around her.

There was movement in the trees and Stone raised his revolver, lowering it almost immediately as he saw the narrow figure of Justine, holding a crossbow.

He couldn't have been happier.

* * *

Stone dragged the only surviving Collector from beneath the wagon, bleeding from a leg wound. His arm felt better now that Emil had healed it. He tied the man against the wheel as Mallon freed the horses and offered them to the villagers from Le Sen and Agen. Filled with gratitude, they swiftly rode away. He instructed his own people to gather weapons and return to Dessan with the wagons.

"My father will be furious," said Conrad.

"It is done," said Justine. "Now we wait for the rest of them to come."

"We're not waiting," said Mallon, clenching his fist and slamming it into his open hand. "We go back and train every man and woman to use a weapon. Every one becomes the militia. We finish the wall and learn to defend ourselves. No more Centon. No more levy."

"You stupid fuck," laughed the Collector.

Stone punched the man hard. He took the Collector's sword and slashed him across the chest.

The man howled, spat at Stone. Rain lashed his body.

"It doesn't matter what you tell me," said Stone. "I'm going to kill you but if you tell what I want to know you get a choice - bullet to the head or torture."

He put the tip of the sword against the man's groin.

"I've been tortured before, you don't scare me, you shit."

"Then you know what's coming," said Stone, and head butted him. "Where do you take them?"

"You get nothing from me. You're a fucking dead man. You're all fucking dead. Darrach will return with the clan and we'll slaughter Dessan."

Stone cracked the hilt of the sword across the man's nose, breaking the bone.

"We'll kill every one," he shouting, grimacing with pain. "We'll make the men fucking watch when we ..."

Emil felt her skin crawl and walked away, certain that it was only a matter of time before Stone obtained his answers, but not wishing to witness it. The road stretched for miles, horses trotting about lost, wagons and vehicles at angles, villagers stripping bodies of weapons and supplies. She heard the Collector scream again and she wanted to clamp her ears with her hands but suddenly Mallon's arm was around her and she turned and kissed him and he held her and she cried into his chest and didn't care who saw her. Nuria saw a pensive looking Conrad standing beneath a tree, out of the rain, a bloodstained sword in his hand. She walked to him.

"That's all I know," gasped the man tied to the wagon, his body a bloodied mess. "Please, no more, you fucking animal."

Smeared with blood, Stone raised his revolver and fired once. The man's head erupted.

"Well?" said Conrad. "Is dinner ready?"

Nuria couldn't help herself and chuckled.

"Thank you," said Emil, looking at them all.

The response was one of nods and muted grunts as they stood in the pouring rain.

"Tamnica," said Stone. "That's where they take the prisoners. The Collectors are based outside. A small settlement in the forest."

"How far is it?" asked Mallon.

Stone pointed his sword in the direction Darrach had ridden.

"About five days on horse. Not by car though."

Mallon raised his eyebrows.

"Can you drive one of those?"

Stone nodded.

"Let's finish this," he said.

"I'm coming with you," said Justine. "Don't even attempt to argue with me. You are not choosing who helps you."

"Me too," said Nuria.

"Well, I've been banished," grinned Conrad. "So that makes four of us."

* * *

As the boot of the car was filled with weapons, ammunition and all the remaining food and water, Stone sought out a moment with Emil. She waited for him to say something but he offered her no words and simply placed his hand against her soaking wet copper coloured hair and stroked it.

He let his hand drop and began to turn away when she threw her arms around him and hugged him. Stone was numb. She held him in the way that no woman, not even Justine, had ever held him. The feeling was confusing, overwhelming. He awkwardly shaped his arms around her. The rain lashed them. His eyes turned moist. As they broke apart, he said, "Make a life with him."

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Mallon offered Stone his hand.

"Thank you," he said. "We can make Dessan a better place now. Firstly, by kicking out that twisted bitch Margaux,"

Stone nodded.

"We'll be back in a few days."

He couldn't have been more wrong.

**\--- Eight ---**

The forest was a blur.

Stone kept his boot lowered against the accelerator and pushed the car hard. The vehicle was in poor shape, heavily dented with a rattling left wing. The tyres were worn and large patches of brown rust bubbled across its ancient, bullet peppered body work. The dial showed nearly a full tank of black energy but he had no real idea how long that would last. The car screeched as he swerved to avoid a long crack in the road where wild greenery had punched through the asphalt.

He knew that Darrach and the Collector he had escaped with would ride all day and all night to reach their clan settlement but he also knew the car could outrun them. He imagined the fleeing men would keep to the road for now, until they heard the throb of the car engine, and would undoubtedly scatter into the trees. Woodland terrain was poor for horses but impossible for a car. They would need to bring that horse down to stand any chance of heading them off. He had heard Darrach refer to the men with the blue and white scarves as Maizans. He asked the others if they knew of the name but his question drew blank looks. He asked them about the Tamnicans but they had not heard of them, either. A little frustrated, he concentrated on the road ahead, the forest sweeping all around him, his hands steady on the wheel, the driver's seat lumpy and uncomfortable. The interior of the car was worn and grubby and a sharp acidic aroma had lingered, slowly fading now as the wind whipped through open windows, catching Justine's beautiful hair. He watched the yellow strands float. He glimpsed Nuria staring at him in the rear-view mirror and his brow creased.

Late in the afternoon, with the sun beginning to dip, he relaxed his speed and then eased the car to a stop.

His arms were aching and he needed to stretch and relieve himself, cramped in the same position for most of the day. There had been no trace of Darrach or his man. No doubt they were already in the forest. Stone arched his back, flexed his arms and disappeared behind a tree for a moment. Finished, he glanced along the road. Something had caught his eyes back there. The three of them watched him as he drew his revolver. He held up his hand and they waited in the middle of the road, vigilant, gripping heavy iron swords. Stone tentatively pushed through the tangled undergrowth, the sky gradually darkening, the gloom making it hard to see. Pine needles crunched beneath his boots. He narrowed his vision. He couldn't make out exactly what he was looking at but there was definitely something large hidden amongst the trees. He moved forward, dropping to a crouch, right arm extended, finger against the trigger. He listened. An old man had once told him that forests were sanctuaries of nature and once brimmed with life; even the tinniest, most fragile insect could make the loudest click or chirp. The Cloud Wars had robbed life from the woodlands and it had never returned. The old man had told him he had gleaned the knowledge from a book. Stone had remarked that the man was very drunk.

He waited and strained to hear. There were no clicks or chirps; only the wind and his heavy breathing. He took another step and then another and then the obstruction took shape before him; it was a small building, a shack, obscured by large green netting. He began to circle it. He was impressed. The patchy green netting had concealed the building from the roadside. He had sensed something was here but could have easily missed it. Stone continued around the small dwelling. He could smell the freshness of the forest, damp and dripping with rainwater. He came around the front once again and gestured to the others, still loitering on the road in the pressing gloom. He kept his revolver trained on the door as they crept into the forest. He pointed at the netting and Nuria and Conrad took hold of it. He glimpsed Justine, across the road, poking her sword into the bushes and long grass, peering down at something.

Stone tuned his attention back to Nuria and Conrad and nodded; they yanked hard at the netting and it slid down to reveal a wooden shack.

Seconds ticked by.

He went forward, dropping down and pressed his ear against the door. He heard nothing.

Stone reached for the handle, twisted it, and pushed the door wide open, sweeping the room with his revolver.

"Empty," he said.

"Stone," called Justine.

He sprinted over to her as Nuria and Conrad went into the shack. Justine stood with her sword raised, a blood stained blue and white scarf hanging from it.

"Four bodies," she said. "Rotting and stinking, pushed into the bushes."

"Maizans?"

She nodded, flicked the scarf from her sword and pointed deeper into the trees.

"There's more over there, but someone burnt them."

"Show me," he said.

She led him into the trees, pushing back branches, to where the charred bodies were piled in a clearing, the ground beneath them blackened. The smell was terrible. He walked back with her, then stopped and crouched, lifting a small item from the ground.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A shotgun casing," he said.

He tossed it back into the grass.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly taking his hand, squeezing it. "For what you did this morning."

Stone nodded, said nothing. He swung her against the nearest tree and thrust his mouth against hers.

* * *

"Blankets," said Conrad. "A lot of blankets. And even more blankets."

Nuria picked up an empty bottle, sniffed it. She set it down on a cramped wooden table.

"It's cosy," he said.

The shack smelt damp and a metal pan on the floor was overflowing with rainwater that had seeped through the roof.

"That was quite the adventure this morning," he continued. "I wonder what my father will do now."

"Do you find humour in everything?" she asked him.

"Yes, I do," he replied, rummaging through bags and sacks. "Why not? The world is a strange place." He paused. "What's Chett like?"

Nuria straightened, pushed a hand through her blonde hair and looked at him.

"Why?"

"I would love to see it one day," he said. "Unlike my father, and the people who live in Dessan, I like to travel from time to time. I hear stories of places. The city of Chett. With its giant buildings and walls and the fine soldiers of the Red Guard."

"One day," she said, thoughtfully.

"With you? That's something I will look forward to."

He ran his hand over the table.

"This place is clean. Two people were here recently." He nodded at the makeshift bed on the floor. "I wonder how much they loved each other."

"You guess all that from a quick look around?" said Nuria.

"It's amazing what you can see when you stop and look. You miss it, don't you? Your home, I mean. At least, that is what you told me last night. Or did you forget? I think you might have had one too many."

She punched him, playfully, then the smile went from her face.

"Why are you here, Conrad?"

He picked up his sword.

"Because you are here." He hesitated. "And I want to be where you are. I have since the moment I first saw you."

"You were drunk the moment you first saw me."

He smiled.

"Your friend saved my brother's life. I'm glad we were able to do the same for her today."

He took her hand.

"Ilan says he feels nothing for me, does not even recognise me as a son, but planned to take away the one person I truly care for."

The light was fading quickly. It would be an ideal place to camp.

"Do you think we should turn back?" she said. "We don't really know where this road is taking us or what Tamnica is. It could be a town or a city or even nothing."

"Those wagons of our people go somewhere."

"Stone," she began, rubbing the heels of her palms together. "He's a very determined man. He knows where he wants to go and doesn't stop, no matter who or what stands in his way. He can land himself in a lot of trouble and the people around him, too. He's a little stubborn."

"Most men are," said Conrad, leaning against the wall of the shack, running one hand down her face and neck.

"Stop that," she said, half heartedly. "He tries to fix things, change what he sees as wrong... and sometimes... it can... his ways can... he's a dangerous man to be with."

Nuria gasped, as Conrad nibbled her neck.

"He was prepared to fight the Collectors on his own. I salute that type of bravery in anyone."

"Conrad," she whispered, closing her eyes.

There were footsteps outside.

"No, Conrad...."

He heard a snap of fear in her tone.

* * *

Her skin was flushed; her back scraped the tree, her head roared as Stone pounded savagely against her.

She dug her nails into him, cried out.

And then they heard the scream.

* * *

Stone jogged back to the shack, revolver in his fist, Justine following behind him, straightening her dress.

In gloom, he glimpsed the undergrowth had been disturbed. The door to the shack was open and Conrad was lying on the floor, unconscious. Nuria was nowhere to be seen.

"See to him," said Stone.

He saw the path the abductors had taken. He reasoned two or three men, no more than that. He moved swiftly through the trees, hearing them ahead, the purple sky turning black. The white lights blinked as he followed them deeper and deeper into the forest. He began to curve away from them, losing them for a moment, then drawing closer to their flank. He glimpsed a man, clutching an axe, and fired, but his bullet struck a tree and shattered bark. He kept moving forward. Nuria screamed again and there was a muffled shout. Stone was much closer than he had anticipated.

Rain began to fall. The soft ground quickly moistened and his boots slipped. He yelled her name and fired again, hitting nothing.

He felt the terrain slope down. He could hear rushing water. The darkness engulfed him. The rain was in his eyes. He ran through the trees, his legs aching, his lungs burning. A black shadow loomed ahead and there was the whoosh of an axe. Stone fired into the blackness and heard an agonised cry. He saw the man lose his footing, hands clutching a hole in his chest, blood seeping down his rain soaked shirt.

As Stone sprang past him, the man drew a short blade and stabbed at Stone, the tip penetrating his leg.

Stone yelled, buried the barrel of his revolver in the man's head of long hair and squeezed the trigger.

The trees thinned and he found himself on a grassy bank. Ahead a dilapidated stone bridge crossed a fast flowing river. He saw the shattered rusted hulk of a car, trees all around it. He threw himself back into the undergrowth as an arrow hissed past him. He held his fire, certain the bowman and Nuria were crouched behind the car.

He heard movement coming up fast behind him and spun round to see Conrad crashing through the trees, sword in hand. His face was soaked with rain. He ran past Stone and ducked as a second arrow shot through the air.

Stone pushed right, coming round the flank. The rain sloshed about him, he could barely see a thing.

Nuria screamed again.

Conrad sprinted toward the car as the bowman reached into his quiver for another arrow.

There was the crack of a gunshot and the man's head rocked to one side. He slumped onto the grass, blood pouring down his face.

Nuria was face down in the mud, a trembling hand on the back of her neck, a skinny man in ragged clothes astride her.

"I'll kill the bitch," he said, the knife tip at her temple.

"Conrad," she sobbed.

The ragged man buried her face into the ground.

"Shut up, you fucking whore," he screamed.

Stone emerged from the trees, behind him, and the ragged man turned, flashing the knife.

Conrad lunged forward, swung his sword with both hands and the man's head rolled down the bank into the river.

Stone kicked the headless body off her and she scrambled to her feet, breathing heavily. She threw her arms around Conrad and held him tight.

He acknowledged Stone with a nod.

As they began to walk away from the riverbank, Stone glanced back, frowned, and crouched down next to the headless corpse.

* * *

Justine stoked the fire. The shack glowed, a beacon through the saturated black forest. Outside in the pouring rain, Stone dragged the netting back down over the building. The light from the fire disappeared. He smiled, grimly, his leg stinging. He walked back to the car, started the engine and reversed it off the road. He took the key from the ignition and slipped it into his pocket. The boot made a grinding metal sound as he opened it and lifted out supplies. He went in and sat by the flames, the crackling warmth slowly drying his clothes. Water dripped through the roof, plopping into a single metal pan. He took off his boot, rolled up his trouser leg and cleaned the knife wound. The cut was deeper than he had at first thought and would require stitching.

Wrapped in layers of blankets, Justine watched him, unable to avert her gaze as he methodically stitched his wound, grimacing as the needle passed through skin.

Conrad passed around food and a bottle of drink, one of several they had taken from the Collector's.

"Do you think Darrach is riding in this?" he said, to no one in particular.

Stone took a swig from the bottle.

"No."

He finished, then tugged on his boot and rolled down his trouser leg.

"We should have caught up with him," he said, chewing at a piece of meat. "The two of them must have gone through the forest."

A frown creased his forward.

"What is it?" asked Nuria, shadows dancing around the walls.

"The man who held the knife to you had these marks on his forearm."

Justine sat forward.

"They match the ones on the Centon. And I've seen them before."

"The man you killed?" said Justine.

"Well, I was there when he was killed," said Stone. "He was a long way from here, out in the wasteland, but they were the same marks."

He fell silent for a moment.

"Burnt into the flesh."

No one spoke. They ate and drank in silence, pondering his words. The rain continued to fall. The wind echoed through the trees. Justine offered Stone an apple and he bit into it. Conrad stroked Nuria's hair as she gently lay toward him, her eyes tired. He drew the blanket tighter around them both.

"What's at Tamnica?" said Stone, looking into the fire. "What happens to the people taken there?"

"They never return," said Conrad. "That's what happens to them."

Stone took first watch. He found a spot beneath a tree, the rain pouring down around him, spattering the broad leaves above. He leaned against the soaked trunk and scanned the forest and the highway. He saw nothing. The sky was black. The clouds drifted in the wind. The white lights were gone. He had survived for a long time in this world using strength and instinct and it was that that was gnawing away at him, telling him to turn back. Yet if they gave up he knew the Collectors would return, and in greater numbers, and Dessan was not ready to repel them. The Centon had enslaved the village and softened them with promises of protection. With a wall and a larger militia they could learn to protect their kin and thrive and grow. Maybe the village could expand beyond its boundaries and reach Le Sen and Agen and then the Collectors would hold no power over the region as hundreds swelled to thousands, moulded into a giant fist of resistance.

Stone raised the collar on his shabby long coat. He walked a slow patrol, circling the building, picking through the trees, stopping and listening, observing, then edging back to the highway. Puddles splashed as he crossed the road to where the bodies of the Maizans lay rotting in the undergrowth. He examined each one. None bore the burn marks. In the pocket of one man he discovered a wrapped package of curious silver discs. He had no idea what they were and placed them inside his coat. He stared at where the charred bodies were piled, rain sluicing down them. He wondered why some had been burned and some had been left to rot.

He walked back to keep watch on the shack, thinking of Justine.

* * *

Stone twisted the ignition key and the engine gunned into life. He swung onto the highway and levered his foot hard against the pedal.

The rain had given way to a misty and grey dawn light, a washed out sun poking through the clouds. The rush of air into the car brought all four of them into sharp focus. Stone was confident they would catch up with Darrach soon or come across the Collector's settlement. He wondered how close they were to Tamnica. Justine leaned back against the door, yawning; Nuria was whispering a story of Chett to Conrad who was listening intently; Stone kept his hands on the wheel, turning to ease around a wreckage of rusted metal, a car with flat tyres and shattered windows.

Suddenly, there was movement in the trees and something was hurled across the road. The car went across it and there was a bang and Stone began to lose control. He wrestled furiously with the wheel. Justine screamed as the car skidded and skated from the road, slamming into a tree. Conrad looked back and saw men dragging a long barbed chain into the trees. Stone's door was jammed. He hastily pushed Justine clear of the car. He scrambled out behind her, pulling free his revolver and crouching down. He saw the front tyres of the car had been shredded. The vehicle was useless.

The four of them could hear shouting in the forest. There was a burst of gunfire and the ground around them was raked with bullets.

"Drop your gun. Now."

Stone chewed at his lip, cursed. With a second eruption of gunfire, he tossed his revolver onto the road.

"And the rest of you. Weapons down."

Swords and crossbows hit the ground.

"On your knees. All of you. Do it."

Figures slowly emerged through the coils of mist. Men wearing white masks, armed with crossbows and swords. Only one brandished an automatic weapon. Stone could feel Justine shivering next to him. Boots splashed through puddles. Crossbows were aimed and each one felt the tip of a bolt jammed into the back of their neck. A thin wire was bound around their wrists and tightened sharply. The four of them remained kneeling on the wet road. One of the men lowered his mask and let out a loud whistle. An engine growled into life and a large, faded green truck reversed out of the trees. Two men lowered the tailgate and Stone saw Conrad and Nuria bundled inside. Six men climbed in with them and sat on benches, keeping the two of them face down on the floor, boots pushed against their backs.

Stone heard the scrape of a sword being drawn. He held his breath and waited. A heavy boot crashed into his back, smacking him against the road. He gasped, rolled, tasted blood.

Darrach stood over him, sword in hand. The man kicked him in the stomach.

"Enough," said one of the masked men. "He's property of Tamnica now."

"Do you know how many of my men he killed?" said Darrach, whirling round, brandishing his sword. "Where were you when this fucking piece of shit was cutting my clan down? Eh? Where were you then? I'm going to cut this fucking maggot into..."

He raised his sword, eyes bulging.

"Darrach, he belongs to us, not you. Remember who your paymaster is. Do not make an enemy of us."

The Warlord saw the weapons pointed at him. He hesitated, then roared with anger and lowered his sword.

"Let me have the woman."

Stone struggled to his knees and tried to get to his feet but was clubbed across the back of the head with a crossbow.

He hit the ground, his head dizzy, the sky and clouds and trees spinning. He could hear Justine crying.

"She's Tamnican property, Darrach. Talk to the Warden once we reach the facility."

"You Gatherers have no balls," he snarled.

His face loomed over Stone, sword blade glinting in the sunlight.

"You won't survive a night in Tamnica, I can promise you that."

\--- Nine ---

The punishment pits were sited on the outskirts of the village.

Shivering, cursing, knee deep in rainwater, Margaux stared up at the wooden grating that covered the opening of the ten foot deep pit. It was held in place by a large weight. Cold and hungry, she looked at her aching hands, usually so immaculate, so well presented, now raw and caked with dried blood from where she had attempted to climb the smooth wooden sides of the pit. She blew on her sore nails. It had been a futile attempt. Even if she had reached the lip of the pit she would have never been capable of mustering enough strength to move the weight.

Mum?

Go away, Davide.

As weak sunlight touched her skin, she let out an ear piercing scream. No one came rushing to the pit. No one paid her any attention.

The pits were exposed to the weather and in the daylight she saw pieces of food floating on the surface of the water, dropped in by the militia last night, on their third and final check. She plucked an apple into her hand and opened her mouth to bite into it but then stopped when she quickly remembered she had been forced to empty her bladder during the night and it was more than rainwater in which she now stood. She mashed the sodden apple against the walls of the pit and it slid down into the water.

Mum?

I'm not talking to you, Davide.

Mum, I'm hurt, I can't move, Mum.

I'm not helping you. Get up.

I can't get up. I'm scared, Mum, I'm really scared.

No.

She shook her head. Her clothes were soaked. She hugged herself to keep warm. She screamed again and punched her fists against the walls of the pit. She kicked at the water, sick with anger. Her hatred for Emil bubbled inside and she spat. _Magic Girl, how dare they call her that!_ What about the magic she weaved for the children each and every day, sharpening their thinking and coaxing ideas forth? Helping to build a better future for them and for the village was real magic. And did they ever thank her? No. Was there ever any acknowledgement? No. Yet in strolls this scruffy, one-eyed runt and they fawn over her because of a so called _special_ gift. The child was a freak, a bad seed.

Mummy, read me a story.

I am busy, go to sleep.

I want a story.

I don't know any stories.

You know lots of stories, Mummy; you tell the children stories every day at school.

That is different.

Why is it different, Mummy?

Margaux, tell the child a story.

No, not you, not you in here as well.

She stared up at the grating and wondered how long Ilan planned on leaving her down here. He had once left a man in the punishment pits for twenty one days, for beating a young woman and forcing himself upon her. The isolation of the pit had unleashed demons within the man's mind. A few days after his release, Mallon had discovered the man swinging from a length of rope in the trees, although Margaux always suspected Mallon had murdered him, the ultimate punishment. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts. The day had rolled into night and night into day and already there were splinters and cracks and she needed to escape from here or be released.

She heard footsteps and her expression changed to one of anticipation.

"Ilan? Is that you?"

She saw a man loosen his trousers and squat over the pit.

"What are doing? No, stop that, you bastard. Ilan will hear of this. You will end up in here."

There was laughter he finished defecating.

"The militia have brought you breakfast, Margaux."

The smell was revolting. She threw up, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Damn that child, if she could free herself, she would take great delight in slitting her throat wide open.

"Hey."

She refused to allow tears to find her. She would not give them the satisfaction. They could shit through that grating every day and she would not give in.

"Margaux."

Her constitution was founded in iron. They would not break her. Nothing would break her.

"Are you fucking deaf?"

She blinked, tilted her head, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

"What do you want?"

The Map Maker grinned at her.

"To get you out of there."

* * *

"I'll be busy all day," said Mallon, to Emil. "Will you be okay?"

Yesterday, during the ride back to the village, he had asked her to move in with him. He lived alone and wanted her with him all the time. He told her he had felt deep shame that he had allowed the Collectors to take her. He explained how he had destroyed the Centon in anger and gathered companions and weapons to fight the Collectors on the forest road. She had hesitated at his question, her arms wrapped around him, as the horse jolted across the ground, the rain hammering down at them. She liked him but the relationship was a tentative one. He understood her silence and reassured her he would sleep on the floor so she could have his bed. Emil had laughed and told him to bring her bed from the hut Justine had given them. She suddenly thought of Sadie, alone now that the Map Maker had left, an outsider like her. She resolved to make more of an effort in getting to know her.

A large number of villagers had cheered as the horses and wagons had appeared on the rain swept clay road, Mallon and Emil at the front, the bearers of the purple ribbon safely returning home. The people had stood in the pouring rain, listening to the sounds of muffled gunfire, and now they wanted every detail of what had happened. From his saddle, with the rain and wind buffeting him, Mallon told them the story of a man who was not one of them but had bravely stood to fight for their freedom and that even now he was still fighting.

"The Collectors will not be back," he said, raising his spear. "And if they do come back we will fight them again."

Ilan had looked on, his rain streaked face black with rage. Tristan had led his father back to the deserted council hut and lit a fire.

"Will you?" whispered Mallon.

She held him tight.

"Yes."

That morning, he had attempted to reconcile his differences with Ilan but the meeting had descended into a bitter argument in which Tristan advised Mallon to return the following day.

"So will you talk to Ilan again?"

Mallon pulled a shirt over his head and slipped on sandals. He had men to enlist into the militia, new weapons to be forged at the blacksmith and a wall to build - Ilan could wait.

"I should go and help at the school," said Emil. "Who is going to teach the children now Margaux is in the pit?"

"Let them have the day away from school. They will probably do nothing more than ask you questions about what happened."

"I feel guilty just sitting here."

"Then heat up the water and bathe, I think you deserve it."

She nodded.

"Can I see her?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I suppose, she was so nice to me. I don't know why she was so nice to me, Mallon, and to then do that."

"She's a hateful woman, Emil; I would stay away from her."

After visiting the blacksmith, Mallon tracked down Sebastian and ordered that work was to recommence with the wall.

"Are you sure?" said Sebastian. "The Collectors told us to pull it down. Are they really all dead?"

Mallon nodded.

"I think so."

"Will they come back? Do you think they'll come back?"

"If they do," said Mallon, clapping him on the back. "We'll need that wall up. I know you can do it."

"Well, the rain has stopped," said Sebastian, shrugging.

As the daylight began to fade, Mallon returned home, finding Emil asleep on his bed. He smiled down at her and placed another blanket over her small frame. He boiled water, peeled off his clothes and began to wash himself down. She stirred and he quickly pulled on his trousers. She yawned, stretched her arms and smiled at him.

"You look clean," she said.

"Did I wake you?"

She shook her head.

"I've been awake for awhile."

His eyes met hers.

"Are you hungry?"

She nodded and he cooked potatoes, mushrooms and strips of halk meat seasoned with the juice from apples. They talked as they ate, idle chat, stories of his life, stories of her life, eyes gleaming, laughing, drinking. Afterwards, he held her in his arms and Emil had never felt so safe, so content. She thought of her family and imagined her father smiling at her, nodding his approval that she was happy. She told Mallon of Stone and Tomas, how they had rescued her in the wasteland and how Tomas had died fighting a man who wanted her kind dead.

" _Gallen is not for you..."_

Mallon asked her what _her kind_ meant and she took his hand and pressed his fingers against her rippled skin.

She kept hold of his hand and drank.

* * *

Margaux peered up at the dark sky, feeling the chill of the night. The militia had completed their final check, throwing down food at her. The rainwater had seeped away and the half eaten food had landed on the muddy floor of the pit. They shouted at her to pick it up and tuck in. She ignored them and ignored the food. She had already knelt earlier in the day and dug a small hole to bury the excrement. The militia continued to taunt her. Then one of them exposed himself and urinated into the pit. She cursed him. Ilan would have never tolerated such behaviour. His power must be hanging by a thread. She, too, had heard the distant shots and assumed the tall stranger had led an attack against the Collectors. She knew he had fucked Justine, that skinny bitch with her sweet ways, always attempting to placate, frustratingly nice and kind hearted. She would be another one in the Mallon camp. She feared that if Ilan lost all power she would rot down here.

She wished a thousand illnesses upon them and their loved ones. The stink of the pit filled her nostrils and she gagged but there was nothing to bring up. She had not eaten since being thrown in here yesterday morning.

Mummy, why are they doing that?

Have you done something bad?

Why did they put you in the pit?

"I'm going to kill you, Emil."

She paced, one step, turned, one step, turned, back and forward, waiting for the round faced man to return.

"I'm going to kill you."

The minutes stretched into hours.

"Kill you, kill you, kill you, kill you."

She sank against the damp floor of the pit, drawing up her knees, and rested her eyes for a moment.

"Margaux?"

She must have dozed. There was a scraping sound as he dragged the weight clear and then lifted off the wooden grating. It was _open!_ Was she hallucinating? Was she escaping? One night in the pit had seemed liked twenty and she could now believe there was a way out. She stretched her arms and reached up as he threw down a length of rope, the other end tied around a tree. He looked around. The militia had not long left and it would be sometime before they returned to this area. The pistol was in his pocket and he was not afraid to use it. Margaux gripped the rope and began to scramble up the side of the pit. The Map Maker thrust out a hand and helped pull her out. His strength surprised her.

"Quick," he said, taking her hand.

She ran with him, across the stretch of grass and waded through the river, gulping air, leaving behind the noisy celebrations of Dessan.

She stopped in the forest, soaked, resting for a moment, hands on her hips, and looked back. She had never seen the village from the trees before. She realised she would no longer be part of what happened there. The sun would rise each day and life would continue but her crime of violating the traditions of the Centon and disobeying Ilan would see her banished. Her name would no longer be mentioned and the children would be taught by Emil or maybe another adult would volunteer. Sadness enveloped her, drained her last strands of energy. Davide was there. Would she never stand by the spot where she had scattered his ashes?

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"I'm not sure. I don't know..."

"Move."

They weaved through the dark forest, the heavy trees blocking out the white lights in the sky above. The Map Maker stopped in a clearing, where a tent was pitched and a large hole had been dug. He could see the short sprint had taken the wind from her. She was panting, fighting for breath.

"What happens now?"

She saw the hole in the ground and her eyes opened wide.

"You stupid bitch," said the Map Maker, and struck her across the head with his pistol.

* * *

She tasted his lips, felt the tickle of his tongue. Her heart was racing. What would he think of her?

"Mallon," cried a voice, suddenly. "Mallon. Mallon, she's escaped."

He leapt off the bed and went to the door of his hut, opening it quickly. His militia were gathered outside.

"Someone freed her."

He said nothing and reached for his spear. Emil slid off the bed, a worried look on her face.

"I will have a guard outside," he said. "She has no weapon and will not come for you."

"She will come for me, she hates me."

"She was seen running for the forest," said one of his men.

"This will not take long," said Mallon, pulling Emil to him and kissing her. "I will be back soon."

He closed the door and Emil heard him order one of his men to remain. She heard them running up the road and then all she could hear was singing coming from the centre of the village. She did not move, rooted to the spot with fear. She called out to the guard and asked him if he was still there and he instantly replied he was and would not be going anywhere. She poured herself another goblet of drink and downed it in one. She cleared away the bowls and blew out the candles. The fire cast her shadow over the wall. She called out to the guard again and he reassured her he was alert and she had nothing to worry about.

Smiling, Emil filled her goblet once more, pacing as she drank She could hear drumming. She glanced at the hut door, shivered. She pictured Mallon leading his men through the forest, carrying spears and flaming torches, hunting down the vile woman. Before dawn, Margaux would be back inside the pit, of that she was convinced. She took a long deep breath. Her head was pounding. She blinked as her vision doubled. Her goblet was empty and so was the bottle. Emil rummaged for another one, momentarily losing her balance. She tugged free the cork, poured and drank. Her limbs were floating. The tips of her fingers were numb. Her shadow danced across the walls of the hut. She dropped the blanket from her shoulders and peeled off her clothes, draping them over the back of a chair. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She drank some more and stood naked by the fire, waiting for him to return, wanting to share his bed.

The hunt would soon be over. Margaux would soon be caged and then she would lie with Mallon and feel the warmth and hardness of his body and he would be her first. Her skin tingled at the thought. She threw the last of her drink down her throat and looked around for the bottle. She stumbled across the hut, tripped, sprawled onto the floor. The guard called in and she answered that she was fine. She noticed her speech was slurred and wondered how that had happened. Sitting cross legged, rocking back and forward, she giggled. The room was spinning. She closed her eye but that made it spin more violently. She saw the bottle, lying on the floor, but found it impossible to stand. She looked down at her legs, puzzled why they were not responding. She glimpsed her short body of pale damaged skin and grimaced. She looked away. He would be repulsed by her. No man would want her. Not Mallon. Not Tomas. She was a scarred lumpy head, a one-eyed monster, a freak.

She crawled to her blanket, wrapped it around her body.

As Mallon commanded the search through the dark forest, Emil sat by the fire, stared into the flames and cried.

* * *

Mallon had tracked the footprints from the pit and now he spread his men into a loose line as they began to comb the woodland. Torchlight pierced the gloom. There was little conversation as the men foraged into the trees. Mallon signalled along the line; his men were too bunched up. Instantly, the gaps widened. Vision was poor. He swept his torch, glimpsing crushed leaves, a snapped branch. He kept his spear thrust forward, gripped tightly in his right hand. His breathing was even as he moved deeper into the forest.

There was a sudden cry from one of his men but word was quickly sent along the line; it was nothing, a false alarm.

The noise from the village began to fade. He saw pastures, distant hills. He hesitated, looked back and raised his torch. The ground had been disturbed. He called to his men and several came rushing to his side. He handed one of them the torch and picked at the ground with the tip of his spear. The undergrowth shifted and he saw a long stretch of tarpaulin covering a bulky shape. He knew instantly what it was. His men crouched with him and cleared the remaining branches.

Mallon pulled back the cover and saw Margaux lying in a shallow pit, bleeding from a blow to the head.

"Get her out of there," he ordered.

As his men lifted her unconscious body, he took his torch and shone it over the ground. He saw scattered prints, going in circles. He knelt. The prints were not recent. He flashed the burning torch and spotted another pair of prints, much fresher, tracking away from the clearing but not toward the pastures or to the paths that threaded west and northwest from here.

The footprints led back toward the village.

In that moment, it all fell into place; Margaux had been freed as bait, to lure him and his men into the trees and leave...

"Emil," he shouted, and grabbed his spear.

He ran with all his strength, his feet slapping against the forest floor, churning over the clay as he reached the road. He called her name again as he ran across the bridge. Smoke filled the air. He pushed himself harder. His arms and legs pumped furiously. He pleaded for her to be alive. He slowed as he saw the fire raging, flames licking the roof. People were calling for water and men ran past him with empty buckets, heading to the river. The guard he had posted was lying dead. His body had been dragged from the burning hut. The door was open and Mallon rushed inside, shouting her name. He coughed as the smoke filled his lungs. The heat was intense. His skin filmed with sweat.

She was gone.

He sprinted from the hut and ran through the village, yelling her name as people streamed toward the burning building, needing to contain the fire before it spread to nearby huts. Mallon ran to the stable and saw Tristan crouched over the body of one of the militia.

"Mallon, what's happening? Shahenda is dead."

He got to his feet, a dark expression on his face.

"This is your fault. A man is dead and all the horses have been set free. Is this the work of the Collectors?"

Mallon stared back at his hut, black smoke filling the sky.

"Give me your telescope," he said.

Tristan frowned at him. Mallon grabbed him and wrestled it from his pocket. He opened it and trained it on the road out of Dessan. He saw a single horse, galloping hard north, a bald headed rider, a covered body draped over the saddle.

Emil!

He began to run.

**\--- Ten \---**

He had lost all sense of direction.

The truck swept through the land making numerous stops. He had no idea how far from Dessan they were or how many settlements they must had driven through. There were more prisoners now. A young man with humourless eyes and an older woman whose black hair was cropped; drifters, pushing a wooden handcart laden with possessions along the broken highway, one wheel squeaking. The masked Tamnicans had taken them without any resistance. An old man, wandering with a broken musical instrument in one hand and a walking stick in the other. He wore a flat cap, had bushy eyebrows and a ragged grey beard. He pushed back against his abductors but was hit in the stomach and dragged onboard coughing and spluttering. Stone realised the vehicle was part of a larger convoy; another truck and three customised cars with ancient frames and grilled windscreens and mesh covered wheels. Darrach had called them Gatherers and the men themselves had claimed their identity as Tamnicans.

After the first day, they had been lifted from the floor of the truck and placed on the benches. At night, Stone plotted how to overcome the guards, but no opportunities ever arose. The Tamnicans were clearly organised and adept at handling volumes of prisoners. If there was a crack in their routines, he never saw it. On the morning of the third day he opened his eyes, licking his dry lips, and noticed a thin tear in the tarpaulin that covered the truck. He glimpsed churning grey water. He looked across at his companions. No one spoke. Conrad had made the mistake of asking questions halfway through second day. His good natured humour had left him with a cut lip and a blackened and half closed left eye. He saw the fear in their faces as the truck bounced along. He knew escape would only become much harder once they were taken from the truck. He looked from the corner of his eye. The white masked men with the crossbows were alert. He would have a bolt in his heart before taking a single step.

The trucks began to slow and rumbled over something in the road. The water was fading from view. They must have traversed a long bridge. The trucks turned left, then right and stopped, engines running. Stone saw past the truck behind and realised the three escort cars had remained on the other side of the water. The number of men had been greatly reduced. This might be their only chance. He shifted in his seat but a Tamnican had been watching him and aimed a crossbow toward his head. He eased back against the bench and heard shouting and a gate being dragged open. They passed a high wire fence, topped with coils of barbed wire. He saw a wooden hut and rolling scrubland. The trucks stopped again and he heard a second gate opening, the grinding of iron against stone. The trucks edged forward and made their final stop. The masked men with the crossbows began yelling instructions; tailgates were unlocked and crashed down noisily, the prisoners were bundled from the vehicles and rounded up in a large courtyard surrounded by high crumbling walls. Stone looked up, a weak sun in his eyes, and saw a sun burnt and barely conscious naked man in an iron cage, suspended from a length of chain fixed to an overhanging stone beam.

The Tamnicans herded the twenty or so prisoners into the middle of the courtyard, pushing and shoving. Stone saw the gate was wide open but he had weapons pointing at him from every direction. There was no way he could run. He simmered with rage as he watched the two trucks turn around and drive back out along the road toward the first gate. The masked crossbowmen went with them. The vehicles clattered across the rusty old bridge, stretching out across an empty river. On the distant shore he saw a compound of scattered buildings and then his vision was obscured as the gate was shut with a loud metal clang.

There were several wooden doors leading from the courtyard. One of them opened and a large number of men came through, holding wooden clubs. They wore black clothing. He would learn, over time, that the prisoners recognised them as Cuvars.

"Line up, you fucking rabble."

Stone counted ten guards. The odds were stacked poorly in his favour. He knew his companions would fight but he could not count on anyone else showing a slither of courage. With no weapons, he frustratingly chose to fall in line. The Cuvars spewed insults as the prisoners hastily stood shoulder to shoulder, some trembling with fear. One man soiled himself and was clubbed to the ground, the ugly sound of wood striking flesh echoing around the courtyard. The humourless young man who had been ambushed opened his mouth to protest but before he could phrase a single word he was struck across the back of the legs. He dropped to his knees, wincing in pain. His older travelling companion looked down at him, eyes rimmed with tears.

Wrists bound by wire, Stone felt his fists clench.

"Something you want to say?"

One of the Cuvars thrust his club against Stone's chin, titling his head back.

"Spit in out, you shit."

Stone remained silent.

"That's what I thought."

The Cuvar moved along the line, looking for someone easier to provoke. Stone's nose twitched with the stench of raw sewage and excrement, carried on the light breeze. He could hear machinery and distant voices, footsteps and slamming doors. The dirt covered cobbles seemed to vibrate beneath his boots. At the other end of the courtyard he saw wooden wagons, handcarts, barrels, boxes and canisters. The stone walls surrounding them were ancient and pitted with cracks and gouges. The heavy gate had once been painted but that had cracked and bubbled and was covered with swathes of brown rust. There was a stone watchtower with a pointed wooden roof. Three men stood inside, casually leaning on a fearsome looking weapon, a giant ballista. Wide stone steps climbed to the battlements, indented beneath the jagged tops of the walls and a wooden walkway connected to a large tower of crumbling grey stone with narrow windows and armed men high up on the roof. Beyond the courtyard sprawled larger buildings, the stonework old, discoloured. Row upon row of barred windows leered back at them.

Stone felt tiny spots of rain on his skin and glanced up at the washed out skyline as a door set in the base of the tower opened and a tall, broad shouldered man emerged. The wooden walkway creaked as his strode purposefully across it, a long sheathed sword hanging from his belt. He wore a thick coat of fur and pieces of armour. The wind blew his long, dark red hair. He carried a coiled whip in his gloved hands. Rigid blue eyes glared down at those assembled below him and his face deepened with inexorable contempt. He hawked and spat on the ground. The man dangling from the wall let out a pathetic whimper.

"This is Tamnica," he said, his voice hard and loud. "I am the Warden. You are now the property of the Thinker."

Slowly, he began to descend from the wall, his heavy boots scraping against the stone steps.

"Forget your name. Forget where you came from. Forget your loved ones. Forget your family."

He took his whip and cracked it. The prisoners jerked back a step and the Cuvars laughed. They had witnessed this routine many times. The Warden slowly wound back the whip as he walked along the line.

Nuria stood a long way from Stone and Conrad. She could feel it, the threat, permeating in the aged walls, clinging to the stones; her heart filled with dread, pure evil had been summoned and manifested itself before her, sucking her through the cracks, tearing her screaming from Gallen. Streams of perspiration ran down her face. Her fingers were trembling.

"Tamnica is your world. You will never leave here. You will work until you die. When you die your body will be thrown into the sea."

Stone heard a gasp. The Warden reached the end of the line, turned, and walked back.

"You will be given somewhere to sleep and you will be fed. Some of you will work on the farm. Some of you will work in the factory. All of you will work until you die."

He stopped, stretched the whip.

"If you try to escape, you will be punished. If you attack a Cuvar, you will be punished. If you do not work hard, you will be punished."

He gestured at the naked man in the cage, groaning pitifully at the sound of the Warden's voice.

"If you disobey, you _will_ be punished."

The Warden cracked the whip once more and nodded at his men. The Cuvars surged into them, clubbing them to the ground. Stone's ears were tortured. He saw his companions take blow after blow, hands still bound, unable to defend themselves, shoved into the dirt, rolled and dragged, kicked and stamped on, beaten viciously and repeatedly with the clubs. The rage overflowed inside him. He drove his head into one the guards and cracked his nose. The man howled and Stone sprang on him, clamping his teeth to the man's ear and ripped off half of it. The guard screamed, blood gushing from the side of his head. Two guards lashed into Stone and beat him to the ground. The clubs rained down on him. He cried in agony as they beat him and tried to crawl away but they dragged him back, the ugly smack of club against flesh, over and over again.

"Enough," shouted the Warden. "The Thinker will be displeased if you damage his property beyond use."

The Cuvars stood over the bloodied prisoner, breathing laboured, faces filmed with sweat.

"Warden," yelled a familiar voice, from the tower.

The Warden saw Darrach climb down from the battlements and approach, his long sword drawn.

"This is the one," he said, and kicked Stone hard in the ribs. "He killed my men. Butchered them on the road here." He kicked him again. "Ambushed us and freed the levy." He cracked the hilt of his sword across Stone's blood smeared face and dropped him to the ground. "Let me sever this bastard's head."

Stone lay slumped in the dirt, unmoving.

"He is the property of the Thinker, Darrach. You were told this in the forest when he was first captured. You cannot have him."

"I want his fucking blood," spat Darrach. "I have lost nearly all my clan."

He gestured at two Collectors who stood by the tower, grim faced men in armour with swords.

"The Thinker said I could take one prisoner, a paltry fucking payment for what I lost. I want him. I'm going to gut him."

"No," said the Warden. "Look at him. He's strong and we need strong men here. And he's filled with hate." He lifted Stone's dazed head with the tip of his boot. "We'll delight in breaking him."

He nodded at the rest of the prisoners, curled on the ground, groaning, sobbing, begging not to be punished anymore. The Cuvars hovered over them, clubs at the ready.

"The Gatherers told me you wanted one of the women. Help yourself."

Blood streamed into Stone's eyes. He saw Darrach stamp towards Justine, yank her from the ground.

"Remember me?"

"Darrach," called the Warden. "I'm warning you, do not kill her."

"Fuck off," said Darrach, taking her into the tower.

Stone tried to lift himself from the dirt, struggled desperately to break the wire that bound his wrists, but it was hopeless. He had no strength. His body was broken. The Warden raised his whip and lashed him with it. His face burned. His vision began to spin as blood filled his eyes. He could feel vibrations beneath his back. A voice was shouting at him but the words bloated in his head and he could not make them out.

The world was losing shape, the sky was turning black.

* * *

Nuria watched several guards drag Stone's unconscious body from the courtyard and through a large wooden door. The one with the severed ear went with them and she observed him kicking Stone until they disappeared from view. Darrach had taken Justine into the tower and she knew would what happen to her but the relief at not been chosen streaked her with pangs of guilt.

Hastily, the Cuvars marshalled them through double doors into a long and gloomy tunnel with an arched ceiling. The pale walls were peeling, revealing dark stones beneath. She heard voices, echoing back at her, loud and angry conversations, words overlapping. The guards pushed and harried the prisoners through the tunnel. Her ribs ached, her arms were stinging, her face was raw from the beating.

The tunnel opened into a large room that reeked of sweat. She passed a group of men, long haired and bearded and wearing red armbands, who were loading food into wooden handcarts, overseen by black uniformed Cuvars. The prisoners were shoved into another long arched tunnel lit by burning torches. The floor was thick with dirt. Ahead, a large grilled door, aged and rusted, hung open and they filed through the doorway into a room with a domed ceiling. The stone walls were grubby. Light filtered through high barred windows. There were several wooden chairs and a large wooden table. A fire blazed in a hearth and Nuria could hear the hum of a generator outside. Her nose tickled with the smell of excrement. The prisoners were pushed into the centre of the room to stand before a narrow faced, rough skinned man wearing glasses. _Was this the Thinker?_ He wore loose clothing and a red armband. He looked in his fifties, maybe older. He drew a knife and stepped toward them.

"I am Floran."

Nuria's heart pounded so loudly that she was certain every one in the room must be hearing it. He moved behind them, where a row of Cuvars stood, slapping clubs into open palms. A few days before she had stood in a similar line, in Dessan, and Ilan had chosen her, but Emil had bore the purple ribbon. The madness of such a tradition had hurled her into this vile place. She thought of Justine and her heart broke for her, taken by that brutal man, Darrach. _What would have really happened if I had stayed in Chett and not left with Stone?_ She had no answer to the question. He had wiped out the city rulers and though the military and other powerful and influential men had remained her crimes would have surely seen her dangle from the end of a rope. It all seemed very far away now.

Hot breath feathered her neck and then Floran's hand jerked and the knife slit the restraints binding her wrists. At once, she massaged them.

He stood before them once more and put the knife away.

"All your possessions and clothes on there," he said, pointing at the large table.

Nuria blinked at him. No one moved at first.

"Now, you fucks," shouted one of the Cuvars.

She was carrying no possessions and her weapons had been taken in the forest. The dark days that lay ahead would unfurl terrible horrors but, for that moment, that awful moment, nothing seemed worse in her life as she slowly removed her clothes and set them on the table, the heat of the fire doing nothing to reduce the chill on her skin. She had never felt more crushed, more humiliated in her entire life. She had seen men and women hang, had pulled the trigger on many souls and cast them into the soil, yet here, in this room that reeked of foulness, the ceiling lowered, the walls shrank, faces blurred, words distorted. She wanted to sob. She wanted to die. She wanted to have known her parent's eyes and known their voices but she never had and never would.

One hand across her chest, one hand between her legs, she stared forward, wanting eye contact with no one. She knew Conrad stood near her but she didn't want to see him naked, not here, not under these circumstances.

Floran walked to the table and took a cursory glance. Most of the clothes would be recycled, a few he would burn, one pair of shoes and trousers he would keep. He poked at the possessions, puzzled by a few of them. He would take his pick before passing the rest onto the Thinker.

"Follow me," he said.

He led the prisoners back into the tunnel, escorted by the Cuvars. His shoes drummed a pattern along the stone floor. He slipped off his glasses, wiped the lenses and placed them back onto the bridge of his nose. He walked with his back straight. He stopped the prisoners at the end of the tunnel and was approached by a black haired man, a sword hanging from his belt.

"I am Captain Niklas. You will address me as Captain or Sir. If you fail to do so, you will be punished."

His staring eyes were dark, tiny pools in a taut leathery face, heavily browned from the sun.

"You will be marked and you will carry this mark until you die. When you look at this mark you will realise you mean nothing."

His voice was raspy, words slipping over cracked looking lips.

"We will issue you prison clothes so we can easily identify you. You will wear the clothes until you die."

He stepped forward.

"And when you die, you will be thrown into the sea."

Hand resting on the hilt of the sword, he glanced along the line. Nuria felt his eyes roam her flesh.

A rusted iron door opened, squealing on hinges. Heat poured into the tunnel. The prisoners began to mutter nervously and the Cuvars shouted at them to remain silent. One of them cracked his club against the wall, shaking loose flakes of stone in a cloud of dust. The young humourless man, captured on the forest highway, was at the front of the line. Two men dragged him through the doorway and into a poky room. The iron door was slammed shut and Nuria heard struggling and pleading following by a blood curdling scream. The two Cuvars pushed him back into the tunnel, a cloth wrapped around his forearm. He was shaking, face stained with tears. The line shuffled forward and the next prisoner was bundled through the doorway.

Eyes lowered, Nuria saw Niklas exchange a few words with Floran. The bespectacled man nodded as the Captain passed him something. A small bag, a flash of blue.

He strode toward her, took her arm in his hand, and guided her from the line.

"Nuria," yelled Conrad, and she turned to see him lunge toward her, only to be beaten to the floor by several Cuvars, howling as the clubs struck his bare flesh.

The Captain took her into a new corridor and shoved her through a door. The room had a low ceiling. There was no window. A few candles burned. He closed the door and she covered herself as he let go of her arm. She saw a table, a chair and a low bed with blankets. Clothing hung from pegs banged into the stone wall. He slid a bolt into place and grinned. His teeth were brown. Her breathing became uncontrollable. Her legs weakened and she knew she would collapse on the floor at any moment.

There was no escape from him. Her throat was numb. She had no voice.

He watched her, closely, eyes never leaving her, saying nothing as he loosened his belt and set the sheathed sword across the desk.

He pointed at the bed.

\--- Eleven ---

Conrad gingerly peeled back the cloth and stared at the trio of symbols burnt into his forearm.

He drew his knees to his chest and lowered his head. Slumped against the floor of the tunnel, torches flickering, he felt he was about to explode with the pain of what was unfolding. He didn't care for his arm. Drunk, he would undoubtedly parade it in the village tavern and draw onlookers to guess what the symbols represented and regal them with a wild tale that would bear little resemblance to the truth. He didn't care for the tears barrelling down his cheeks or the beating he had endured in the courtyard. Shivering, gasping for water, strength sapped, his pain was for Nuria, curled against the wall, further along the tunnel, eyes blank, a fresh bruise on her face. He clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened. He saw the cloth wrapped around her left forearm. She had been the last to be strapped into the chair to feel the red hot iron.

He wiped the tears from his face as Floran led the freshly branded prisoners into another room where they were issued a pair of ill fitting trousers, a shirt and sandals and instructed to dress. The clothing was dark brown, made from stretched hide. The prisoners were divided into two groups, one male and one female, and then marched to separate cell blocks. Conrad glimpsed Nuria one final time. He swore to himself that, if he was doomed to rot in this wretched place, he would drive his every living fibre to carving open the chest of Captain Niklas and ripping out the man's beating heart.

The prisoners were working so the cell block was empty and a giant iron gate, bristling with rust, hung wide open. The smell made him gag as he was pushed inside; the rank stench of sweat, urine, stale pipe smoke and excrement. The lower floor was lined with cells with no doors or gates. He glimpsed blankets and buckets and a scattering of personal possessions, though not many. Here and there he also spotted a chair or a bench. The walls were heavily pitted and scaled up toward a second floor of cells with a long balcony running the length of the block. The ceiling was arched, filthy and crumbling. He picked his way forward. He saw bedding on the floor and realised that some men slept outside in the corridor. He nodded to himself, understanding that in a place such as this a hierarchy had naturally evolved. Men from the Eastern Villages might have tried to create unity, in the beginning, all victims of the Collectors, but he saw many blankets and knew that people must have been taken from all over Gallen and he was intelligent enough to realise that caged men, brutalised with punishments, would turn the violence inward, petty grievances and squabbles rapidly erupting into bone-crunching brawls. He kept away from the cells and chose a spot that had not been claimed, quickly rolling out his blanket.

Conrad sat, wrinkling his nose at the stink of stale urine from a nearby bucket. He watched the other prisoners look around and find spots to bed down. One was foolish enough to take a place inside a cell. Conrad shook his head and the thought passed him to warn the man but he stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut. He wondered how many fellow villagers from Dessan he would come upon. The notion danced in his head for a brief moment, lifting his darkened heart. He balanced his chin against his knees and thought back to the ambush on the forest road; chasing through the woods with Nuria, Justine and Mallon, hacking down the Collectors with his fine sword. It had been quite an adventure. Mischief drew him in. It always had. He fleetingly recalled what Nuria had told him about Stone's ruthlessness that often landed him, and those around him, in trouble. His wry smile faded as he saw Captain Niklas swagger casually into the cell block.

How can the man be so aloof and matter of fact having committed such a vile act?

"Tomorrow you will begin work," said the Captain. "You will obey all orders given, or you will be punished. You will work hard, or you will be punished."

Conrad wanted to tear his throat out.

"You need something more original than _you will be punished._ It's already getting boring."

There was the loud scrape of iron and the Captain's sword flashed before Conrad's face, the tip an inch from his eye.

"I'm extremely skilled with this weapon," said Niklas. "Would you care for a demonstration?"

"Hand me a sword and we'll see how good you are."

"There's always one," he said, lowering the sword and pressing the blade against Conrad's rib cage. "I'm extremely skilled with another weapon of mine as well. That seems to have bothered you a great deal." Conrad eyes twisted with hate. "She cried a lot but she'll get used to it."

He drew back his sword.

"Factory," he said. He began pointing at the other prisoners. "Farm, farm, factory, factory, farm..."

* * *

"That's my spot."

Conrad raised his eyes. The cell block resonated with conversation and heaved with sweating men, roaming in and out of individual cells and along the balcony on the upper floor. The iron gate was locked.

"I can move."

He rolled up his blanket, shifted a few feet away and set it down on the grimy, dusty floor.

"That's my fucking spot as well."

Conrad let out a sigh. The man was of a similar age. His head was shaven, chest bare, arms rippling with muscle. He rocked on the balls of his feet, casually bouncing his brutish looking fists together.

"Why don't you tell me where I can sit?"

"You can't sit anywhere," said the Bald One. "These are all my fucking places. Get your shit, find somewhere else."

Conrad picked up his blanket, began to shuffle away when the Bald One stepped into his path. He attempted to go around the man, first left and then right, but the Bald One blocked each attempt.

"Leave him alone," shouted an indistinct voice.

"You want to fucking die?" called the Bald One, over his shoulder. "Keep that fucking mouth flapping and you will." Cold eyes burned at Conrad. "Where you going, eh? Eh? Where you going? I told you this is all my space? You get it? So where you going? You're still in my space, long hair."

"I'm sorry. If you let me pass, I won't be in your space anymore."

The Bald One grinned, surprising Conrad. An arm was wrapped around his shoulder.

"Hey, I'm just fucking with you, alright? I don't mean anything. Don't take things too fucking personal, man. Hey, nice sandals. You got new sandals? I like your sandals, man. Nice, let me try them on."

"What?"

The arm tightened around him.

"Come on, slip them off, let me try them."

Reluctantly, Conrad stepped from his footwear. The floor was cold against his bare feet. The Bald One kicked off his worn and scuffed sandals and tugged on Conrad's new pair.

"Man, these look good. You think they look good? Yeah? They look better on me than you, yeah?" He grinned again. "You can have mine, long hair. OK? Yeah? That OK? Good."

He slapped him on the back.

"Can I have my shoes back?"

The Bald One let out a low whistle. All eyes turned on Conrad. Faces peered from the balcony above. Conversation fell away.

Conrad steadied himself. He was in no mood for a fist fight. He had already seen the Bald One's cronies gathered around the front cells. He knew he was horribly outnumbered and was under no illusion that the Cuvars wouldn't care he if was subjected to a beating over a pair of sandals. The broad chested man approached him once more, again draping a thick arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, to whisper in his ear.

"Get the fuck out of here, whilst you can still walk, long hair."

He shoved Conrad away. Not looking back, Conrad stumbled along the cell block, clutching his blanket and worn sandals to his chest, laughter ringing in his ears.

"Conrad."

He turned at the sound of his name.

* * *

Nuria had been allocated to the farm, shovelling manure. It was outside so she breathed clean air, even if the air was thick with the headache inducing aroma of excrement. She was an ex-soldier. She had been trained on how to react if captured by the enemy but no amount training had fostered any response to what she had experienced in Tamnica. He came for her at the end of the working day, after the prisoners had been fed, and would unlock the cell block with a bunch of keys. Heads lowered as she was marched silently along a torch lit tunnel until she reached his office. He would tell her to undress and lie on the bed. She had already stopped fighting him.

This was her world. This was her reality.

She would shape her life around Tamnica. Mould herself to it. Become the ancient stones and gloomy tunnels and rusted barred windows. The Warden had told them to forget; she would. The name Nuria was dead. Her home city of Chett was a figment of her imagination. She would no longer stroll through the trees or doze in the afternoon sun or cross desert sands or hear words that filled her heart. Survival was her existence. She had accepted that. Sleeping on a hard floor with a single blanket to keep her warm in the cold and damp cell block would become normality. She would consume a meagre breakfast of hard biscuit and water and bask in the weak sun that touched her skin through the day. She would fill her head with the noise of the animals that roamed the farm, creatures she had never before seen; white sheep that made a curious bleating sound, giant cows, with black and white patterns, fat and hairy pigs, stinking and snuffling in muck. The days seemed shorter now. The rains came and went. The sky was mostly leaden or dull blue. She would bury herself in silence. Make no friends. Talk to no one. She could trust the animals. They were cared for, never mistreated, well fed and allowed to breed. They inhabited warm barns with straw covered floors and drank from troughs of water. Sometimes, she drank from the troughs, too.

This was her world. This was her reality.

Once, she thought she saw Conrad, but it was a fleeting glance, and she couldn't waste any energy thinking about him or Stone or Justine. They were all dead. They were all dust. Her focus was on her new world and her new world was the female cell block in Tamnica. She would continue to adjust to the routines and lack of freedom and suffer at the hands of Captain Niklas. His molestations would form one part of the tapestry that was her life, woven intricately with the sleeping and eating and shit shovelling.

On the eighth day, and she really wondered why she continued to count the days, one of the other prisoners called her over. It had been a long hard day on the farm and she could feel the rain tip from the angry clouds, the wind blasting her face raw. She had spoken with no one since being placed in the cell block. Several women had attempted to engage her in conversation but she had ignored them. One had offered her extra blankets but Nuria had simply stared at her and shook her head. No one handed over anything for free in a place such as this, not without wanting something in return.

"Doing a good job," the woman had said, leaning on her shovel, picking at a wart on her hand.

"I am Cathy. What is your name?"

Nuria remained silent.

"I understand," said Cathy, strolling toward her. "But they cannot hear us from up there."

She nodded at the Cuvars in the watchtowers. High walls surrounded the fields and the barns where the animals were kept, located beyond the sprawling prison buildings.

"They tell you to forget," she said. "But you must always remember. In here. In your heart."

Nuria flinched as Cathy touched her chest.

"I am sorry. Forgive me. The Captain has been taking you. We all know. He has taken us all. New prisoners arrived today. I saw women. He will take one of them tonight."

Cathy brushed her hand against Nuria's. She shot her an angry look and brushed hands for a second time. Nuria realised she was attempting to pass her something. She didn't want anything but Cuvars were wandering the fields - and she had no intention of landing the woman in trouble - so she accepted it. It was small, much smaller than she had anticipated, and it slipped through her fingers, landing in the dirt.

"Leave it," said Cathy. "Don't reach down for it."

Nuria glanced. She couldn't see anything at first. Then she spotted a blue tablet lying in the dirt.

"It will help you forget," said Cathy. "I can see you have pain. It will take the pain away."

Cathy began dry heaving and doubled over and Nuria watched as the woman skilfully plucked the tablet from the ground. One of the Cuvar's called over to her but she held up her hand, indicating that she was fine.

As the women began to return their tools to a large shed Cathy slipped her the tablet.

* * *

Cathy had been right.

The Captain had arrived at the cell block gates once the evening meal had been consumed. He scratched his unshaven jaw and his small eyes scrutinised the new prisoners, huddled into one corner. Nuria had barely glanced at them. He unlocked the gate and this time Niklas chose a young woman with skin the colour of night. She pleaded for help but she was alone. Nuria leaned her back against the crumbling wall and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the cries echoing through the tunnel as Niklas took her to his room. Her voice faded. She swallowed hard and shivered as a breeze rippled her skin.

"Did you take it?"

Nuria opened her eyes, shook her head.

"It will help. Makes things easier. You start not to care about the shit that goes on in this hole."

She studied the woman closer. She must have been in her late teens, maybe twenty, but she had aged rapidly, lines around her eyes and mouth, across her narrow forehead. Her long black hair, tied back, was peppered with flecks of grey.

"How long have you been here?"

"Me?" shrugged Cathy, sitting next to her. "I don't know. Two, three years, I reckon. I grew up a long way from here. Was hiking across country with a few others. We found food in the forest, mushrooms and shit, cooked it up. We never kept watch, nothing like that. We woke up the next morning to these men with masks and crossbows."

"What's the tablet?"

Cathy grinned, looked around the crowded cell block, women of all ages sharing conversation, some of them still eating. She saw a few disagreements that amounted to a bit of shoving and then a hard slap.

"Currency," said Cathy. "The Warden has them brought in. He pays the Cuvars with them. The Cuvars pay the Rats. You know the Rats? You see someone with a red armband, they're a Rat. Used to be this side of the bars, now they're that side. We get some from them, some from the Cuvars. I keep the block calm. Nothing really happens. I get the women to work hard so I get a bonus from the Captain."

Nuria nodded, a little stunned.

"The Tamnicans trade shit with the Maizans to get them. Have this big meet every now and then." She giggled. "Heard the last meet ended in a big tangle, bodies and shit, a bloodbath."

Nuria thought back to the bodies they had found in the forest, the night before they were captured by the Tamnicans.

"Who are the Maizans?"

Cathy shook her head.

"Bad seeds. I'm telling you, that's not a place you ever want to be. Far from here is a city, Maizan, all rubble, broken buildings, a few thousand people live there and the Maizans keep order. You recognise them by their colours, blue and white. They make the tablets and bring them to the Tamnicans."

"What do they get in return?"

"What the fuck do you think they get?" Cathy frowned. "What do you think we do here?"

Nuria fell silent.

"Look, I don't understand it but the shit, the animal shit, and the fats, all that gets taken to the factory, right? And they do shit to it and put it in the canisters. That stuff is..." She blew a kiss. "Black energy. That's what the fuck gets made here, bio-something, what the Tamnicans trade with all the tribes and the clans. This hole is the centre of Gallen. You want to run the metal machines then you trade with the Tamnicans."

She leaned against Nuria, rested her head on her shoulder.

"I'm cold. Are you going to share that blanket?"

It wasn't a question. Reluctantly, Nuria spread the blanket over the two of them. She heard the sound of dripping water and women snoring. A few candles glowed, throwing shadows against the old walls, brittle stonework crumbling into fine pieces. There was little conversation. A number of women slept outside the cells, more slept inside. Nuria glimpsed a woman on the balcony above, staring down at her. She looked away. Cathy curled an arm around her, drew her closer. Nuria gasped, pinned in the corner, unable to move.

Beneath the blanket, she felt something hard press against her stomach.

"Don't say a fucking word," whispered Cathy. "Swallow that fucking tablet, blonde."

Nuria hesitated. Cold metal touched bare skin.

"I don't want to cut you. You're too fucking pretty to mess up. Take the fucking tablet."

She had hidden it in the seam of her blanket. Carefully, she slipped it between the weave, popped it into her mouth and swallowed.

"Good girl, blonde. Now you belong to me. Like this fucking cell block does. I earned it the hard way."

She pushed away the blanket and lifted her shirt, exposing a scar from her breasts to her waist.

"Get your shit together. You get to sleep in a cell now."

There were footsteps in the tunnel outside and the gate was unlooked. The dark skinned woman was pushed inside. She looked numb. Captain Niklas grinned at Nuria. Cathy approached him and Nuria witnessed a short conversation that ended with the exchange of a small package. _Tablets?_ Cathy finished her business and bundled Nuria into a cell with three others. Two were asleep, one sat muttering to herself. Cathy handed the package to her. Candles lined the barred window and illuminated cracked walls, a blistered ceiling and an uneven floor thick with dust. Nuria saw a chair with a hole in the seat and a bucket wedged beneath it.

Cathy nudged one of the sleeping women with her boot. She stirred, sluggishly, cursing.

"Let me sleep, for fuck's sake... ow! Ow!" Cathy lifted her by her hair. "Get me some food. Now."

The bleary eyed woman padded from the cell, dragging her feet, and began to demand stowed away rations from the women who slept in the corridor.

"You sleep there, blonde," said Cathy, pointing to the corner of the room. "With me. No one fucks with you now." She dropped her ill fitting trousers and sat on the chair. "You don't need to worry about Niklas. I told him I don't want you messed with no more." The smell of urine filled the cell. "The other girls in here, they'll know you're with us, you'll get left alone."

Cathy stood up as the bleary eyed woman returned with an armful of hard biscuit and meat.

She took the food, dropped down onto her bed and began eating.

"Empty that," she said, letting out a burp.

Nuria slid the bucket out from beneath the chair and carried it to the end of the cell block.

* * *

Conrad stood in the cell doorway, at the far end of the gloomy block, keeping watch as the men inside prepared to feast on food smuggled from the Cuvar's kitchen by a guard who was not unsympathetic to their plight. The natural light had mostly dwindled and he could hear the patter of rain. The seven men crowded into the cell were all from Dessan and he had been sharing with them for eight days. They carefully unwrapped a package and he glimpsed half eaten fruit and vegetables and gnawed meat. _Leftovers!_ The men rubbed their hands together as if they were honoured guests at a banquet. They divided the food carefully and neatly and slowly began to eat, licking and chewing, nibbling and biting.

He stared down the cell block, spotting the Bald One slapping a prisoner about.

"Why don't we do something about him?"

"Who?" said Eric, a tanner, both here in Tamnica and back home in Dessan. "You mean the Bald One?"

"That's not a fight you can win," said Daymon, licking his greasy lips after devouring a stringy piece of meat.

Conrad turned in the doorway.

"Why not? There are eight of us."

"He's a foot soldier for Julen," said Daymon. "Julen rules the entire cell block. You do not cross a man like that."

Conrad grumbled.

"And they never trouble you?"

"No," replied Eric. "You've seen our ritual. They think we have crazy magic powers, so they leave us alone."

Conrad nodded.

"Keep watch," ordered Mathias.

For him, it had been two and a half years since the day of the choosing saw a purple ribbon tied around his arm. He had openly wept as he was bundled into a prison wagon, leaving behind his life partner and four children. When Conrad had attempted to offer him news of his family Mathias had raised a hand and told him never to speak of Dessan in his presence. He had adjusted to live within the walls of Tamnica. He worked in the factory with the generators and the canisters and the bio-fuels and he knew he would die in this place and his body would be cast into the sea. He had accepted his fate and carved an existence within the crumbling walls of the prison. He was the head of his clan and his men were protected. A number of men in the block had no affiliations and were exposed to the bullies, thieves and predators. Convinced his decision was flawed, Conrad had reluctantly respected his wishes and told him nothing of his family.

"If you fight it," Mathias had told him. "It will eat you from the inside." Conrad had stared at him. "In there. It will chew on your soul and spread through your every fibre like the sickness when it takes hold. You cannot fight it, Conrad, you are here for life. Accept Tamnica as your new world and build your life accordingly. There is no other way. Remember it was your father who condemned us to this wicked place and we should hate you for it but we bear none toward you. You are as much a victim as us."

Daymon was less enthused and told Conrad stories of men who had escaped although the Warden claimed they had died of illness or were beaten to death and dumped into the sea. Conrad listened intently to these tales, thinking back to that night in the shack, his last night of freedom, when Stone had revealed he had seen the branding on men before. Which confirmed to Conrad that is _was_ possible to escape from these walls.

There was a rattle of keys and the cell block gate was unlocked.

"What's happening?" asked Eric, pulling the scraps together, ready to toss through the barred window.

"Five new prisoners," said Conrad. "The Cuvars are not coming this way."

Mathias narrowed his eyes.

"What is it? You sound happy."

Conrad smiled, and said nothing.

* * *

"That's my spot," said the Bald One.

He stood with his legs apart, crunching his fists and scratched his bare chest. The prisoners bedding down in the corridor began to edge back, trying not to watch. No one wanted eye contact with the Bald One. The new prisoner was long haired. His face had been stitched and his leathery skin showed a long scar.

"You need to move your shit, old man. Get the fuck out of my area. Do you understand me?"

He smacked the man around the head.

"Hey, prick. This is my fucking spot. These are all my fucking spots. Now move your shit before I..."

Stone ploughed his fist into the man's groin. The Bald One howled and dropped to his knees, his eyes watering. Stone moved quickly, feet scraping against the hard floor. He clamped the man's head between his hands and smacked it against the wall. It made a gut wrenching sound and the Bald One let out an agonised cry. There were gasps through the cell block. Stone smacked it again. Chunks of stone broke away. He repeatedly slammed the Bald One's head into the wall until he split the man's skull wide open. The wall was smeared with blood. He tossed the limp body onto the ground and spat on it. Thick blood soaked into the dirt. A group of prisoners rushed from two cells, led by Julen. Stone brushed his hands, stared at them indifferently and then eased down onto his blanket.

The cell block gate was pulled open and Cuvars came running inside.

"How the fuck did this happen?" barked one of them, threatening anyone near him with his club. "Who did this?"

Julen's group edged away from Stone.

"Well?"

No one spoke.

"You and you, get this fucking body out of here."

The Cuvar paced.

"Speak up, you fucks. Who attacked him?"

The Dessan villagers crowded the doorway of the cell, asking Conrad what had happened.

"The man I came here with," he answered, staring at Stone's freshly scarred face. "Looks like they've released him from the infirmary."

\--- Twelve ---

Cristo lay in the long grass, peering through binoculars.

Dawn had broken cold and miserable. He was growing increasingly concerned about Dani. The pain in her hands was gradually worsening, far rapidly than either of them had anticipated; she was constantly dropping things now and spending most of her days warming them on the fire. She could no longer handle a weapon. Not effectively, anyway. The food was nearly exhausted and they had no water. They had not enjoyed any alcohol since the night before the robbery and he was frustrated because he knew this helped numb the pain. He had suggested the idea of changing direction and diverting northeast to the Maizan city where he knew they would be able to obtain drink and pain suppressants. Dani had looked at him incredulously and called him a moron. And she had been right, he guessed. Trying to do business in the city of a gang whose members you had robbed and killed was not the best choice of action.

He had been scouting the town ahead for three days now and observed only locals and drifters. No Tamnicans. No Maizans. It was a shabby collection of dilapidated brick buildings, gathered around broken roads. Large parts of the town had been reduced to rubble and appear uninhabited. There were no moving vehicles, only abandoned rusted hulks littering the main road; people moved on foot. Crossing the countryside was proving a far more challenging expedition than either of them had imagined. Despite a vehicle and a near limitless supply of black energy they been forced to avoid the main highways and take meandering dirt roads. Roaming Maizans, in patched up vehicles plagued the highways, racing at high speeds, looking for all kinds of trouble; Tamnican convoys scouring for travellers to capture and take back to the prison; horse backed Collectors drawing prison wagons with villagers from Dessan, Agen and Le Sen. Seeing the Collectors once more had frozen him to the spot, chilled his heart. That night, he had been unable to sleep.

"We should have walked," remarked Dani.

He had been irritated by her comment. It was a bad time for her but the blood cycle would soon pass and with it her negativity. Though, he realised, bad time or not, she had been right. They had covered fewer miles than he had hoped. He cleared his thoughts and focused his gaze beyond the town, sweeping over a northern landscape of cracked roads and desolate hills, flatlands of broken rock, blackened valleys filled with dead trees, winding dry riverbeds. He saw no movement anywhere. He turned his attention to the Maizan city, across cratered wastelands, woodland and flourishing meadows scraped violently from the surface of the land during the Cloud Wars, or so the legends told. He lowered the binoculars and pondered how to proceed. He nodded, his decision a quick and rational one. He knew he would fight with Dani over it but his planning had taken them this far, and they were both unhurt, so he hoped she would see sense.

He was about to pocket his binoculars when he glimpsed a man and a girl on horseback, trotting slowly toward the unnamed town, shoulders hunched and heads down against the driving wind and rain. The riders drew a few glances but no more than was to be expected. He watched the man climb down and tie the horse to a rusted car. He thrust his arms toward the girl but she flinched and jerked back from him. Cristo was intrigued. He saw the man point at the girl and then drag her from the horse. She struggled against him but he leaned toward her and the fight in her was dampened. _He has a weapon on her, he mused._ He watched them walk into the town and step toward a building with fractured brickwork. He studied the girl closely and his eyes opened wide as he glimpsed her face.

Surely not.

Cristo chewed his lip and slid back down the verge, staining the front of his hooded waterproof jacket with mud. He crawled through the low brush as the rain continued to fall. Out of view of the road he eased from his stomach and ran crouched across the ragged scrubland, sparsely dotted with limp trees and scattered rusted vehicles that rattled in the wind. He reached several large brick buildings, walls scorched with fire, windows shattered, one roof collapsed. He stopped and took a final look around. Seeing no one, he slipped into the building, stepping over the traps he had set. The pickup truck was parked inside, the flatbed of canisters tied down with a tarpaulin cover. He unbuttoned his coat and carefully hung it from a protruding twist of metal jutting from a half-collapsed wall. He neatly smoothed the body and sleeves before calling her name.

"Dani?"

He went through an arched doorway into a smaller room where a fire blazed. He stamped his feet and warmed his hands. She was dozing on a blanket, spread over stacks of wooden pallets. She was propped on one elbow, unblinking, staring into the flames. The building creaked as the wind grew with intensity and Cristo glanced up at the ceiling, concerned it might crash down on them. He walked around the fire, stretching his legs, rubbing them to get the circulation going once more. His boots echoed across the cracked concrete floor.

"I'm going into the town," he said.

She sat up, easing her legs over the edge of the pallets, letting them dangle several feet from the ground.

"We're out of water, Dani, and we've only enough food for today... and your pain... I might be able to find something to help."

"So you've thrown out your idea of going to the Maizan city?"

He rolled his eyes.

"That was a terrible idea."

Dani pushed herself down and stood with him, feeling the heat soothe her aching bones.

"A really terrible idea. What will you trade?"

"A canister," he said. "There's nothing else."

She went silent. She knew he was waiting for a barrage of disagreements but the fight had gone out of her. She trusted his judgement once more. The rain leaked through a gap in the roof. The old building must have stood for more than a thousand years. It had not been built in this age of Gallen. No one built from brick or stone. She wondered if the men and women who lived here, or even worked here, had lives similar to theirs, the daily grind of survival, finding food and water, avoiding the marauders and butchers. She doubted it. She closed her eyes as the heat tickled her skin and imagined how the building might have looked during the Before, but it was impossible to fix together the pieces of centuries past. She wondered if they had been the last ones, coming in here, to live or work, not knowing they were experiencing their final days, before the Cloud Wars incinerated Gallen, robbing the beauty from the land, tossing it into a million particles.

Dani saw a man arriving for work. The sun would be bright in the sky and he would be clean shaven. Her world was filled with bearded men. She needed a clean shaven man for once. Her man from the Before would be smartly dressed in the clothes she had once seen in the large crumbling pages of a book of the Ancients, the same one her and Cristo had learned about alcohol. His skin would be brown from the sun and his legs with fine golden hairs would show beneath his multi-coloured shorts. His gloriously brown arms would extend from his short sleeved shirt with pictures of crashing waves and a yellow sun and a blue sky, oddly bereft of red streaks. He would be pointing at something in the distance and smiling broadly with impossibly white teeth. He would have a co-worker, too, an attractive brunette, who would...

"Did you say something?"

Cristo stared at her.

"You didn't hear a word, did you?"

She offered him a smile. _You know how I daydream._

"When are you going into town?" she asked.

"Soon," he nodded. He planned on taking one canister and the automatic weapon. Dani looked into his eyes. Something was picking at his thoughts. She remained silent, wondering if he was recalling a terrible moment in Tamnica. She had seen his flesh once he had escaped the wretched prison, burnt and brutalised, and could not begin to imagine his experiences in there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, tentatively, angry at the pain that clouded his eyes. "I'm not going to judge you, Cristo. I have heard stories of these places. I know the horrors that..."

"No," he said, looking around. "It's not that. It's not." He waited. "Did I fetch the pan? The one I use for the leaks?"

"The what? The pan?"

"Yes, the pan, the one I used in the shack, did I leave it behind? I didn't leave it behind, did I?" He strode across to their packs and began to rifle through them. "I must have left it behind. I thought I packed it."

"Cristo, it doesn't matter."

"It matters," he said, and went through to where the pickup truck was parked. She saw him kneel beside the wheel and take a short blade from his pocket. A moment later he was carrying a grubby hub cap. He glanced up at the roof and pinpointed where the water was dripping through. He flipped the cap over, set it down on the ground and a smile formed across his lips as droplets of rainwater landed with a plop.

"It's not the prison," he said, suddenly. "I saw _someone_."

Dani felt a hand seize her throat.

"No, not Tamnicans," he said. "Do you remember Philip?"

She nodded. The bright-eyed, one legged man. She had not thought of Dessan, her birthplace, for some considerable time. "Of course, he was the one who told us about Ennpithia."

"He told me others stories, too, Dani, one that he heard from Margaux."

"That bitch," said Dani, spitting into the fire. "I hope one day a purple ribbon will find its way around her arm."

"I don't want to think about that," said Cristo, blocking out the memory of Ilan, Justine and Margaux, standing in the line with Dani, seeing Ilan's staff plunge into the ground. "She told Philip a story that had been told to her by a travelling merchant of a one-eyed girl who looked... different to us... and that she had magic hands and could heal the sick and ailing... heal people in pain... people like you."

Dani narrowed her eyes.

"Magic hands? How can you believe anything she says?"

"I don't believe her. The story passed from the merchant to her and then to Philip and then to me."

Dani shrugged.

"What about it?"

Cristo took a deep breath.

"I just saw a one-eyed girl with marked skin arrive in town."

* * *

The door creaked on its hinges as the Map Maker nudged it open. He said, "Hello?"

He waited.

"Just a minute," called a woman's voice, from out back.

He pushed Emil inside and closed the door behind them.

"Say nothing," he whispered.

She stood a few feet from him, noting the outline of the pistol in his pocket. She was wearing a shabby jacket several sizes too big. There was a blood stained tear in the fabric where a blade had been driven into the heart of the previous owner, a man they had discovered in the woods, several days before. The Map Maker had searched the man but found nothing. He had then stripped off the jacket and offered it to her. She wanted nothing from him but, reluctantly, she had accepted it. The days were cold and damp, the nights more so. It had no buttons or a zipper but it was lined and the extra layer felt good around her body. The hood was tossed over her copper coloured hair and she tried to shrink away from the world, hide her pale and dirty face, her patched eye.

"They have a lot of stuff," said the Map Maker, glancing around at crowded shelves and counters.

She had endured the incessant drone of his voice for eight days now, suffering his ramblings about exploration and discovering a new land. He was quite pleased with the ruse he had concocted to steal her. He had told her the story four or five times now, of how he had freed Margaux from the punishment pit, convincing her that they would kill Emil, but had instead used her as bait to lure Mallon and the militia into the forest, concealing Margaux's body to allow him the time he needed. He had manipulated these people with great ease.

"Stone stole from me. He stole my maps. Now I get to steal from him. See how the bastard likes it."

Emil had been drinking heavily that night, ready to submit to her sudden desires for Mallon. She had consumed far too much alcohol and could recall only hazy fragments. She did remember seeing the guard that had been protecting her lying outside in a crumpled heap, his head in a pool of blood, and she clearly remembered the Map Maker appearing like something out of a nightmare as she knelt by the fire, naked, unable to stand or focus. The rest of the night had been a grainy blur. She had woke the following morning, beneath an outcrop in the forest, trees in every direction, rain spilling from a brooding sky, miles from Dessan, head pounding, a raw taste in her mouth, as if she had been eating dirt. She was still naked, though wrapped in a blanket. She was shivering. Her stomach felt as if the contents had been scraped out with a shovel. He handed over her clothes from the night before and told her to get dressed but she had point blank refused, not unless he afforded her some privacy.

"I saw it last night," he said, stubbornly levelling the pistol at her. "If I turn my back you'll run."

She let out a loud burp, grimacing at the stale odour.

"I don't have the strength to run."

It wasn't a lie. She was exhausted, her head was hammering, she desperate for a cup of water.

"You've got nothing I want," he said. "Not in that way."

She took the clothes from him and tried to climb into them whilst holding the blanket but it almost impossible to do so. The sickness that wracked her body was little compared to the humiliation of having to stand and dress in front of him, feeling his eyes curve over her body, despite what he had said. Vividly, she realised he would never leave her alone for a single moment. She would have to kill him to escape, the way she had killed Lucas, when he had chosen to take her.

"I never really understood your value," he had told her. "Now I do. Where I'm going, I could get hurt and you'll make sure I don't die."

A few days later, riding across sodden scrubland, she had finally plucked up the courage to speak to him again. She had stood up to him on the first morning, still fuzzy with alcohol coursing through her bloodstream, but the clarity of her situation, the danger she was truly in, soon dawned on her and she had crawled inward and obeyed his every instruction. He had unsettled her from the moment she had met him, hiding with Sadie in the forest on the outskirts of the village. She had told Nuria that she thought he was a _creep._

"I'm never going to heal you," she said, simply.

He was sat behind her on the horse. She could feel his breath on her neck.

"If I die, you'll die with me." His empty voice chilled her. "And you'll never see Mallon again."

She had thought of Mallon a lot in those first few days, wondering how far behind he was. Was he tracking her? He must be. Though he had let her be taken in the wagons by the Collectors but he had told her he had not wanted to fight them in the village. There would have been slaughter. He had fully intended to ambush them on the forest road, unaware that Stone had already made the same plan the night before. The Tongueless Man had been prepared to face all those men alone, risking his life to free a population of people he hardly knew from a noose of tyranny. Stone was helping Mallon. She was certain of it. He would have returned from killing the last of the Collectors by now. She knew he cared deeply for her. He would never form the words, shape them into a kindness that she could carry with her, but that wasn't him, and she had accepted it. His promise to keep her safe was a silent vow, to keep her from men like the Map Maker, whose only desire was to exploit her gift. And it was a gift. For so long, growing up, she had thought it only a curse.

"I'm the Map Maker," he was saying. "This is Emil."

The woman who had called from the back now stood behind a cluttered counter, a stained apron over her clothes. She was tall, easily taller than the Map Maker, who Emil thought was short for a man. She had bushy black hair, hazel coloured eyes and light brown skin that bore a lengthy white scar, running from her nose, over her pink lips to her chin. Emil guessed she was twice her age. She had long arms, thin, covered by a knitted jumper. She couldn't see her hands; they were busy beneath the counter. Emil reasoned she was pointing a weapon at the Map Maker.

"My name is Beatriz. I'm sorry to have kept you." She half smiled, it was almost a sneer. Emil wondered if the scar made it uncomfortable for her to smile fully. "How about you take your hand off that gun? And I will take my hand off mine."

The Map Maker blinked, surprised. He bent at the waist and noticed a gap beneath the top of the counter. Beatriz suddenly lifted the weapon into view. Emil had never seen anything like it before. It was constructed from four slender wooden barrels, half a foot in length, with a handle and triggers.

"I made it myself," said Beatriz. "It has a fully working mechanism and shoots darts." She half smiled again. "It's very effective. Deadly."

The Map Maker showed her his hands.

"We're just passing through," he said.

"Are you looking for food?"

"No."

"Is that your horse?"

"Yes."

"And you haven't eaten it?"

He shook his head.

"We need it. We're heading north."

Beatriz lowered the dart gun.

"What do you want?"

He looked around the dusty shop, spotting a multitude of items he did not recognise. Many were from the Before, some were more recent. He picked up a box shaped object with a large circular base. He saw levers and buttons but nothing happened when he fiddled with them.

"Are you interested in that?" asked Beatriz, watching him closely.

He nodded.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" he muttered. "Do you find it fascinating? Trying to puzzle out how all these pieces once fitted into people's lives?"

Beatriz came around the counter. She looked at Emil, for a moment, hunkered down in her coat.

"That a player," she said. She took it from the Map Maker. "You place a black disc here and operate the lever." She slowly moved the turntable. "The disc would turn round and round." She traced her finger in a circular motion. "You would then hear sound. The disc might contain words or music, or both."

She set it down on the shelf.

"History intrigues you?"

"Uncovering it," said the Map Maker. "And creating it."

Emil snorted.

"What is wrong with you?" asked Beatriz, with her half-smile, half-sneer. "Youngsters, nothing interests them."

"Have you heard of a place called Caybon or Cabourg?"

Beatriz nodded, walked back to her counter.

"I know of Caybon," she said. "But I have never been there."

"What can you tell me about it?"

She drummed her fingers and he realised he needed to offer her more than his charm and interest in the past.

"We have food," he said, reaching into his backpack, but Beatriz was already shaking her head.

"I have food," she said, her ears tuning to the sound of rain outside, the wind rattling the old building, whistling through the cracks in the walls. The Map Maker thought for a moment. "I don't have anything to trade. I'm sorry. I'm only looking for information. We're trying to reach Caybon. That's all."

Beatriz looked at him for a moment, and then shone her half-smile, half-sneer at him, a faint sparkle in her eyes.

"It's north," she said. "A very long way north. You will need that horse if you're hoping to reach it. You would be better staying here. Or turning south. Caybon is the end, you do understand? It is the final place in Gallen. There is nothing beyond."

"I've heard different," said the Map Maker.

Beatriz shrugged.

"There are stories of the broken lands outside Caybon, things that exist there that shouldn't."

"What things?" asked Emil.

"You do speak then? I thought you were mute."

"Things?" said the Map Maker, hopefully.

"People that are different. Not like us."

Emil lowered her hood, revealing her scars and single eye.

"Different like me? Is that what you mean?"

"No," said Beatriz, shaking her head. "That's not what I mean. I carry a scar as well, you might have noticed."

"You weren't born with yours," said Emil.

"Quiet," said the Map Maker, and Beatriz saw his hand hesitate at his pocket. She frowned.

There was an awkward silence. Outside, a small knot of people drifted by, soaked through and talking loudly.

"Tell me about these different people," said the Map Maker.

"Just avoid the broken lands," said Beatriz. "And the city. The Maizans run the city. You do not want to encounter them."

The Map Maker looked between the two women. He paced to the window. It was thick with grime. He stared at the rain oozing down the glass. A man was walking toward the shop.

"Looks like you have a new customer," he said.

As he turned, he saw Beatriz was aiming the dart gun at him.

"You should both leave," she said.

Emil looked pleadingly at the woman, regretting her harsh tone of a few moments earlier, but Beatriz was focused on the Map Maker, her finger on the trigger of the dart gun. Emil opened the front door and stepped out into the falling rain, quickly followed by her abductor.

Beatriz watch the two strangers through a rain smeared window as they rode quickly way. The new customer who came through the door hesitated when he saw the weapon in her hand. She reassured him she didn't greet all her customers that way, only the ones who unnerved her. She set the dart gun beneath the counter and asked him what he was carrying in his sack. The tall, lean man, eyes dark, face narrow, looked around before loosening the strings of the sack to reveal a large canister.

"I'm looking for food and water."

Beatriz nodded, running her hands over it.

"I need you to open it."

Cristo opened it. She didn't need to look inside. She could smell it at once. It was black energy, fuel for vehicles.

"Do we have a trade?"

Beatriz nodded.

"One more thing," said Cristo. "Tell me everything you know about the man and girl who just left."

**\--- Thirteen ---**

Justine lifted her head from his lap, spat, wiped her mouth.

Darrach rolled across the bed and reached for a half empty bottle. He drank and let out a long sigh. He filled his pipe from a small pouch and used one of the candles to light it. The bedchamber was on the third floor of the tower that overlooked the courtyard and the front gate. Justine stood naked by the narrow window, wooden shutters closed. There were gaps in the wood and she ached at the sight of the bridge and the river that flowed beneath it, remembering back to when she had stood on the wooden bridge in Dessan, exchanging flirtations with Stone; though that was possibly a memory tinted with a loving hue; _she_ had been flirting. She wondered where he was right now. She had seen none of them since the capture. She looked at her forearm. Her skin was clear. She had heard of the branding. It was the only evil that she had been spared.

Darrach eased behind her. He leaned around and handed her the pipe. She walked away from him, puffing hard, filling her lungs. He slapped her across the buttocks as she moved. Her flesh stung for a moment but at least he had relented on using his fists against her. The bruises were slowly fading. She sat on the edge on the bed, swigged a mouthful of drink and looked away as he relieved himself in a bucket.

"Get rid of that," he said. "And get some food up here."

He snatched the pipe from her as she picked up her dress off the floor and slipped it her over her narrow body, bones jutting against the skin. She fetched the bucket, grimacing at the smell, and went to the door, but Darrach called her back. He curled his thick hand around her throat, squeezing gently.

"Please, don't... Darrach, please, I can't..."

He forced her mouth open, dropped in a blue tablet, and closed her jaw.

"Swallow it," he said, and she hesitated. "Do as I say."

He saw her gulp and grinned, nodding, slapping her again as she went through the doorway.

"Don't be long," he said, lying back on the bed, pipe in hand.

As Justine reached the top of the stairs, she opened her mouth and carefully produced the tablet on the tip of her tongue. She set down the piss bucket and lodged it in her left ear. It felt odd there but her hair covered it and she had nowhere else to conceal it. She would crush it with the others later, once he slept. Picking up the bucket, she trotted down the stairs and went outside to empty it. Cold air pinched her skin, weak sunlight bathed her face. For a moment, she stared at the gate; hand cupped over her eyes she shot a glance at the men in the watchtower, armed with crossbows. She took a deep breath before heading for the kitchen, in basement. It was noisy with men eating and talking. Most of them were Cuvars. A few she recognised as Collectors. Some of them were strangers.

Women staffed the kitchen, preparing food. She had no allies here, no friends, no one she could even begin to trust. She kept herself to herself. She felt the men watching her as she took food but was untroubled by them. She was Darrach's property. The first few weeks had been the worse. Her body had screamed as he had violated her, several times a night. He had been brutal, too, beating her with his fists, abusing her with his tongue. When he had gone from the chamber he would lock her in, sometimes for a day or two, with no food, and she had wept, and had, more than once, considered squeezing through the narrow window and dropping to the courtyard below, finally ending her suffering at his vile hands.

Yet, in these last few days his rage had simmered, as she had become more compliant, tolerant, adventurous even. She said nothing as he ranted about the Tamnicans and cursed a man he called the Thinker, labelling him weak and spineless. She said nothing as he laboured against her and poured his filth into her. She said nothing and waited for him to grow sloppy, to overlook small things, to begin to underestimate how dangerous _she_ might be. She rushed back upstairs, empty bucket in one hand, a basket of meat and biscuits in the other.

"I need to recruit more men," he had said, bitterly, one morning. She was face down. He had just finished with her. She was sore. He dragged on his pipe, the smoke curling toward the crumbling brick ceiling. "That bastard, Stone, and you, you fucking bitch. You were there, weren't you? You fuckers. Laying an ambush for us. Do you know how hard it is to find good fighting men? I've got boys now, likely to piss their pants soon as some fucker waves a sword at them. They're not men. They're not fucking Collectors. Not yet. I'll have to whip the fuckers into shape. Make fucking men out of them."

He was pulling on his shirt as she came back into the room. She set the food down on a large wooden table with several chairs around it.

"We leave tomorrow at dawn," he said, tightening his belt. "Do I keep you here or bring you with me?"

He glared at her and Justine lowered her eyes from his scarred, bearded face. Did he know about the tablets?

"If I bring you with me the men will all want a piece." He grabbed a handful of food, chewed. "Suits me."

He strapped his long sword to his back, and slammed the door behind him, remembering to lock it.

Justine popped the tablet from her ear, fetched the pouch she had hidden and began to grind it into powder.

* * *

"Why is he still alive?"

Floran wiped the sweat from his brow and shifted nervously on his feet. They were alone in a large room with barred windows and grubby walls. A fire blazed in the hearth. Darrach could see the pathetic man was trembling.

"You useless snivelling fuck."

"The Warden told Julen not to touch him. The Thinker wants him kept alive. He has plans for him."

Darrach grabbed Floran by his red armband.

"You think this means shit to me? You know what this tells me? You creep around and gain a position above them but you're still one of them, Floran."

Floran muttered an apologetic reply. His teeth were chattering. Darrach was right, the Warden had seen Floran was ill suited to long days of labour when he had first arrived at Tamnica, five or six years ago. He began passing information to the Warden, feeding him details on planned escapes or attempts on the lives of any Cuvars. The Warden had seen the potential in Floran and elevated him beyond the cell block and into his role of... Floran wasn't really sure, he didn't have a title, he was just here, stripping the prisoners of their clothes and possessions, allowing Captain Niklas first choice of the women for the price of a few tablets that took him to a very special place. What many of the men here could never understand was that beyond Tamnica, out in the forests and across the wastelands, he had been a nobody. Here, he had responsibilities, influence, power. He had no wish to ever leave this place.

"What do you want me to do? I gave the order to Julen but by then the Bald One was already dead."

"Stone killed the Bald One?"

Floran nodded.

"He bit off Tolly's ear, the day they were brought here?"

Darrach clenched his gloved fists.

"What does the Thinker want with him?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

Darrach slammed him against the wall.

"I don't care what the Warden says. Tell Julen I want Stone dead."

* * *

"What's that all about?" asked Stone.

He was sat at the back of the cell block, leaning against a damp and crumbling wall, barred windows high above him, his body aching after a day of hard work. It was black outside and the hard floor was striped with pale moonlight. Stone was cocooned in the shadows, his legs stretched out, the sound of low and sporadic conversation through the cells and along the balcony above. Since killing the Bald One he had anticipated a swift and bloody retaliation but there had been none. He was glad. He was tired.

He had never envisioned a life beyond avenging the murder of his family, a blood vengeance he had, through the long years, believed would never be fulfilled. Chance had presented him with a name, a name he had kept locked in his thoughts since childhood, and he had tracked the name to the man and the man was now dead. Meeting Justine, growing close to her, he wondered if there was any future there for him. There had been women in past, meaningless couplings, but he had never allowed anyone beneath the surface. Once free of this place, he could imagine Justine back amongst the fields and mud huts of Dessan but he couldn't quite summon the image of himself there. When he had seen Nuria for the first time, in the city of Chett, something had resonated within him, a confusing and troubling mix of feelings. How could he act on them? He had no future to offer any woman.

He realised Conrad was speaking to him. He had missed much of what the young man had said.

"That is my people," he concluded, with a wry smile. "That's who you risked your life for."

Stone had managed to fashion a weapon; a slim, flat piece of metal, sharpened to a point at one end, and it remained with him through the night. In the morning, when meagre rations were delivered to the block, he would use this distraction to conceal the weapon in the wall, behind a loose stone, near to the holes where the buckets were emptied. It was an area used frequently but with little close examination.

Once more, he glanced at the Dessan villagers, gathered around a cluster of lit candles, nodding, muttering and chanting words in a language Stone did not understand.

"The tongue of the Ancients," said Conrad. "Passed down to my father through generations, if you believe all that kind of thing. They're the words Ilan uses when he condemns his people to this place." He fell silent for a moment, his eyes glazing with sadness. "Mathias, the one who spoke to you earlier, he memorised the words. He had heard them many times before being wrenched from his family." He could see Stone was confused. "It's a ruse, a meaningless ceremony to make every one think they're crazy or have magic powers. Julen doesn't trouble them. It works."

A man trudged by and emptied his bucket down the hole. The smell made Conrad grimace.

"Why do you sit here? Mathias has said you're welcome to share the cell with us."

"I like it here," said Stone.

"It's dark and smells of shit."

Stone nodded.

"Nuria was right about you. She said you can land yourself in some pretty bad places."

He thought back to the cells of Chett.

"She said you once killed a lot of people. Why?"

Stone said nothing.

"How are we going to get out of here? I mean, you're planning on getting out of here, aren't you?"

Conrad leaned towards him.

"I really want to get out of here. These clothes stink and I miss the tavern."

"I've got a few..."

Stone cut himself short and Conrad saw a frown crease the older man's forehead. He followed his line of vision and spotted two of Julen's men moving toward them, inching through the gloom, one to the left, one to the right. The cell block king stood, arms folded, watching from a distance.

Swiftly, Stone was on his feet, the flat blade in his right hand.

"Would you like some help?"

He looked at the younger man.

"Yes."

Stone took the first man in the stomach with three quick jabs of the blade. The man shrieked in pain, reaching for his wounds, blood coursing over his shaking fingers. He staggered backward, loosening his grip on his own weapon, the metal blade clattering loudly on the stone floor. The second man flashed a similar piece of jagged metal at Conrad but he wrong footed his snarling attacker, timed his moment and lunged with a volley of sharp punches, the crunching sound of his fists echoing through the cell block. The surrounding prisoners looked on grimly as Conrad put the man down in a shower of blood and teeth.

Stone marched toward Julen but then a group of Cuvars appeared at the gates, led by Floran, and Julen and his cronies melted back into the cells. Stone quickly tossed the blood smeared weapon as the guards spilled into the block, gesturing with clubs. One swept a lamp through the block, casting circles of yellow light amongst the prisoners, most of whom were now feigning sleep.

Floran pointed at Stone.

The Cuvars clamped him in iron. The gate was slammed shut and Conrad watched Stone disappear along the tunnel.

* * *

These were the _tiny moments_.

Alone in Cathy's cell, Nuria stared at the white lights in the sky, marvelling at them. They had fascinated since childhood. In military school, she could often be found outside in the freezing cold, long after classes and drills, staring up at the night sky. She had heard them called stars, planets, meteors and a host of other names, but she was fond of her name for them - white lights - and felt there was something poetic and more hopeful in that name. She smiled as spots of rain struck her face. She had never realised the beauty of a rainfall until she had seen it through iron bars. It hissed from the clouds, enraged, yet when it reached the ground it transformed and gently caressed the soil. She saw great puddles spread and delighted as more rain splashed into them.

A noise above broke her concentration and she glanced up at the ceiling. Cathy would be back soon. She was roaming the block with her gang, harassing the other women, giving instructions, ordering those who were not pulling their weight to do so or face a beating. She was in charge and that was never going to change and Nuria cursed herself for not having seen it earlier. She had been drawn in by the woman's conversation and interest in her. A place such as this spawned only monsters. She had been naïve. She was at Cathy's side, almost all day, like a pet. She woke with Cathy's arms around her, stale breath filling her nostrils. She watched her piss and shit. That wasn't so bad because then she was tasked with emptying the bucket, alone, and that was another of her _tiny moments_ , that long walk to the back of the cell block, untroubled and unmolested by anyone. Since being with Cathy not even Captain Niklas had taken her.

She wondered how many days had passed. She was losing count. Was it twenty? Twenty five? Thirty?

More?

She thought of Stone, Conrad and Justine less and less. A day felt like a hundred and when it passed she realised none of them had entered her thoughts. She was losing them. She had already lost herself. She pushed her hand through the bars, catching the rainwater on her palm. The air was shockingly cold. She wondered if snow would soon fall. She remembered thinking about snow when they had first arrived in Dessan. She had never imagined that she might glimpse it for the first time from a prison cell. It all seemed a long time ago now. Her eyes lowered as gloomy thoughts crowded her head.

Cathy swaggered back into the cell with the Mutterer and two other cronies, laden with extra food. There was little conversation. The four of them appeared tired and began to settle down. The Mutterer blew out the candles as Cathy ordered Nuria into bed.

She crouched down and pulled back the blankets.

"No, take it off. Everything."

Nuria stared at her.

"What?"

Cathy twisted her hair, suddenly, and forced a blue tablet into her mouth.

"Don't make me fucking tell you again, blonde. I've been patient."

The other women in the cell kept silent.

"Do it."

Cathy hurriedly peeled off her own shirt and trousers, the only garments any prisoner wore. Nuria saw the white scar, gleaming in the moonlight. She fumbled with her clothes, goosebumps erupting across her skin. She lay stiff beneath the blankets, Cathy's body tight against her, hands roaming. She felt an uncomfortable spasm and there was a moment of nausea that quickly passed. Cathy's voice whispered in her ear but the words seemed far away and she couldn't understand any of them. She experienced sudden panic, blurred sensations, her body rushing forward, at incredible speed, yet feeling smothered. Her breathing accelerated, her heart was a loud drum, Cathy's lips were on hers, hands between her legs. She couldn't fight her off. Her body was drenched in sweat. Her limbs were immobile. She had escaped one monster for another.

She gasped, saw the rotting ceiling above, spinning circles, giant cracks appearing, breaking apart before her eyes, falling...

"Fuck," shouted Cathy, yanking Nuria clear, as large chunks of the roof caved in and a prisoner from the cell above smacked against the floor, the ugly crack of bones breaking.

The woman shrieked in agony, her leg bent at an impossible angle. Laughing, Cathy pulled Nuria to her, wrapping a blanket around her.

There were screams and shouts through the cell block as more ceilings began to give way.

Women ran to the gate, yelling for the Cuvars. Nuria jerked away from Cathy and threw up.

* * *

Stone flexed his hands, stared at Floran. They were alone.

Cuvars loitered in the corridor outside, talking in low voices. Stone recognised the room. He had surrendered his clothes and possessions here when they had released him from the infirmary. Afterwards, he had been branded and the memory caused him to study the symbols burnt into his arm. He levelled his eyes at Floran and tried to discern what the Rat wanted. Floran's arm bore the branding, too, but he was less of a man, having slimed his way out of the cell block.

"What do you want?" said Stone.

Floran gulped.

"Darrach wants you dead."

He waited for Stone to respond but there was nothing. No words. No gestures. Nothing.

"The Thinker wants you alive."

Still nothing.

"The Thinker is going to meet with you. He knows who you are, your reputation beyond these walls."

"Who is he?"

The old man slipped off his glasses, cleaned them.

"He's the ruler of Tamnica."

"Why have you brought me here?"

Floran set his glasses back upon his nose. The fire behind him crackled. Outside, the rain fell.

"You've been asking questions. I heard a name I recognised."

"Who?"

"Lucas, you were asking about him, when you were in the infirmary. Did he make it?"

"He made it."

"I knew he did. The Warden told the prisoners he had been captured on the bridge and thrown into the sea as punishment. I never believed him. I wonder how he made it out. He used to work with me. Did you know that? He wore the red armband." He gestured to his sleeve. "Where did you find him? What's he doing?"

"In the wasteland," said Stone. "He was going home."

"Home?"

"Back to Chett."

He saw a sparkle in the old man's eyes. He could not have cared less about Lucas escaping from Tamnica. All he wanted was information, fresh information, and now he had it, another slice to hand to his master, to continually cement his position of usefulness and cling to his token of power.

"You're a man who hears things," said Stone.

"I hear many things."

Stone nodded.

"You can always trust a man who hears things. What does the Thinker want with me?"

"I don't know, but he knows who you are. You're the man who killed the bandits at Sarrone. You and another mercenary."

Stone had not thought of the town of Sarrone in a very long time. A simple place of honest and hard working people strangled by a rampaging bike gang. He and Tomas had killed them all and filled the sky with the smoke of burning corpses.

"The Tongueless Man. That's what they named you. Never spoke a word. Killed them all and burnt the bodies and said nothing. The silent murderer. I was there, before I was stupid enough to end up in this place. I saw you kill them all."

"You were at Sarrone?"

"That's right. Watched you cut those fuckers down with your gun."

Floran leaned toward him.

"Lucas found a way out. There have been others, too, Shelly, Ragnar, Cristo... they all found ingenious methods to break out." He waited and saw no response from Stone to any of the names. "I know you're planning to escape. You can't stay in a place like this. I hate it here, what it has done to me. I'll watch your back, Stone, if you give me your word to take me with you." He paused. "I've helped you already. Told you about Darrach and the Thinker. So, do you give me your word?"

"I give you my word."

He smiled at the Rat. When the time comes, Stone thought, you'll be one of the first to die.

"But there's something I want you to do for me."

\--- Fourteen ---

Three dead, seven injured.

The rain lashed the women as they trudged along the footpath, carrying the bodies. The wind swirled around them, blowing dirt. The Cuvars carried lamps and led them through the farm, neat black rectangles at night, the animals mostly sleeping, only a few bleats from the barns as the weather persisted to disturb them. Nuria was at the back, struggling to keep her grip around a pair of ankles. She could hear the throb of generators nearby. Her sandaled feet squelched in the mud, sloshed in and out of puddles. She was glad to be out of the cell block, away from Cathy. This could be one of her _tiny moments_ , she reasoned, hauling a dead body.

The Cuvars escorted them to a gate in the wall where a watchtower manned by crossbowmen looked out to sea. As they pressed along a narrow and winding path, feeling a gentle slope, Nuria was pleased her head was beginning to clear, the effects of the tablet evaporating. Perhaps witnessing the ceiling cave in from above had shocked it from her system. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the prison against an angry black sky littered with white lights. She wondered if they were on an island or a long peninsula. She recognised she was a long way from where they had been brought in, across the bridge. She wondered why she was filling her head with the layout. This was her world. This was her reality. She would never leave this place.

The women plodded forward through the driving rain until one of the Cuvars threw up his hand and ordered them to stop. They had reached the edge of the cliff. The ground was patchy grass, wet and slippery. He circled the area with his lamp, a weak yellow glow behind smoke stained panels of glass, and gave a signal. The first body was hurled out into blackness. Nuria heard a distant splash as it broke the surface of the churning sea. The women who threw the second body were weak. It toppled from their grip, hit the ground and rolled off the edge. One of the Cuvars peered over and saw it lying on the rocks below.

Nuria intended to swing the body back and forward to create momentum, so it would be propelled well beyond the edge of the cliff, but the woman carrying it with her had other ideas. As Nuria pulled back the woman pushed forward and the body twisted and dropped onto the ground. Unlike the second corpse, it stayed there. Nuria felt a searing pain across the back of her legs. She cried out, dropping to her knees. The other woman was hit as well and glared fiercely at Nuria. Picking herself off the ground, Nuria and the other woman lifted the body and threw it clear over the edge.

It sailed down toward the sea.

On the walk back across the farm, Nuria spotted a Cuvar standing outside one of the barns, sheltered from the rain. He stopped the line of prisoners and spoke with one of the men. The Cuvar who had hit her walked toward her and grabbed her by the collar. He held onto her as the remaining five prisoners were marched back inside the prison building.

"I'm sorry I dropped her," she said. "It's the first time. It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

He dragged her off the path and shoved her into the barn. The other Cuvar joined them. She felt straw beneath her feet. Pigs snorted at the sudden interruption. The rain lashed the roof. Nuria felt her stomach lurch. Where was Cathy's protection now? The two men looked her up and down, grinning, and then stepped outside, easing shut the barn door. She saw one of them light a pipe and they fell into conversation. She blinked. Her heart was thudding. Her hands were trembling. The pigs stared at her. She gasped as she saw the outline of a man in the shadows.

"Stone."

He emerged from the gloom, wrists clamped in iron. She ran to him, threw her arms around his chest and sobbed.

* * *

"What kept you?"

She was lying next to her, naked beneath the blankets, body stiff, tight, unresponsive.

Nuria told her about throwing the bodies off the cliff and how she had dropped her one and been hit by a Cuvar.

"So what did he do to you in the barn?"

"What do you think he did?"

Cathy nodded.

"Fucker, I'll talk to Niklas, made sure he doesn't touch you again."

Nuria gulped. Her lie would be exposed. She rolled onto her side.

"Forget about it, it doesn't matter. I'm with you now, right? I don't want you talking to the Captain."

"You're giving orders now?" said Cathy.

Nuria fell silent. The cell they were in was at the far end of the block. The front three cells, on both floors, had been abandoned since the collapse. The Warden and Captain Niklas had briefly toured the rest of the block and agreed it was safe. There had been a flare of angry protests from many of the women but the Warden had simply unhooked his whip from his belt and things had quietened down.

Cathy stroked Nuria's hair. She leaned across her and took an object from one of the other women.

"You want to tell me who you met in the barn?"

Nuria froze.

"Turn over."

"What?"

"You fucking heard me."

She rolled onto her stomach.

"I didn't..."

Her scream resonated through the block. A few women wondered if another ceiling had fallen in but there had been no distinct crash. Cathy asked her again and this time Nuria confessed to meeting with Stone, one of the men she had been captured with.

"Did you fuck?"

"No."

"Did you?"

"No."

"I don't believe you."

She screamed again. Cathy handed the object back to one of her cronies and told her to clean off the blood.

"I didn't do anything," sobbed Nuria. "I didn't know I was going to meet him. I thought the Cuvars were going to attack me in the barn. He was chained up, in hand irons. Nothing happened, Cathy, I swear. We didn't fuck."

"Then what did he want?"

"I can't, I can't tell you."

Cathy dragged her across the cell, to where the chair with the bucket was, and shoved her onto it. She whistled at one of the other women who tossed her a pair of scissors.

"Your last fucking chance, blonde."

"No," begged Nuria, as curls of blonde hair tumbled onto her trembling shoulders.

* * *

As further punishment, she was placed outside the cell for the night, forced to sit on the cold floor.

She wept, openly, not caring who saw or heard her tears. She wanted to die. She couldn't tolerate seeing another face or hearing another voice. This was her world. This was her reality. And she wanted no part in it. She wanted it to end. Her stomach crawled. Her heart beat fast. She wanted it all over. There was nothing beyond this point. She had held onto him so tight and told him how she had convinced herself he was dead – "It was the only way I could survive." – and that she had never been more relieved than to see his brooding eyes and stoic face. She whispered him everything that she had endured and in that moment, with the rain falling from the skies and her white lights watching over her, his arms were around her, the iron chains pressing into her back, and Nuria knew that she couldn't and wouldn't spend another moment without him.

" _Stay close to her," he told her._

" _After all I just told you."_

" _She'll keep you safe."_

" _So I should do as I'm told. Is that what you're doing? I can't imagine it. I want to kill her."_

She caressed his skin.

" _I'm going to get us all out of here. I promise."_

" _How is Conrad?"_

Stone nodded.

" _With me."_

It was all she needed to hear.

Tereza, a thin woman in her late thirties, often racked with fits of coughing and sneezing, inched toward her, attempting to pass her a blanket, but Cathy shouted at the woman and told her she would be next if she wasn't careful.

Nuria drew her bare legs towards her chest and balanced her chin upon her knees. She was no longer bleeding below. She had never experienced anything as painful and disgusting as that. She washed her hands over her tear stained face and picked at her shorn scalp, odd clumps of hair remaining. Women whistled down at her from the balcony, making gestures, laughing.

"This is what happens," bellowed Cathy, sauntering through the cell block. "When you fuck with me."

She looked around at them.

"I run this fucking block, you understand? Nothing happens without my permission."

The laughter trailed away. It had been a long night. Heads went down, eyes closed, the block filled with snoring.

Nuria glanced into the cell. Cathy and her cronies were fast asleep. Dawn was only a few hours away.

* * *

Darrach rode back through the gates of Tamnica, thirsty, hungry.

He had finished his business with the clan, the Collector's settlement located on the far shore, away from the Tamnican stronghold where the Gatherers kept the metal vehicles. He had recruited new men and now the horses and wagons were being readied to leave at dawn. The village Centons would soon be complete and he would attempt to collect the levies once more. He still despised the Thinker's methods. He would round them all up and lead a giant convoy back to Tamnica and let them breed there but the Thinker was absolute in his belief that this was the more productive way.

"How do you pick fruit from a tree?" he had once asked Darrach. "You delicately pluck it from the branches. You do not take an axe and fell the tree. Do you understand this?"

He understood, he wasn't a damn fool, but he still thought the Thinker was a spineless fuck who lacked guts, cowering behind Centons and coloured ribbons and real men. He would be more suited severed in two from the blade of his sword. He shoved the thought aside as he ducked out of the pouring rain into the candle lit tower. He stamped downstairs to the kitchen. The air was thick with pipe smoke and noisy conversation from a large number of Cuvars sprawled on benches. He took food and trudged up a long flight of winding stone steps. Finally, he arrived at his bedchamber and unlocked the wooden door. A fire glowed meekly in the hearth. Justine was beneath the blankets, eyes open, staring at the shuttered window, slithers of moonlight filtering through warped pieces of wood and streaking the hard stone floor.

He locked the door behind him and dropped loudly into a chair. He called for her to take off his boots.

She glided from the bed and crouched before him. He let his eyes travel her narrow body.

"I don't want to go tomorrow," she said, quietly. "Can't you leave me behind? It's not like..."

He smacked her across the head, the blow knocking her sideways. He climbed from his chair, silent and brooding, as she tried to pick herself up. He smacked her again, backhanded, his knuckles cracking against her face. She tasted blood. He clenched his fist and slammed a punch into her stomach. She gasped, doubled over, collapsed. He scooped her from the floor with his arm and pushed her face into to the bed. When he had finished with her, he lifted a bottle from the bedside and drank. Justine curled into a ball, sobbing.

"Shut that fucking shit up."

He took off his armour, one piece at a time, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took another drink from the bottle. His head was already swimming. He peeled off his shirt and rolled off his trousers. His skin was on fire. Justine wiped the tears and mucus from her face. He stood before her, his hairy body thick with muscles and old wounds and dripping with sweat. His pitted face glared at her and he appeared unsteady as he reached for the bottle once more and drained it.

"Now you can suffer, you bastard," whispered Justine, sliding from the bed.

Darrach sensed something was terribly wrong. He staggered after her. His arms thrust out, grabbing for her, but his movement lacked any strength or coordination and she sprang past him, hastily snatching a dagger from his belt. She whirled round and stabbed at him, slashing his arm and chest.

"What have you done?" he choked, his speech slurred, eyes bloodshot and rolling.

She reached for the empty bottle, the cocktail of powdered blue tablets now raging violently through his body. She dangled it between her fingers and he realised with horror that she had poisoned him. _Killed by a whore?_ His outstretched hands snatched at her once more but he was sluggish and flailed thin air. She howled at him as she plunged the dagger into his stomach, twisting it with all her strength. She yanked it free and was sprayed with blood. She drove it in a second time, screeching into his face.

He lost balance, grabbing her hair as he toppled over. Justine felt her feet leave the ground and they slammed against the hard stone floor. She thrust the dagger into his side, wedging the blade between his ribs. His body was going into spasm. Blood and white liquid gushed from his mouth. She crawled from beneath his suffocating weight, stabbing him for every time he had abused her, every time he had rode into Dessan and taken her people. She kept stabbing until her arm was numb and she collapsed over his back, soaked in his blood, a hammering sound in her head.

Within seconds, she realised the sound was not in her head – it was coming from the door.

"Darrach? Darrach? What the fuck's happening?"

She peeled herself off his body and sprinted to the window, picking up her dress and pulling it over her head as the door shook.

She unlatched the window shutter as a boot was driven against the locked door. It shook in the frame and she heard the wood splintering.

Squeezing through the narrow window, a blast of wind tossing her blood streaked hair, she emerged onto a narrow ledge. She was high above the battlements and the courtyard. It was too far to jump; she would shatter every bone in her body. As she balanced herself her left foot slipped. She gasped and grabbed for the window. The dagger sailed from her hand and landed below with a dull echo. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself upright as the bedchamber door crashed open.

Digging her nails into the ancient brickwork, Justine shuffled along the ledge, hair billowing, dress soaked. The foul night raged at her, showing no mercy. She edged further away from the window, feeling the ledge curve slowly with the natural shape of the tower. Her eyes were rimmed with rainwater. A head thrust from the window as she disappeared from view. She had no idea if he had seen her.

She moved further around the tower, looking for a window to climb through or a ledge lower down that she could drop onto but saw nothing. Her fingers scraped across the hard stone and her heart beat fast. She suddenly felt a crawling sensation and turned her head toward the watchtower by the gate.

A crossbow was aimed at her. The bolt hissed through the air and thudded into stone next to her.

She almost lost her balance. Her trembling fingers clung to the crumbling stone tower. There were footsteps in the courtyard below and armed men were pointing up at her. Her bladder loosened and warm urine streamed down her leg, dripping onto the ledge.

"Get in here, you bitch," yelled a Collector, from the window.

\--- Fifteen ---

Alba could hear birds.

His eyes fluttered open. He lay motionless in bed, listening to the chirping and calling, gentle yet insistent, his mouth curved into a content smile, a calmness washing over him. Laia curled against him, her body warm, drifting slowly from the throes of a deep sleep, dreams fragmenting, scattering, senses beginning to energise. She murmured, clinging to those last few moments before opening her eyes and drawing the room into focus.

Her hand danced across his bare chest, fingers delicately stroking the skin, nails twirling in a thin field of torso hair. He leaned to her, kissed her hair draped forehead, tangled strands platted across her blue eyes.

"Where's Snug?" she asked, her voice hoarse. She always woke dry-throated. "He's normally here by now."

"Still sleeping."

"Hmmm."

"He's sleeping longer now, isn't he?"

Laia yawned.

"Still feels like the middle of the night."

"Not when you hear the birds," he said.

"This must the best time of the day. Those precious minutes before the toddler who rules your life wakes up."

"You can lay here and reflect on things," he said. "Lay here and think."

"Maybe we can do _more_ than reflect."

He lifted her hand away.

"I just want to hold you."

She sighed.

"Are you working today?"

"Yes."

"Do you have to?"

He turned, looked at her.

"I work every day. You know that. You know why."

A dull grey light filtered through the drawn curtains. There was the sound of movement from the next room.

" _Mummy? Daddy?"_

There was a hammering at the front door of the house. Alba opened his eyes once more. He could still hear the birdsong, now punctured by the noise from downstairs, but the room was empty. He swung his feet off the bed and pulled on his boots. He switched off the silver disc player and the chirping chorus ended abruptly. He watched the disc continue to spin for a moment longer before it gradually stopped. His fingers hesitated against the machine, lightly caressing it. He stopped outside Snug's bedroom, Laia in a rocking chair, back and forward, back and forward, his son in her arms.

As he laid a hand on Snug's warm scalp the memory faded.

Floran was waiting for him, standing at the hearth, warming his hands, a box at his feet. Dust motes danced about him in the weak rays of sun filtering into the room. There were empty wooden shelves coated with a thin layer of dust and bare iron hooks in the walls.

"Good morning, sir."

Alba nodded a muted greeting. He went through into the kitchen where his housekeeper was pouring him a hot drink. He did not know her name. He had never known it. It was quite possible she no longer remembered it, either, having resided within Tamnica for more than two decades. She had lived with him for several years now. Since the sickness had taken them. Floran had recommended her, citing her as a hard working and dependable woman. She had never rebelled or attacked a Cuvar or attempted to escape. She did not partake in illicitly brewed drink or smuggled tablets.

At first, he had her returned to the cell block at night, but she would arrive back the following morning bruised, a punishment issued for serving him, despite the numbing reality that they all served him. She would confess that the bruise was an accident, naturally, a wrong foot in the dark, nothing more, and would never name any of her fellow prisoners as the aggressor, despite his threats. Floran had suggested a wiser move might be to allow the woman to take one of the spare bedrooms. Hesitantly, Alba had agreed so now she only saw the prison from the outside.

He took his drink, easing the kitchen door shut behind him. Floran bowed once more and picked up the box.

"Some real good finds for you, sir."

Alba peered into it. He set down his mug, steam rising, and poked through a collection of items, many dirty and broken. He fished out a bulky package of silver discs.

"Now these are interesting." He turned them over in his hands, noting the smile on Floran's lips. "These are indeed a treasure, Floran, well done. I will try each one tonight."

He put them onto a shelf, lifted his mug and sipped.

"What are they, sir?"

"Sometimes words, sounds, strange songs even. A catalogue of a very different time."

"Do you put them in that box that turns them really fast?"

Alba nodded.

"That's correct. Now, leave the box there; I will sort through the rest later."

He paced the room, glancing out of the window, where the dull coloured generators hummed.

"Does he trust you?"

"Not yet," said Floran. "But he will, in time. I helped him meet one of the women he came here with."

"The one who murdered Darrach?"

"No, sir."

"Has she been placed in the cage?"

"Yes, sir. The Warden saw to it personally."

"And have the Collectors left?"

"Yes, sir. Jakub is leading them. The Warden seemed concerned they would not return with the levy. The Collectors are weaker without Darrach. The man terrified the villages. There was a suggestion that the Gatherers are sent instead."

"I have been considering that already," said Alba.

Floran cleared his throat.

"There is worry over Dessan. The man made a stand against the Collectors. The bastard has shown them what can be achieved by fighting back."

He lowered his head as the man he knew only as the Thinker glared at him. There was a rush of the wind and the old house rattled. Floran watched his master stare out of the window, the high crumbling walls of the prison rising ominously from the ground. He waited to be dismissed, unsure where to cast his eyes. He feared the Thinker. Not in the way he feared the Warden. The Warden was bark and fists and he had never witnessed the Thinker commit a single act of violence - but then had no need to. There was no need for his knuckles to fleck with blood. He had an army of monsters to undertake his bidding. What chilled Floran the most, want unsettled him more than anything, was the Thinker's voice; how composed it remained, how rational no matter what the words were.

Plucking up the courage, Floran inched his head upward. He saw the Thinker was consumed with the world outside, taking sips from his mug, his free hand dancing around the rim.

"I will meet with him today. Have the Warden fetch him For your part, Floran, continue to work on earning his trust."

"Yes, sir," said Floran.

"You're not convinced of my approach, are you?"

He fingered his red armband.

"I will never forget what I witnessed at Sarrone."

"You were never at Sarrone, Floran. Save your stories for the prisoners."

"He said he met Lucas in the Southern Deserts."

The Thinker nodded.

"Did he tell you how he escaped?"

"No."

"Do you believe he really met him?"

Floran began to clean his glasses.

"He told me Lucas was heading home. Back to Chett. How could he have known that? I knew Lucas was from Chett but I doubt many others in here did."

"And is he planning to escape?"

"Yes, but he has told me nothing of his plan."

"As I said, continue to earn his trust."

Floran slipped his glasses back on.

"He's very dangerous, sir."

The Thinker turned from the window.

"Indeed, he's the most dangerous man in Tamnica, Floran. Which is why we keep him close to us."

* * *

"What do you want with him?" said Conrad.

"Move," threatened one of the Cuvars, gesturing at him with a club.

Conrad disappeared into the throng of prisoners as they were marched along the tunnel. Many of the men walked slowly, dragging their feet; several coughing, wiping runny noses, running temperatures. Stone remained pinned against the wall, arms pulled behind his back, clamped in iron. He heard one of the Cuvars mention the condition of the men but another dismissed it. Once the prisoners had gone, he was shoved him along a tunnel and into a large room that branched off into more tunnels and side rooms. Stone recognised the kitchen area and the room where the prison clothes and sandals were stored and he knew one of the tunnels led toward where Floran worked.

The Cuvars pushed him through the room, one of them jabbing him with his club, tripping him over now and then. He gave out a steady stream of abuse, attempting to goad Stone into fighting back. Stone spotted a half-chewed ear and realised he was the Cuvar he had attacked in the courtyard. He wondered if he was being led away for a beating. Conrad had endured a similar punishment a few nights before, pulled out of the cell block in the dark hours and led away to be thrashed with clubs, tossed back in bleeding and sobbing.

He was taken into a new tunnel, the old walls hung with flickering torches, casting light toward an arched ceiling, blackened from the naked flames. He continued to block out the stream of abuse and memorise the layout of the prison. The boots of the Cuvars echoed along the dirt covered floor whilst Stone's sandals make more of a slapping sound. He passed closed doorways and a flight of stone steps before reaching a broad wooden door with a large handle. The men knocked and Stone heard the Warden's voice beckon them inside.

The room was flooded with light from tall windows that reached toward a domed ceiling. Stone could see the prison walls and the women in the fields. Smoke belched from great chimneys on the rooftop of the factory where the tanners and blacksmiths and engineers worked, producing clothes, iron weapons and black energy. A fire roared in a grand hearth and paintings adorned the walls, impossible scenes of people and places coloured upon canvas in daring swirls and dramatic streaks, people that no longer existed, places that possibly never had. There were lines of ancient books on wooden shelves with bold lettering along cracked spines. His eyes widened child-like at the collection that surrounded him. He was a man of violence, a man who had carved out a rugged existence in the wasteland for decades, killing and hunting, quick with a gun, silent with his tongue, but the veneer had perforated through the years. He had grown an understanding of many things. He knew what these items were and he knew _when_ they were from and how hard it was to obtain at least one of them, let alone this many. The wave of disorientation rushed from him as the Warden barked at the Cuvars to leave.

The red haired man grabbed Stone and marched him into the middle of the room to stand before an empty wooden chair with a tall back.

He stood behind him.

"I fucked your bitch," he whispered. "I stripped her. I whipped her. Then I fucked her."

He let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

"Now she's in the fucking cage."

Stone's face exploded with rage. He pulled free, lunged at the Warden, driving with his head and shoulder. The Warden buckled but quickly drew his sword, iron scraping loudly against the scabbard. He flashed the blade at Stone, who sidestepped and lunged into him. His blow did nothing. The Warden lumbered against him, forcing him into a corner. The long blade gleamed in the light of the fire.

"She'll rot in there," he grinned, the tip of his sword prodding Stone's chest. "Her skin will freeze. Her bones will stick out. Her mind will go crazy. She won't even know who you are anymore. They all die in the cage. That's what the whore deserves for killing Darrach."

The door opened and Alba walked into the room. He froze at the sight of the confrontation before him, the Warden gesturing with his sword, taunting the prisoner known as the Tongueless Man.

"Warden," he said. "Enough."

The Warden gave Stone one final look, hard and unrepentant. He dragged him from the corner and returned him to the middle of the room, keeping his sword in his hand.

Alba eased onto the chair.

"I am the Thinker," he said. "I lead the population of Tamnica. You are known as the Tongueless Man – is that correct?"

Stone had barely acknowledged the arrival of the second man. Now he turned his focus toward him. His eyes saw cropped brown hair, grey flecks showing at the temples, meek looking eyes, a sallow complexion, gangly arms and legs, a timid chest, a flat stomach. This could _not_ be the Thinker. It had to be a bluff. One of the Rats, attempting to sniff out more information. This man could be swept away in a puff of wind. He dismissed the man's presence and attempted to head butt the Warden, driving forward sharply, but the Warden spun his sword and slammed the hilt into Stone's face. He dropped to his knees, growling, tasting blood.

"Pick him up," said Alba. "If you persist, Tongueless Man, you will end up in the cage with the woman."

The Warden lifted him from the floor. Through the windows, heavy clouds filled the sky.

Stone slowly raised his eyes and Alba could feel it, it was tangible; the coldness peeling off the chained man, rolling from him in waves, the pure hate, the terrible violence ready to be unleashed in the blink of an eye. He felt a shudder ripple down his spine. The light had been drained from the room. Blackness had descended. He had been right in his estimation. This _was_ the most dangerous man within the walls of Tamnica.

"Put your damn sword away, Warden," said Alba, his tone deeper.

Eyes straight ahead, Stone wiped the blood from his mouth on his shoulder. The Warden sheathed his sword and Stone turned to lunge at him once again until he heard a sound he recognised only too well. He shifted around to see his revolver pointing at him, bullets in the chamber, hammer cocked.

"You truly are an animal," he said. "Obedience is demanded in Tamnica. To disobey ends in punishment."

The fire crackled.

"No one wants that, do they?"

Alba studied the weapon closely.

"This is quite a beautiful firearm. We do not have any firearms here in Tamnica. The Gatherers carry the few we have. There are many who cross this land with weapons such as this but have no ammunition for them."

He looked along the barrel.

"One pull of the trigger and the legend of the Tongueless Man is at an end. Did you know that, Warden? This is the Tongueless Man. He is a wasteland warrior with a very dangerous reputation in Gallen."

"Would you like me to rip out his fucking tongue?"

Alba nodded.

"I think that might be wise. He doesn't appear to use it very much." He continued to aim the revolver at Stone. He looked into the bearded man's eyes. "Nothing. Not a glimmer of fear."

He let out a short laugh, and told the Warden to take his hand off his dagger. Alba carefully released the hammer and set the weapon down. He continued to observe Stone in silence as the wind rose and the grey clouds packed together.

"Do you know what the most important thing in Tamnica is?"

Stone said nothing.

"Answer your master," said the Warden, punching him in the kidney. He cried out in pain.

"No," said Alba. "No more of that. You have to understand a man like this, Warden. What we demand is obedience and violence will not work on him. He has been beaten many times in his life. Do you see that defiance in how he stands? Even now, chained up, with no hope, he still rebels. He has fought against any authority that has attempted to contain him his entire life."

Stone felt a twinge of discomfort at how fluently the man had revealed his nature.

"Violence will not break him."

"Violence will break any man," said the Warden, sullen.

"Oh, it will end him, Warden, I agree, but it will not break his spirit. You need to be smarter than that."

The Warden snorted, suspicious of these radical approaches the Thinker employed.

"Well," said Alba. "Have you figured out what the most precious and valuable commodity in Tamnica is?" He paused. Stone wondered if the man was quite happy to ask and answer his own questions. "People." He was. "And we cannot produce them quickly enough. My father attempted repopulation but his methods proved ineffective. Women often died in labour. Infants barely made it beyond a few days. Here, our reliance is on the people the Gatherers find and the levies that are paid by the Eastern Villages. You see, Tamnica is more than a prison. It is a beginning, albeit an ugly one, but then history is dotted with ugly beginnings." He gestured at his books. "This prison will blossom into something much more important. _We_ are Tamnicans. _We_ are a people, a nation. The roads, the trees, the grasslands, are Tamnica. Soon, settlements will become towns, towns will become cities. We will push our borders and the work of rebuilding the shattered past and creating a new future, a better future, will reach its peak, and we will all be Tamnican."

Alba waited for a response to his near perfect oration - something, anything - but a mask had drawn over Stone's face and his grand words had been ignored.

"We have a brutal regime here but it is required. You must understand, Tongueless Man, Gallen is a far better place for this prison. You would not want some of the men and women in here roaming the land out there, preying on the innocent."

Stone heard a faint chuckle from the Warden.

"People," said Alba, repeating himself. "The most important thing in Tamnica is people. And since your arrival, a Cuvar has been maimed, a man has been murdered in the cell block with two more sent to the infirmary, one of whom died from stab wounds. This has to stop. One of your women rots in the cage. I will allow her to die unless you relent and show obedience."

He rose from his chair.

"Will you show obedience?"

Stone slowly shook his head.

"Then you condemn her to a wretched death. Warden, how many companions did he arrive with?"

"A man and another woman," said the Warden.

Alba nodded. He picked up the revolver once more, rolled it between his slim hands.

"When the woman dies, we will put the next one in, and then the man, and then you. You will all die. You all bear my mark. You are my property so I decide your fates. That is beyond dispute."

Stone frowned at his branded arm and glanced around the room again. It hadn't registered with him the first time. He scanned the bookshelves and paintings and saw it once more – there - nestled amongst the sweep of fine artwork was a child's innocent drawing; a family of stick people, three of them, one tall, one shorter, one tiny – DADDY... MUMMY... ME. The stick family had round heads with dots for eyes and curves for mouths. They stood on a stretch of wavy ground with vertical dashes. Behind them was a square house with round windows and a triangle shaped roof. Square house. Round windows. Triangle roof. Square, circle, triangle. _The marks from the Centon. The brand on his arm._ He raised his eyes.

"I thought it was a wonderful concept," said Alba, taking a slim book from the bookshelf, curled and yellowed with age. He showed Stone the front cover.

How to draw shapes.

Stone saw a square, a circle and a triangle.

"Something so terribly dark, from something so terribly innocent. The mark of Tamnican property."

"I will kill you," said Stone, speaking for the first time. Alba sat, smiling, book in his lap. "Will you?"

"I'll kill your family first." He nodded at the child's drawing. "I'll shoot them so they die quickly, without too much pain, but you I'll gut, you'll die _a wretched death_."

"Let me kill the bastard," said the Warden, half drawing his sword. "He has threatened you, Thinker."

Alba raised a hand, seemingly unmoved, but Stone saw it was a smile that had wavered, now tinged with drops of fear. Stone was no fool. He understood why he had been summoned. Floran had fed the Thinker all the information he had gleaned but the man wanted more and what better way to control a rabid beast than to train him and keep him by your side at all times. Dead he was another pile of bones to throw into the sea. Alive he was a monster, but it was better to own one, than live in fear of one.

"Release Justine from the cage."

"There are no names here," said the Warden, and kicked him in the back of the legs, dropping him to the floor.

He leaned over Stone and began punching him in the head. He drew his sword and put the blade against Stone's neck.

"He's an animal," said the Warden. "He has to die, Thinker."

"No," said Alba, rising from his chair. "Cuvars, in here now."

Stone felt the blade shift and rolled toward the Thinker. He threw all his weight against the man, crashing him into the chair. The Warden swung his sword and it clanged loudly against the stone floor. Stone fell backward, hands behind his back, and reached for the revolver, snatching it between his fingers, yanking the trigger, the chamber turning, the bullet roaring from the barrel and shattering one of the windows.

A gust of wind blew into the room as the Cuvars burst in, wielding clubs. The Warden flashed his sword again. Alba melted away into the corner. Stone turned, struggling to hold the revolver, and fired. His aim was wild but heard a scream and a Cuvar slumped to the floor. He fired again, the bullet pinging off the floor. Then he was hit with tremendous force and pain lanced through his hands and arms and the revolver slipped from his grip. He was wrestled to the floor, punched, kicked and stamped on.

His eyes filled with blood.

"Put the bastard in isolation," said Alba, his breathing ragged. "He will learn obedience the hard way."

\--- Sixteen ---

The cars roared from the city.

Mesh covered balding tyres spun furiously against the asphalt. Brown rusted bodyworks daubed with blue and white streaks shook and bounced. Exhaust pipes spat angry trails of fumes. Headlamps blazed, cutting through the wintry gloom as tufts of snow drifted from the sky. Burning black energy, the angry line of vehicles skidded around gaping holes where rampant undergrowth had punched through the highway. The ruined city lay behind them, ghostly markers of buckled masonry projecting up from the ground, like ugly arms reaching out of the ragged soil. Ruptured carriageways swept past blackened towers of shattered glass. The wind blew fierce through naked iron girders and then spiralled below, howling wildly through rubble strewn canyons that were once avenues.

The cars sped away, leaving home. Basile drove the lead vehicle. Montre rode with him. Both men were in their twenties, huddled down in heavy coats with blue and white scarves covering their faces. Basile jerked the wheel suddenly as another obstacle appeared before him, the tail end of a car jutting half way across the road. The snow was thickening and he turned on the screen wipers. The light was fading and his headlamps pierced the dusk and swirling flakes. He nudged his foot lower against the accelerator. The car rocked from side to side. Montre glanced at him. He hated when Basile drove this way, in a foul mood, but he understood the rage and pain his friend felt and his acceptance was to remain silent.

They gathered more speed and soon the outline of the town etched against the horizon.

"Someone has to pay," said Basile, tugging down his scarf. "For killing our people."

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

"No canisters, no new women, no bullets, no tablets, nothing, Montre, nothing but Maizan blood."

Montre nodded, rubbed his gloved hands together, and took out an automatic pistol. He checked the magazine was full.

"We'll get all the answers we want soon," he said, pointing toward the town. "Even if we have to kill them all."

Basile lifted one hand from the wheel and squeezed his companion's shoulder.

"You are a good man, Montre. You understand me."

The snow began to settle across the rugged terrain, colouring the brown white. It was falling more quickly now. As the cars drew into the ramshackle town they saw no one walking about. A thin layer of white covered the ground. Flickering orange glows appeared in buildings. Basile turned off the engine and stepped out into the swirling blizzard. He stamped across to a building set back from the road. His boots ground against the fresh snow. He looked through a grimy window and saw a cluttered junk shop lit by candles. At the far end was a counter. A black haired woman wearing an apron over a knitted jumper stood behind it. She was tall with a long neck and her head was tilted down. Basile saw she was assembling something from wood.

He admired her confidence. She would have heard the vehicles long before they arrived and the only people who drove in this region were Maizan. She would surely know of their reputation yet she seemed untroubled by their appearance. Smiling, Basile tried the door and found it unlocked. He pushed it open. Montre followed him into the shop. His men remained outside, sitting in their cars, roofs swiftly covering with snow.

Beatriz raised her head and Basile saw she had been savaged; the white scar ran from her nose to her chin.

"Hello, my name is Beatriz."

She glimpsed the pistol in Montre's gloved hand.

"What is that?" asked Basile, nodding at the contraption she was working on.

"Oh, this. I'm quite proud of this. It's a slingshot crossbow. It's quite simple to make once I sat and thought about it."

Basile blinked, suddenly realising a sharpened iron bolt was pointing at him. The crossbow was small and wooden with a thin band drawn back. He saw her finger on the trigger.

Montre raised his gun arm and Beatriz shook her head.

"Your boss will be dead before that bullet hits me."

A gust of wind rattled the windows and the candles flickered. In the distance a door slammed and there was the sound of voices. Montre's upper lip glistened with perspiration. His finger edged inexorably toward the trigger. He stared into the black haired woman's eyes and saw an unshakable confidence in her puny looking handmade weapon.

"It's okay," said Basile, gently placing his hand on Montre's gun arm and lowering it. "We're only here to ask a few questions."

"That's how it always starts," said Beatriz. "I think your friend should wait outside."

Montre frowned but Basile leaned toward him, whispered in his ear.

"The back door is booby trapped," called Beatriz. "Just in case you are wondering."

Basile waited until he was alone with the woman. He held out his hands, showing her he was unarmed. She pointed the slingshot crossbow away from him but did not take her hand from it.

"I'm Basile, I'm Maizan. We do not trouble your town. You have nothing we need." He paused, looking around. The window had fogged over and the street outside was a blur of white and shinning headlamps. "All of these goods are available for trade, yes? You trade anything and everything, yes?"

"Except people."

He let out a short laugh. He picked up a silver block with dials and buttons and a cracked screen.

"I had a friend. His name was Loic. He would have loved your shop. It's a shame he never came here."

He strolled back to the counter.

"Now he cannot. He was murdered. On the road to Tamnica. A lot of Maizans were killed that morning. Did you hear about it? No? I'm surprised; shopkeepers and merchants live on gossip."

He glanced down at the slingshot crossbow in her grip.

"We have left you alone but now you have betrayed us. Who traded you the black energy?"

Beatriz saw the cold look in his eyes, the deep furrow of his brow. She realised, in that awful moment, that Cristo had stolen from the Maizans and condemned her.

"I've no loyalty to him. I didn't know it was yours." She ducked behind the counter and lifted clear the canister. "It's half empty. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Basile peeled off his gloves, ran his fingers around the rim.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he muttered, studying it. "I don't hurt women. I prefer to love them. This was part of a larger consignment that was stolen. Four Maizans were killed at the same time. Tell me about the man who trade this."

His hands moved fast and she fired. She had rushed finishing the weapon and it failed to propel the bolt. She reached for her dart gun but he yanked her hair, jerking her back. She threw a punch, clipping the side of his head. He slapped her, twice. She opened her mouth to scream but he clamped his thick hand across it and shoved her head to the counter. She heard the sound of the shop door opening and footsteps across the floor.

"Take everything," said Basile.

Montre appeared, pistol in hand.

"Make the bitch talk. I want to know who stole from us."

Beatriz screamed as Montre twisted her arm behind her back and forced her into the back at gunpoint. Basile pushed himself onto the counter, propping one arm on his canister, and watched him men strip the shop bare. He reached into his pocket for a blue tablet, swallowed it and closed his eyes at the rush. He could hear Beatriz in pain as Montre tortured her for the information. A voice called him and he opened his eyes. A small group of people had gathered outside in the snow, drawn by the screams. He shoved himself back onto his feet and stomped outside.

"What are you looking at?" he said, to the nearest person, a tall young man flexing his arms. "Do you want to start something? With us? You want to tangle with Maizans?"

He circled the young man, pushing his face into his, eyes bulging with rage.

"You want to mess with us? Do you? We'll bury you and your fucking town."

The young man lowered his eyes as another scream rang out.

"Fuck off, all of you..."

Basile snapped his head round. That had been _Montre_ screaming. He sprinted toward the shop. He burst into the back room where Montre lay on his back, eyes wet, body jerking, trousers around his ankles, a dozen wooden spikes rammed into his groin.

"Fuck," yelled Basile.

The back door was wide open. He could see footprints in the snow. He stepped over his bleeding friend and stuck his head through the doorway. A gust of wind blew snow into his face. He could see her fleeing across the snow covered land, bathed in grey moonlight. There was the crack of a gunshot and he ducked as a bullet bounced above his head.

He knelt down and saw Montre's pleading eyes. His groin and thighs were covered in blood.

"I am sorry, my dear friend, Montre. You are beyond help. I am so sorry."

Basile kissed his friend's cheek, then covered his mouth and nose and suffocated him.

Outside, he roared orders at his men, sending half of the convoy to track her across the wasteland.

He went to his car, took out an automatic rifle. He instantly shot the young man he had threatened earlier, cutting him down in a hail of bullets.

"I want to know," he said. "About every stranger who has been through in the last few days."

* * *

They were on foot when the snow had begun to fall. Emil watched it tumble from the sky, smiling at the graceful way it fell, unlike the rain, nasty and spiky. It dropped with a loving touch. The horse had bolted. It had been unsteady on the road north, trying to turn back, snorting and stamping and rearing up until it refused to go any further. Emil looked at the long broken highway that ran to the horizon, wondering what had frightened the beast. It trotted away into the fields, the Map Maker chasing after it, waving his fists. He had tired quickly. She had noticed her was in poor shape. His body was squat, rounded. He was slow and consumed twice the rations she did.

It was already dusk and she thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder. She pulled her oversized coat around her and ducked her head, following him. He was a few steps ahead but there was no point in running. He had a pistol and she had nothing. She took one step at a time. Left foot, right foot. Or was it right foot, left foot? She wasn't certain. No, it was surely left foot, right foot. She smiled to herself and looked over her shoulder.

"There," said the Map Maker, pointing.

He led her from the road and stood before a wrecked vehicle, abandoned in the brush; rusted, dented, tyres flat, but windows intact. He peered inside, opened the door. It creaked loudly. Emil covered her mouth at the smell.

"Help me move him," he said.

Nausea swept over her. She kept her head tilted away, adamant she wasn't going to look at the body. The Map Maker rolled him onto his side and tugged. She pulled as well, sneaking a glimpse, seeing the decaying skin and hollow cheeks. She looked away, instantly, feeling her stomach turn. Between them, they dragged the corpse from the car and left him on the ground.

"Snow will cover him," said the Map Maker. "Get in."

"In there? No."

He stared at her and she knew there was little point in standing here arguing with him and getting covered in snow. He had decided they would shelter in it and that was that. She clambered into the back and hunkered down. The car reeked but once he closed the door she did begin to feel a little warmer. He handed her a blanket and she wrapped it around her body.

"No," she said.

"I'm just saying that our combined heat will..."

"If you try to sleep with me I'll rip your cock off."

He stared at the windscreen, quickly piling with fresh snow.

"Have I done anything to you?" His voice had become quiet. "Have I touched you? Made you do things for me? I haven't hurt me."

"You took me in the middle of the night," said Emil, from the back seat. "I woke up naked in the forest. That's what you did to me."

"You were already naked. I never molested you. I've done nothing to you. I just thought if we lie together we would be..."

"I'm not lying with you."

The snow tumbled down. Again, Emil thought she heard peels of thunder. She wiped her fist across the fogged back window but the outside was already covered in snow and she could see nothing. She rolled onto her side. She was only five feet tall and was able to fully extend her legs. It was cold and smelly but they would have frozen out there and there was nowhere else to take shelter. She had no idea where they were. She didn't want to ask him. He talked too much whenever she asked a question. He could spend twenty minutes answering the most simple of questions. She wondered how long it had been now. She was angry for not keeping track of the days. She wanted him dead, still, and she wanted to return to Dessan, but the rage had left her as she had begun to accept her new existence.

"Why do you want to go there?" she asked him, suddenly, surprising herself with the question.

He was in the passenger seat, studying a map. The supplies were piled on the driver's seat.

"Why do you want to stay here?"

"I was born here," said Emil. "Gallen is where I'm from."

"What does that matter? Do you have any family left? No, they're all dead. And where are you friends? Nowhere."

"Tracking you, I hope."

"I doubt it."

She was silent for a moment.

"Stone will kill you."

"What is it with him? Are you sleeping with him?"

"That's disgusting."

He lowered his map.

"Then what?"

"He cares about me. More than you do."

"He cares about himself," said the Map Maker, laughing. "No one else. He stole my maps. Did you know that?"

"I know that." She rolled her eyes. "You've told me the story a thousand times."

"Did he care about me when he shoved a gun in my face? No." Beads of sweat broke out on his bald head. "He did that and just took them. He didn't care how it affected me, did he?"

"He had a reason."

"Yes, there's always a reason with Stone." He began to scratch his head. "Steals from me and uses my maps to kill people. What a hero he is. And you look up to him? He's a monster."

Emil swallowed hard. A lock of copper coloured hair fell across her line of vision and she brushed it away. She suddenly wanted to be outside, standing in the snow, breathing cold air.

"You should have seen him on the forest road," she said, turning onto her back, not looking at him. "Killing the Collectors and freeing those people. That's what a hero does."

"You mean sticking his nose into other people's business. Like in Ford. When he fought the Cleric."

The Cleric. She had not thought of him in sometime. His face no longer filled her nightmares.

"He helps people. Not like you, running around with bits of paper. _I can put the world back together."_

She chuckled but he was silent. She took a deep breath and turned round. He seemed crushed by her mocking.

"I'm sorry."

"It's always there," he whispered. "In there. The noise. Going round and round. Since I was a child."

She propped herself onto her elbows.

"What noise?"

"Voices, words, I can never figure it out, but they're always pushing me forward, driving me from place to place. It's like... it's like I'm searching for something... I don't know what it is... I don't know where it is... except... I don't know."

Emil rubbed her eyes, yawned.

"What will you find there?"

"What will we find there, do you mean? You're coming with me, Emil. I need you to keep me alive."

"I told you already. I'm not healing you. I don't care what you do to me. I'm never going to heal you."

"You were given your gift for a reason," he said. "It's not coincidence we met. You're here to help me. Make sure I reach Ennpithia. I was born in a cell. Did you know that? I never knew my parents. I grew up in the dungeons of Chett. They saw it in me from an early age. I knew, you see, I always knew. I could see it. I could see how things fitted together. I could see it then and I can see it clearly now. The way the world is. You know it's not right. This isn't the life we should all have. It didn't used to be this way. Things were different, better. Look into the past and it's there, it's all there, the truth of Gallen. I see it in my maps. We were a great people once. Nations with flags, languages and customs. This is a bad stain. Across the sea, in Ennpithia, they understand. They share the vision I have. A land of cities where people live in harmony."

He folded away his maps.

"I thought you would understand. You don't fit in. What do they call you? Magic Girl? You know you're different. You know you're special. How many more..."

He heard her snoring. He watched her sleep, the gentle rise of her chest. He smiled warmly. There _was_ something very special about her. More than the healing hands. She was infectious. He watched her. He thought of her naked, her skin youthful though badly scarred. The urges had been coming and going. He had resisted them. He had never taken a woman before and could not imagine himself doing so now. He saw her lips gently part, her brightly coloured hair tumble across her patched eye. He could not discern the curves of her body, hidden beneath the blanket and her clothes. He took a deep breath and reached for himself, surrendering to the temptation, rolling his eyes.

It was then he heard it, the roar of engines, bright headlamps shattering the blackness. Emil's eyes snapped open and she sat up.

"Down," whispered the Map Maker, tugging free his hand.

Emil slunk into a ball. Her heart was racing. She could hear car engines idling. Doors slamming. Loud voices.

Then a burst of gunfire.

She gritted her teeth and clamped her hands over her ears as there was a second rattle of bullets.

She could barely breathe as men ran past the car, yelling, still unaware they were inside.

Could they hear her chattering teeth?

More sporadic gunfire.

"No," she whispered, as her legs became warm and wet. The Map Maker looked at her as the smell tickled his nose.

"... you see that crazy fucking bitch?" said a voice, passing the car. "Where the fuck did she...?"

They can't see us, thought Emil. Calm down, think about it, if they knew you were here you'd already be dead. The snow has been falling for hours. The ground is blanketed in the white stuff. All your footprints are gone. The body must be covered by now. The windows of the car are mostly covered. Inside they're steamed up. They're chasing someone. They're not looking for you. Calm down, calm down, just calm...

"What the fuck is that?"

They were standing beside the car.

"Man, just some dead fool."

The two men laughed and leaned against the car.

"I can't believe Montre is dead."

"That's fucked up."

Emil held her breathe and counted the seconds. She reached ten and started again.

And again.

And again.

"Let's get back to the car, man."

Their footsteps crunched through the snow as they walked away.

Engines roared and the cars began to move, slowly turning in the deepening snow, headlamps flashing.

Within minutes there was only the sound of the mournful wind and Emil's pitiful sobs.

* * *

Her hand squeaked as she cleared the condensation from the car window and peered out at a stark sky topping an edgy landscape of pure white. Her legs were sticky with dried urine and her clothes reeked. Her stomach growled but she had no appetite for food. Her throat was parched but she wanted nothing to drink. Her single eye roamed the deep snow. It no longer bore grace and beauty. It now looked cold, unforgiving, like Gallen, like her life. He was awake, silently studying his map, tracing a finger across it. She tried to open the car door but it refused the budge. She put her shoulder against it and grunted as she pushed but the snow was banked hard against it. She tried the other door but the metal had been twisted and it would not move an inch.

"I can't get out."

The Map Maker folded away his map and tried his own door. He had little success. He eased back in his seat and slammed his boot against the windscreen. It splintered at once, a mess of long spindly lines. He shielded his eyes and kicked again and the glass fractured and sprayed across the front of the car. At once, an icy wind blew in and Emil raised her hood. She clambered into the front seat and out into the snow. She felt his eyes upon her as she stretched. The wind howled. She looked around and saw the road and surrounding landscape was slashed with deep ruts from car tyres. She wondered, fleetingly, if they had captured the person they were hunting.

The Map Maker scrambled from the car, his head lowered, oddly silent, creased with shame that only a dawn light can fetch. She had been oblivious to what he was doing before the cars had arrived. He thrust his hand into his pockets.

"Let's go," he said.

He began to trudge along the snow covered road. It took him a few moments to realise she hadn't moved.

"Emil, come on."

"I'm going back," she said.

He wiped a hand over his shiny head.

"No more of this, okay? You know why I need you. There are dangers ahead. I need you to heal me if I get hurt."

She wasn't even looking at him.

"I don't care if you get hurt. I'm never going to heal you."

"Then I'll kill you."

She stared into the dark muzzle, unflinching. Once she would have screamed or tried to run or dropped to her knees and begged for her life but she had seen too much, suffered too many times. Her kin were dead, her village burnt to the ground. She had wandered for a long time, alone, hiding what she was, hiding the gift, finding no refuge, no hope. She let out a long sigh, her breath a white cloud. The gun no longer scared her. He no longer scared her. Reaching Dessan, meeting Mallon, helping at the school, it was the shape of a life she had dreamed of since her family had been murdered.

"I'm going back to Dessan," she said, simply.

The gunshot shattered the silence. The snow powdered.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore."

She started walking, knee deep in snow. She heard him come after her and then the gun was pressed against the back of her head.

"I'll do it," he said.

There was a blur of movement and a man's voice snapped, "No, you won't. Drop the gun. Right now."

Keeping the weapon pointing at Emil's head, the Map Maker turned and saw a tall, narrow man, crouched at the roadside, with an automatic rifle levelled at him.

"I got three bullets left in this pistol," he said. "I reckon you got nothing but air in that thing."

Suddenly, a shotgun was jammed into his back.

"Do you think mine's empty as well?" said a woman.

The man edged forward, slowly picking his steps through the deep snow. The Map Maker felt the shotgun press hard into his spine. He shook his head and lowered the pistol. The man snatched it from him. Emil turned to look at the two strangers.

"What do you want?" said the Map Maker.

"With you?" said Cristo, his eyes falling on Emil. "Nothing."

She shook her head, started walking.

"Hey," called Cristo.

"What?" she flared, waving her arms. "What do you want? Because that's it, isn't it? You want something. You all want something. Take, take, take. I'm just a thing to you, that's all I am, a fucking one-eyed thing. Shoot me then, I don't care anymore." She slapped the side of her head. "This isn't living anyway. Trying to find some crazy place that doesn't exist. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all of you. If Stone was here he'd kill the fucking lot of you."

"Well, he's not here, is he?" said the Map Maker, quietly. "He's still being the hero killing Collectors."

Cristo and Dani exchanged glances.

"Where are you both from?" asked Dani.

"Why?" said Emil. "What the fuck does it matter where I'm from?"

"You know of the Collectors?" said Cristo.

"Yes," said Emil.

"Who is Stone?" asked Dani.

Emil looked around at the desolate terrain, dull and brown yesterday, clean and crisp today.

"He's my friend," she said. "He risked his life for village called Dessan."

"We're from Dessan," said Cristo, lowering his rifle.

"Cristo was a victim of the Centon," said Dani, finger easing from the shotgun trigger. "He was taken to the prison."

"What prison?" said the Map Maker, scratching his head.

A haunted look flitted over Cristo's face. He stamped his feet against the cold.

"Tamnica," said Dani. "That's where they take them."

"I was given a purple ribbon," said Emil. "They put me in a wagon but Stone fought the Collectors. He freed us all."

"I'm Dani," said the woman, pointing her gun away from them. "This is my partner, Cristo."

The four of them stood in the middle of the snow covered road, surrounded by streaky tyre tracks.

There was silence until Emil said, "What do you want?"

Cristo took a deep breath.

"We've been following you. I know this must sound stupid but there are stories that a scarred, one-eyed woman has special gifts and can heal pain – is it true?"

Emil nodded.

"My partner has terrible pain," said Cristo, his voice gentle, no longer commanding or angry. "It's getting worse. The cold doesn't help. We don't know what to do."

Dani passed Cristo the shotgun and flexed her hands. "The pain is always there. It's so intense. I can barely hold things now. Even holding the shotgun was hurting me. Can you help?"

Emil looked at the woman, guessing she was ten years older, maybe more, it was hard to discern. She looked into her eyes and saw a woman who was alive, vibrant, making choices in the world, in her life, fighting the avalanche Gallen tipped in your direction. This woman was in pain and was asking for her help. What was the point of her gift – and it truly was a gift – if she turned her back on her? It wasn't their fault the Map Maker had taken her from Dessan.

"Please?"

Emil clasped Dani's hands. The woman flinched as her slim fingers touched her skin.

"Will this hurt?"

"No."

"Can you...?"

Dani stopped as she saw the scarred girl close her single eye. She felt a tingling and realised it was the wind. Her heart began to beat fast. She was aware of Cristo and the bald headed man watching intently. There was a dragging sensation through her body, through her hands, through the tips of her fingers. Her chest was rising rapidly. Sweat popped onto her forehead. She could feel it running down her arms. The thumping of her heartbeat was inside her head. Still the one-eyed girl gripped her hands, tighter now. Waves surged through her body. And then it snapped away, like the release of a giant elastic band. She stumbled forward, trembling, panting. The girl opened her eye and smiled at her.

Dani stared down at her hands. She clenched them, watched her knuckles whiten. She uncoiled her fingers, splayed them wide.

"Dani?" said Cristo.

She nodded, speechless, tears in her eyes.

"Thank you," said Cristo, aiming his rifle at the Map Maker. "He kidnapped you, didn't he? Do you want him dead?"

His finger went to the trigger.

"No," said Emil. "I don't want that." She looked at him. "He doesn't get this world. All he dreams of is putting everything back in place." She shook her head, disdainfully. "He's taken me miles from the only place I found happiness and what for? To travel to a place that isn't even real. I don't want you to kill him. I feel sorry for him."

"Ennpithia is real," said the Map Maker.

Cristo's finger eased from the trigger. He lowered his weapon.

"What do you know of Ennpithia?"

Before he could answer, Dani pointed towards the town in the south. Thick smoke was belching into the sky.

"Maizans."

"Let's go," said Cristo. "Both of you. We have a truck." He saw the reluctance from them. "Stay on this road and you die."

\--- Seventeen ---

Cracks.

He saw a carpet of white, dotted with footprints and unbroken lines from wheeled handcarts. He stared up at the empty cage, suspended from the battlements, creaking in the icy wind. Stone knew Justine was dead. His heart burned. He struggled for breath. Curled in the corner, naked, bruised, shivering, he rubbed his skin and closed his eyes. He stood in sunlight, on the bridge at Dessan, far from this dismal, oppressive place, water gushing beneath him, Justine by his side. He did not love her. He did not understand the deep bond of love. It had been cleansed from his body in childhood, like a finger and thumb extinguishing a candle. He only knew that a warm sensation touched him when she was there and a cold one when she was not. Was that love? He had no idea. Her cared for her, he knew that to be true. He cared for Emil, too, but in a much different way, a way that confused him even more than his feelings for Justine. He wondered if she was forging ahead with her life, finding the happiness she deserved. _Magic Girl._ Even such a thought could not bring the flicker of a smile to his stoic face.

Hungry, dehydrated, he was suddenly afraid of dying. He had never feared death. Until now. He had spent his entire life hunting one man, living with death on his shoulder, gladly willing to accept it once his thirst for vengeance had been sated. Death had never scared him. His life had splashed with death since the age of eight. Once more, his childhood crawled into his thoughts, bathed him in the horror of the past. His father, mother and sister had fallen beneath the sword of a soldier, the clatter of hooves on rocky ground, a red and black uniform, the sweep of the long blade, the terrible screams that saw him clamp his hands over his ears and shriek for it to stop, tears streaming down his sun bleached face. He had fled as they were hacked to pieces. The order had been given to eradicate the wastelands of settlements and villages near the great city of the Southern Desert and his people had bore the wrath of a power-mad Chancellor. The man leading the extermination had seen enough bloodshed and defied his orders, allowing for some of the children to be spared. Stone and a small group had fled into the mountains, only to eventually turn on each other, as starvation became reality. He had limped away from the bodies, dazed and bloodied, silent and alone.

The man who killed his family was dead but his death had not ended the nightmares as he had hoped. Yet it had opened a door, one he never knew existed, a door that revealed what life could be, fleeting glimpses of a peace, a calm, a quiet. Here, he was helpless, stricken with fear for the lives of the people imprisoned with him, and the doorway seemed too far to reach. Faces flashed into his mind, churning over and over. He wanted them beyond these walls. He wanted them to see the trees again. He wanted them to feel the peace, the calm, the quiet... but he was going to die in here, he wanted to die in here.

He was fed once a day but the Cuvar who slid his food through a hatch in the cell door would urinate over it first. He would tip the contents into a bucket in the corner. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. And then he glimpsed the truck again, through the cracks in the wall, out there in the courtyard, with the wooden tailgate and the green tarpaulin and the consignment of canisters of bio-fuel, the black energy, and he counted the nights it remained, and realised, in those agonised moments of beatings and black outs that there was a pattern, a routine, and where there was a pattern, where there was a routine, he knew there was an opportunity.

Shrunken in the blackness, he drew on every ounce of strength left in his body and crawled over the grubby stone floor.

He would not let them die.

He clenched his fingers into a fist and beat slowly against the cell door, muttering the words, over and over again.

"I will obey. Tell the Thinker he has my obedience. I will obey. Tell the Thinker I will obey."

In the days that followed, a new Cuvar handed him his food. It was no longer swimming in urine. He ate, shovelling it into his mouth, washing it down with a cup of water, thanking the man who brought it to him. He began counting the days. He watched the snow thin, melt. It piled up around the courtyard, hard looking lumps, dirty and grimy. The sun touched the rusted bars of the cage. It was still empty. The beatings had stopped. His food was untouched. One morning, he heard a rattle of keys and the cell door opened wide. He scurried into the corner, shielding his eyes from the bright light. Something was tossed onto the floor and then the door was closed and locked.

Breathing hard, Stone reached out. His fingers touched trousers, a shirt and a pair of sandals.

* * *

Alba was in Snug's bedroom when Floran came to the house. His housekeeper let the man in and called up the stairs to her master.

He stroked Snug's cold and empty bed, and took one final look around the room. Through the years, before Laia had given birth, he had worked with the Gatherers. He had been handed the post by his father but he had remonstrated with him. Driving through the land scooping up new prisoners was a waste of his talents. His brain throbbed with ideas, new ways to hone efficiency within the prison. His father had told him, sternly, that one day Tamnica would be his and he would need the respect of the Warden and the Cuvars or end up in a cell. So Alba had joined the Gatherers and, though he was loathed to admit it, his father had been right.

Beyond the walls of Tamnica, bouncing along empty roads, he found a new world or, to be precise, jumbled pieces of an old one. Many of the men and women they captured carried little - some rations, a few makeshift weapons - but now and then he would stumble upon an item clearly from another time in Gallen's history; a storybook, an infant's toy, a piece of technology that he did not yet understand. His collection of historical items grew and when Snug came screaming into the world he showered his only son with gifts from a time known only in stories and whispers. He thought back to the final days he had travelled with the Gatherers as his father had grown ill, red blotches appearing on his skin, burning with fever, delirious. He passed the day Alba found the gallery, tracking narrow lanes in the western hills, close to the sea, unearthing a village of ruined buildings with bullet raked brickwork. He saw the rusted hulks of large vehicles with turrets and huge cannons – later learning, from a book, that they had been army tanks – and then his men uncovered a collapsed basement, choked with dust and rubble and filled with a number of sealed crates containing stunning treasures.

"Outside," he said to Floran.

The weasel faced man trotted back into the crisp morning air, the wind whipping in off the sea. Alba picked his steps through the overgrown grass, avoiding the corner where the ashes of his family were scattered. The house stood in the shadow of the prison. There were times when the house suffocated him. There were times when his heart felt as if it would explode with pain. There were times when he considered allowing the sea to take him for ever.

"Well?"

"He has been back in the cell block for ten days now. There has been no trouble with any prisoners or Cuvars."

Alba nodded and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"And his work?"

"He's better suited working with the blacksmith. He is doing everything he is asked to do."

"Is he bluffing?"

Floran scratched his chin.

"I don't know. He could be, sir. I really don't know. I keep asking him about escaping but he has this distant look when you talk to him now. It's as if he can no longer hear me. He looks broken to me."

"I'm just pleased the violence has stopped."

"He met with his women the other day. In the barn. The Cuvars gave them five minutes." Floran grinned. "Suppose that's all you need after being locked in isolation that long."

Alba ignored his lurid comment.

"Take a message to the Collectors. I want the levy raised to five. Le Sen and Agen will carry the burden since Dessan continue to refuse us."

Floran did not answer him.

"Well?

"The Collectors have not returned, sir. There have been no deliveries. They are overdue."

* * *

After rations, Conrad sought out Stone, sat in his usual spot at the back of the cell block. Someone coughed. A yelling voice told him to shut up. One prisoner bumped into another, quickly apologised, but then a brawl ensued. Normally, the throwing of punches brought a baying crowd but the men were listless, hardly anyone even watched. Conrad eased down next to Stone, studying the man's scarred face. He tried to think of something to say but his mind was blank. Stone had said nothing of his experience in isolation or what had led him there. Conrad knew only that he had been taken to see the Thinker but that had been a long time ago now. In truth, Stone had said nothing to anyone since returning from isolation, except for one brief conversation with Julen.

Time was slipping away for Conrad. Was it sixty days? One hundred? Two hundred? He had no idea. It was day or night, hot or cold, that was all. The snow had gone but the sun was still weak and offered frugal warmth. He had been sick again. His skin was pale, his body constantly ached. He slept longer at night. He tried to picture Nuria but his mind was too exhausted to do so. He wondered if he would die in this place. He hadn't believed it. Not when he first arrived but now he could see no way out. Stone was a hollow shell. Whatever they had done to him had drained all resistance from the man and Conrad had no idea how to spark it back to life.

He took a second glance at the man and wanted to tell he how glad he was to see him and be able to share his monosyllabic company once more. He wanted to tell him how he had kissed Nuria outside the tavern that final night in Dessan. He wanted to tell him how much he missed his brother, Tristan, and even his father, Ilan. He wanted to share with him his desire to become a better man. Maybe he would at last follow in his uncle's footsteps and learn the way of a village Saacion. He wanted to tell him so much but the words were lodged in his throat so instead he rested a hand on Stone's shoulder and said nothing.

"I'm going to kill you," said Stone.

Conrad lifted his hand.

"What?

"Is that okay with you?"

* * *

Niklas was unlocking the cell block gate when he heard the smacking of fists and shouting from the adjoining block. He hesitated at the gate, large key in the lock. He should investigate. The Warden had passed on the Thinker's instruction that no further outbreaks of violence were to be tolerated. He had heard rumours that new deals had possibly been struck with tribes from the south and east and that nothing was to interfere with the production of black energy. Niklas cared little for the intricacies of Tamnica; he had his power, his women and his tablets. That was solely where his focus was.

"Fuck," he cursed, about to shut the gate, when he saw two Cuvars running along the tunnel.

He nodded to them and continued about his business. He saw the new girl he wanted. She was young, with perfect white skin and wild strands of russet hair. Her timid eyes would not meet his and he saw her visibly shrink as he stepped into the cell block, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Then Cathy slunk before him. He flashed a look of annoyance.

"Out of my fucking way," he said.

A few of the women looked up as he spoke. The russet-haired girl cowered into the shadows.

"Nuria, get over here. Now, you bitch."

Niklas smirked as he saw what had been done to her. Cathy ran her hand over Nuria's bumpy scalp.

"What do you think, Captain? Do you like her new look?"

His smirk broke into a grin. Cathy leaned toward him.

"Take her tonight, please?" Niklas shook his head, at once. "Please, not the new girl."

"Why not?" he said, his eyes narrowing.

Cathy whispered into his ear. Nuria stood obediently at her side, glancing up as Cuvars escorted two prisoners carrying a body. Niklas looked over his shoulder as they went by. He saw the broken beast Stone and cell block king Julen carrying the limp body of Conrad, his face bloodied, long hair trailing on the floor.

"The Warden will throw you back in isolation," said one of the Cuvars.

"He didn't do anything," said Julen.

"Shut up, you fuck, no one is talking to you."

Niklas turned his attention back to Cathy.

"When will she be clean?"

"Tomorrow," she said, curling an arm around Nuria's waist. "How about both of us? I can hold her down for you. Over your desk?"

Nuria saw the glint in the man's eyes. He could already picture her stripped and draped over his desk, Cathy holding her arms. He gestured for them to step into the tunnel. He slammed shut the gate, locked it. Torches burned, throwing shadows along the old walls. He walked behind them. A Cuvar went by, grinning. He pushed open his office door and he followed them inside.

"Undress," he said, sliding across the bolt.

* * *

Stone and Julen trudged through the farm, the watchtowers silhouettes against the darkening sky.

The two Cuvars walked alongside them, one of them carrying a lamp, both armed with clubs.

Julen, tall with light brown skin and a narrow moustache, thought back to the moment Stone had pushed past his cronies and stepped into his cell, after a long spell in isolation, offering him a way out of the prison, redemption for killing the Bald One. He had listened to the carefully thought out plan. It was insane but others had fled this place so why not this stranger with his crazy plan? He once had a life beyond these walls; a home, a woman, a child, a sick brother, family he gave everything for. Captured, beaten, set to work, Julen had known from his first day in Tamnica that the only way to survive was to rule. He had killed the man running the cell block and surrounded himself with the vilest of animals, the lowest humans he had ever encountered. They would strike terror and he would pull the strings and survive. Now this man offered him something more than survival.

As they reached the barn, he began coughing and let go of Conrad's ankles. Stone walked on for a moment, dragging the man's trailing feet.

He stopped and lowered him to the ground. Julen was still doubled over, coughing.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" said one of the Cuvars, setting down the lamp and drawing his club. "Pick him up, or I'll give you..."

The guard saw the flash of metal too late. Julen sunk the sharpened blade into his throat, stifling the Cuvar's scream with his free hand. Conrad sprang from the ground as Stone grabbed the second Cuvar and effortlessly snapped his neck.

Quickly, the three men dragged the bodies into the barn and doused the lamp.

* * *

"How about something special first?" said Cathy.

She dropped to her knees, loosened the Captain's trousers. Niklas unbuckled his sword belt and set the weapon down on the bed. Cathy's lips engorged him. He gasped and as his eyes rolled Nuria moved, sudden and fast, a blur of limbs, reaching with her hand, snatching hold of the belt, drawing the sword. Cathy sprang to her feet, clamping her hands across his mouth as the iron blade split his stomach. Nuria drove it in deep, eyes filled with rage, twisting it. She stabbed again, half burying it in his chest. His legs collapsed. He crashed onto the bed. Cathy sat astride him, grinning into his shocked eyes. His trembling hands tried to wrench free her arms but he was weakening, his face ashen. He thrashed as Nuria pulled the sword from his body, showering her skin with blood. She raised it, took once final look at him and plunged the tip into his groin. His body convulsed. Cathy held onto him, drenched with his blood. One scream and they were dead. He jerked violently. The bed was soaked with blood. It pooled onto the floor.

Cathy saw the life drain from him. This was her chance out of Tamnica. After all these years.

"The fucker's dead," she whispered. "Didn't think it would be you getting me out of here, blonde."

Nuria swung the blood coated sword with both hands. Cathy opened her mouth but the blade tore into the side of her neck and severed her head.

Panting heavily, Nuria lowered the sword and picked up her clothes, pulling them over her bloodstained body.

Hastily, she rummaged through the Captain's pockets and found the cell block keys. Sword in hand, she took a deep breath and slid back the bolt on the door. She opened it a fraction and peered into the torch lit tunnel. A Cuvar strolled past, without a glance. She froze, heart pounding. She waited, too terrified to move, listening as his footsteps gradually faded. She could hear a few men in conversation nearby but she couldn't see them. She edged the door open. There was no one around. She could hear groaning from the cell blocks. She trotted forward, constantly looking behind her. Her sandaled feet padded against the dirty floor. There was a tunnel ahead, to her right, which led to the farm. She pressed herself against the wall, chest rising, and stuck her head around the corner. The tunnel was empty. The gate at the end was closed. She could see the farm shrouded in blackness.

Suddenly, there were voices and footsteps. She crept into the right hand tunnel and stood in the shadows.

The voices grew louder. At least two men.

She was drenched in sweat. The outline of a man appeared at the closed gate. She realised it was Stone. There was no time to rejoice in seeing him. She held up her hand and he hesitated. The two men were nearly on top of her.

One look from them and the plan would be ended.

**\--- Eighteen ---**

Stone waited at the gate.

"What's going on?" whispered Julen.

He looked at Nuria, her hand raised in warning, as she stood away from the flickering wall torches. He froze as two Cuvars walked by, swinging clubs, swapping stories. He saw her visibly sag as they went by. He inched open the gate, wincing as it squeaked on rusty hinges. Julen and Conrad followed him along the tunnel. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed, saying nothing. She offered him a weak smile and handed him the bunch of keys. She peered along the tunnel at Conrad. He winked at her but her look back was one of concern.

"It's not my blood," he said, smearing it on his hand.

Stone ducked into the main tunnel, glancing left and right, seeing no one. He approached the female cell block and jammed the key into the lock, swinging open the gate. At first, his presence didn't register. The women assumed Cathy and Nuria were being returned. Then came gasps of surprise as they realised the man stepping between them wore the same dull brown uniform they wore. Stone spotted Justine, curled against the wall, a blanket around her frail looking body, her face drawn, eyes haunted, cheeks hollow, bones jutting against pasty white skin. He knelt and scooped her from the floor. She weighed nothing. He glimpsed her branded arm. He carried her from the cell block, his strong arms around her trembling body.

"Justine?"

Vacant eyes swam, rolled.

"I'll take her," said Nuria, wrapping an arm around. "She's really weak." She handed the blood stained sword to Conrad.

He broke into a wide grin as he curled his fist around the hilt.

Stone led them further along the tunnel, past Captain Niklas' office. Nuria didn't even glance at it.

"Where am I?" muttered Justine.

"We're taking you home to Dessan," said Nuria. "Can you understand me, Justine? You're going home."

"We don't have fucking time for this shit," hissed Julen.

They reached the end of the tunnel, close to the room where they had all been branded.

Conrad peered around the corner. He held up two fingers. Stone gripped the club in his hand. He glimpsed movement behind him. Tentatively, the women had begun to emerge from the cell block, staring in disbelief, talking in whispers. A few of them stayed in the cells, huddled on the floor, too terrified to break the cycle of what they had known for so long. One of the women grabbed the keys from the gate and sprinted to the male cell block. The men had heard what was unfolding and lined the rusty bars, rattling them, calling out. She tried the first key but it didn't fit the lock. A fist reached through the bars and snatched the bunch from her and she backed away as the men hastily tried each key. The lock clicked, the men roared and spilled from the block, rage unleashed.

A number of them rushed into the female cell block and sprang at the women who remained, forcing themselves on them.

There was screaming; handmade weapons flashed as prisoners fought prisoners. The tunnel began to echo with noise.

"Now," said Stone.

Conrad moved swiftly into the next tunnel and swung his sword at the nearest Cuvar, slicing the blade down his face and chest. The man howled, dropping to his knees. Stone and Julen leapt on the second one, beating him to the ground, Julen lashing his club repeatedly, splitting flesh, cracking bone, smashing down until the floor pooled with blood and brain. Stone heard footsteps. A shocked Floran appeared in a doorway. Stone sprinted toward him, bundling the man into a large room where a fire blazed in a giant hearth. He dragged the Rat toward the fire.

"Where is the armoury?"

"Second corridor," gasped Floran. "It's the second..."

Stone jerked him into the flames. The shriek was gut-wrenching. His nostrils flared with the stench of burnt flesh.

"Stone," shouted Conrad.

He tossed the flaming body onto the floor. Prisoners swarmed through the tunnel and a wave of Cuvars met them with a deadly clash of clubs, swords, makeshift blades and bare fists. Stone saw Julen rush into the fight, blood racing.

"That corridor," said Stone, pointing.

He led the way to the armoury as the fight raged. Conrad spotted Eric lying with his skull cracked open. His roared with fury and lunged into the Cuvars, stabbing and hacking with the sword. A prisoner grabbed at Justine but Nuria wrestled him off her and drove a fist into his kidneys. As his grip loosened she lifted a club that had rolled from a Cuvar's grip and cracked the prisoner across the back of the head. The air was thick with laboured grunting as the Cuvars were slowly overwhelmed and began to run, locking gates and doors behind them.

Stone found the second corridor empty. A knot of prisoners had followed them. The narrow armoury door was locked and he crashed his shoulder into it. Dust crumbled from above. He charged the door again and the wood splintered. He kicked the remaining pieces out of his way. The room beyond was square and gloomy, a single torch illuminating racks of crossbows, swords and clubs. There were whips, chains, lengths of rope and a wooden tray brimming with an assortment of knives, catapults, metal throwing stars and daggers. Stone saw no rifles or pistols. He belted a sword to his waist, grabbed a small hip quiver of bolts and lifted a crossbow.

"You'll need this," he said, handing Nuria a sword, as prisoners filled the room, hurriedly arming themselves.

Justine limped alongside her talking in tiny whispers. Nuria couldn't understand a word the woman was saying. She did not have time to care for her or think or feel what they had both endured. The nightmares would come later. Now she needed to fight. Now she needed to drive the blade in her right fist and shed Tamnican blood. The pain of what she had suffered coursed through her veins. Killing would only be the beginning of exorcising it.

Stone led them back along the corridor. Bodies were slumped on the floor, prisoners and Cuvars. He spotted Conrad kneeling beside a man. One of the Cuvars had been left behind and was suffering a ruthless beating by a group of screaming prisoners. The fight had rolled into the tunnels and chambers. There was the clash of steel and angry war cries. With the layout of the fortress committed to memory, Stone led them toward the courtyard. A Cuvar hacked at him with two swords and he shot the man through the throat.

White lights blinked down on the stones as they emerged into the black night. The tower where Justine had been taken by Darrach loomed toward the clouds. The iron cage where they had humiliated her and sent her to die swung in the wind. He saw a number of Tamnicans running across the courtyard, armed with swords and crossbows.

He nudged the gate, aimed and fired. The bolt hissed through the air and hit a man in the chest, felling him. The Tamnicans dived for cover and a volley of bolts and arrows thudded against the gate. Sweat rolled into Nuria's eyes. Justine was sobbing. Conrad gripped Stone's shoulder and the two men saw the Warden emerge from the tower, his thick beard and flowing red hair. He uncoiled his whip and drew his long sword with a flourish. As he barked orders to his men there was a cry behind them and a rush of bodies poured through the gates. The Warden shouted and a hail of missiles cut them down. The prisoners scattered onto the stones, many of them yelling in agony. A second wave of arrows whistled through the air.

"Kill them," the Warden roared, and surged into them, cracking his whip, swinging his giant sword. His men followed behind him.

"The truck," said Stone, to Conrad, as the fight raged all around them.

Conrad skirted the wall, keeping to the shadows, toward a large truck parked next to the handcarts and barrels, outside the isolation cell. Arrows flew from the tower, peppering a line of prisoners. Stone spotted a trio of bowmen, crouched in the open doorway, taking cover behind an upturned table. He fired his crossbow as he dodged across the courtyard, killing one of them. As he reached the watchtower beside the main gate a Tamnican rushed at him. He drew his sword and blades clashed.

The Tamnican hacked at him, both hands gripping his weapon, taking relentless and brutal strokes. Stone could do little more than block each deadly swipe. The battle raged through the courtyard as more prisoners fled from the cell blocks and tunnels, many of them unarmed. The sheer weight of hatred propelled them into the fight, ignoring wounds they would no doubt die from sometime later. The fervour of the men and women in brown hide began to slowly tell.

The sword clanged against the wall behind his head. Stone brought up his weapon and forced the Tamnican back. The young Tamnican lunged at him. Swords locked in an angry clash of steel. His young face was thick with sweat and he was grunting as he tried to overpower Stone. His eyes filled with rage and Stone could feel the man throwing every ounce of strength against him. The iron blades ground together. Stone felt his muscles tighten and his lungs burn. He eased a hand from the sword hilt and reached into the quiver worn on his hip. His fingers curled around a shaft. He whipped the bolt free and stabbed into the Tamnican's face. The man screamed as the bolt pierced his cheekbone. The strength seeped from his body. His grip on the sword collapsed.

Stone speared his blade through the man's chest, yanking it clear in a spray of blood.

Breathing heavily, he snatched his crossbow from the ground and loaded it. He glimpsed Conrad and Nuria at the truck, fighting off Tamnicans. He saw Justine huddled in the shadows. He aimed his crossbow and shot a bolt into the back a head. He saw a grim smile flash over Nuria's face. He kicked open the door to the watchtower. A Tamnican appeared at the bottom of the stairs and hurled a knife at him. He dodged the blade and fired with the crossbow, hitting the man in the stomach. He stood over him, yanked the bloodstained bolt free, and set it back in the crossbow. The man's face turned white, he was struggling to breath. He clutched his stomach with trembling hands, blood running through his fingers. Stone climbed over him. The staircase curled up to a closed wooden trapdoor. He took the steps two at a time, heart thumping, knowing at least two more men waited for him. He had to knock out that fearsome weapon he had seen when they were first brought here. There was no way he could leave that in one piece and attempt to cross the bridge, even in a motorised vehicle.

Crossbow in one hand, bloodied sword in the other, he reached the trapdoor and waited. He listened. He could hear the shuffle of feet and whispered voices. He waited. Outside, was the sound of the Warden's whip. There was a creak above him and a slither of cold air touched his skin as the trapdoor was slowly raised and a face appeared. He fired instantly. A young man screamed as the bolt thudded into his forehead. Stone burst through the trapdoor. A figure blurred before him and he drove the sword forward, sinking it deep through flesh. He was shocked at the face of a young woman, with cropped hair, a loaded crossbow slipping from her hands. He pulled free his sword and her body slumped onto the wooden floor.

He stepped over her and blinked, struck for a moment at the sight of the road snaking from the prison down the hillside, toward a gated wire fence, the long bridge beyond, the compound across the river. He could see lights and hear the distant sound of car engines. He was about to look away when he saw a stone building off this his left, brightly lit. A low fence bordered a tangled looking garden. He counted at least ten Tamnicans outside.

The Thinker's house.

He nodded and turned his attention to the monstrous ballista before him. He raised his sword, set to destroy it, but then hesitated as he noticed it sat upon a circular shaped platform. He attempted to turn it and smiled thinly as it moved in all directions. Sheathing his sword, he peered from the watchtower and saw Conrad, Nuria and Justine still hiding beside the truck. The courtyard was littered with broken bodies and weapons. Men and women groaned. He heard a grinding sound as several prisoners began to open the main gate. Quickly, they were shot down in a hail of arrows fired by the bowmen at the tower.

Stone examined the beast of a weapon. It was constructed from wood, with metal panels. He saw a trio of long metal spikes loaded into it. He looked for a trigger but there was none. He crouched at one end and saw a wheel with a handle but when he turned it nothing happened. He couldn't understand how it fired. He wiped the sweat from his face and studied it further. He traced his fingers along the projectiles, caught in a tight harness with a metal bar thrust through two loops, holding it in place. He felt the tension and realised it was a simple process of releasing the bar. He scanned the courtyard and saw the Warden lunge at two prisoners, slicing an arm off one and hacking into the chest of another. He was wounded, cuts down his face and body, an arrow lodged in his thigh.

Stone turned the weapon away from him and angled the great crossbow toward the tower. He yanked free the bar. The fearsome weapon jolted and the iron spikes whistled with deadly accuracy. He saw one of the bowmen severed at the waist, another decapitated. The third spike flew through the open doorway and he heard a terrible scream. There was no time to reload it and he had no real idea how to. He drew his sword and sliced and hacked at it until his face was raw with sweat.

In the courtyard, Stone went for the gate. The fires around the walls illuminated cobbles slick with blood and severed limbs. Groaning and pleading filled his ears. Men chased down men. He gripped the crank handle that controlled the gate and began to turn it. He gritted his teeth. It crunched and grated. The Warden's head snapped around, blood streaked hair swirling in the moonlight. Stone could see the bridge. There were running footsteps and a woman and two men fled through the opening. Stone kept turning the handle as the Warden stalked toward him. A Cuvar hurled his club at Stone, striking him in the back. Winded, his hands slipped from the handle. He picked up his crossbow and fired, missing. The man lunged at him, clenched fists pounding Stone's chest and face.

"Get out the fucking way," shouted the Warden.

The Cuvar ran as the Warden stepped toward Stone, both hands clutching his sword. Suddenly, he yelled and spun round. Nuria's dark face glowered at him. She came at him once more, striking again with her sword. Conrad moved from the shadows, edging toward him from the other direction. The Warden heard the unmistakable scrape of iron behind him. He realised he was surrounded; the three of them stepping closer, each one armed with a sword. His body seared with pain from a dozen wounds. His armour felt heavy. The three grew closer still. His heart was raging. His brow was thick with sweat. Stone lunged, hacking at his legs, slicing through flesh. The Warden cried out, flashed his sword wildly. The three leapt at him with screams of hatred, blades puncturing flesh; one in the back, one in the chest, one in the throat. The giant man toppled and hit the ground.

Breathing ragged, they ran for the truck.

The keys were on the dashboard. Stone jammed them into the ignition. He gunned the vehicle into life, pressed his sandaled foot against the accelerator. The vehicle jerked forward, huge tyres crunching over the sprawl of bodies. Voices screamed as Stone manoeuvred the truck through the gate. He peered along the dirt road that wound down the hillside. He saw a second road running alongside the prison toward the single house he had spied from the watchtower.

"What are you waiting for?" said Nuria, as he hesitated at the wheel.

"The Thinker's house," he said, grimacing.

Conrad glanced through the cabin window and slowly shook his head. Nuria placed her hand on Stone's arm.

He nodded, stepped on the accelerator. The truck swerved down the road. He gripped the wheel and eased onto the brake. He felt the vehicle lurch and for a moment there was a collective gasp as they thought it might topple over. The wheels slammed onto the dirt surface and he powered forward towards the wire fence topped with barbed wire. He saw Tamnicans with white masks. As he drew closer, wheels churning rapidly, he turned on the headlamps, the long white lights blinding the men and scattering them into the brush as the truck ploughed through the gate, tearing the fence down behind it.

There was a burst of gunfire and bullets raked the green tarpaulin and wooden tailgate.

The truck roared onto the bridge, swerving from side to side. Stone's eyes were unblinking, face intense, hands tightly clutching the wheel. Justine clung to Conrad. Nuria fidgeting in her seat as the headlamps streamed ahead and they all saw the obstacle of vehicles that had been driven across the top of the bridge. There were masked men with assault rifles and crossbows.

"Down."

As they ducked, Stone fiddled with the lights and the beams became even brighter, nearly blinding the Tamnicans.

"Fuck," he yelled, flooring the accelerator.

\--- Nineteen ---

There was a flash of muzzles and the rattle of bullets as the truck crashed through the barricade with a tremendous screech of metal.

Sprawled across the cabin, the four of them were showered with broken glass as the windscreen was pulverised. Stone felt the wheel spinning and peered above the dashboard as the forest loomed around them. They were past the compound but he could hear the snarl of engines behind them. Brushing fragments of glass from his body he righted himself in the driver's seat and wrestled control of the truck. Foot down, he powered along the road.

"They're coming after us," shouted Conrad, head thrust out the window, long hair streaming in the wind.

Justine, pieces of glass in her hair, screamed. Curled in a ball, she rocked, hands covering her head. Stone glanced down at her, for a moment, a fragile and pitiful sight bunched on the grubby cabin floor. It was cramped with the four of them in a space designed for three.

"Can you drive?" said Stone, and Nuria shook her head.

Cars and jeeps tore after them, engines growling, a loose column of rusted vehicles. Tyres spun as they accelerated forward. Stone swerved left and right, keeping his foot pressed hard on the pedal. The road was wide enough for them to flank the truck and he had to keep that from happening. He was certain they were much faster than this lumbering transportation vehicle but he also realised what the truck lacked in speed it made up for in bulk. There was a mirror fixed to both doors and he could see the vehicles spread behind them, glimpsing men with white masks.

"You need to get in the back," said Stone. "Stop them from climbing onboard. Take the crossbow."

He loosened the hip quiver, hastily tossed it to Conrad. The long haired man caught it and glanced nervously at the back of the cabin, realising there was no way into the back of the truck from in here. He stuck his head out of the window and the wind blasted his face. Stone swerved the truck and there was the crunch of metal as he clattered into one of the cars.

"Come on," shouted Stone. "I'll keep the truck straight until you're in there."

Nuria looked between the two men, the steely determination in Stone's eyes, survival at any cost; Conrad was far from convinced, his face tinged with fear. He nodded to himself and opened the cab door. He stepped out, gripping hard as the wind buffeted him. The forest flashed past, a darkened blur. His heart was thumping, resounding in his head. His sword hung at his waist and the crossbow was strapped to his back. He took another step and then the truck lurched, as Stone turned to avoid a gaping hole in the road.

Hanging on, Conrad gritted his teeth and swung around the open door, onto the rear of the cabin, desperately clinging to it. Nuria slammed the door shut as a car powered alongside the truck. Conrad took off the crossbow, slotted in a bolt and waited for the car to nose past the tarpaulin covered flatbed. He raised the weapon and fired, mostly on instinct. His aim was true and the projectile shattered the glass and lodged into the driver's head.

Conrad let out a cry and punched the air as the car spun away into the trees. He peered around the flatbed and saw more cars surging toward them. His triumphant expression drained away. Quickly, he drew his sword and sliced through the tarpaulin cover, ripping open the fabric. He rolled through the gap and landed with a heavy thump onto the wooden flatbed. He slid around as the truck lurched once more, ramming an approaching car. He got to his feet, balanced, and then Stone rammed a car on the other side and he tumbled once more, collapsing against a row of benches.

On his knees, Conrad looked out from the back of the truck as a Tamnican leapt from a battered car.

He threw himself toward the man, drawing his sword in one fluid motion, and spearing the blade through the Tamnican's chest. The man's weight pinned him for a moment. Gasping, he rolled the body off and dragged free his sword, coated with blood. There was a flash of a gun muzzle and Conrad hurled himself flat as bullets raked the inside of the truck. He felt the vehicle swerve from side to side.

The sky began to lighten as the truck tore through the forest, the broad road winding, grey and desolate, carved with twin headlamps, bright beams punching through the flailing tendrils of darkness.

Stone blinked at the road ahead, cars swarming around them, ramming into the side of the truck, trying to force them into the trees. He needed to shake these pursuers and return Justine to Dessan. He had his hopes pinned on Emil saving her. He glanced down from the jerking steering wheel and saw her eyes wide with fear. Emil could repair her broken body but nothing on the face of Gallen could repair her shattered mind.

In the back of the truck, Conrad raised his head and fired at the nearest vehicle. The bolt careered harmlessly off a large metal grill covering the windscreen. He fired a second time and cursed as it bounced away into the road. He dragged another from the quiver, his hand dipping in the spread of blood from the dead Tamnican. A spiteful grin spread across his face. He lowered the crossbow and waited. A car with a grilled metal windscreen accelerated toward the truck, both driver and passenger obscured with white masks.

As the vehicle grew closer he glimpsed the passenger begin to climb through his open window. Grunting, Conrad lifted the body of the Tamnican and hurled it onto the car. He heard a dismayed cry and snatched his crossbow as the car swerved; the driver unable to see past the hefty man sprawled across the windscreen. The Tamnican hanging from the window tried to drag the body free, pulling with both hands, but one foot had trapped in the metal grill. His eyes flicked toward the truck as he saw Conrad fire the crossbow. The bolt shredded the wheel and the car spun across the highway, slamming into another vehicle with a terrible sound of ripping metal, the tangled vehicles erupting into a giant fireball.

Stone saw the flames in his side mirror, a grim smile forming on his lips. He switched off the headlamps as the grey clouds began to glow at the edges.

"Shit," he said, glancing down at the dashboard gauge.

"What is it?" said Nuria, looking over, seeing the white needle touching a red square.

She looked at him. He looked back at her.

A jeep cut across the truck and a Tamnican opened fire with a pistol. Nuria and Stone ducked. The bullets smacked behind them, gouging holes. Blind, Stone turned the wheel, feeling the tyres chew up rough grass and dirt. The vehicle jolted along and he turned the wheel again, crashing back onto the road. He glimpsed above the wheel and saw the Tamnican eject the magazine and reach into his pocket, pulling out a handful of bullets, hurriedly loading them into it.

Stone put his foot against the accelerator, as a shadow covered him.

"Down," yelled Nuria, and he reacted, not even looking, as she lunged with her sword, across his back, driving it into the throat of a Tamnican hanging on the side of the truck. She yanked it clear and his body bounced along the road. Stone stamped on the pedal and ploughed into the jeep. It began to swerve as the driver fought to control the wheel. The handful of bullets dropped from the gunman's hand but he slammed in the magazine and fired. Nuria screamed and her shoulder erupted with blood. Stone grabbed the collar of her shirt and pulled her down onto the seat, the bloodied sword slipping from her hand. At the sight of blood, Justine began wailing and slapping her head with her hands. She started to crawl onto the seat as Nuria panted, blood running down her arm. Stone rammed the jeep, an ear piercing wrench of metal against metal. The jeep bounced forward and spun off into the forest, smashing into a cluster of tall trees, tossing the gunman screaming into the undergrowth.

"It went through," gasped Nuria, wincing. "I think it went straight through. I'm okay."

Stone turned at the sound of Conrad calling to them.

"Are you okay?"

He ducked as an arrow hissed into the back of the truck and lodged next to his head. He saw a car speeding close, a masked, white gloved Tamnican leaning from it, notching a second arrow.

"Fine," shouted Nuria, grimacing, tearing a strip from her shirt to plug the wound. "You?"

He ducked as another arrow thudded behind him and quickly reloading the crossbow, shooting wild.

"I really could do with a drink and a smoke," he laughed, reaching into the hip quiver and finding it empty.

"How many?" said Stone, as the highway banked left, then right, the road ahead buckled and cracked.

There was a pause. The truck rocked as a car crashed into it. Stone glimpsed a masked bowmen and saw him fire at the front tyres. There was a loud hiss and the steering wheel became unsteady. He gripped it tightly. Justine was begging for him to stop. Nuria reached for her, pain searing through her shoulder, her face filthy with sweat and blood.

"Eight," shouted Conrad.

A car rammed against the rear of the truck and two men clambered over the tailgate, drawing swords. Conrad whipped his blade at them and Stone could hear the clash of iron as he powered the truck deeper into the forest, sunlight touching the tangled treetops, the leaves dripping with rainfall, a ferocious wind barrelling around the trunks. He looked down at the shaky white needle on the dashboard and saw it was deep in the red. The vehicle had almost exhausted the black energy. He glimpsed at the vehicles streaming toward the truck, firing arrows at the wheels. He heard another collapse, the rubber shredded by feathered arrows. Justine was sobbing, her weak and narrow body racked with inconsolable sobs. Stone had pushed the truck as far as it would go. They couldn't outrun them for much longer.

"Conrad?" he yelled.

He caught the sound of laboured breathing and a scream, quickly followed by another.

"Conrad?" he shouted, a noticeable concern in his voice.

"Conrad?" echoed Nuria, tightly binding her wound.

"I'm here."

"Hold on," said Stone, reaching for Nuria. She felt the power in his arm and then suddenly the truck began to screech and the forest slowed all around them as he slammed hard on the brake, turning the wheel. The vehicle bucked, jolted and skidded along the highway, leaving thick black lines. It ground to a halt, curved across the road, blocking the way forward. There was an ugly crash of metal from behind them as two cars collided into the side of it and the truck rocked.

"Out," yelled Stone, smashing the ignition as they leapt from the vehicle, pulling Justine with them. There was no way past, for now. He heard shouting and agonised cries. He glimpsed a Tamnican half through a windscreen, his body nearly sheared in two. A blood spattered Conrad emerged sword in hand. His eyes widened with concern as he saw Nuria's gunshot wound but there was no time for words of empathy.

They ran, sandaled feet pounding the damp ground, muscles screaming as they weaved through the trees. Stone led the way, sword in hand, dragging Justine behind him, talking to her all the time, over and over, the same words – "We're taking you home, Justine. Just keep running." – as the Tamnicans abandoned the cars and flooded the forest, hunting them down. They wound through the tangled undergrowth, Conrad shouting as a branch snapped into his face, Nuria gasping as one swished against her leg and punctured the skin. Her shoulder throbbed. It felt as if the truck had driven over it. She threw a glance back into the trees, seeing Conrad, his dark hair limp around his face. Beyond him, she could see only a smattering of Tamnicans. She looked forward, ducking beneath overhanging branches, almost losing her footing on the wet carpet of crushed pine needles and browned leaves, the trees more stripped than she had remembered, providing less cover. She felt the ground slope and heard rushing water and a vision filled her head, the night before they were taken, the men who had abducted her from the shack.

"Stone, are you heading for the shack?"

"No," he called back. "We'll be trapped in there."

No sooner had he uttered the words than several Tamnicans cut across them and Stone swung fiercely with the sword, hacking into one. The man yelled, dropping a crossbow. Nuria lunged at the second one, pain shooting through her arm, but the strike was weak, overstretched, and he blocked it, cutting his own sword toward her. Stone roared and charged the Tamnican, slamming sword against sword, iron against iron. Grimacing, Stone forced the man back and slashed at him, tearing his thigh. The man barely acknowledged the wound and thrust back. Conrad snatched the crossbow lying on the ground and raised the weapon to fire until Justine cried out, pointing.

He turned, an axe raised behind him, and fired. The bolt spat from the crossbow and lodged into the Cuvar's throat.

The man toppled over. Conrad looked down at his pain stricken face, recognising him from the prison.

He raised his foot and crushed his face.

Swords clashed, as Stone fought the remaining Tamnican, the forest swarming with armed men, drawn to the noise, chasing through the trees, more than twenty of them, brandishing weapons, mouths spouting hate through white masks. Nuria, weakened by her wounded shoulder, hacked at the man, tearing her sword off his hip. He whistled through gritted teeth as the pain flared white hot. His leg felt it was going to fold over. Stone saw the sudden distraction and lunged forward, plunging his sword into the Tamnican's chest.

"What's that?" said Nuria, wiping her face. "Can you hear that?"

Conrad snatched the crossbow ammunition from the dead Tamnican. The four of them sprinted toward the river.

"That sounds like horses," he said, panting furiously.

The Tamnicans closed in on them, pouring through the bare trees, shooting arrows and bolts.

"I can't keep going," spluttered Conrad, cheeks red, dripping with sweat.

Stone glanced back at him. He looked at Justine and Nuria; they were all exhausted, wasting energy running.

He stopped, abruptly, and put his companions behind him, shielding them, readying his sword with both hands; his ragged hair and beard with streaked with blood, his lined skin littered with scars, knowing that he would rather die a fighting man than limping through the trees or meekly grovelling on a cell floor. He shut out all noise, the roar of the river, the closing thump of hooves, the voices of the Tamnicans racing toward them, and he seethed with anger at failing his companions. He had led them from that torturous place only for the escape to falter here in the forest. The place had been marked. This was where they would perish, here amongst the ancient trees.

He thought back to when he had first glimpsed the truck in the courtyard, during his darkest days in the isolation cell, swiftly formulating a route out of the prison, masking his intentions with obedience, the one emotion the Thinker had craved and that he would never give; yet he had pledged fealty, rapidly weaving the mist of deception, drawing in Julen and instructing Nuria to draw Cathy in, too, the hook dangling with the tantalising bait of freedom. No matter how entrenched both were at the height of the prison hierarchy, Stone knew that neither would resist the opportunity and yet all the plotting and planning had come to this, surrounded by heavily armed Tamnicans weaving through the trees, more men than he cared to count, thick smoke curling into the air behind them from the wreckage on the road.

Nuria and Conrad stood with him, faces clouded with the realisation that these would be their final moments, the sun breaking through the clouds, nudging aside the gloom, bathing them with a bright warm glow. Justine was crumpled on the ground, wrapped against a tree, red rimmed eyes staring blankly. Yet, as the sun touched her skin, there was a flicker of acknowledgement and she began to look slowly around, her surroundings registering in her shattered mind. Stone took one last look at her, broken and weak and shivering, and his heart jabbed with pain. He fleetingly thought of Emil as the Tamnicans surged toward them.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He gripped his sword tightly. For the first time in his life he truly wanted to live but now he waited to die.

"At least we got to feel a Dessan sun," said Conrad, grinning, clapping Stone on the back. "Not a bloody Tamnican one."

"And we escaped," said Nuria, glancing up at him, the numbness in her shoulder no longer a distraction. "We die on our feet. Like soldiers."

He would never know, she thought, and now it's too late.

A grim smile touched his lips. He narrowed his eyes as the Tamnicans looped around them and attacked.

\--- Twenty ---

Naked branches snapped and the ground reverberated as a swathe of horses thundered through the trees, darkening the forest. The ring of steel echoed through the early dawn as the exhausted prisoners made one final, valiant stand, blades sweeping through the air, iron clattering iron, Tamnicans pressing in closer, tightening the noose.

Stone chopped, slashed, howled and saw men fall, only to be replaced by more. Conrad cried out as a sword bit into his arm. His weapon slipped from his grasp and he clutched the wound grimly, blood flooding over his hand. He dropped to his knees, spent, finished. Stone edged around to protect him, hacking furiously with his sword, the ground littered with twitching and groaning bodies. Tamnicans screamed at them, hurtling forward. Nuria flashed her weapon, sweeping in a wide arc, severing limbs, gouging and slicing. She was drenched with sweat and blood. Her shoulder throbbed. Her lungs burned.

Still the Tamnicans surged at them until a long spear spiralled through the trees and struck one in the back. The man let out an agonised cry before stumbling forward several paces, then losing his footing and sprawling onto the damp ground. Stone frowned at the weapon lodged in his back. The darkness swept over them all and he grabbed Nuria and Conrad and pulled them tight, dragging them to where Justine was on her feet as riders swarmed the forest in a blur, shooting arrows and cutting down the Tamnicans with swords and spears. Seeing the heavy numbers rushing at them the men from the prison ran without a fight. Stone watched as the Tamnicans were chased back to the road, volleys of arrows and spears whistling after them.

"It can be," said Conrad, wincing. "It's the militia. On horses."

He looked at Nuria and Stone.

"How long were we gone?"

Stone thought back to the day he had first encountered the militia of Dessan; a well trained unit of twenty five men, wooden shields and spears. He saw twice as many men now and each one fearlessly rode a mare. A tan coloured horse reared before them, snorting. Stone looked up at the familiar features of its rider; the short dark hair, the dusky skin, the slanted eyes, the flat nose. Mallon jumped down from his saddle as his cavalry pursued the remaining Tamnicans.

"Tristan was scouting; he heard the engines, spotted the smoke. We rode hard to get here."

He drew his gaze across the four of them, bloodied and broken, weak shadows of the four who had disappeared more than half a year ago. He swallowed hard, unable to find any words to express the feelings that boiled inside him. As the seasons had changed, the fields had become cold and hard, the groves lost their leaves and fruit and the snow had turned the world white. During that long winter Mallon had given up hope of ever seeing them alive, and yet, with the weather changing once more, and the season of warmer days and longer nights ahead, here they stood. Unable to conceal his joy, he embraced Conrad and Justine, fellow villagers he had known since childhood.

Hastily, he issued orders to his men, detailing them to strip the forest of discarded weapons and search any abandoned vehicles for supplies. Stone heard engines and glimpsed four cars speeding back toward Tamnica.

"They'll come again," he said.

"Let them," said Mallon, as they were brought horses and bottles of water for the ride back to Dessan.

He had left Dessan with forty five men and would return with the same number. No casualties. Stone saw a steely look in the face of the young man, an edge that had not been there before. He rode at the head of the column, horses trotting back along the highway, scouts far ahead.

"Where did you get the horses from?" asked Stone, swigging down mouthfuls of water.

"The Collectors," said Mallon, thrusting out his chest. "Long after you had left they came back to Dessan looking for the levy. Rode in with horses and wagons demanding we honour the Centon."

He glanced across at Stone.

"We slaughtered them and took everything. I now have an eighty man militia and we use smoke signals to call on Agen and Le Sen if we are ever attacked. Likewise, they can do the same with us."

Stone listened.

"I rode to Agen and Le Sen and told them how we had repelled the Collectors once more and that no one from Dessan would ever be taken by force. They were still paying the levy but their leaders talked and a decision was made to destroy all the Centons. No more wagons, Stone. No more ribbons. I sat with the other villages and we cemented a bond. The Eastern Villages will stand as one, united against any who try to harm us. You showed us the way. Now we can always protect our people. We plotted to annihilate the Collectors. Punish them for the innocents they had taken from us for generations. Tristan had located their settlement, northwest of here." He turned in his saddle and pointed into the forest. "We waited for the snow to come and then we launched our attack against them. I led two hundred armed men against the Collectors, Stone. We have wiped them off the face of Gallen."

Stone said nothing. Rays of the sunlight stretched from the pale sky, tingling his aching and bruised skin.

"Only that bastard Darrach survived. We never found him. He is the only Collector that still roams free."

There was an ugly bitterness to Mallon's voice, a twisted delight. Stone had littered Gallen with bodies but he always deemed it a necessity rather than a joy. Although he hardly knew the man Emil regarded him fondly, taking a natural shine to the good looking, composed and likeable young man, but this version of Mallon was radically altered; he spat his words, uncaring who heard them, it only mattered that they were said. Stone could hear the layers guilt and self-loathing in his tone and puzzled over what could be spiking his soul.

"Darrach is dead," he said, quietly, hoping that might ease any burden. "He was killed in Tamnica."

Mallon nodded. The information did not lighten his mood.

"They don't even know you in Agen and Le Sen, Stone, but they know of you and how you inspired us to fight."

Stone could hear Justine, coughs racking her frail body.

"Justine is sick," he said. "Nuria and Conrad are badly wounded. We need to hurry. Emil will be able to help them."

Mallon ordered for his men to raise the pace.

"How is she?"

Stone waited for a reply but there was none. He stared across at Mallon, hooves clattering against the hard road, clarity dawning in his thoughts.

"What happened?"

His voice was little more that a growl. Mallon felt his chest heave. He blinked the tears from his eyes. Suddenly, Stone sprang onto his horse and bundled him from the saddle. The two men crashed into the undergrowth, rolled and grappled. The column slowed and halted as fists blunted against flesh. Mallon was swift, Stone was worn, punches stabbed into his ribs and face. He raged and smothered the man, clasping his blood caked hands around his smooth neck.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

"Nothing," gasped Mallon. "He took her."

Hands wrestled the men apart and swords were thrust at Stone. Nuria had dismounted and was running along the road.

"Who took her?" snarled Stone.

"Your fucking friend," shouted Mallon. "The Map Maker. He tricked us all. Freed Margaux to create a diversion." There was a scattering of nods and murmurs from the men on horseback. "He killed two of my men. Took her at gunpoint and rode north."

The horses grew restless. Shadows streaked across the highway.

"What are you fighting about?" said Nuria. "He just saved our lives."

"Emil's gone," he said, brushing aside the sword blades. He reached for his horse. "The Map Maker took her."

He barely had the strength to pull himself onto the saddle.

"I looked for her," said Mallon, stepping toward him. "We all did. We went out on foot and looked everywhere but we couldn't find her. After we killed the Collectors we could cover more ground on horse. I sent search parties in every direction. And nothing. No trace of them. We found a town far to the north but no one was left, they had been massacred. I even travelled as far as the borders of a ruined city but she was nowhere."

"Tell him," said one of the militia.

Mallon swept onto his horse.

"Tell him what?" asked Nuria.

Stone's cold eyes levelled at Mallon.

"Yes," he said. "Tell me what?"

"I questioned every one in the village," he said, the tears gone from his eyes. "I learned that Philip had told the Map Maker about Ennpithia and he stupidly believed him."

Conrad trotted forward on his horse, his arm wrapped. "Are you fucking serious?" he said. "He actually listened to Philip."

"What's Ennpithia?" asked Nuria.

"A fairy tale," said Mallon, darkly.

* * *

Dessan was less than an hour away. The sun shone down on the riders. Stone listened as Mallon explained how the Map Maker had fooled Margaux into believing he was helping her escape, only to knock her unconscious and hide her body in the forest. The militia had hunted for her, wasting precious time, unaware she had been buried in a shallow grave. The Map Maker had then slipped into the village and murdered Tobias, the man Mallon had left protecting Emil, and set fire to the his home. He told Stone that both Margaux and Ilan had since been expelled from the village – "For the crime of sending innocent men, women and children to die at the hands of the Collectors." – though he reassured Stone that Justine would be allowed to remain. She had never chosen the levy and had always offered kind words and comfort to those about to be wrenched from loved ones.

"You were supposed to take care of Emil," said Stone.

"I did," flared Mallon. "He deceived us."

There was a moment of silence.

"Why did he take her?"

"She's a beautiful young woman," said Mallon, then paused. "But that wasn't why he took her. He already has a woman – Sadie – he could have taken her. I figured it out. Sadie told me of a conversation they had shared before he left for Ennpithia."

What happens if you get hurt? There'll be no one to help you...

"He took her as a healer. The Magic Girl. Which means there is a good chance she is still alive. I covered every blade of grass trying to find her, Stone. I don't know where she is."

They turned off the road, onto a dirt track of red clay, already marked with dozens of hooves. The track snaked down through the trees and he could hear the river. As they emerged from the forest Stone saw a palisade wall now ringed the village. A large gate was at the top of the bridge and there was a wooden watchtower manned by two men.

"Impressive," said Mallon. "Isn't it?"

He rode through the open gate with Mallon, crossing the wooden bridge. Villagers stopped and pointed. They had seen the militia gallop into the forest as smoke filled the sky but they had no idea what had happened. There were cheers and several broke into applause as they recognised the battered four. Stone noticed Mallon fidgeting in his saddle, uncomfortable that the adoration was no longer directed exclusively toward him. He slowed his horse and looked down at a short haired blonde woman with a swollen stomach, working in the field. She arched her back, cupped a hand over her eyes and stared at him.

"Sadie," gasped Nuria, noting her ballooned figure.

"Too much change," said Conrad, looking around. "I hope the tavern is still here."

"We need to stitch that arm up before you have anything to drink.

He grinned, ashen faced.

"No one is touching my arm until I've _had_ something to drink."

She glared at him.

"Okay," he said. "I'll have my arm tended to first."

Stone climbed down from his horse, his sandaled feet sinking into the red clay. He was surrounded by excited faces. It was a curious feeling. Questions came at him from every direction. He sought out Mallon, who was organising his men to take care of the horses. He saw them led away toward a newly constructed building that served as a stable. Smoke coiled into the air and his nostrils filled with the smell of cooking.

"Can you give me weapons and a horse?"

Nuria overheard his question and threaded through the crowd of villagers, badgering her about what had happened. Over the next few days, more escaped prisoners from Dessan, Le Sen and Agen would reach home, with stories to tell of the horrors they had endured, but for now, these four were the first to ever return. The crowds swelled. A woman led Justine to her hut and asked for water to be fetched from the river. Stone felt a hand grab his arm and turn him around.

"Look at you," said Nuria. "How much use will you be to her like this?"

Stone looked between Nuria and Mallon.

"I can give you everything you need," said Mallon. "But you need to rest."

He turned to his men and told them to disperse the people. Gradually, the villagers drifted back to the fields and groves.

* * *

With his arm cleaned and stitched, Conrad stood outside the tavern, mug in hand, brimming with frothy drink. He was alone with the sun on his face, long hair trailing down his back, watching the constant motion of Dessan. He had spent the past few hours with his aunt, Mary, and his cousin, Ambre, holding the small child tight. Now, he wandered to a spot behind the building; he sipped his mug, swallowed and then sank to the ground, strangely preferring it to a seat. He stared ahead with vacant eyes, washed a hand over his face and slowly poured the rest of the drink into the soil.

He traced his fingers over the symbols branded on his arm, then folded his hands over his head and wept.

* * *

"I didn't know," said Sadie.

Stone was sat outside a mud hut, in the shade, eyes half shut, a water bottle in his hand, apple cores in his lap. She eased herself onto a stool, letting out a long sigh, and wiped the sweat from her face. The village was busy. The fields needed ploughing and planting, the groves trimming. The blacksmith and the fletcher were forging weapons and ammunition and hastily passing the skill onto younger apprentices. The children were in school with a new teacher, Roberto, recently arrived from Le Sen with his family. He would teach them how to read, how to count, how to write their name. He would teach values and morals and codes of behaviour. Lena was his assistant, thirteen years old now, no longer a pupil, proud to work alongside him, absorbing so much, knowledge pouring into her head, dreaming of one day standing in his shoes, holding sway over young minds – no more would the names be spat in her face or that of anyone else.

"I'm sorry."

He nodded, slowly.

"What happened to your arm?"

He glanced down at the branding, the simple symbols, three shapes in a row. He shook his head.

"Mallon called it a fairy tale."

"I know," said Sadie, letting out a long sigh, her hands holding her stomach. "She'll never know her father."

Nuria appeared in the doorway of the hut. Behind her, water boiled over a fire. There was food and clean clothes.

"You're having a girl?"

Sadie looked up at her, nodding slowly. "I think so. Do you want to feel her kicking?"

Nuria took a few steps forward. She pressed her grimy hand against Sadie's stomach. She could feel nothing.

"She's probably having a nap." Sadie smiled at her. "Are you going to stay?"

"No," said Stone.

"I don't know," said Nuria. She looked at Sadie, fear, confusion and guilt in the young woman's eyes. She wanted to say something more but she was too exhausted to dig out any words. She offered a weak smile and went back into the hut, closing the door and peeling off the prisoner garb, tossing the clothing onto the fire and watching it burn. Her body was caked with dried blood. She uncorked a bottle and took a long drink and then washed and stitched her shoulder wound. It ached but the bullet had gone clean through and she was thankful for that. Finally, she took a large cloth, dipped it into the bubbling water and began to scrub. She scrubbed her skin raw, cleansing it of the blood and grime. Then she washed herself a second time and she kept washing until the water turned cold. Running a hand over her scalp, she dressed and then lay down on a bed, turning onto her side.

Quietly, she wept.

* * *

Stone opened his eyes to Nuria's stunted tears. Sadie had gone. He must have dozed. He didn't remember her leaving but he remembered what she had told him before she left. He eased onto his feet and his hand touched the door of the hut. He listened to her cry, lowered his eyes and began to walk away. He still wore the blood soaked prison clothing. A man stopped him, shook his hand and hugged him. Stunned, Stone walked on, in a daze, until he reached the gate by the river. He stared at it. Militia armed with bows and quivers of arrows stood guard. They nodded respectfully at him. He trudged from the gate, through the scattered mud huts with smoke lazily climbing from low chimneys.

Inside Justine's hut, women tended to her, trying to keep her warm. She was in bed, wrapped in blankets. They had bathed her, cleaned the filth from hair, burnt her prison clothes, fed her, gave her water but still her skin was sickly pale, her eyes red rimmed, cheekbones jutting out. Her cough had worsened, too.

He approached, unsure what he could offer. His hands were hands of violence with scant tenderness in the tips of his fingers. He could wait days unmoving to ambush a man and send him to his death. He could carry vengeance in his soul for more than thirty years. He could carve an existence from nothing. He could take relentless punishments and still rise to take more. He had nothing to offer her. He felt ashamed that Tamnica had inflicted such cruelty upon her. He wanted to turn away from the pitiful figure curled in the bed. Yet he had held her, on that very bed, and loved her and she had clung to him and she had found warmth in him and kindness in his touch and a softness he never knew existed. A smile touched her thin lips as he idled awkwardly by the fire. She asked the women to leave and they scurried outside. The hut was warm. Thin lines of sunlight peeked through the roof. Dust motes floated, drifted.

Stone felt his heart burn. She reached for his rough hand and pressed it to her heart. He sat on the bed and she looked into his battered face, a myriad of cuts and a fresh long scar. She touched it with her finger and he flinched. She slid the blankets from her shoulders and showed him her back. It was criss-crossed with scars from the Warden's whip. She pulled the blankets around herself and he held her in his arms, his face resting on the top of her head. She rocked and cried, for a short time, but then the tears were gone. She broke away from him, coughing, and the women came back inside, wanting Stone to leave. Her eyes watered as the coughs racked her body but she dismissed them and told him to stay.

"Get me up," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

He found her a pair of sandals and fresh clothes. Once dressed, she held onto his arm as he led her from the hut and toward the farmland. He glimpsed Sadie working beneath a hot afternoon sun, her brow glistening, dark patches of sweat soaked through her clothes. She waddled uneasily, her giant belly straining before her. He led Justine to the pen of black feathered ollish birds, scampering about, clucking and jumping and flapping. He found her a place to sit and she curled against him and watched the birds until the sun began to sink, bathing the land in colour. A woman came and herded the birds back into a wooden coop and locked it. Still they clucked. Stone saw the smile on Justine's lips, the tiny joy in her eyes.

The temperature had fallen away by the time he had settled her back into bed and wrapped her in blankets. He stoked the fire as the shadows lengthened. Her cough persisted. She was shivering but her skin was burning. The women returned from Conrad's hut with mixtures and potions his uncle had dabbled with but nothing seemed to be calming the fever. He told the women to leave; there was nothing they could do. He sat with her into the night as the village celebrated the return of the prisoners. There was drumming, singing and laughter. Stone hoped Nuria and Conrad were blind drunk. He held Justine's hand. The cough was brutal, without mercy. He stroked her hair, wiped the sweat from her brow, pinched the tears from her cheeks.

As dawn broke, he kissed her hand, bony and weightless. He gently lay it upon her chest and stepped outside. He took a shovel and dug a grave in the moist ground, next to the pen of ollish birds. He wrapped her still body and carried her through the village.

Silently, he buried her.

\--- Twenty One ---

"This is for you," said Mallon.

Stone had scraped the dirt and grime from his body, roughly trimmed his beard, pulled back his long hair and tied it. He wore fresh clothes and boots and a sheathed sword hung from his belt. Now he stood with the chosen leader of Dessan, proudly displaying the newly constructed village armoury with strong mud walls reinforced by wooden poles and a heavy wooden door banded with iron. Inside, torches burned and Stone noted racks of bows, crossbows, spears, swords and shields.

"I found it in the forest," said Mallon. "You left it behind when you chased after Darrach."

Stone studied his old rifle. It had been meticulously cleaned but there was no ammunition. Mallon saw the expression in his eyes and handed him a cloth bag. Gingerly, Stone peeked inside and saw it was filled with bullets.

"The Maizans were trading them with the Collectors." He nodded. "I have a horse ready for you; provisions and water, blankets, binoculars."

The two men were alone in the armoury. Mallon straightened his back.

"I did try to find her. I care a great deal about her." He paused. "Why do you think all of this has happened?" He swept his arm around the large building but Stone knew he meant much more than the armoury. "I am sick of losing people. All my life I've watched people disappear at the will of Ilan and that damn Centon. Life is hard enough, Stone, and I'm not prepared to let it get any harder for Dessan. People deserve a better life than the slavery Ilan was offering them. This is why I had the wall finished, increased our militia numbers, pulled the villages together."

He ran a nervous hand through his cropped black hair.

"The Map Maker believes in Ennpithia but we found no trace of either of them. What makes you think you have any hope of finding her?"

"I won't give up."

Angrily, Mallon stamped outside. Stone followed, loading his rifle. He blinked at the late afternoon sun and saw a dozen men on horses had gathered.

"What's this?"

"This is me not giving up," said Mallon. "There isn't a day I don't think about what we could have had but I have to protect Dessan."

"I'm not taking these men with me," said Stone. "Use them to patrol the forest road. The Tamnicans will return."

"He's right," said a voice, and Mallon recognised his old friend, Conrad, unkempt and dishevelled. He looked as if he had only moments earlier rose from his bed. His arm was thickly bandaged. "You need to be wary of the Tamnicans. We didn't kill all of them and they still have a prison to run which means they'll be looking for new workers."

Mallon shook his head, frustrated, and said, "It seems being leader means you make none of the decisions."

Hands clamped against his hips, eyes shifting from Conrad to Stone, he turned to his men, growing impatient on horseback.

"Scout the forest road. Break into two units."

In a cloud of dust the horsemen wheeled around and galloped toward the gate at the bridge.

"I'm coming with you," said Conrad. "Emil saved my brother's life. It's the least I can do."

"You're not," said Stone, taking the reins of his horse.

"He is," said Nuria, lurking behind him. "We both are."

Stone furrowed his brow.

"It seems I'm not the only one who doesn't get to make decisions," grinned Mallon.

* * *

Loaded down with weapons and supplies, the trio rode through the north gate of the village and followed a long dirt trail through the trees. They glimpsed the highway winding east from Tamnica and curving around to the north and the east. As they galloped along winding dirt paths the highway cut across them, the surface buckled and ripped. Stone assumed the Map Maker would have kept off the road. He would have known the dangers of a highway with no vehicle. He would have taken his horse north through woodland.

No one spoke as they crossed acres of deserted forest. The sun dipped on the horizon but still they rode, sweeping over the deathly silent and barren terrain. Stone spotted trails that wound east and cut away to the west but he ignored them and continued north. Sadie had told him of the map, the map that had been passed to her through kin, a map believed to be from the time of the Ancients, a time when Gallen was a much different world. Stone had little interest in the history of Gallen but Sadie had explained how, in a faded portion of the map, beyond the town of Cabourg – or Caybon, as Philip had claimed – was a great sea and a stretch of land bearing the initials EN. The Map Maker believed this was the promised land of Ennpithia.

As darkness blanketed the land, they rested and watered the horses and made camp, Nuria building a fire and Stone keeping watch, patrolling a wide circuit around them. He could see nothing but trees. Chewing halk meat, warming beside the fire, Conrad told Nuria the myth of Ennpithia. Stone half-listened, the man's voice dropping out of range now and then as he stepped through the trees, rifle in hand, collar raised, boots gliding over a carpet of fallen leaves, needles and branches.

"It's where you go," he grinned, licking his lips. "That's what they told us when we were children."

He lifted a bottle, spat out the cork and filled two cups.

"Go?" asked Nuria, puzzled, swigging her drink. She had taken a crossbow and sword from the armoury and the weapons were propped next to her.

"When you die," said Conrad, chuckling, and then his face clouded as he thought of Justine, laid to rest only this morning. "I'm sorry; I suppose it's not funny."

She squeezed his knee.

"Maybe you shouldn't find humour in everything."

He poured another drink and his thoughts flashed with the beatings in Tamnica, the Bald One, the branding of his arm.

"Maybe I shouldn't," he said, numb.

A breeze rippled through the trees and Nuria raised her eyes toward her precious white lights. Conrad had told her they were stars. She didn't care what he called them. She could see them now without bars. Cathy was inside her head; beating her, forcing the tablets into her, ordering her to empty the bucket, laughing at her, forcing her hands into her, her fingers trailing her skin. She remembered how she had held her down and sodomised her for seeing Stone in the barn. She remembered how she had chopped off her hair as further punishment. She closed her eyes and tears rimmed her lashes. Conrad moved toward her and she flinched, dropping her cup.

Stone whirled round at the sudden noise. He crept toward the small camp.

"What was that?"

"Just an accident," said Nuria, picking up her cup from the ground and filling it at once.

Stone nodded. She watched him stroke the horses and then stride back into the darkness, to keep watch.

"So Ennpithia is a made up place then," she sighed.

"Sadie said that this old map the Map Maker has shows a land beyond the sea. Maybe something has been lost in the story."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, Ennpithia was told to us as children, so it cannot be real, but there is land beyond the sea, so something is there, whether it's Ennpithia or not doesn't really matter."

Nuria nodded.

"Why isn't Mallon helping us find Emil?" she asked.

Conrad stared into the flames, shaking his head.

"He is leader now. He has responsibility over hundreds of people, not just one. Don't be too quick to judge him, Nuria, you don't know him as well as I do. He is a man who cares deeply for other people. He knows every one in Dessan. I remember when he arrived. He was five or six years old. It was just him and his mother. They had travelled a great distance to find somewhere safe to call home. You know how welcoming we are." He smiled. "I used to tease him about how different he looked to us, squinty eyes, a wide face. I was horrible to him. In a way, I was curious about him. He'd lived beyond the forest, seen places I could only dream of. I suppose I was jealous. One day after school, the other children encouraged Mallon to fight me to end the bullying. They didn't care that I was upsetting him they only want to see a brawl." He let out a short laugh, drank. "I can still remember standing opposite him with these puny fists of mine bunched together swinging punches at him." He jabbed at the air. "I didn't hit him once but he hit me plenty of times."

"Good," said Nuria, titling her cup to her lips. "I didn't know you had a spiteful streak."

"Of course," nodded Conrad. "I forgot you had this rigid military upbringing. I guess you were not permitted mistakes."

"Oh, I've made my fair share."

"That night, after the fight, not that you could call it that, Mallon came to my home to apologise for beating me up. My uncle showed him in and was impressed with this very shy and very polite child who did what any child should do – stand up to a bully – but here he was, saying sorry for hurting me. The next morning we walked to school together. We've been friends ever since. He has a good heart, Nuria, but he carries this feeling of always having to prove himself. He fought with my father for so long to have that wall built but my father stubbornly refused, set in his ways with his devotion to the Centon."

"He seems very angry," said Nuria. "Hostile, even."

"He is angry," yawned Conrad, draining his cup and settling down for some rest. "At himself."

He reached for her but she jerked her hand from him.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

She watched him fall quickly asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling, snoring lightly. She rubbed her eyes. Her body ached from the ride but she did not want to sleep. She carried food to Stone, crouched in the undergrowth, sweeping his eyes across the dark wall of trees. He was surprised to see her awake. She sat in silence with him, sharing his watch, thinking deeply about the pain he must be in – Justine's death, Emil's disappearance, his beatings and isolation within Tamnica. She thought of Conrad's touch, beside the fire, a shiver creeping along her spine, astonished at how quickly her physical feelings toward the man had deadened. The prison was coursing through her veins, still raging beneath her skin. She glanced at Stone, remembering the tender moment they had shared in the barn, wanting him to hold her but his eyes impassively skirted the gloom and Nuria understood, even admired, his continual dedication to protecting them and allowing for nothing more.

Tomas, Justine, Emil... his heart must be shattered, she thought.

At dawn, Stone buried the camp and they travelled north, horses galloping through the forest. The pale blue sky, streaked red, was dotted with white clouds, twisting and scudding in the wind. The trees became sparse and the trails soon disappeared. The ground shifted to uneven scrubland. Stone urged them onto a north-south broken highway slanted across low hills thinly dotted with trees. They followed him, riding hard. Hooves clattered against the grey surface. Vegetation suffocated jagged splinters of concrete. The sun dipped behind the clouds, casting the land into shadow. The wind blew in their faces. Ahead lay a cluster of damaged buildings. Stone reached for his binoculars, brow ringed with sweat.

"Wait here," he said.

He guided his horse slowly along the road. It horse snorted and he patted her, narrowing his eyes. Nuria and Conrad watched from a distance, horses pacing. Stone dropped down from his saddle, listened, wrinkled his nose at the smell. He wore a scarf around his neck and raised it over his face. He stalked forward, the harsh wind and the scrape of his boots the only sound. He stepped over rotting corpses and twisted metal road signs with faded warnings, clutching his rifle, right finger against the trigger, left hand cradling the barrel. Many of the buildings had been levelled and were nothing more than mounds of rubble. Some had been scorched by fire, walls crumbling, roofs half collapsed. Ancient vehicles, husks of perforated metal, littered the cracked asphalt, greenery surging through the gaps. He noticed the cars and trucks had been stripped of engines and frayed lengths of rope dangled limply at the front of each one. With no fuel they had doubtlessly been utilised as horse drawn carriages. Stone bent at the waist, peered inside; he saw blackened seats and human bones.

He straightened, grimacing beneath his face scarf. Side roads and alleyways were deserted. Rubbish drifted in the wind. His heart rate increased. It was apparent this town has suffered destruction more than once. It was a settlement from the Before, founded with brick and metal and glass, constructed by the Ancients, ripped apart during the Cloud Wars of centuries ago; yet it had been patched together by a new population only to succumb to another cycle of devastation, a shockingly barbaric removal of life. It was nothing he hadn't seen before and nothing he would not see again, though it left him no less numb. He detached himself from the victims whose final moments had been to scream as flames singed hair and melted flesh. He signalled to Nuria and Conrad and focused his gaze toward the eastern horizon where the grim outline of the Maizan city stood, torn and twisted roadways, shattered blocks of black, red and grey. Had they been responsible for this carnage? Were Emil and the Map Maker amongst the dead? Is this why Mallon had been unable to find them?

Stone heard a sudden creak and knew it wasn't from the wind. He took cover, dropped to one knee and raised his rifle. He licked his lips, stared along the barrel, sweeping it across the face of a long row of two storey buildings, gaping holes in the fire ravaged brickwork exposing lengths of twisted metal. He strained his eyes but saw no one. Nuria and Conrad slipped from their horses, alert to his sudden defensive stance, and quickly drew their weapons, cautiously approaching the town half-crouched. Stone waited. Another creak. A fleeting movement.

"Show yourself," shouted Conrad, brandishing his sword.

Debris shifted with a loud crash and a pair of eyes peered out at them. Stone rose, still aiming his rifle. Nuria closed in, crossbow raised, until she saw it was a small child emerging from the rubble; grimy-faced with ragged dark hair and pale skin. She guessed he was nine or ten years old. She heard Conrad exhale with relief. Swinging her crossbow onto her shoulder she moved toward him, hand outstretched.

"Hello," she said.

The child stared back at her; light green eyes, wide with surprise.

"I'm Nuria. What's your name?"

His lips curled into a tiny smile. Then he looked past her, saw the rifle pointing at him and flinched, screwing up his nose.

"Stone," said Nuria. "Lower your gun."

She turned to the boy.

"He won't hurt you. Do you have a name?" The boy remained silent. "Are you alone? Do you know what happened to this town?"

Metal ached in the wind. Dirt blew in a shower across the cracked road.

"Food," said the boy, his voice scratchy.

Nuria nodded. "We can spare you some food." She reached into her backpack, plucked out a wrapped piece of dried meat.

"Put it away," said Stone, hastily walking into the middle of the street, turning rapidly. "Look at him."

Nuria blinked, disgusted with Stone. Tamnica was not going to claim her soul. The child looked miserable and dirty, alone in this horrible town that stank of death. His fleshy feet bore worn shoes. His solid legs were covered with threadbare clothing. His arms were stocky, one loose at his side, one tucked behind his back. Beneath the dirt and ragged appearance she realised he looked unnaturally strong and well fed, despite his sallow complexion. Nuria felt a creeping coldness chill her neck.

"Scavengers," hissed Stone.

Wailing hideously, they swarmed from the rubble of the town, punching out of the debris, scrabbling from beneath vehicles; dozens of them, bodies mostly hunched over, a life spent in the dirt, roaming the wastelands, picking over the remains of slaughter. They pressed toward them in waves, hunting fresh prey, stringy lank hair, rough clothing, dirt encrusted hands grabbing.

"Shit," yelled Conrad, swinging his sword, hacking into them as they pounced at the horses.

A group loomed at Stone. He slammed the stock of his rifle into an unshaven face, flipping him backward. He crashed his shoulder into another, levelled one more with his fist.

"Nuria," he called.

The child revealed his concealed hand and lunged at her with a dust coated brick. He aimed for her skull and she fell backward, avoiding the snarling blow. He snatched at the wrapped meat that had fallen from her grasp. Nuria grabbed his wrist and violently shook the brick free. He jabbed his forehead at her but she nimbly dodged the head butt. The wind was suddenly knocked from her as she was punched from behind and staggered forward. Scavengers descended upon her, emitting loud screeches. A sharpened piece of metal swiftly slit the straps of her backpack. She ploughed her fist into the blistered face of a dark-eyed man with his hood raised. She punched another. She glimpsed the thief running with her backpack. Skinny limbs and a hooded coat. She snatched for her crossbow but the boy was reaching for it and punched her across the face, splitting her lip. She struck back fiercely, landing a blow against his jaw, shocking him from his feet.

Conrad saw the hooded thief fleeing with Nuria's backpack, loaded with provisions. He could see she was in the midst of fighting her way out of a group of them. More seemed to be climbing out of the buildings, like angry black flies swarming around a corpse. He wrestled himself free, relentlessly jabbing with his sword. He rolled, swept his blade in an arc, and hacked at the fast moving legs of the hooded scavenger. The thief attempted to vault his blade, glinting in the waning sunlight, but the jump was low and he sliced through flesh. He sprang to his feet, lifted the backpack and raised his sword, preparing to drive the tip into the scavenger's chest, but then he stopped and his face widened with horror as he saw the whimpering face of a young girl, wracked with pain, thrashing her bleeding legs against the ground.

Stone fired. One of the scavengers slumped to the hard asphalt, head blossoming with a patch of red. He saw momentary hesitation but still the pack ran at them, snarling and attempting to pin them down. He fired off a second shot, blasting one of them against a burnt out car. The street filled with scavengers, brandishing handmade weapons; lumps of wood with pieces of metal sticking out of the end, a brick tied to a length of rope, wire coiled around wooden poles. Stone kept firing, one deafening bang after the other, until six bodies lay dead. One of the scavengers let out a pained wail and the gang fled into the side streets, melting into buildings, disappearing beneath the rubble.

"She's just a child," said Conrad, his breathing laboured. The girl was trying to crawl away, dragging her legs, smearing trails of blood. "And they left her behind."

Drenched in sweat, Nuria took her crossbow and pack. Silently, she climbed onto her horse.

"We can't just leave her here," said Conrad. He sheathed his sword and crouched to lift her but the girl hissed at him, slapping him away. The cuts on her legs were deep but he was thankful she had jumped or he could have sliced through flesh and bone and crippled her. As it was, though, she would quickly bleed to death unless her wounds were cared for. He walked to the top of the street the scavengers had escaped along and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Hey, you left a young girl behind. She's hurt bad. You need to come and fetch her. She needs help."

The wind blasted rubbish and grit. The scavengers remained hidden.

"Come and help this girl. We won't fire on you. Just come and take her."

He fumed at Stone, who was calmly reloading his rifle.

"It's so easy for you," he said, taking cloth and water from a saddlebag.

Stone put the rifle on his shoulder and began to search the bleeding bodies, finding nothing.

"I offered that boy food, Conrad," said Nuria. "All he wanted to do was bash my head in."

He ignored her and crouched beside the girl as she continued to pull herself across the street. He reached for her but she kicked at him. "I'm trying to help you," he said, impatiently, brow dripping with sweat. "Stop fighting me." Wild, hate filled eyes glared at him as he clamped her ankles with his left hand. He poured the water over her wounds, rinsing away the blood, only for it to weep through the torn skin once more. "I cut her so deep," he muttered. "I didn't realise she was a child."

"That child would have eaten you for dinner," said Stone, pulling himself into his saddle.

"So that's it, is it?" said Conrad, long dark hair falling around his face. "This is how you survive to be your age in Gallen, is it? By shitting on every one and everything?" He faced the bleeding child. "Please, let me help you." She howled in pain, barring cracked and browned teeth at him. "You know what I learned in Tamnica, Stone? That I'm a man with a soul. A scared man but still a man with a soul. That's what I learned in that foul place." He knotted cloth around the sword wounds he had inflicted. Her face was growing pale. "Your fiends are coming back for you," he said, glimpsing movement in the nearby street. "Get them to stitch you back together."

He got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his trousers. "Do you have no feelings about anyone?"

"Lay off him, Conrad," said Nuria, quietly. "He buried Justine yesterday. Have you already forgotten?"

For a moment, he had. He was the last to ride out of the town. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled as the scavengers gathered around the wounded girl.

"They came back for her," he said, a tinge of pride in his voice.

Stone stared knowingly at him. At first, Conrad didn't understand the look and then the colour drained from his face.

"They're not going to help her, are they? She's useless to them wounded. They're going to eat her."

**\--- Twenty Two ---**

Days rolled into days.

With each darkening of the sky, a sensation of helplessness engulfed Stone, perversely taunting him in his failure to uncover Emil's whereabouts. In a land of so few people he had hoped it would have been a simple task to track her down but it had proved the very opposite. There was nothing to suggest they were even close to finding her, and then his thoughts would drift back to the skeletons in the burnt vehicles, wondering if they had already found her. She had been taken a long time ago. Even travelling on foot, moving at the Map Maker's slow pace, they would have reached or be near to reaching the northern shores of Gallen by now. Stone pondered once more the tale of Sadie's old map, conveniently worn in the spot that would reveal or deny the existence of Ennpithia; the mythical dreamland conjured to provide hope of a better place after death.

Yet Philip had contradicted the fairy stories when he had quizzed the one-legged man – _"Ennpithia is real. It is not a fairy story." Words spoken with fire and conviction. "It is a land of great cities and knowledge, where a man can raise his family in peace beneath the sign. It is not a final resting place for departed souls. That is nonsense. How can that be true? The Map Maker understood. He knows it is there. It has always been there. A light in the dark. I know these things. Do not doubt me. It is there."_

" _What is the sign?" Stone had asked._

" _I do not know. I do not know what that is but it is what they say. A man can be free and safe in Ennpithia beneath the sign. Gallen is a world of hate. It is an ugly place."_

Dawn sunshine shone upon Stone's face and he reflected on Philip's words as he scraped at his beard. _Gallen is a world of hate._ He supposed he was right about that. He wondered what life _beneath the sign_ was supposed to mean and he involuntarily glanced at his forearm, the Tamnican branding concealed by his clothing. He saw Nuria out of the corner of his eye. She had seen him staring at his arm. She offered him a faint and reassuring smile. He nodded at her, saying nothing.

Beyond the town the asphalt beneath them had become ragged and horribly pitted, ruptured with long bleak fissures. Stone suggested they abandon the highway and return once more to the plains so they steered the horses toward an unforgiving terrain, deserted and lifeless, the hard ground spotted with depressions and brush, low dunes and water starved canyons, but the horses found the going much easier than the road, able to stretch their powerful legs and drink up the miles. Late in the afternoon, they came upon the half-buried remains of a road with patchy white markings along its middle. The black surface curved and banked across the rough landscape, angling toward a valley in the east that appeared to stretch to the horizon. Blocks of metal girders jutted above its edges, like iron giants peeking over the rim and observing their surroundings for the first time. The horses began to snort and rear, troubled by the valley. The three of them halted and soothed the frightened beasts, observing the landscape before them with near reverential silence. It was Conrad who finally spoke, his voice hushed, awestruck.

"Tristan once told me of this place. He came here one winter when the land was white. He tried to explain how vast it was and how awful it had made him feel."

Nuria had sadness in her eyes. She had been born in a city of thousands, white walled buildings and dirt roads, pedal bicycles and horses, yet her home of Chett, in the Southern Deserts, was a poky hamlet compared to the sheer size and scale of the city that lay smashed beneath them; buildings piled one atop the other, squashed side by side, leaning, snapped in two, consumed beneath shifting layers of dirt. Millions of Ancients must have once resided here. Millions of Ancients had most certainly died here.

Stone turned his horse from the valley. They had been straying northeast and needed to right their path. He pressed straight ahead, riding alongside the valley of the dead city. The ridge stretched for miles and it would be dusk before they were past it. No one spoke, numbed by what they had seen. The wind continued to whine as they galloped by, a torturous lament, as if millions of souls from the past were calling to them from the dead city, reaching through the centuries, beseeching them for help - then angrily blasting showers of grit and dirt at them when those pleas were ignored.

Soon, they reached another highway, running east to west. They spotted a slow-moving convoy of people travelling from the east. Raising his binoculars, Stone saw men, women and children, faces grim, as they trudged along the broken road, many of them pushing wooden hand carts laden with possessions packed into boxes, crates and sacks.

"Who are they?" asked Nuria.

Stone shook his head.

"I don't know."

"They must be from the city," said Conrad.

The Maizan city was much closer now, sitting beyond a range of low foothills.

"They're roughly an hour from us," said Stone. "Let's rest the horses and wait for them."

"Why?" said Conrad.

Stone lowered his glasses.

"To talk to them."

Apart from the Scavengers, they were the first people they had encountered since leaving Dessan, but Stone was wrong; it would take nearly two hours for the shambling column of people to reach them. Stone paced the road. He had eaten a small amount of food and now waited with his rifle across his back and a water bottle in his hand. The sun had disappeared and darkness spread across the land. He was a mere outline in the gloom. Nuria lit a fire at the roadside and Conrad sat with her after checking the horses were secured. The bleak landscape had turned black and Conrad fanned his hands toward the fire, glad he could no longer see the valley, though unsettled by the feeling that ghostly eyes were boring into his back.

He shivered and glanced at Nuria, her soft skin reflected in the flames, her beautiful blue eyes round and luminous. He traced his vision down her slender nose and full lips. He ached for her, more than ever since Tamnica, when both of their lives had hung delicately in the balance each and every day, never knowing who or what would be responsible for their demise - a fellow prisoner, a Cuvar, sickness, starvation. His exiled father passed into his thoughts, his dead mother, his friend Mallon, his aunt Mary, his young brother, Tristan.

"Are you okay, Conrad?"

He nodded, tapped the side of his head.

"It's just getting a little crowded in here at the moment." He let out a long sigh, filled his cup.

"Do you think those people will know anything?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the convoy.

Conrad bit into a piece of hard biscuit, crumbs spilling over his lips. He washed it down with a mouthful of drink.

"What will you do when Stone finds her?" he said, quietly, refilling his surprisingly empty cup.

Nuria was silent for a moment. She didn't answer him because she didn't have an answer. Since meeting Stone, her life at moved at whirlwind pace, veering from one violent encounter to the next. Only during that handful of days in Dessan, before they fought the Collectors on the forest road, had she known any moments of calm. She knew what he was really asking but that place inside her was cold.

"I can still remember when we kissed," he said, his words slurring. "That night, outside the tavern, a cup and a pipe, that's all we needed to be happy."

He toasted and took his pipe from inside his clothing and began to fill it from a small pouch.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Nuria stared at him, through a fog of smoke, as he puffed deeply and lifted the near empty bottle, drinking straight from it, not bothering to fill his cup anymore or offer her any.

"Maybe you should get some sleep, Conrad. You look really tired."

He nodded, swigging the bottle.

"I am tired," he said. "I'm tired of waiting for you to tell me if we have a future together. We really bonded before that prison. I was hoping we might..."

Nuria shook her head and glanced toward the road. She could hear muted conversation and the steady grind of wooden wheels.

"I don't," she began, shaking her head. "I don't want that, Conrad. And I don't know what I want after we find Emil."

"Do you love him?" he asked, sweeping his long hair from his face, his pleasing features aglow in the fire.

"I just want to find Emil," said Nuria, pushing herself to her feet. "Let's go and talk to these people."

Conrad shook his head and put his pipe to his lips. He puffed and Nuria waited. He looked into her beautiful blue eyes and saw the pain she felt. He tilted the bottle to his lips and she waited no more.

* * *

"No point robbing us," said the short man at the top of the convoy. "We've got nothing."

Little more than five feet five inches tall, he bravely shielded his family, a woman with tangled grey hair and three children, twin boys and a tall girl. Stone, over six feet tall, towered over the man, a monster looming out of the dark with his scarred face and a rifle strapped to his back. Then Nuria appeared at his side, a face of softened features with caring blue eyes and oddly chopped blonde hair.

"We're looking for someone," said Stone, holding out his hand flat. "A one-eyed girl about this high."

He had purposely omitted the colour of Emil's hair – bright copper – a very distinctive feature. If anyone in this straggling convoy of people had _really_ seen her he wanted _them_ to describe that aspect of her.

"I'm Nuria. This man is Stone. The girl we're looking for is our friend and she was stolen from us by a bald man with a gun."

The short man looked between the both of them. The tall man with the long scar down his face had mean eyes and carried a fearsome looking rifle but he had not taken it from his back and threatened them with it. The women possessed a kind voice and their story of a missing girl seemed genuine. He could already hear the mutterings and the questions from the line of families following; exhausted, traumatised, seeking only solace, fearful they were being set upon by wasteland bandits. The short man leaned toward his daughter and she bent down as he whispered in her ear. She looked about ten or eleven years old. Sallow skin ravaged with angry red blisters that she idly picked at as her father spoke to her. Lank black hair draped onto the frayed shoulders of a threadbare looking coat missing buttons. Skinny pale legs poking beneath the hem of a simple dress stitched from mismatched pieces of fabric. Grubby feet half-concealed in a pair of worn and chipped clogs. The girl nodded and trotted back into the gloom, leaving a message with each of the families, reassuring them that they were not being robbed.

"I haven't seen a one-eyed girl, I'm sorry."

The man was in his thirties and had pained eyes and wearied skin that clung to his bones. His breath was foul and his lips were dry and cracked. Nuria glanced back at the campfire she had built. Conrad was staring morosely into the crackling flames, consumed within a haze of pipe smoke, drunk.

"Do you mind if we talk to your people?" asked Stone, nodding at the trail of shuffling bodies behind him.

"They're not my people," said the short man. "My name is Allain, this is my family." His daughter had returned, having completed her task of passing on Allain's message to the others. "We are refugees; you understand this word, yes?"

"Where are you from?" asked Nuria, rubbing her hands briskly together, cold in the biting wind.

"Maizan," said Allain, pointing into the blackness. "It's not a city to raise a family." He placed a short arm around his children and hugged them.

"What's wrong with the place?" asked Stone.

"How long have you got?" shrugged Allain. "Always fighting, always violence, you understand this? I want to bring up my children to know a different way. Take, take, take, that is all they do. The hate in that city."

The woman, who had remained silent, clutched Allain's arm and whispered to him. Stone saw the flash of alarm on the man's face.

"My partner has seen someone hiding in the dark," he whispered, giving an imperceptible nod of his head.

Stone and Nuria exchanged glances.

"Why don't you people camp here tonight?" said Nuria. "We already have a fire going. We can build another. I'm sure we can spare some food."

She looked at Stone. He nodded, patted her on the arm, took his rifle from his back and disappeared into the darkness.

Allain sent his daughter once more, her errand this time to spread the word they were stopping for the night. Nuria aided in herding the refugees from the road. The people looked frail and hungry. Conrad began to sober quickly as he was descended upon. More fires were lit. Blankets were shook out and laid onto the hard ground. Nuria began to mingle with the people but there were weary shakes of the head as she asked her questions. Conrad attempted to corner her for a short conversation but she snapped at him, harsher than she had intended, irritated by his drunken, self-pitying stupor.

"If you really care about me," she had told him. "Then get some rations and drink for these people."

Nearly an hour passed before Stone returned, shaking his head.

"A few tracks," he said, to Nuria. "One person at the most. Gone now."

"Do you think it's safe here?"

"Can you suggest anywhere safer?"

He moved amongst the refugees, hand picking a few able looking men to stand watch through the night. The men seemed unsure of his demands but then Allain appeared, reminding them that these people were offering food and warmth. Though still reluctant, the men Stone chose listened intently to his instructions and took up positions.

"My daughter, Susana," said Allain, finding Stone on the edge of the makeshift camp, cradling his rifle. "She wants to talk with you."

Stone peered at the tall girl, nervously scratching at her skin.

"It's about the one-eyed girl you're looking for," she said. Her voice was tiny, high-pitched. Allain attempted to hold her hand as she spoke but she wriggled free of her father's overprotective grip. "I was out playing with my brothers a few days before we left when this man asked us about a woman he was looking for. He told us what she looked like but we didn't know her. I'd never seen him before. He looked ill. He had a hood over his head and was shivering. He told us he really needed to find this woman and that she might be with a young girl who had one eye and bright ginger hair."

Allain saw a flicker in the scarred man's eyes.

"I told him I had not seen either of them," continued Susana. "He began pestering my brothers, asking them the same thing but they do not speak. Then he wanted us to give him some food but we had none to spare."

"Thank you," said Stone.

Once his daughter was out of earshot, Allain said, "Your kindness tonight will not be forgotten. Can you hear that laughter? I've haven't heard laughter like that for sometime."

Stone glanced at the refugees huddled beneath the dark sky, thick clouds blotting out the white lights. Though some bore sombre expressions others were swapping stories and humour around the fires, nibbling on bits of food they had brought with them and rations that Nuria and Conrad had distributed.

"Thank you," said Allain, gripping Stone's hand. "Thank you."

The tall man nodded in silence.

"Now it is my turn to help you. If your friend came through these parts I cannot see how she could have avoided the Maizans. They patrol all these roads scooping up travellers, especially women." He turned his eyes toward his daughter, sat with her young brothers. "Susana was beginning to draw their attention, that is why we left. These other people, well, they each have a story to tell. Maizan is a terrible city. There is a war. Maizans killing Maizans. There is nothing but misery in that city."

Stone digested the information and told Allain of the Eastern Villages to the south where there was work and education, but to avoid the burnt out town, swamped with scavengers.

After, he sought out Nuria, half dozing with a blanket wrapped around her.

"Was it the Map Maker?" she asked, once Stone had told her Susana's story.

"No, the man she described was tall and..."

Stone cut his words short as a shrill whistle sounded across the camp. He grabbed his rifle and sprinted to the perimeter where a stocky youth named Colm was pointing a wooden club into the dark.

"I saw someone, I swear it."

Stone looked closely at the young man. He seemed out of breath, more through excitement than fear, though.

"Where exactly?"

"Over there," said Colm. "Just a face looking at me. Then it was gone."

Without another word, Stone disappeared once more into the gloom, half-crouched, sweeping out to the left, casting his eyes all around, putting himself a considerable distance from the spot Colm had indicated, wanting to loop round and catch them still in the area or fleeing from it. His boots grated against stubborn and parched ground. The lights from the camp began to fade. He breathed deeply. He dropped and listened, finger on the trigger, the wind keenly whistling across the plains. He saw a small flash of movement and pressed forward, rifle aimed, coming in fast now, the unknown person alerted to his presence, fuming they had been outflanked. He saw the figure dart from behind a low dune. He spotted bushy hair. It was definitely a woman he was chasing down through the scrubland. He saw no one else, no indication he was being led into a trap.

Stone fired. The gunshot echoed through the night and the woman stopped rigid, her back to him.

"Show me your hands," he said, cautiously approaching her.

He could see she wore flat shoes and a long dress that wafted around her ankles. Her upper body was concealed by a thick jumper.

"Drop the weapon," he warned. "I missed on purpose the first time."

He lined up the shot. Slowly, she stretched out her arms and he saw an odd looking weapon dangling from one hand. She lowered it to the ground and carefully turned. Stone saw light brown cheeks flushed with perspiration and a white scar from nose to chin. Her clothes looked rough.

"How many?"

She frowned at his odd question and it took a moment to dawn on her what he was asking.

"Only me," she said, laboured.

Stone heard footsteps behind him. Nuria emerged from the darkness, holding a crossbow, Colm beside her.

"I know where the one-eyed girl is," said the bushy haired woman. "I heard you asking them about her."

"Where is she?" asked Nuria.

The woman slowly shook her head and said, "Not whilst that animal has a gun pointed at me."

Stone was unmoved, trigger finger ready.

"What colour hair does she have?" he growled.

"Dirty ginger."

He lowered his rifle.

"Got a name?"

"Beatriz," she said.

* * *

They offered her food and water and listened to her story through the small hours, Beatriz detailing her first encounter with Emil and the bald headed man who told her his name was the Map Maker and how she had suspected he was forcing the one-eyed girl to travel with him. He had seemed pleasant, in the beginning, with a keen eye for the past, an interest in history that matched her own, but he had soon revealed his true colours and she had forced him from her shop. Then the Maizans had landed on her doorstep, having learned she was trading small quantities of black energy from a canister that she had obtained from a man named Cristo. The Maizans told her the canister of bio-fuel was stolen and that four had been killed during the robbery.

"The bodies on the forest road," said Nuria, nodding. "Cathy told me the Tamnicans and Maizans exchanged black energy for tablets."

Beatriz had killed one of the Maizans and fled, holing up in the wasteland through the long, dark and bitingly cold winter nights, living off meagre scraps, drinking melted snow, waiting to die or waiting to be found. Her gaunt face and hollow eyes were testament to the hardship she had endured. Munching on pieces of fruit she groaned pleasurably at the taste and rolled her eyes. Spitting out a stone, she continued with her story of how she had witnessed the ambush of Cristo's pickup truck, not far from where they now sat.

"The Maizans overwhelmed them," she said. "They had more cars, more men. They took everything; the truck, all the canisters of black energy, the woman and the one-eyed girl."

She explained how they had beaten Cristo and when one of them planned to execute him his weapon had jammed. Other Maizans had volunteered to shot the thief but Basile was having none of it.

"He is the shit that came into my shop and set one of his animals on me. He ordered his men to strip Cristo naked. They left him with nothing, shivering in the freezing cold, condemned to death."

The Map Maker had spoken with the Maizans, waving maps at them, but had been clubbed viciously to the ground and shoved into the boot of one of the vehicles. The cars then snarled a path across the white landscape and the final thing Beatriz saw was the pathetic sight of Cristo, limping after them, arms wrapped around his body.

"The man who asked Allain's daughter about a woman and a one-eyed girl might be Cristo," said Nuria.

Beatriz found a spot and bedded down for the night, leaving Stone sitting with Nuria.

A gravely voice broke the stilted silence between them as one of the refugees began to sing. It was a mournful tune spattered with words that Stone did not understand. A few joined in, smiles on grimy faces as they sang, tired and worn eyes infused with a brightness, a stubborn determination. The two drifters exchanged silent looks as the song continued into the night.

"That was a good thing you did," said Stone.

"I thought you would be angry," said Nuria, the flames crackling. "Most of our food and water is gone."

He said nothing. She looked at the long scar he bore from the Warden's whip. He would never be able to forget Tamnica. The scar and the branding would stay with him until death. She wanted to curl against him and close her eyes and feel his arms around her. She wanted to ask him how he was feeling and if he wanted to share those feelings with her but she couldn't construct the words into a sentence.

"I'm sorry about Justine," she said, having nothing more poignant to offer.

\--- Twenty Three ---

"Shem," yawned Genny, scratching his mop of curly hair. "Come see this fucking fool."

Genny was the lookout king, the big man of the top apartment, an entire tower block his domain, twenty ghostly floors of mangled pipes and twisted girders, shattered glass and fractured concrete walls scrawled with faded swirls. There were hundreds of empty rooms filled with stinking rubbish and the remains of fires and they all belonged to him. Eighteen years old, his realm had been bestowed upon him by the greatest and fiercest of the blue and white - Basile - feared throughout the city; the ultimate leader, the ultimate fighter.

"What are you chatting about?" said Shem, tossing a bucket of piss out of an open window in the back room.

He came in wiping his hands on his shorts and dragging his feet across thin carpet. The room was washed in early morning grey light, peeking through frayed blankets hung limply across the window frames. Shem sprawled onto a battered old sofa where patches of mould climbed the pitted wall behind him. He reached into a crate of supplies and took out a bag of crackers. He tossed a handful into his mouth, crunching loudly.

"You fucking eating already?" said Genny, sitting on a worn chair with his back to him, a pair of binoculars wedged into a crack in the wall, angled down toward the single road into Maizan. "You're a fat fucker, Shem, you know that, man?"

Saying nothing, Shem pushed himself onto his feet, scattering empty bottles and wrappers and handguns. Picking at his crotch, he lazily pushed open the boarded up patio door. The sudden rush of cold air was sobering after a night of drink and tablets. Gingerly, he stepped out onto the balcony, sandaled feet crossing cracked tiles.

"Look at that fucking idiot," said Genny, chuckling. "I should shoot him."

Laughing, Shem raised his binoculars, sweeping his eyes across the barren landscape. His acne scarred face screwed into a sneer as he spotted the travellers who had fled the city a few days before, miles in the distance, a slow moving column pushing carts. Wasters, he thought, and spat on the ground.

"You see him yet? You can't miss the prick."

Shem pointed his binoculars at the road and saw a long haired man astride a horse, a sheathed sword at his waist, idly pacing, head tilted up toward them.

"Fuck," he said, startled. "He's looking right at us."

"What?" called Genny, from inside.

Shem poked his head back into the room.

"I said he's looking right at us."

Genny saw a frown crease his companion's face.

"Did you hear that?" said Shem.

"No."

"I thought I heard something."

Genny stepped back from his lookout point and realised he was holding his breath as he strained to hear.

"Yeah," he said, nodding.

Shem stepped back onto the balcony. The long haired swordsman was still trotting back and forward on his horse.

"He's a decoy," said Genny, the realisation dawning across his face. "Do it. Now."

Hating orders, but knowing to refuse would end with a punishment beating, Shem swore under his breath with frustration and sprinted from the room into a poky corridor. He unbolted the front door and peered onto an empty landing. Exposed cables dangling from the ceiling blew in the icy wind that whistled through empty windows. He rubbed his bare arms and sprang toward the stairwell, hesitating for a moment to glance down. He saw movement below.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He raced up the steps, taking them two at a time and crashed through the door at the top, bursting onto a gravel covered roof.

In the apartment, Genny ejected the magazine on his pistol, saw it was filled with bullets and slammed it back, hastily cocking it. He edged into the corridor and inched the door open, pointing the pistol through a narrow crack. His heart was thumping. Sudden movement caught his eye and he laughed, realising it was the overhead wiring swaying in the wind. He placed his finger against the trigger. He brought his left hand up to balance the weight of the gun. Litter stirred and drifted. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps on the stairwell.

Shem jogged across the roof, weaving around gnarled metal vents. He crouched next to a large blue and white kite and released the weight holding it down.

Instantly, the wind caught the kite and it surged away from him. He continued to unwind the cord, allowing the kite to soar high into the sky. A childlike smile curled across his lips as the kite swooped and rose in the sky. The wind toyed with it, tossing it one way and then the other. The interference in his head was drowned out by his fascination with it, the exhilaration he felt inside. He blinked, snapping his thoughts back onto his job - the unknown assailants climbing to the top floor.

Hastily, he secured the kite and raced back into the building, only to find the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him.

"Drop it."

The man holding the weapon was tall, heavily scarred, long hair tied into a knot, a sword hanging at his waist. Shem glanced at the apartment where a blonde haired woman was standing in the doorway, next to Genny's feet and ankles, a crossbow in her hands.

Stone jabbed his rifle into the young man's face.

"Now."

Shem tossed the gun and Nuria scooped it up. Stone grabbed the young man by his sleeveless shirt and dragged him into the apartment. Genny was lying with a crossbow bolt sticking out of his head.

"Man, you fucker, you killed Genny, you're both fucking dead, you hear me? You too, bitch. We're gonna..."

Stone pulled the youth out onto the balcony and threw him over, clutching onto his ankles at the last moment.

"Oh, fuck, what are you doing, man? Fuck, pull me back, c'mon, pull me in, oh shit, oh shit."

Stone shook him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Conrad heard the cries and stared up, a wry smile on his lips.

"Who took the one-eyed girl?"

Gasping for breath, arms hanging loose, Shem stared down at the rubble below, spinning and twisting.

"I don't know," he panted.

"Who took her?"

His stomach uncoiled and he retched.

"I swear, I don't know.

"You know," shouted Nuria. "You know every one who comes in and out of this city."

"You're gonna drop me, man," said Shem, tears filling his eyes. "When I tell you who got her you're gonna drop me."

Stone let go of one ankle.

"I'm going to drop you if you don't."

"The Brute," pleaded Shem. "The Brute has her. Took her from us. Bitch scared the shit out of us anyway."

There was a shrill whistle from Conrad. Nuria tilted her head. She could hear the whine of engines.

"Did he take the bald man and the other woman?"

"That fool is dead," said Shem. "Got chopped up for opening his fat mouth too much."

"Where can I find the Brute?"

"How the fuck should I know?" sobbed Shem. "He's not one of us. Please don't drop me, man. I told you..."

Shem let out a blood-curdling scream as Stone relaxed his grip. Unfazed, Nuria handed him back his rifle and they each took a pistol.

Conrad saw the kite bobbing up and down on the wind. He dropped from his horse and led the beast to the side of the road, where the bushy haired Beatriz was concealed amongst the debris. She had nowhere else to go and had chosen to stay with them for the foreseeable future. She did not want to travel with the refugees to the Eastern Villages. She had no wish to start a new life in the shadow of the Maizan city, knowing they wanted her dead for mutilating Montre. Conrad flashed a smile at her as he tethered the horse, gently stroking the beast's mane, but his effort was unrewarded. She was focused on the tower block, waiting for the others to return. He idly wondered if Tamnica had robbed him of all his charm as well.

Stone and Nuria emerged from the block, hastily stepping around Shem's pulverised body. The sound of engines was growing louder, drawn by the kite. Stone walked into the middle of the street, waited, listened. He scraped his boots and could feel the vibration of the oncoming vehicles. A direct confrontation with the Maizans was what he had hoped to avoid when they loosely cobbled the plan together at dawn; sat amongst dwindling fires as the refugees prepared to continue their journey, a hung-over Conrad elected as decoy to draw the attention of the lookouts whilst Stone and Nuria slipped into the building. Yet the plan had failed and the lookouts had raised the alarm.

He had been tempted to goad the Maizans into the open, allow the lookouts to spot them, raise the signal, whatever it might be, but had dismissed the idea as foolish, knowing nothing of their numbers or weaponry. It had been the kind of plan he would have attempted in the past, with Tomas, carving the legend of the Tongueless Man and his companion through the wastelands, a legend he neither wanted nor cared for. He was tired of watching people in danger but now it was pointless to flee, to be hunted down across the rubble like wild animals; far better to stand and fight, as they had stood and fought when pressed by the Tamnicans in the forest.

The yellow marked concrete road was potholed, littered with dust coated rubble and several rusted vehicles, twisted metal jutting at awkward angles. The road curved down toward a darkened underpass, the bridge above buckled and shorn in half, choked with mangled cars, trucks, lorries and buses, a horrible tangle of metal, like mechanical sentinels from another age, thrust together in a display of obscene and nightmarish embraces, limbs and organs entwined and suitably crushed. The buildings towered around the broken roads, leaning with disapproval, a thousand empty windows glowering upon them.

Stone readied himself, finger on the trigger. Tiny beads of sweat trickled over his skin. The wind blew and stung the fresh scar on his face.

He took a deep breath.

The first rusted brown vehicle surged from the underpass, bursting out the blackness. Stone saw a curved crash bar bristling with iron spikes. He raised his rifle and fired, bullets piercing the windscreen, hitting the driver, spraying blood. The car swerved and spun out of control, turning onto its side, skating along the cracked road with a torturous scream. Stone kept firing, unloading bullets into the car, hitting a masked man in the front seat, his head snapping back. The car slid toward him in a shower of sparks and flying pieces of metal. He hurled himself from the road, landing in the rubble, as the vehicle rolled over, slamming down onto the roof.

As he picked himself out of the dirt a much larger second car ploughed forward, patched together brown bodywork painted blue and white. The vehicle had a broad mesh roof with two masked men clinging to the back of it, swinging long machetes. The driver saw the lead vehicle had flipped over and jammed his foot against the brake pedal. The worn tyres squealed and the car skidded and bounced along the road, shuddering to a halt with a spray of dirt. The two Maizans leapt clear, yelling.

Conrad lunged from the roadside and hacked at one of them with his sword, the blade slashing into an arm. He twisted and swung his sword again, chopping into the man's rib cage. Nuria broke cover, firing her crossbow, the bolt chewing through the flesh of the second machete man. Frantically, he clawed at the missile lodged in his throat; stumbling and losing his weapon, body twitching as it slammed against the ground. She swung her crossbow onto her shoulder and pulled out the pistol she had taken from Genny.

Stone ran to the first vehicle as the surviving Maizans clambered free. A handgun flashed and shots smacked the road. He brought up his rifle and fired twice, both bullets striking the man in the stomach, punching through flesh and shattering bone. The man doubled over in a heap, one hand clutched against his bleeding abdomen, the other curled shakily around a revolver. Stone ran at him and slammed the stock of his rifle into the man's head, cracking his skull. He scooped up the fallen revolver as a ball hammer swept above him, wielded by a tattooed Maizan; face masked, dark eyes enraged. Rolling onto his back, Stone jerked as the hammer crashed down toward his head, striking the car behind him with a loud clang. He fired the revolver until the chamber was empty, the Maizan collapsing on the road, covered with blood. He got to his feet as a third man pulled himself from the wrecked car, howling with rage, a machete in his grasp. Stone drew Shem's pistol but the Maizan was nimble and rammed the handle of the machete into Stone's face, dazing him. He swung his foot and kicked the pistol from Stone's hand and swept at him with the fearsome blade.

Men spilled from the second car. Nuria cut another down, shooting with deadly accuracy, single shots. There was a staccato burst of gunfire from the underpass as a third car roared into view, the familiar rusted bodywork, blue and white paint, masked men hanging from both sides of it. Sword dripping with blood, face wringing with sweat, Conrad took cover, shouting at Nuria as bullets rained down around them.

"There are too many of them," he said.

Nuria said nothing. She glimpsed Stone wrestling with a man swinging a machete at his head. Stone had no weapon. She tried to line up a shot but the two men were entangled. She lowered the pistol and ducked as the road erupted with the rattle of bullets. Pinned down behind the second vehicle, she crawled onto her stomach, inching forward and fired toward the underpass, biting holes in the third vehicle. Five or six Maizans were edging forward through the rubble, keeping low, firing on them both.

"I can't do anything with this," raged Conrad, shaking his sword. "Where the fuck is that woman? I thought she was going to help us."

Nuria could see no sign of Beatriz. Quickly, she threw Conrad the crossbow and quiver and he plucked out a fresh bolt and fired, missing. She heard a wet crunch behind her and saw Stone racing toward them, pistol in hand. Two Maizans opened fire at him and he threw himself onto the verge, out of view. He powered along the rough ground marked with scattered rubble. Masked men swarmed toward them, pouring fire from automatic weapons, raking lines across the highway.

Bullets whizzing over his head, Stone focused his attention on the second Maizan car; one door hanging open, the engine idling, the driver dead, possibly their only way out.

"Nuria," he called, and she saw him point at the car and form his hands around an invisible steering wheel. She nodded, knowing he wanted her to blanket the Maizans with pistol fire so he could reach the vehicle. He tossed his pistol at her. It spun through the air and she caught it. Wiping sweat from her face, with gunfire and taunts from the Maizans ringing in her ears, she took a deep breath, pistol in each hand. Swallowing hard, glancing around the side of the car, she looked into Stone's face and nodded.

"Go," she shouted, jerking into view, both arms outstretched, firing off round after round, unleashing a devastating volley at them. Stone sprang from the tangled verge, propelling himself forward, the Maizans forced to take cover, pinned down as Nuria's pistols flashed. Stone dived into the car as a projectile buzzed through the air above them and a metal canister landed in front of the Maizans, who were slowly poking their heads up as Nuria's pistols clicked empty.

There was a hissing sound and then smoke poured from it, swiftly billowing in the wind.

Righting himself in the driver's seat, Stone glimpsed the outline of a giant man barrelling through the smoke, a monster, another Maizan with a blue and white scarf around his face. He was dark skinned, long arms and thick hands brandishing a machete and an axe, but he was running straight past them, heading toward the Maizans.

Nuria and Conrad hurled themselves into the car, panting heavily, as the smoke engulfed the Maizans.

"It's the Brute."

The cry came from one of the Maizans. Hearing the name, Stone sprang from the vehicle, drawing his sword.

"What are you doing?" shouted Conrad.

"He's the one who has Emil," she said, following Stone out of the car.

The Maizans were firing at the Brute. Stone witnessed him swiftly cut down two men with lithe, near graceful skills for a man of such bulk. He frowned. _What the fuck was going on here?_ The Brute chopped down another Maizan. And then Allain's words flashed into his head. _There is a war. Maizans killing Maizans. There is nothing but misery in that city._ Through the thinning veil of smoke, Stone lunged at a Maizan with his sword, half decapitating him. He prised the man's fingers from a twin-barrelled shotgun, cracked it open and spotted one shell. He pressed forward as the Brute hacked and slashed through the Maizans pitted against him. Stone saw the gunmen flee back into the underpass. He watched the vehicle reverse and disappear from view.

Stone raised the shotgun.

"Where's Emil?"

Without a word, the Brute swung at him, chopping the axe through the smoky air, slicing with the machete.

Stone leapt back. He needed the man alive if he had any hope of finding Emil but disarming the mountainous man already seemed an impossible task. Conrad was out of the car, sword in hand, backing him up. Nuria was alongside, loaded crossbow aimed at the Brute, who kept moving. Stone had to admire the man's dexterous ability and mental strength; every movement carefully made, undeterred by the numbers and weapons ranged against him. He feinted at Stone and lunged at Conrad, weapons swooping and cutting through the air, blade clashing blade. An axe handle slammed into Conrad's face and he howled, blood spurting from his nose, his sword slipping onto the road with a loud clatter. The Brute roared into Nuria, ducking the aim of the crossbow, pinning the weapon with the axe and swiftly bringing the machete to her throat. Nuria gasped, terrified to swallow.

Stone jammed the shotgun into the Brute's spine.

"Forget about me?"

The Brute began to laugh. A deep rumble from inside his throat that shook his shoulders. "Did you see me helping you?"

Stone licked his lips. Despite the blade at Nuria's throat, Conrad disarmed and wincing in pain, Stone instinctively felt unthreatened by the hulking man. There was something in his voice, and he was right - he _had_ attacked the Maizans, despite wearing the same colours as them.

"You are too pretty to frighten any longer," said the Brute, lowering his weapons and stepping back from Nuria. "Now, will you take that gun from my back? I do not want to be a cripple."

"Where's Emil?" growled Stone.

The Brute was silent for a moment.

"You are the Tongueless Man?"

Backing slowly away, Stone looked the man up and down. The Brute thrust his machete into a scabbard hanging from his belt and slung the axe onto his back.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You know who I am," said the Brute, grinning. "They know me as the Brute. My real name is Jarracos."

"Is she alive?" said Stone, still aiming the shotgun at him.

Jarracos nodded

"She said you would come. Both of..."

His words trailed off and the four of them turned at the same time, glancing toward the underpass.

"They are coming back," said Jarracos, as the air once more filled with the roar of engines. "Too many for us. Come with me, come, come, hurry."

Stone hesitated.

"I can take you to her," he said. "But we must go."

"What about the car?" said Conrad.

"This way is better," said Jarracos, gesturing frantically. "Hurry, we must go now."

A thin voice called out from behind the carnage of wrecked cars and bloodied bodies.

"Please don't leave me behind," said Beatriz.

\--- Twenty Four ---

The Brute led them across derelict squares strewn with rubble and littered with rotting corpses.

Grim faced, Stone glanced over his shoulder and saw a number of cars and bikes emerge from the underpass. There were dozens of armed men wearing the now familiar blue and white face scarves. The four of them continued to follow, passing into cool shadows cast from wind blasted tenement blocks. He still carried the shotgun loaded with a single shell, finger next to the trigger. He had no trust for Jarracos, though he had witnessed the Maizans reel in fear from the man-giant and that had to count for something. Reluctantly, he trailed behind the man.

Over debris they ran. Along a narrow walkway. Into a devastated building, stopping to catch breath, bending at the waist and gulping down air. The dull brickwork was seared with immense cracks. The central stairwell had collapsed, causing the floors above to fold inward, dragging the roof with them. Wind howled and the building groaned. The interior reeked and Beatriz gagged as the stench filled her nostrils. Nuria looked up at the grimy ceiling criss-crossed with huge lines and remembered back to the ceilings that had collapsed inside Tamnica. She shivered. _Why had he brought them here? This would not be a safe place to hide._

"Come, come," said Jarracos, gesturing across the lobby. "Hurry, this way, hurry, quick."

She glanced at Stone, eyes unflinching, hair matted with blood. She wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to be placing a tremendous amount of trust in this man, though she noticed he gripped the shotgun tightly, so perhaps not too much trust. But if this was another trap then they were already beyond escape, lost in this maze of broken buildings. A cold exhaustion washed over her. Tamnica flooded though her veins and froze her blood. Her limbs weakened. She could taste Niklas's scent as he grunted against her. Cathy was chopping off her hair, laughing manically. The ceiling and walls pressed in on her. Words were drumming inside her head. Over and over and over again.

Stone lunged and caught her in his arms as her body folded. Her head lolled back, tears ridging her closed eyes.

"What is the matter with her?" whispered Jarracos.

Stone shook his head and the big man shrugged. He approached a square shaped cubicle, the floor spread with rippled sheets of iron. He hurriedly tossed them aside. He dropped to his haunches and traced a hand along the centre of the floor, searching for something. He stopped and there was a small, barely audible click. He flipped open a long panel to reveal an opening with a wooden ladder descending into the dark. Nuria stirred. Her eyes flicked open. Stone's grim face peered at her.

"In, in, hurry, quick, hurry," said Jarracos, nervously looking across the lobby. "It will not take them long to track us."

Back on her feet, Nuria eased from Stone's grip, the comfort of his arm slipping away from her back. She shuffled awkwardly on her feet and mouthed a silent _I'm okay_. A musty aroma wafted from the opening. There was hesitation but Stone could hear the muffled voices of the Maizans closing in on them and it was only a matter of time before they were discovered; with only a few swords, a crossbow and one shotgun shell it was a fight they could not win, despite the Brute's physical presence. He placed his boot on the first rung and disappeared into the gloom. The climb was longer than he had anticipated and he dropped down onto wooden planking. He could see a faint light ahead at the end of a long tunnel. He placed a hand against the wall. The soil was damp and cold. His eyes began to grow accustomed to the gloom as Nuria and Beatriz hurried down the ladder, followed by Conrad and Jarracos, who hastily drew shut the panel, levering a mechanism that secured it.

He squeezed past them, urging them to follow. They inched along the damp smelling tunnel for nearly twenty minutes until it reached a dead end. Thin light shone from above. Jarracos lumbered up the ladder and tapped a number of times against a closed trapdoor. He waited and his code was reciprocated. There was the sound of something heavy moving and then light flooded into the tunnel. A shirtless man greeted Jarracos as he went through the open hatch. His chest was heavily tattooed. His brown hair was thinning. Light stubble covered his face. A pistol was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The two men exchanged words as the four newcomers clambered into a room filled with rubbish and crammed with old furniture.

Stone saw closed doors and a row of windows facing a street. He could hear dozens of voices outside. He edged toward the window and saw a line of rickety wooden stalls. It was a marketplace, crowded with at least thirty or forty people, shuffling from one stall to the next, tawdry wares on offer. The area was hemmed in by derelict buildings, no doors or windows, several half collapsed. He could see two men wearing blue and white scarves around their necks, holding rifles. He eased back out of sight.

"Two Maizans," he whispered.

Jarracos and the shirtless man laughed. Nuria looked at the two men, a dread sensation uncoiling inside her. The shirtless man whirled round toward Stone and presented an open hand, his long outstretched arm inked with a myriad of names and numbers.

"We're all Maizans, man. Some of us are true Maizans." He slapped his bare chest with his free hand. "Some are _Chattes_." He spat on the floor, to emphasise his disgust. Jarracos grunted in agreement. Stone had no idea what the word meant but he guessed it wasn't complimentary. "Those men are ours, man. Protecting the innocent people of Maizan. You gonna shake my hand or what, man? I heard from the Brute you took a liking to killing _Chattes._ "

Stone reached for the hand; the grip was warm, though softer than he had anticipated.

"I'm Leon; Brute says they call you the Tongueless Man. That's an awesome fucking name, man. How'd you earn it? You rip out tongues with that thing?"

He nodded at the sword hanging from Stone's waist.

"Need to thank you for wasting those fucking roaches, man. Everything that's wrong with Maizan is because of them."

"Got that right," nodded Jarracos.

"Brute says you wiped out Genny and tossed Shem from the tower. That's hardcore, brother, I like that."

"Two factions," said Nuria, suddenly. "Both fighting to claim the right of being Maizan. One protecting the city. One destroying it."

"City was destroyed a long time ago," said Leon, swaggering across the room toward Nuria, his eyes roaming her body without subtlety. "But the beautiful blonde got it straight – only we are the true Maizans. The _Chattes_ steal women, turn them into whores. My people don't rape women. We protect them and their children. We don't burn no towns to the ground. We don't trade no tablets with the Tamnicans for the black energy. Come and see." He led Nuria to the window, his passion raised. "Look at that, man, that's trade. That's the world we're trying to build here."

Stone bristled as he spoke to her. They had stepped into a war zone. A city torn apart by a gang split into two.

"Where's Emil?" he asked.

Grinning, Leon walked from the window and pushed open one of the doors. He stepped into a cramped hallway thick with grime. A plain staircase rose to the upper floor.

"Emil," called Leon. "Emil. Get down here, man." He turned to them. "Soldiers don't like being woke during the day. She'll be pissed."

Nuria and Conrad looked at Stone with worried expressions. _Soldiers?_ Beatriz stood in the background, silent, eyes shifting from one individual to the next, wondering what the fuss was all about and if anyone was even going to acknowledge her. She had murdered a Maizan. Or had he been a _Chattes_? Did it matter? She glanced at the dark skinned man, towering above her, the huge axe on his back, the machete hanging from his belt. The sight of him made her skin crawl but she took comfort in the knowledge that she was still armed with her one-shot wooden pistol.

How the hell had she ended up here with these people?

Stone heard a thump and glanced up at the ceiling. There was the shuffle of footsteps. His eyes turned toward the staircase. The floorboards creaked. His heart began to quicken. Tiny feet and skinny pale legs appeared and padded down the wooden steps. Then emerged loose fitting shorts and a shirt daubed blue and white. Her copper coloured hair trailed down her narrow back. A grit filled bleary eye focused on Leon and then the people crowded behind him in the downstairs room, staring at her. She let out a shrill cry and bounded down the remaining steps, bare feet slapping against the floor. Stone watched as the amazement ebbed rapidly from her face only to be replaced by anguish as she saw the fresh wounds they carried - the long scar down his face, Nuria's shorn hair and bruises, Conrad's heavily bandaged arm.

Breathlessly, she curled her arms around him. He could feel her heart beating.

"Magic girl," he whispered.

* * *

Stone leaned his back against the wall and watched Emil talk with Conrad and Nuria. He saw the animated look across her face, the unbridled joy at being surrounded by people she knew. He heard Mallon's name mentioned several times. She naturally felt a crushing disappointment he had not travelled to rescue her from the Map Maker. He turned his eyes toward the Brute and Leon. They seemed less enthused by the reunion. He tried to establish the relationship between Emil and the Maizans. Leon had referred to her as a soldier and she now wore blue and white. It appeared she had adopted the Maizan cause. He glanced out at the busy marketplace, thoughts churning, as roughly dressed men and women haggled over paltry trades. He wanted to get away from this city as quickly as possible. He thought about what the future might now hold. He had no plan of where to go. Could they return to Dessan?

"She looks happy," said Jarracos. "She is pleased to see you all. She spoke about you many nights."

"How did she even get here?" asked Stone.

The giant man grinned.

"You see the fear the _Chattes_ have of me? Yes, you saw them run. I was hunting one morning in the winter, knee deep in snow, when I spotted a convoy of vehicles returning to the city. Too many for me to fight." He laughed. "One of the cars broke down. Smoke pouring out of it. The other cars went on, wanting to get to a warm fire. It was too easy for me. As the _Chattes_ tried to mend the metal machine I killed them all." His voice grew with excitement and he made a series of cutting gestures with an open hand. "All of them dead. They had a prisoner with them. A strange one-eyed girl." He gestured toward Emil. "She tried to fight me so I had to gag her. I brought her here. Now she is one of us. She can shoot a gun well. Do you know what they would have done with her? Do you? They would have forced themselves on her every moment."

Jarracos shook his head.

"They are monsters. The other one we found much later. Once they had finished with him. Long after the snow had gone."

Stone frowned.

"The other one?"

"The one she calls the Map Maker, the one who took her. He stays here but he does not fight."

Stone pushed himself from the wall and said, "Where is he?"

Emil looked over, chewing her lip.

"I don't want you to hurt him," she said, and the room fell silent. "He's been through enough."

Stone frowned at her and glanced at Jarracos. The big man held up his hands, shaking his head, and said, "I don't understand it. A man kidnaps you. You must want that man dead."

"He didn't hurt me, Stone," said Emil. "He never touched me. He's confused. You have to get to know him."

"He's out back," said Leon, pointing.

Stone stepped into a small room, followed by Emil. He saw a long sofa against the wall and a wooden table scattered with leftovers and empty bottles. There was a single window filmed with dirt and a closed door. He saw the outline of the Map Maker standing in a yard filled with old tyres and car parts, surrounded by high walls. There was an iron gate at one end. He stood with his back to the building, his bald head tilted toward the sky.

"Please, don't hurt him." Emil placed a hand on his arm. He stared into her single eye.

"He took you," he said. "Stole you from a new life, just to use you as a thing."

She lowered her voice to a whisper.

"You did the same thing when you first found me but I forgave _you_ for it."

The words stung him. Alone with her in that poky room his soul burned and a hard lump grew in his throat. He stared at her, unblinking, forcing away the sudden shame. She was right, of course, she was very right. He _had_ committed the same selfish act as the Map Maker. He _had_ used her as a thing, a decoy, a convincing bluff to afford him access to a murderous man who needed to die. He had justified his actions, naturally, easily at first when plotting, though much harder when confronted with her smile and her voice, pushing the warmth and kindness she gave brusquely aside, reminding himself only of the vengeance that needed to be exacted, the pain he had suffered for decades, the man who deserved a horrible, brutal and unforgiving death. Only he had relented and confessed, surrendered his deception to her, and she had forgiven it and when the moment arrived, when he had confronted the demon from his childhood, he had watched the man's life vanish at _her_ hand and not his own.

"Promise me," she said.

He nodded, reached for the door. It creaked as he opened it. He stepped into the yard, cool wind on his face, the shotgun aimed at the Map Maker.

"Turn around," he said.

"Most men wouldn't care about shooting a man in the back, Stone." He nodded at the sky. "Do you like clouds? I've never really noticed clouds before coming here." He let out a deep sigh. "Too busy with my head down in my maps. What a fool I've been."

His hands were clasped across his stomach. Stone wondered if he was concealing a weapon.

"I never even got close to finding Ennpithia."

"You're about to get a lot closer to it," said Stone, raising the shotgun and curling his finger around the trigger.

"No," shouted Emil, running into the yard and clamping her hand around the barrels. "You promised."

The Map Maker turned around. He wasn't holding a weapon. Stone grimaced and pointed the shotgun at the ground. He heard a gasp at his elbow.

"Hello, Nuria, have you come to see the freak?"

Conrad bustled into the yard. He glanced at the moon-faced man standing before them, hardly recognising him. He had barely exchanged more than a few words with him during his brief stay in Dessan. He scratched his head.

"What happened to your hands?"

The Map Maker looked down at his cloth wrapped stumps.

"Look at what the _Chattes_ did to him, Stone," said Emil, holding the man by his arm. "He's suffered enough. They tortured him for fun and then threw him out like rubbish. I've forgiven him for taking me."

Stone took a step forward. He stared at the Map Maker's bandaged wrists, shaking his head.

"Can you see what we're up against here?" said Emil.

He glared at her.

"What happened to you?"

"I stopped waiting," she snapped. "I grew up. I made a stand. Like you did."

"Listen up," shouted Leon, before Stone could answer. "This is all very touching, I understand, but it's another day and we need to get things going. We need to get you some colours, man. I want people to look at you and know you are Maizans, like us, man."

Stone frowned at him.

"Colours?"

"You're soldiers now," said Jarracos, though with less vivacity than his partner. "I saw you people fight at the underpass."

"The Brute is right, man," echoed Leon. "We need numbers. The _Chattes_ have more cars, more guns, more bullets. They make their own fucking bullets, man. How the fuck do you make bullets? We have to steal from them so we can fight them. How fucked up is that, man?" He curled an arm around Emil. A curious emotion stirred within Stone and he suddenly had the urge to draw his sword and sever the man's head. "But we got our own secret weapon, ain't that right, Emil?" She grinned and curved her body against him. "This girl has magic in her hands, Stone. She can save a man from a bullet. You don't believe me, do you? Listen, I've seen it with my own eyes."

Emil flashed a smile at Stone but his face was expressionless. She eased from Leon and went to him.

"What is it?"

"I thought you wanted a life in Dessan with Mallon?"

"I did... but is he here? Did he come for me? Leon's here and so are the Maizan people. Why would I want to go back to that horrible village? So the children can call me names because of how I look? So that bitch Margaux can pretend to be my friend and then stab me in the back? She tied a ribbon round my arm, Stone. Where was she sending me?"

"We know where you were being sent," he said.

Emil looked at his battered and marked face but before she could say another word there was a bright flash followed by a deafening explosion. The ground vibrated and the buildings shook. There was no time to think or speak as a second device exploded and sporadic bursts of gunfire began to fill the air. Leon and Jarracos ran back into the building and Stone vaulted onto the wall of the yard. Thick smoke billowed across the ramshackle marketplace where bloodied bodies were strewn over the ground. He could hear screaming and children wailing. He saw blurred outlines of Maizans – or _Chattes,_ as he now knew them - inching forward through the rubble, the flare of gun muzzles. The attack was no doubt a retaliation for the deaths of the lookouts and the men they had killed at the underpass. It was a tit-for-tat war. One side hitting the other, an endless spiral that would never reach a conclusion.

He sprang down from the wall. The Map Maker was hunched on the ground, his head lowered, arms folded. Stone grabbed him by his collar, lifting him onto his feet.

"Come on," he said, dragging him inside.

Emil was at the window, a pistol in her hand, firing shots into the swell of masked gunman emerging from the clouds of smoke. Stone could see Jarracos on the street, hacking with his axe and machete.

"We have to get away from here," said Nuria.

Stone nodded.

"Emil, are you coming?"

She squeezed the trigger twice, sharp bangs from the pistol held with both hands, watching a blue and white drop to the ground, sweeping the muzzle across the haze of smoke.

Bullets raked the building. They all dived for cover as they were showered with chunks of brick.

"I told you I'm not going back to Dessan. Why didn't he come and find me?"

"He's protecting the village," said Stone.

"I'm sure he'll make a better job of doing that," she said, raising her pistol and firing over the windowsill. "Than he did of protecting me."

Stone had no argument with her. He heard the front door crash open and moved hastily toward the hallway, keep low as a second volley of bullets ripped holes through the walls.

A dark eyed, skinny young man with a mop of greasy hair stood in the doorway and aimed a pistol at him, panting heavily behind a blue and white mask.

The shotgun boomed and tossed the youth back into the street. His crumpled body lay sprawled in the dirt, chest matted with blood. The youth's eyes were open and vacant. The sky peered back at him with no mercy. Stone crouched and prised the pistol from his hand. He looked around and saw that the Maizans – the _Chattes_ – were already pulling back, disappearing into side streets and alleyways, sprinting across walkways and leaping over crumbling walls. He tugged down the scarf of the gunman he had shot and saw the face of a child looking back at him, pale skin with only the hint of facial hair. He had first taken life at the age of eight, fighting to defend himself, fighting to survive. It wasn't something he even thought about anymore but as he got slowly to his feet, he was shocked at how sickened his inner turmoil had become.

Emil pushed by him, without a word, rushing toward the demolished marketplace; men, women and children coiled in the aftermath of the twin explosions, many of them crying out in agony. He watched her through narrowed eyes as she used her gift beneath the swirling clouds of smoke. Many of the wounded were beyond her skill. She could heal the most horrible of wounds, chase away the most deadly of human diseases, yet she could not replace severed limbs.

Melting into the shadows, he continued to watch her. The boy had been younger than Emil. Would someone tug down her face scarf one day soon? He thought back to the long and torturous nights in Tamnica and his eyes turned cold with hate at the pain buried deep inside. There were times he had given up hope of escaping that brutal regime and he not survived to simply exchange a Tamnican Warden for a Maizan one.

He raised his eyes and glimpsed Beatriz engaged in conversation with Leon, showing him her custom made weapon. He saw Conrad and Nuria helping with the wounded, dazed expressions across their faces.

Stone said nothing. He helped no one. He remained in the shadows.

\--- Twenty Five ---

It was dark and Stone sought out the Map Maker.

A funeral pyre had been built in the marketplace. Droves of Maizan citizens descended upon the area to pay their respects for the dead. A large number of armed men kept vigil but there was no hint of another attack. As the hours wore on and the flames died away people drifted back to their frugal homes, keeping loved ones close, sharing a paltry supper, consuming small amounts of water. It was a notably bleak existence with little beyond watching the sun rise in the sky the following day.

The bald headed man lived alone in a brick outbuilding, in the back yard of the tenement Jarracos had brought them to. There were blankets and upturned crates and boxes of junk. Stone saw a fresh bowl of food and a corked bottle of drink. He towered over the man, noting beads of sweat trickling down his pate. The wind whistled loudly through the cracked brickwork. As the edge of a cloud nudged across the face of the white moon, plunging the outbuilding into near blackness, Stone rummaged around and found a box of half-burned candles. He lit several and made himself comfortable on one of the crates. He focused his gaze toward the Map Maker.

"Where are your maps?"

The bald man shook his head, chuckling acerbically.

"Even after this," he said, raising his arms. "All you care about is my maps."

"We'll need them."

"We? Why?"

"We can't find Ennpithia without them."

The Map Maker raised his head sharply, making eye contact for the first time. Stone saw a flicker of hope in the man's eyes but then it faded.

"You're mocking me, Stone. That's sick." He shifted on his blankets. "Leave me alone."

"Who chopped off your hands?"

The Map Maker shook his head.

"I won't talk about it. Not to you. Not to anyone."

A gust of wind rattled the outbuilding door. Stone glanced at the untouched food and drink.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

He picked up the bottle, jammed his teeth against the cork and spat it out. He swigged down a mouthful.

"Conrad said Ennpithia is a fairy tale. A place created for children to believe in when someone dies."

"I don't care what he says. Talk to Philip."

"I did."

Stone swigged from the bottle. The Map Maker stared at the long scar down his face.

"Who did that to you?"

"Why do you think it took so long to find you both?"

There was a lengthy silence between the two men. Stone rolled the bottle in his hands. The Map Maker stared at the night sky.

"It was Dani," he said, suddenly, his voice hushed. "They kept us in this apartment block. Prisoners. They beat me, teased me, humiliated me but for Dani... it was worse, she suffered the most. One morning, early, I tried to be the hero and free her. I knew no one was coming for us. She kept saying that Cristo would find her but there was going to be no rescue. I was boxed in. It was driving me insane. Every day I listened to her pleading for them not to touch her. She said that she had waited for Cristo and that he loved her and would find her again no matter what. _That's_ a fairy tale, Stone. I had to do something. I cut her loose and we managed to get out of the apartment but they caught us on the stairs and I never saw her again."

He lifted his arms.

"It was Basile. The _Chattes_ leader. His men held me down and he sawed through my wrists, gloating that I would never make another map again. They threw me out into the snow to die. They wanted the people to see how a traitor is punished. Basile likes punishments. Like how he left Cristo to die in the cold."

"He might still be alive," said Stone, quietly.

"I would have died," sniffed the Map Maker. "I was bleeding heavily, in agony, in shock, but true Maizans found me. Emil should have hated me for stealing her away from Dessan. You know she told me she would never heal me, Stone. Every day we rode north she would say it over and over again about how she would let me die no matter what but the moment she saw me, delirious and losing blood, she healed the wounds and bandaged my arms."

He blinked away tears.

"She has a pure soul. That's why they call them Pure Ones, Stone. Their heart is clean, honest, not like yours, not like mine."

Tears rolled down the man's face.

"We drag the world into the dark, Stone. It's where we belong."

Gingerly, Stone raised the bottle to the man's lips, slowly tilting it back. The drink sloshed and rushed against the glass as the Map Maker gulped it down. Stone put the bottle down. The two men stared at each other. He picked up the food, hard biscuit. He snapped it into small pieces. As the candles slowly burned and the wind continued to howl he fed the handless man, pushing the dry chunks into his mouth, washing it down with another swig of drink. He took food for himself, crunching on the flavourless biscuit.

"Thank you."

Stone nodded.

"Tell anyone and I'll chop your feet off."

The Map Maker grinned, head swimming with drink, and laughed.

"So Basile has your maps?"

The laughing died abruptly.

"This is the truth of you, isn't it? This show of kindness and compassion just to get at my maps. That's all you've ever cared about. Always plotting to steal them from me. You want the power they hold, don't you?"

Stone waited, slowly shaking his head.

"You believe what the fuck you want. I just don't want to get lost."

He scratched his thick beard and rolled up his sleeve, showing the Map Maker the branding on his arm.

"Fuck," he said, flinching. "That's horrible. You get the scar at the same time."

He nodded.

"Tamnica," he said. "Dessan gives – used to give – its people to Tamnica. In return they get left alone. Look, we don't have to like each other; we just have to trust in what the other can do."

The Map Maker shrugged.

"I didn't say I didn't like you. But what can I do?"

"Gallen has been shit for you. It's not done too much for me, either. I reckon it's time to find somewhere new."

"You said Ennpithia is a fairy tale."

"Conrad said it's a fairy tale."

"Do you believe it's there?"

"Who knows?" said Stone. "Something must be there. Someplace better than this. Only one way to find out."

The Map Maker looked out the window. The city was silent.

"Leon will never let you leave."

"He will."

"You can't kill him. You'll have all the Maizans after you. Especially Jarracos. You don't want to tackle with that monster."

"I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to offer him a deal."

The Map Maker turned to him.

"What kind of deal?"

"One that involves getting everything we want."

"You're more talkative than you used to be. I prefer you like this."

Stone rolled his eyes.

"If we get your maps back will you lead us to Ennpithia?"

The glint was back in the man's eyes and this time it remained. He nodded. Stone patted the Map Maker on the shoulder.

"What about Emil? What will you do?"

He was silent for a considerable time.

"Answer me one question. When you showed up, all fucked up, was she with Leon?"

"She was here. She saved me. You know that."

"No, was she _with_ him?"

"I don't know. She was fighting with them. I don't understand what you're asking me."

"Was she with him _before_ she healed you or _after?_ "

The Map Maker nodded.

"That came after."

Stone took the bottle, reached for the door handle.

"How's Sadie?"

"Her belly is fat with your baby."

He hesitated.

"We can go south instead. Back to Dessan. Do you want that?"

"We can't," he said. "Sadie could never understand, Stone, but you might. You have lived a long life. You know this world isn't right, don't you? All the pieces have become fractured. When or why isn't important anymore." He rubbed his stumps against his head. "All that matters is my maps. Fitting it back together. You can help. You understand, don't you? I used to tell Sadie all the time that fists and bullets count for nothing. Power is in knowledge and my maps are filled with knowledge. I cannot turn back now. I have to make that sacrifice, Stone. I have to take us out of the dark and lead us back into the light."

Stone frowned at the strange comment. Shrugging it aside, he pushed open the door.

"Is she okay?"

He stepped silently into the wind.

* * *

Stone could hear grunting, laboured breathing and gasps through the ceiling. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword. He stepped outside into the street, where Conrad and Nuria were sharing a pipe, the grey smoke curling away on the wind.

"Have they finished?" asked Conrad, sweeping back his long hair. "It was getting a bit noisy for us."

Stone said nothing and surveyed the devastated marketplace. Beyond the blackened funeral pyre he saw small fires burning inside buildings where families were huddled together.

"I don't like it here," said Nuria, passing the pipe to Conrad. "Stone, what are we going to do?"

He sat and shared the bottle between them. Nuria leaned toward him, blue eyes sparkling brightly. She lowered her voice as several young men went by, wearing blue and white, armed with rifles.

"I don't trust Leon. One moment he's painting himself whiter than white and the next he's saying we can't leave and we're all new recruits."

"Beatriz has asked to stay," said Conrad, dragging deeply on the pipe. "She told Leon she can make him weapons."

There was an ear piercing shriek from behind them.

"Does that mean we can go back into the warm?" said Nuria, shaking her head.

The three of them stepped back into the tenement building. Nuria dropped into a chair, head spinning from the pipe - she had no idea what Conrad had packed it with. She stretched out her legs, crossing her ankles, felt her eyes begin to slip shut. Through a sleepy haze she glimpsed Leon and Emil coming downstairs. Conrad was half dozing, too, but Stone was on his feet, leaning against the wall, arms folded, headed tilted to one side.

"My new soldiers," grinned Leon, body slick with perspiration. "I saw you fight today, man. I'm proud. You took one of them down. Now you know what we're up against." He slapped Emil on the rump. "Go get food, man."

Hair tousled, Emil padded into the back room. Stone heard her rummaging around, gathering rations and drink.

"And Nuria, fuck, Emil told me I'm in the presence of a General, man. A fucking General. You got a military brain. I need to tap into that."

Stone suddenly drew his sword, the blade flashing in the candlelight.

"Do you know what happens when you chop off a head?"

Both Conrad and Nuria sat forward sharply, the fog clearing from their heads.

"We got a problem, man?"

He stood barefoot, chest rising, tattooed arms loose at his sides, wearing a pair of baggy and shapeless shorts, his pistol upstairs, by the bedside, Jarracos nowhere to be seen.

"Are we not cool? My man saved you this morning. _Chattes_ were swarming all over you and..."

"The body drops," said Stone, smiling, slamming the sword to the floor. "But it doesn't die straight away."

Emil stepped into the room. Leon clenched and unclenched his fists.

"It twitches around, convulses on the ground, and then it dies. Sometimes, a crazy man gets the idea of sticking a new head on the body to bring it back to life so you have to make sure that doesn't happen. You need to cut the body into bits so no one can stick a head on it."

He cut the sword in quick, slashing movements.

"But you don't destroy the parts because _you_ need to use them."

The atmosphere thickened. Emil held her breath. Leon stared at him, wide-eyed, and said, "What the fuck are you on, old man?"

Stone sheathed the blade. There was a collective sigh of relief.

"I'm offering you a deal," said Stone. "I want a car with a tank of black energy. And the three of us decide not to enlist."

"I'm not going with you," said Emil, annoyance in her tone. "I told you I'm staying here, Stone."

"I wasn't asking you to come."

He turned his back on her. Leon squinted, feeling the tension between Stone and Emil. She had spoken of him as a great warrior, a ruthless and dangerous fighter that you never wanted to cross. He looked into the bearded man's eyes and saw a coldness that chilled even his blood. He wasn't afraid of the man. He wasn't afraid of any man and he wasn't afraid to die but his fight for Maizan was one he wanted to win. He wanted to smash the _Chattes_ and drive them from the city so he could rule and rule the right way. He was intrigued by what the old man could offer him.

"You're asking for a lot, man.," he said, rocking on the balls of his feet. "What do I get in return?"

"I'll kill Basile."

"Any man can kill Basile," said the Brute, casting a long shadow into the room. "Finding him is much harder."

He peeled off a heavy coat, thick with dust, and set down his weapons. He saw Emil standing with a plate of food and a bottle of drink. He grinned and took them from her, dropping down into a chair with a loud crash.

"What have I missed?"

"The old man was swinging his sword around a moment ago, trying to cut a deal with us, Brute."

"Killing Basile?" said Jarracos, stuffing food into his mouth, lips smacking as he chewed. "That's your deal? You will not find him. He is well hidden."

Leon clicked his fingers. "I get your story, man. I get it now. You cut off the head and the head is Basile. I get it."

"Kill Basile and someone else will take his place," said Jarracos, crunching and swigging.

Nuria grimaced at the noise. The pigs at Tamnica had eaten with more dignity.

"Brute has a good point," said Leon, gesturing with his hands. "Say you're lucky enough to find Basile and kill him - how do we take over the rest of his men? We've been killing each other for years."

"You'll figure it out," said Stone.

"He's right," said Nuria, getting to her feet. "You will figure it out. They'll still want some of what Basile gave them so you'll need to find a balance. You said you wanted to tap into my military knowledge then here it is. When you kill the leader of an army watch how quickly the men lose the will to fight and die."

Leon nodded thoughtfully and extended his hand toward Stone.

"You got a deal, man. You take out Basile and you get all you asked for."

"How are you going to find him?" whispered Nuria. "You don't even know what he looks like."

"We've got our own secret weapon," said Stone.

The door creaked on rusty hinges. The Map Maker looked up at them. It was still dark.

"Now?" he said.

Stone nodded.

\--- Twenty Six ---

The air was thick with the smell of burnt corpses and Stone imagined this was not the first time a pyre had been lit in this part of the city.

Passing the wreckage of the Maizan marketplace, moonlight illuminating streaks of dried blood and a large number of footprints, they threaded a path through the ruined city, the Map Maker leading the way. He was slow paced and out of shape, gesturing with his stumps as he recalled parts of the route he had staggered - bleeding, nauseous and delirious - taking him from the tenement block where he had been tortured and mutilated into the arms of Jarracos. Stone was an impressive tracker and pathfinder but even he had to bow to the Map Maker.

Under the veil of night, the group moved as silently as possible, keeping low, picking by buildings flattened during a cataclysmic period of Gallen's history. The Map Maker pointed the way forward but Stone eased them to a stop with the raising of his hand. The four of them pressed against a wall thick with dirt. Both Conrad and Nuria were armed with swords. Nuria also carried the crossbow. Stone tilted his head and they saw the outline of a lookout above. The pathway curved around a bend and climbed a flight of dull coloured steps to where the young man slouched, a rifle hanging loose from his shoulder, blue and white scarf around his neck, wind tossing his long black hair. He was quietly singing to himself, his voice reedy and tuneless, nodding his head at the same time.

Stone drew a short blade from his boot and waited, eyes piercing the blackness, attempting to spot a second lookout.

Certain it was a lone guard, he inched forward, pulse racing, thumping inside his head. The blade was gripped tight in his hand. He took another step, boot grinding against the scattered rubble. The guard's melody never faltered. His voice grew a little in volume. There was an aching vibration in the distance and he appeared to be nodding his head in tandem with the noise. Stone's three companions watched on as the lookout became more engrossed in the faraway beat. Stone unfolded his body behind the wild haired man, his left hand curling around and clamping his mouth, the blade flashing in his right, sinking into the young man's chest, snapping his body over the wall, still covering the mouth, cradling him, laying him down, right hand plunging deep and hard, legs jerking spasmodically and then nothing.

He wiped the blood from the blade, handed the rifle to Nuria.

As they crossed walkways and crept through alleyways, edged along half collapsed walls and jogged through underpasses to avoid the larger patrols, the city mushroomed around them, revelling in the arrival of newcomers, demonstrating its reach toward the clouds above, boldly revealing sweeping highways and bridges of metal lines, distant runways of sky cars and buildings that had once housed magnificent libraries, galleries and museums; the city shook, desiring to shed the coat of death and destruction that had rudely tossed itself upon daring moments of vision, bravery and creativity, striving to regain its former glory, its undeniable majesty, but the gesture was a falsehood and it was forced to duck its head and cover its face in shame for the highways were ruptured, the bridges shorn in two, the runways potholed, the sky cars bereft of broad wings, the buildings shattered and pitted with no identity and no memory of their once grand beauty; it was a metropolis of ghosts, of crushed existence, of hopelessness and the cloak of death was inescapable, relentless and suitably apt.

The group were menaced by the oppressive city. Stone wiped the sweat from his brow. He had tracked through cities before but no place had ever crawled beneath his skin like this one.

"Let's get this done," he rasped.

The throbbing noise filled the night air; monotonous, repetitive, vibrating through the high rise buildings. They reached a broken road that ran past a long line of crumbling tenements daubed with faded writing. Small fires burned on the street where a rusted car with doors hanging open was parked. Blue and white _Chattes_ lounged around the metal beast, the thudding, deafening noise pouring from its insides. Stone scraped his beard, shook his head. There was no way they could sneak through this area. The Map Maker tapped him on the shoulder and pointed back toward a dangerous looking path leading into blackness.

"That's the route," he whispered.

Reluctantly, they skated down a slope of rubble, bits and pieces tumbling down the verge with them. Thankfully, the sound masked by the deafening boom from the car above. They stood on the edge of an unnatural canyon, a gaping void in the city, almost as if a giant fist had reached from the skies and punched repeatedly at the same spot, pulverising it until a vast hole was created. The open wound had been left untended and the dry terrain was dotted with patches of grass and weeds, empty bottles, spent cartridges, sun bleached bones, bald tyres, rusted pieces of cars. Surrounded by tenement buildings they spotted smoke rising from one of the rooftops, silhouettes of _Chattes_ cooking food, voices and laughter carrying on the cold wind.

Hunched down, they sprinted across the ground, carefully weaving around the obstacles before them in the gloom. The area they needed to cover was easily a few miles. A potent stench assaulted them as they ran. Feeling exposed, Stone continuously glanced up at the row of buildings, fearing they would be discovered at any moment, but the canyon was bereft of moonlight and no torches were pointed in their direction. They moved fast until there was a stiffened cry from Conrad. The Dessan man was on his knees, retching.

"We need to keep moving," whispered Stone.

Nuria crouched beside him.

"I'm just exhausted," he gasped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, I'll be alright."

He stumbled to his feet but Stone pushed him back down into the grass, suddenly drawing his short blade.

"Hide," he said, rolling away from them.

Nuria and Conrad hurriedly edged behind a half-crushed car. The riotous celebration at bombing the marketplace was in full swing. Nuria watched Stone inch forward, picking a path through the rubbish. She strained her eyes to see what had spooked him. It took a few moments but then she saw the tall outline of a man scampering toward them. He appeared to be limping. He wore a hooded coat, concealing his face. She saw no colours on him.

Suddenly, the man stopped, and began to look around in a panic.

"Cristo?" gasped Conrad, disbelief in his voice. He rose swiftly from his hiding place. "Cristo, it's me, Conrad."

Stone sprang from the darkness, brandishing his weapon. Cristo ignored Conrad and spun round, whipping free a machete from beneath his coat. There was a clash of steel and the blade flew from Stone's grip.

"Stone, it's Cristo," said Conrad, rushing toward them, waving his arms. "Cristo, for fuck's sake, it's me, it's Conrad."

No one was listening to him. Stone grappled with the tall man and they tumbled onto the ground. He slammed a punch into the man's groin and forced the machete from his grasp. Cristo howled and twisted in pain.

"Stop hitting him, Stone," barked Conrad.

Nuria felt her stomach clench as the noise was abruptly switched off and the landscape plunged into near silence.

"Down," whispered Stone.

All of them hit the ground. Cristo winced in pain, cursing Stone. Outlines of men began to appear on the ridge of the canyon, carrying flaming torches and rifles.

Stone could hear heavy breathing as they lay frozen in the dirt, waiting, hoping.

Muffled voices drifted on the wind. He saw men pointing. There was shouting and then he glimpsed the line of _Chattes_ disperse.

"Wait," he whispered.

Moments later the booming sound from the car filled the night air. Loud voices rang out.

The five of them picked themselves up from the grass covered ground. Cristo faced Stone. As he crouched to pick up his machete Stone levelled a pistol at him.

"Fire that and they'll be on top of us in minutes."

Conrad stepped between them, rolling up his sleeve, revealing his Tamnican branding.

"You can trust us," he said, quietly.

Cristo blinked at the marking. Nuria followed Conrad in showing the man the same branding on her arm.

She glared at Stone. "Show him," she said.

Grudgingly, he did so.

"Well," said Conrad, grinning. "We're all members of the same club so can we work together?"

"How did you escape?" said Cristo, his gaze drifting to the Map Maker. "What did they do to you?"

"Take a guess," muttered Conrad.

"Not here," said Stone.

Cristo tagged along with them, in silence, half jogging, half hopping, red rimmed eyes vacant beneath his hood. Conrad attempted conversation with him but it was futile. Losing Dani had crushed him. Conrad still felt Tamnica pumping through his veins and wondered how much of it boiled inside Cristo. They might have both escaped the prison but it had yet released its hold on them. He shook the grim thoughts from his head. Nuria glanced at the tall man accompanying them, puzzling why he had stupidly wasted his freedom by placing himself and his woman in the middle of Tamnicans and Maizans.

Up ahead, the Map Maker continued to gesture with his stumps. Gradually, the terrain began to ease toward ruined buildings and they emerged from the canyon. The sound from the car was fading. Scrambling over rubble, they crept into the nearest building and took a few moments to catch their breaths.

"Car," whispered Nuria.

Headlamps lit the black street. Families huddled in derelict, flat roofed buildings and peered from behind tattered curtains as the car went by. _Chattes_ clung to the rusted vehicle as it circled the streets. Stone saw an open thoroughfare dotted with rusted iron statues of men and women, set atop cracked stone plinths choked with giant weeds. The Map Maker pointed at a tenement block beyond the square, faint light glowing behind boarded up windows. The building stood on a low hill, a single road angling toward it. Several armed men loitered outside.

Nuria listened to Conrad talking with Cristo in a hushed voice. They spoke of Tamnica, the choosing ceremony in Dessan and the robbery he had committed with Dani. Conrad appeared to be doing most of the talking.

"Did you hear that?" said Nuria, settling alongside Stone, who was keeping watch. "I just heard Cristo mention that his woman, Dani, waited two hundred and forty one days for him. That's how long he was in Tamnica for."

Stone glanced back at the man. He saw the Map Maker was talking to him now, showing him how Basile had brutalised him. He heard Cristo ask about Dani but the Map Maker shook his head.

"That's love for you," she said, and paused. The Tongueless man was silent. "Do you have a plan?"

He nodded, twisting his mouth into a thin smile.

* * *

The car had been heavily customised, patched together with random metal panels hammered to fit the rusted lower frame and then wielded into place. The wheel hubs bristled with spikes. A wire mesh cage covered the top of the vehicle, adequate protection against spears, arrows, crossbow bolts and rocks. Razor wire was coiled at the front and sides but the back remained clear where two men clung on. Two more sat inside. As the driver guided the vehicle around the statues and swept along a deserted road, the headlamps illuminated a lone figure scurrying along, collar raised, head down, hands deep in pockets. He knew instantly from the walk it was a woman. One of the men hanging on the back of the car whooped loudly and banged his hand on the roof of the mesh cage.

The driver eased his foot against the accelerator and the car shot forward. His grin was concealed beneath a blue and white scarf. His fellow soldier in the passenger seat roared with excitement. The woman quickened her pace as the two men leapt from the rear of the vehicle and began to run after her. Boots echoed along the broken concrete sidewalk. Nervous faces appeared at windows, hurriedly withdrawing from sight as they saw the _Chattes_ chasing down an innocent woman, foolishly wandering the street alone.

Nuria felt them all around her as the car skidded to a halt, engine still running, lights cutting through the gloom.

A large flap in the roof was tossed open and the two men clambered out. They saw the woman disappear through an arched doorway and melt into the darkness. The first two men rushed after her, calling for her to wait for them, desperate to get their hands on her. As they burst into the rubble strewn building, swords flashed and slashed at them and they were cut down within seconds. Nuria edged around the arched doorway and fired her crossbow at the third _Chattes,_ the bolt thudding into his chest, propelling him backward with a short gasp.

"Fuck," said the driver, whirling round, only to be confronted by Stone, driving a blade into him.

He tried to cry out but a thick hand pressed across his mouth. Stone bundled him against the car and held him until his life ebbed away. He yanked free the blade and dragged the body clear of the sidewalk.

"I want you to stay here," he said, to the Map Maker. "Keep out of sight. Don't make a sound."

The bald headed man nodded. Stone turned to Cristo.

"You know what Basile looks like, right?"

"Yes."

"You can drive?"

Cristo gave a short nod.

"Good."

The four of them armed themselves with pistols, stripped from the bodies of the _Chattes,_ and carried their own bladed weapons. Conrad climbed in the front with Cristo, Nuria and Stone held on at the back. She still carried her crossbow and wore the quiver on her hip.

"I was about to leave this with the Map Maker," she said, handing back the rifle Stone had given her earlier. "What kind of a man does that to someone?"

"No less than I wanted to do to him," he said, slinging it onto his back.

"She's not going to come with us, is she?"

He shook his head.

"Leon's using her."

"I know."

"I told her, but she told me to fuck off."

He looked at her.

"I know."

The Map Maker poked his head above the rubble and watched the car tear along the road, zigzagging through the square of statues. The armed men on the hill were paying no attention to it for the moment but as the car bumped onto the road that curved toward them he saw the men begin to spread out, confused, realising the vehicle was headed straight for them. There were gunshots and both of the men dropped, Stone and Nuria cutting them down. He heard more shots, muzzle flashes from a doorway, men spilling into the road. Stone and Nuria ducked as the car ploughed forward, slamming into a group of armed _Chattes_ and tossing bodies into the air.

Nervously, he stared at the building with the boarded up windows, swallowing hard as the memories swirled in his thoughts. His skin began to crawl, his eyes moistened. He wiped his arm across his face and curled into a ball as Stone kicked open the front door open and the four of them headed inside. _He could see it. He was so close._ Stone would retrieve his maps and they would journey to Ennpithia and he could reveal himself. When they saw his achievements they would recognise his judgement, his power, his elevation – he would be set beyond bullet and blade.

The noise was muffled. He imagined them moving through the building, ruthlessly slaughtering Basile's men. His stomach churned at the mention of the monster who had chopped off his hands. His face was drenched with sweat, armpits dripping. He was helpless, useless. Any moment more _Chattes_ might arrive and take him away and mutilate him even more. Why had he been punished this way? Why had his hands been taken? What would they take next time? His eyes? No, not his eyes. He would rather them sever his feet than blind him. If they robbed him of his vision he would ask Stone to place a gun against his head and pull the trigger. He felt bile flood into his mouth and spat. He shrank into the darkness as the minutes stretched longer and longer. Stone would not fail. He was right. He did not have to like the man, he only had to respect what he could do – and he did. He had long heard of the man's reputation before his first encounter with him. He was a man he would allow to stand alongside him when he reformed the shattered pieces.

He closed his eyes and dreamt of the path to Ennpithia.

* * *

Her body was draped across a makeshift bed; one arm dangling toward the floor, stringy blonde hair matted with blood, a gaping hole in the side of her head, face contorted with shock, frozen in that horrible moment of sudden death, never to change. A narrow ribcage jutted against naked skin the colour of porcelain. There were marks around her wrists and ankles. Stone lifted her stray arm and folded it over her chest. He gently closed her eyes, tossed a blanket over her. Her pale feet poked out at one end. She had been caught in the crossfire, as they had burst into Basile's den.

"Fuck you," said Basile, spitting in Cristo's face.

The machete sliced through his skin. He gritted his teeth, showed no pain, no weakness, no fear.

"I am Maizan," he growled. "You will all pay for what you have done."

Stone glanced at the man as he hunted for the maps. Stripped naked, with no weapon, tattooed arms tied behind his back, blood already trickling from a half dozen cuts, his building taken, his men dead, nothing remaining except the stink of cordite and blood, the _Chattes_ leader jutted out his chest with defiance. Stone recognised him as the mirror image of Leon. Both were devoted to the city. Both claimed the right to be Maizan. Both were passionately dedicated to destroying the other in a storm of blood. Stone was in little doubt that once Basile was dead, and he would be dead very soon, and Leon seized control over the people and the tablets and the bullets that the old ways of one man being more important than the other, of one man having more than the other, would seep through the facade until the cracks finally appeared and his power would be threatened by a new breakaway gang claiming the right of true Maizan. Then the cycle of tit-for-tat violence would erupt and spiral out of control once more and the funeral pyres would blaze into the night.

"Where is she?"

"We fucked that bitch so many times," laughed Basile. "I think it must have killed her."

Cristo slashed him again and again with the machete, dropping the man to his knees. Stone continued to rummage through rooms of cupboards, bags, boxes and crates as Cristo demanded to know Dani's whereabouts, screaming into the bleeding man's ear. Conrad and Nuria had prised a board from one of the windows to keep watch on the street below, knowing they would not have long before a wave of foot soldiers descended upon them. Uneasily, they watched Cristo slice off a finger. This time Basile cried out. Desperately, he wrestled with the rope around his wrists, spitting and cursing at Cristo.

Nuria looked at the raw faced Maizan; dark hooded eyes, cropped hair, unshaven and scarred. This was the man who had butchered the inhabitants of Beatriz's town. The man who had mutilated the Map Maker in the most savage of ways. The man who had no doubt stolen the girl who now lay dead beneath a blanket, an innocent victim, no older than Emil; yet despite this she took no pleasure from his cries and the pool of blood forming beneath him. His face had turned sheet white and he screamed once more as Cristo sawed off his toes. She looked at Conrad, head turned toward the street. She could see in his eyes that the torture had sickened him as well, whether deserved or not.

"Can you smell that?" said Conrad, sniffing.

"He doesn't know what he's doing," she said, ignoring his question and stomping toward Cristo. "Give me that."

He blinked at her. Without waiting for a response, she snatched the machete from his grip and spun round at Basile. Grabbing him between the legs she pressed the blade against him.

"Look at me," she whispered. "Look at me. You have one chance to keep this. Now answer his question."

Basile stared into her blue eyes. He nodded at Stone.

"There," he croaked.

Stone frowned at the man and then noticed the boarded up door in the corner of the room, boxes piled against it.

Cristo stepped forward but Stone was already tossing the boxes clear and yanking the door open. A blast of cold air blew into the apartment and they all gagged at the smell. Cristo went by him onto a balcony. The ground fell away down the side of the hill, into a black ravine.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No."

The bodies were twisted and broken, piled one upon the other, limbs protruding at unnatural angles. He saw men, women, children, wrapped together, rotting away. There had to be forty or fifty of them. It was a death pit. He tried to make out Dani's face but it was impossible in the dark. He couldn't breathe. She had waited all those nights for him, alone with her pain. He doubled over and vomited. Tears filled his eyes. That it had ended here, in this wretched place, their dreams of freedom, of a new life, a new world, all those nights of careful planning, smashed by this blue and white monster, without a care, without a thought. No. Not here. No. Gritting his teeth, wiping his eyes, he stormed back into the room and saw Basile grinning at him.

"Told you I think it killed the bitch."

Three bullets smacked into his face and his body slumped to the floor. Stone lowered his pistol, drew his sword.

"We're out of time."

With a single swipe he hacked off Basile's head and rolled a blanket around it. The three of them stared at him.

"Now it's done," he said, a battered satchel across his back, thick with the Map Maker's papers.

"I'm going down there," whispered Cristo. "I have to find her."

"She's gone," said Conrad, gently, placing a hand on Cristo's shoulder.

"She's not," he flared, shaking it free. "Dani never gave up on me and I'm not giving up on her."

"Two hundred and forty one," said Nuria, suddenly, and every one turned to look at her. "That's what you told Conrad, isn't it? S he waited two hundred and forty one days."

Cristo nodded, puzzled.

"Dani counted the days. I never did."

"The refugees," she continued, looking at Stone. "When I was questioning them about Emil I overheard a young woman complaining about... what was it? That's it, she was unhappy waiting for a particular man to ask to be with her." Surrounded by bodies, the story seemed grossly inappropriate. "She had given him all the encouragement a man needed but he wasn't getting the message." Nuria looked at Stone, thoughtfully. "The women she was with laughed, all except one. She said... she said that was nothing, she had waited two hundred and forty one days for her man. That's an odd comment to make. Could that be Dani? Did she escape Basile and slip out of the city with the refugees?"

"She would have thought you were dead," said Conrad.

Cristo looked between them. There were shouts in the street.

"Move," said Stone. "Now."

\--- Twenty Seven ---

"Kept your word, man," said Leon, lifting Basile's severed head. "You got some balls. Emil was right about you."

He grimaced.

"I didn't know you were actually going to bring the fucker's head. That's messed up, man."

There was laughter from his men. Sunlight rimmed the clouds. The dawn air was fresh, cool.

"You brought me a souvenir?" said Leon, nodding at Cristo. "This one of Basile's men?"

"He's with us," said Conrad, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "And he's leaving with us."

Emil watched from a distance, a tired look on her face. It had been a long night. First, the bomb attack on the marketplace and then the agonising wait as Stone hunted down Basile. Her eye was focused on him. She was waiting for him to ask her to leave once more but he hadn't approached her yet. She was certain he wasn't about to walk away, not without trying to persuade her to go with them. She knew she would reject him, no matter what he offered, but she was disappointed he had come this far, gone through so much, only to limp away. Mallon should have been here. Why was she still thinking about him? She had been ready to open her life and soul to the man. She thought about that candlelit dinner they had shared and her heart suddenly ached. She bit her lip, shifted awkwardly, waited, listening to Leon, her stomach turning over. He was making her feel very uncomfortable this morning. She had warned him about Stone. The man was utterly ruthless. Why was Leon toying with him? Nuria's words were still swirling in her head. She didn't want to believe it. _Did you share his bed before or after he saw you could heal?_ She nodded to herself. In her gut, she knew, she truly knew.

"There's your car, man," said Leon.

Stone studied it as Jarracos emerged onto the street, equipped for war. The vehicle had been stolen from the _Chattes;_ random dented panels welded to the lower frame, missing in places, tyres protected by grills, the upper frame a mesh cage, similar to the car they had taken only a few hours before, but larger.

"Full tank of black energy," he continued. "But why don't you hang with us a bit?"

Stone looked at him.

"Why would we want to do that?"

"It's like you said, man, when the head comes off the body twitches all about." He shuddered in an exaggerated manner and once more his men laughed. "That's what you said, Stone, it thrashes around and shit. I reckon there's going to be a lot of twitching and thrashing in Maizan today. So I'm thinking I'll need some more soldiers to make sure we chop up the body just right, make sure no fool tries to stick the head back on. Then we can get down to running things properly."

Stone looked into Leon's eyes, smiled.

"Let them go, Leon," said Emil.

All eyes turned on the Maizan leader.

"It doesn't have to be this way. Basile is dead."

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled. "Keep your tongue silent before I slap you good."

There was an eerie silence. Rubbish stirred in the wind. Stone glanced up at Leon's young soldiers dotted across the rooftops, blue and white through and through, prepared for the retaliation to come hard against them this morning, ready to fight, ready to die.

"Honour the deal," said the Brute.

The tattooed man cast an angry look at Jarracos.

"Get in the car," said Stone.

Hastily, the Map Maker clambered into the back of the car, followed by Conrad and Nuria.

"Cristo," he continued, not looking at the gaunt faced man. "You drive."

Cristo slipped behind the wheel and gunned the engine to life. He looked at the gauge. It was full.

Leon swaggered into the middle of the street.

"You're staying," he said, suddenly.

There was a long silence.

"Why would I do that?"

"The _Chattes_ will want the man who killed Basile."

"You'd betray us?"

"No, just you, man."

"Leon," exclaimed Jarracos.

"I got a war to win, man," he said, to his second in command. "What the fuck did you think I was going to do?

Leon paced the ground, swinging his arms, hands loose, pistol in his waistband.

"It's like Nuria said, Stone, soldiers don't want to fight when their leader is dead - but they do want revenge."

Stone nodded.

"So you give them me. They get their revenge. Then you seize control. That's a good plan."

Leon clapped.

"Got it straight, man. That's how it's going down."

In the car, engine idling, Nuria and Conrad exchanged worried looks. Emil gasped, stepping forward.

"Leon, you can't..."

"One more word from you, bitch," he said, pointing at her. "And you'll wish we never saved you from the _Chattes."_

"This isn't right, Leon," said Jarracos.

Emil walked to Stone, tears in her eye.

"What the fuck are you doing, Emil? Get away from him."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "He's so desperate to take over the city. Stone... Nuria said he's only with me..."

"She's right."

"Move out the fucking way, Emil."

Stone reached for her, his left hand caressing her pebbled skin. He opened his mouth but she pressed a finger against his lips.

"That's how I prefer you. Like when we first met."

Leon bristled and flexed his long arms. He took a few steps forward. Emil backed away from Stone.

"I've got territory to take," said Leon. "I need to lock down this fucking city under blue and white banners. You gonna put down your gun?"

Stone shook his head. Leon spat on the ground.

"We do it your way, man."

Stone nodded.

Leon stared into Stone's eyes, lowered his gaze toward the man's hands, thick and leathery.

Heart racing, tasting the sweat on his lips, he reached... but Stone's hand was a blur, much faster, the pistol in his grip, a single muzzle flash.

Leon slammed against the asphalt, a bullet hole in his forehead.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Go," yelled Stone, and Emil dived into the car. He slammed the door shut behind her and held on.

Cristo floored the accelerator as the Maizans grabbed their weapons and opened fire.

* * *

Cristo drove hard for several hours, clear of the city, deep into the wastelands, tyres burning across potholed roads that tore through dried scrubland and desolate hills. Nuria unbuckled the Map Maker's satchel and took out one of his maps, unfolding it for him. He traced a single cloth wrapped stump across it, calling out directions. Clinging to the side of the vehicle, wind blasting his face, Stone watched as the city faded on the horizon. There was no sign of any pursuit. Chett, Maizan, he hated cities. He glanced down at Emil inside the car. She was staring directly ahead, a blank look on her face.

He felt the car slow and gradually stop in a shower of dirt. He jumped down and stretched his arms, sore from holding on. Cristo climbed from the driver's seat, leaving the engine running.

"This is as far as I go," he said. "I'm heading south. Try and find the refugees."

"I hope she's with them," said Nuria.

He nodded.

"They were heading for the Eastern Villages," said Stone.

"I'm going with him," said Conrad, climbing from the car.

"What?" exclaimed Nuria.

Emil glanced back at the Map Maker. He seemed oblivious, consumed with his maps, studying the route to Caybon.

"I have family," said Conrad. "My brother, Tristan, Mary and Ambre. I've been away from them for too long."

He ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Besides, when I get back to Dessan, there's something I want to do."

"Learn how to become a proper Saacion?" said Nuria.

Conrad laughed.

"No, I'll leave all the healing to the girls with magic in their hands."

His laughter trailed away. A solemn expression fell upon his face. He stepped toward Stone, embraced him. Stone flinched but Conrad kept his arms around him.

"Thank you for getting us out of Tamnica."

He crouched down beside the car; the curious one-eyed girl with the bright copper coloured hair.

"It changed him, you know, losing you." Emil bit her lip, stared ahead. "He finally built his wall and trebled the numbers in the militia. Do you want to know why?"

"I don't care about a damn wall. You all came to find me. He should have come as well."

"He did it so no one else would be taken. So no one else would suffer the same loss of losing someone they really care for."

"He really cares for me?" blinked Emil.

Conrad nodded.

"I think he liked you before he knew what you could do."

Stone waited. Emil stepped from the car. She squeezed his hands.

"Thank you, for getting me away from Leon. I knew, I always knew, I just didn't want to know."

She wiped away the tears.

"I want to go back to Dessan. Try again at having a normal life. I don't want to keep running or fighting."

He nodded, bent down, kissed her on the top of her head.

"She'll be safe," said Conrad.

Silently, he walked back to the car and slipped behind the steering wheel. In those final seconds, he observed Nuria and Conrad hug, her arms holding onto him for longer than he would have expected.

He revved the engine and she got back into the car, dropping onto the front seat, door slamming behind her. Her head was turned as the three of them scampered across the rough terrain, weaving lines across the wasteland.

Nuria looked ahead. Stone saw her eyes were moist. His rough hand reached for her, the way Emil had with him, squeezing gently.

She glanced at him, a smile touching her lips.

"North," she said.

\--- Twenty Eight ---

Lena sat on the edge of the bridge, in the shadow of the wooden gate, and flicked a pebble into the fast flowing water.

It made a loud plop as it disappeared from sight. She rubbed her neck and let out a deep sigh. The militia had grown accustomed to her sitting here alone, after school had finished. At first, they had engaged her in conversation but there was only so much to talk about with a girl her age so that gradually stopped as they devoted more time to watching the forest or completing drills or sharing stories that culminated with bawdy laughter and back slapping. When the sallow faced girl with the red blisters approached them they offered her a smile. She looked nervously at the armoured men and the weapons that were racked nearby; wooden shields, spears and iron swords.

"Susana," said Lena. "Come sit with me."

The black haired girl eased down next to her on the bridge, slowly kicking her legs as they dangled over the edge, the water rushing beneath them. The girl was new to the village, one of the refugees that had reached them. Some had already relocated in Agen and Le Sen but Susana's family had been invited to stay here. Sadie had given them her home and moved into a smaller hut. She only needed space for two. Lena thought fleetingly of Emil and wondered what had happened to her since that man had taken her in the night. It had been the worse night of her life, far worse than the days when the Centon had completed and the Collectors had taken people away.

Mallon, her hero, had seen an end to them.

"How did you like your first day at school?"

Susana shrugged, stared down into the water. Lena saw she wore clogs that were old and chipped.

"Do you like my sandals?" she said, fanning her feet. "I have a spare pair at home. You look the same size as me. You can have them if you want."

Susana felt her cheeks redden.

"Thank you."

"No problem," said Lena, tossing another stone into the water.

There was a loud clatter behind the girls and Susana gasped, looking round in shock, gripping hold of the bridge so as not to fall in. Two militia men were fighting with wooden swords, yelling as they hacked at each other.

"Why are they fighting?"

"They're not," said Lena, smiling. "They're practising. It's nothing to worry about. That's why they're using wooden swords. When it comes to a real fight they'll be ready."

Lena watched her closely.

"You didn't like it today, did you?"

Susana pressed her lips together, shook her head.

"Did they make fun of you? When you played outside?"

A meek nod.

"They used to make fun of me. Because of how I look."

"What do you mean?"

Lena threw another stone.

"You know what I mean. I'm different. Lumpy head is what they used to call me. They're too scared to now I'm a teacher. Well, a helper. How old are you?"

"I'm eleven," said Susana. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

Laughter broke out and the wooden swords dropped to the ground as fresh militia trotted along the red clay road. There was a short conversation as the men were relieved.

"That's Mallon," said Lena, pointing along the river. Susana cast her eyes down the bank, past the mud hats, to where a short man stood talking with two other men. "He's a special friend. He's very special to look at. What do you think?"

Susana blushed once more and averted her eyes. She realised in that moment that she had been born into a very different world from this girl; one of survival and cold hearted men of violence who brutalised the innocent, not one of name callers and sandals and handsome men who strutted about bare chested. Yet, as she looked around, seeing the smiling faces, hearing the loud conversation and boisterous laughter, her nose wrinkling at the smell of cooked food, she stared at the high palisade wall and the watchtowers and the weapons and realised to herself that maybe these people had suffered more than she knew.

"He's nice," said Susana, and Lena saw a smile for the first time.

"I will talk to the class in the morning," she said. "No one will tease you about how you look or anything else."

"Thank you. I'd better go. My father will be wondering where I am."

"Is Maizan like this?" asked Lena.

As Susana got to her feet, silently shaking her head, the village bell rang out. Lena saw Mallon swivel his head and sprint out of view.

"What's that for?" said Susana, nervously, her face turning ashen.

"It's okay," said Lena, taking the girl's hand. "Remember, we rang the bell when you arrived. Don't worry."

Susana thought of the cruel men in blue and white. Had they come here? Goosebumps erupted along her arms.

"Let's see who it is," said Lena, excitedly pulling her along.

Susana wanted to yank her hand free of the girl who had stood as teacher's helper in the school filled with spiteful children. She had never experienced school before. There were no schools in Maizan. She did not know how to read or write. It seemed unimportant in Gallen. Her stomach flopped about and she thought she was going to be sick although there was nothing inside her. She had not tried any of the food since arriving here despite the mouth watering aromas that wafted through the air. She was afraid to try it. It might be a trick. Her brothers had gobbled down bowls of fruit but she was yet to see her parents eat anything.

Lena was bubbling with excitement as she tugged her into a deafening crowd of Dessan villagers who had gathered at the north gate. Susana wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.

The men on duty in the watchtower, armed with spears, yelled down.

"Open up."

It took four men to lift the heavy draw bar that secured the double gate. Two stood at each end and hefted it into the air with collective grunts. They carried it aside and then two of the four men pulled back the left hand gate. There were cries of joy as Conrad stepped through, looking exhausted and somewhat sheepish, his clothes grimy, blood stained. Emil emerged at his side, a blood stained ball hammer in her right hand.

She stood twenty feet from him. Living. Breathing. Mallon discarded his spear and shield.

Stone had sent her back to him.

He walked to her, his feet leaving prints in the soil.

"Hello," he said, heart racing.

Her single eye flashed at him.

"Hello," said Emil.

"The Magic Girl has returned," cried a voice, and a tumultuous cheer resounded. Lena jostled to the front of the crowd, pulling Susana with her.

"Conrad," she said. "And the one-eyed girl."

"How do you know them?" frowned Lena.

As Susana whispered her tale of the road from Maizan and the strangers who had offered them food, shelter and protection for one night, a hush descended upon the villagers.

Cristo stood before them, a mere shadow of the man who had once worn the purple ribbon around his elbow.

There was muttering as he raised an arm and pulled down his sleeve, revealing the ugly branding upon his skin.

"This is what they do to you," he said, shakily, silencing them. "On the day you arrive. They beat you, strip you and brand you like a wild animal."

He limped through the gate, his eyes burning, intoxicated with hate, a machete dangling from his fist, the edge of the dull blade caked with dried blood. Mallon nodded at him men and the militia edged forward, weapons ready. Whispers passed through the villagers as they recalled who he was and how he had been taken a long time ago. The sun beat down on him as he paced back and forward, glaring at them, watching them lower their eyes in shame.

"You all watched and let them take us. For years you did nothing."

Mallon was about to give the signal for his men to grab Cristo when he noticed the crowd begin to part.

He spotted one of the refugees, a woman who had distanced herself from them on arrival. She had spoke with no one and kept her face hidden. Mallon had assumed she had endured terrible hardship on the road and merely wished to be left alone.

"Two hundred and forty one days," said Emil.

Mallon looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

The woman unwound her scarf as she drew closer to Cristo. The machete slipped from his grasp, thudded to the ground.

Tears filled his eyes as he curled his arms around her.

* * *

Dani pressed her hand against the wall. She glanced up at the thatched roof. She sniffed the air.

"It stood empty," she whispered. "All that time."

Cristo eased himself onto the dusty floor. He uncorked a bottle and drank.

"Does it have a name?" she said, smiling at him.

"I don't care about that," he said.

She took the bottle, wrapped her lips around it, tilted her head back, gulped it down.

"I thought he threw you into that pit of bodies."

She shook her head.

"After the first escape, he kept me tied up. He made me watch as he chopped that man's hands off."

"He's still alive," said Cristo. "Going north. Trying to find Ennpithia."

Dani snorted, drank some more.

"One of Basile's men took pity on me. He left me untied and accidentally left the apartment door unlocked. I ran, Cristo, I ran harder than I've ever run before. I joined up with the refugees and kept travelling with them."

"If you hadn't mentioned the days I was gone." He clenched his fist, shook his head. "I would have never found you."

She clutched his arm.

"You would have. We love each other."

She looked up.

"Do you know there are holes in the roof? We'll need to fix them. Before the rains come."

Cristo shook his head.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

* * *

Alone, he stared down at her simple, unmarked grave, near the birds, clucking and jumping about beneath the warm sun.

"Conrad?"

He ran a hand through his head, wiped his eyes.

"Hard to believe she's dead. Tamnica killed her, Mallon. It killed so many of our people."

He nodded toward Emil, who was talking with Sadie, her stomach ready to explode. He guessed she was telling her about the Map Maker. Conrad watched the pregnant young woman slowly nod but shed no tears.

"I'm glad you arrived back today," said Mallon. "The leaders of Agen and Le Sen will be arriving tomorrow."

Conrad frowned.

"Why?"

Mallon reached for him, gripped his shoulder.

"I think the day has come for my friend to _truly_ escape."

* * *

It had been a long time since he had read to his son.

The prison had consumed his days and nights, working hard to restructure the damage Stone and his companions had inflicted. He now owned a mere fourteen male and nine female prisoners. The Cuvars had been weakened. The Rats had been murdered. The Gatherers had not returned to the forest and surrounding lands since the escape. Morale was rock bottom, rations were being slowly depleted. It was a vicious circle they had fallen into. He did not have enough prisoners to maintain the facility. He did not have enough weapons or ammunition or men to reclaim new prisoners. Deals had soured. No one was trading with them. They still retained a large supply of black energy but it might as well be canisters of thin air if no one was willing to trade. Nothing was going out and nothing was coming in. His economy, underpinned by blue tablets, was crumbling before his very eyes. He was growing deeply concerned. He was the Thinker. He knew the end game and it terrified him. He would end up brutalised and placed in the cage as anarchy and rebellion took its grip. He had told Floran that Stone was the most dangerous man inside Tamnica. He had been wrong. He had been far more dangerous than that.

He needed a new Warden, a man fearsome enough to drive his men forward, to intimidate them, but his ranks were woefully short of such a man. He would have to take the role upon himself.

For now, though, the Thinker needed to become Alba and spend time with his family.

It might be the final time.

Snug was curved in Laia's arms, his beautiful eyes bright, alert. Alba slid the book from the bookshelf, recognising the faded cover of his son's favourite story, the one with the boy and the duck.

Cross legged, upon a thin layer of dust, Alba read slowly to his son's empty bed, his voice hitting high octaves as the tension of the story grew, the drama of a little boy who had lost his favourite toy, his most favourite of all toys, a much loved cuddly duck.

Laia flashed smiles at him as he read, drawing whoops and grins from their son. Alba recognised the smiles and the promise they held. Warmness caressed his body.

"Again, Daddy," said Snug. "Again."

Once more he read the tale. Once more his voice rose and fell with the story. He could hear shuffling footsteps on the landing. He set the book down and eased open the bedroom door.

"Why are you up here?" he asked.

His housekeeper lowered her head.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," she said, noting the empty room. "There is something you should see."

"What is it?"

"You should come at once, sir."

"Can't you simply tell me what it is? What has happened?"

"There's a fire, sir."

The words stung him. He nodded and closed the door. Alba walked to his son's bed and settled him down for an afternoon nap. He kissed Laia and told her to stay with him, to rest.

"Be careful," she said.

He knew he would never see them again.

He stepped out of the bedroom, gently closing the door so as not to disturb them. His housekeeper waited at the top of the stairs, gesturing for him to hurry. He could smell the smoke, seeping through the cracks in the walls. He trotted down the stairs and out into the overgrown garden. Great plumes of smoke filled the air, wafting across the river, shrouding the bridge. He followed the path to the prison and entered through a concealed side gate. He strode across the courtyard and rushed up the stone steps onto the battlements where his men stood nervously, brandishing crossbows and bows.

"Here, sir," said one of them, handing Alba a pair of binoculars.

He raised them to his eyes and saw a terrible fire raging through the Gatherer's compound. He ground his teeth as the flames licked walls and spread over the roof, relentlessly consuming every thing in its path. All the vehicles were ablaze. He swept his vision to the men at the foot of the bridge, preparing to cross. More than a hundred on horse and easily a hundred more on foot. Heavily armed with shields, swords, spears and bows. Bright colourful banners fluttered in the wind. Purple for Dessan. Yellow for Agen. Blue for Le Sen. Red for Siense. Alba recognised the long haired man carrying the Siense banner.

A solitary horse trotted forward. Alba saw a dark haired man with a flat face and slanted eyes. He wore armour and carried a spear and shield.

"The Collectors are dead, the Centons have been destroyed and the united Eastern Villages have come to reclaim our people," called Mallon. "We are offering you the chance to surrender. This is the only chance you have to live. Drop you weapons and open the gate."

He calmed his horse, stroking her mane as thick smoke curled around them.

"If you do not surrender we will take the prison by force." He gestured with his arm at the small army behind him. "We outnumber you. We have more weapons than you. We have more reason to fight. If you do not surrender I promise you that no Tamnican will be spared."

Alba lowered his binoculars and glanced at his house, located beyond the prison walls.

"We will erase Tamnica from Gallen's history," roared Mallon.

The militia from the three villages cheered and clattered their weapons loudly. Alba saw the overgrown garden where Laia and Snug were buried. He took a deep breath as the tears fell from his eyes.

"Open the gate," he said. "Put your weapons down."

Halfway across the bridge, with the gate ahead wide open, Mallon halted his column of horseman as a body was shoved over the wall. Conrad rode swiftly forward, red banner streaming behind him. A man lay in the grass, a cluster of crossbow bolts protruding from his crumpled body. _Was this the Thinker?_ He dropped down from his horse and planted the pole he carried into the ground, watching the red banner unfurl and blow in the wind.

A group of grim faced Tamnicans appeared at the gate, hands placed upon their heads.

Slowly they began to walk forward.

* * *

Deep into the night, beyond the forests and into the deserts, across the wild lands of Gallen, tiny settlements who had never known the word Tamnica pointed at the sky and questioned the orange glow bathing the horizon as the fires continued to rage and the ancient prison was reduced to ash.

Then they would hunker down for the night, weapons ready against the scavengers and the roving bandits.

\--- Twenty Nine ---

"Caybon," said the Map Maker, beaming, as they scrambled toward the summit of the sun baked hills.

Nuria was exhausted. Her stomach was rumbling, her throat barren. She looked at Stone. He looked as bad as she felt. Endless days had elapsed since the car had become exhausted of black energy. The nights were cold, unforgiving, the days unbearable, like walking through a furnace minute after minute. Once the sun broke on the horizon she would peel off her tunic and cover her scalp with it, protecting her head and shading her face. She wore a sleeveless shirt beneath it and the breeze felt cleansing on her skin as it rushed against her. Halfway through the day, though, the coolness of the wind evaporated and it transformed into hot air. Dripping with sweat, she acknowledged this was a more terrible place than the Southern Deserts they had crossed to reach Dessan but here there was no forest or river on the horizon. In truth, as they continued north, painfully lifting each foot across the unrelenting terrain, there was no sign of anything.

The three of them stood in the swirling wind, seeking the bustling community of Caybon, hoping to spy an expanse of sea, only to find a parched and empty landscape of brown sand, rugged dunes and low foothills in the distance.

"There's nothing here," said Nuria.

"But this is Caybon," he said, adamant. "It has to be here. I don't understand."

The Map Maker frowned. He looked around a spotted a crevice, down the hillside, offering a moment of respite from the intense heat.

"Where is it?" said Nuria, collapsing.

Stone licked his cracked lips. The water had run out days ago.

"If there's a town or a settlement around here then we should hear something. Are we lost?"

"No," said the Map Maker, vehemently shaking his head. "We're not lost. Show me the map."

For the umpteenth time, Nuria unfolded the crumpled map and laid it across his lap.

"This is Caybon," he said, squinting. He raised his head and looked around. "Where is it? Unless it's over those foothills."

"What if it had been destroyed? Like the Maizan city?"

"There should still be something here. Ruins, remains, fragments to indicate it had once existed."

They both fell silent for a moment.

"It's as if Gallen has sucked it below the surface."

Stone looked at him.

"Is the map wrong?" he growled.

"No, no, it's not wrong," said the Map Maker, holding up his arms, a pitiful sight without his hands.

"You're putting a lot of faith in a map that doesn't show Gallen."

"But it does," said the Map Maker. "You don't understand. I should have more patience with you both. My maps of Gallen _match_ this old map from the Before. Except for this region. I've never been here but we're in the right place. I'm convinced of it."

"How can you be so certain?" said Nuria, shaking her thin shirt free of sweat. "We could have easily lost our bearings. We could be tracking east or west or any variant of north."

"The map is right," snapped the Map Maker. "And we are heading north. Maybe we're a day behind. Come on, we need to keep going."

The deep blue sky, stricken with red tears, stretched cloudless above them, strong rays burning them as they forged over long drifts of sand and low hard dunes of rock. Stone caught his boot and stumbled. He looked back, frowning. He dropped to a crouch and swept away the sand, uncovering a rib cage. Nuria stood over him, casting a shadow as he drew his sword and used it to rapidly swept clear layers of sand, revealing more bones.

He stopped as Nuria placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Stone," she whispered.

Slowly, he raised his burnt, scarred face. He counted twelve of them, forming a loose circle around them, clad in black, from head to toe. How had they not seen or heard their approach? It was if they had dug themselves out of the ground. Fear sprang across the face of the Map Maker. He squeezed between Stone and Nuria as they stood back to back, rotating slowly. Nuria's sword scraped as she pulled it from its scabbard. The men appeared unarmed. Wordlessly, they circled them, waiting for the right moment, sensing when to move forward.

"Where the fuck did they come from?" barked Nuria.

Stone could not see their eyes. Even as they moved closer he could not see any of their features.

"Please don't hurt us," shouted the Map Maker. "We just want to find Caybon."

"Shut up," said Stone. "Don't show them any fucking weakness."

"We don't have anything," he blurted out. "No food, no water. We just want to find Caybon and make it to Ennpithia."

"Quiet," yelled Stone.

Frustrated, he whirled his sword in front of him, tired of endless of walking, ready to work up a sweat the old fashioned way. The black robed men drew closer, tightening the knot around them. The sun blazed down.

"You ready?" he whispered.

"Yes," said Nuria, glancing down at the pile of bones Stone had uncovered. She wasn't prepared to end up like that. She had not come all this way, suffered at the hands of vile men, only to die a meaningless death on a stretch of sand in the middle of nowhere, a victim to desert marauders. They were chasing a dream of a better life, of a better world beyond Gallen - she was not about to meekly surrender that.

Tightly clenching the hilt of her sword, she roared, and lunged toward one of the men, plunging the tip of her weapon at his heart. Nimbly, he sidestepped her thrust, but made no movement to draw a weapon of his own. He continued to pace the hot sand, almost baiting her to attack once more. Stone raised his sword about his head and charged recklessly but the move was a feint and in that final moment he jerked his shoulder and hit the ground with a swift roll, pulling himself behind one of the robed men and sweeping his sword in an arc. The sword went through the man, slashing cloth and flesh, but he felt no impact against the blade, as if he had struck thin air.

Stone bounced onto his feet, his boots scraping over hard rock, holding his sword in one hand.

He scratched at his jaw. _He'd hit him_. He had timed the move perfectly. His sword should have cut the man in half but there he was, dancing around him, not ready to reveal his own weapon, merely threatening with superior numbers. That wasn't possible. No man can withstand a blade. Stone backed away, drawing close to Nuria as she drove her sword into one of the robed men and yelled as it pierced his heart, only to see, in the next moment, the man standing several feet away, unhurt.

"Stone," she gasped.

"Run," he said.

The three of them pounded the terrain, the sand giving way to hard ground, baked beneath the sun with ugly black fissures ripped through the brown rock. They kept running, pouring with sweat, the Map Maker soon trailing far behind them.

"He can't keep up," gasped Nuria.

"Fuck it," said Stone.

They sprinted back for him. He had collapsed to his knees, his bald head shiny with perspiration. They both took a defensive stance around him, protecting the helpless man, swords clasped with both hands. Wordlessly, they stared at the barren land, the wind stirring the sand. The arid landscape was empty.

Stone narrowed his eyes.

"There's nowhere for them to hide," whispered Nuria.

The minutes dragged on. The three of them refused to budge. Finally, Stone sheathed his sword.

Roughly, he lifted the Map Maker onto his feet.

"Where are we? What is this place?"

"Beatriz warned me," he spluttered. "I didn't believe her. She said the north was not a place a man should go."

Nuria and Stone looked at him.

"Why? What exactly did she say?" said Nuria.

"It was just stories," he said, lowering his gaze.

"I spared your life," said Stone, placing a hand to his throat. "Because I felt pity for you. That can change very quickly. Now what the fuck did she say?"

"She said that the people who existed here were different. Not like us."

"He's right," said a voice. "They are different."

Stone slowly released his grip. His hand moved carefully toward the hilt of his sword.

"You don't need that."

She was a little taller than Emil, no more than five feet two inches. She had no legs and stood on metal braces, worn and dusty boots attached to the bottom of them. She leaned forward on a walking cane, her bare arms brown and wrinkled from the sun, dotted with large spots. Her hair was white and thin, sprouting from her scalp and curling upward before trailing to her waist. Thoughtful brown eyes watched them from sunken sockets.

"Where did you come from?" said Stone.

"That's a bit rude. I live here, this is my home."

There was defiance in her voice and the way she held herself, despite her afflictions.

"Did you see those men?" asked Nuria.

The woman shrugged.

"Not anymore I don't."

She smacked her lips, grinned. Glancing up at the sun, she pinched the bridge of her nose and gestured with her cane.

"Just about to have some lunch," she said. "Why don't you join me?"

She had sprung out of nowhere, thought Nuria, calmly confronting them with no fear of their weapons or who they might do. She _must_ have seen the black robed men. There was no way she could have come this far and not seen them. Nuria replayed it in her mind; their sudden appearance out of thin air, the way they circled and pressed them but never actually attacked, and then that impossible moment when her sword had plunged through the heart of one of the men only for him to emerge unscathed. And in the blink of an eye they had vanished and this woman had appeared. She shook her head. The lack of food and water was scrambling her thoughts.

Reluctantly, needing sustenance, the three of them followed the white haired woman across fractured rock until she descended a narrow path littered with small stones. Walking was awkward and her hips swung and jutted at odd angles as she took each step. Stone took the rear, continuing to observe the surrounding lands.

The terrain was deserted.

* * *

Wedged beneath a long outcrop of rock was tucked a wooden hut. There was a single window with open shutters and a rough hewn door. The area was a deep depression within the rocky dunes, permanently shaded. Stone couldn't hear the sea. He had only stood on a coastline once, many years before, and had delighted in the sound of crashing waves and the foamy water stretching over the beach. He had glimpsed rivers and lakes and ragged streams but the vastness of the sea stirred him.

She invited them inside. Allowing his eyes to roam he saw no obvious traps or indication that there was anyone else here apart from the white haired woman.

Inside, it was gloomy and cluttered but refreshingly cool. Nuria glimpsed a large basin filled with blackened water and her stomach clenched at the odour. There were rough looking seats but she was simply glad to ease into something more comfortable than broken rock beneath her bones.

Muttering to herself, their host rummaged through a large cupboard, pulling out wooden goblets and a jug. She set the goblets onto a low table with a scratched and faded surface and trudged into the back of the hut, clutching the empty jug. She returned a few moments later, holding it in her right hand. She poured clear water into the goblets. Nuria flicked a look over her shoulder at the basin of foul water. Had this come from that? That wasn't possible. She had seen filtering systems in her home city of Chett but they had involved complex workings created and maintained by men with knowledge far superior to her own. The most effective method she knew was to boil water over a fire and allow it to cool. The woman returned once more with a bowl of food, small chunks of a curious looking meat none of them recognised.

"Thank you," said the Map Maker, eyes gleaming. He lifted the goblet but Stone placed his hand across the rim.

"We've been out here a long time," he croaked. "No traces of any water. Or food."

The Map Maker blinked, slowly retrieving his hand from the bowl. The white haired woman sat opposite them, brown eyes revealing nothing.

"I have a system for turning that," she said, pointing at the sludge-like water. "Into that."

"That's not possible," said Nuria, raising the goblet and sniffing it. There was no smell.

"Who are you?" asked Stone. "How have you survived out here for so long?"

Smiling, she lifted her own goblet and drank, the water trickling over her lips and dribbling down her chin. She plucked a piece of meat from the bowl, chewed and swallowed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"My family have lived here for generations. My father's father built this house in the rocks. My name is Yannis but you already know that or you wouldn't be here."

"You're the Sea Warrior?" exclaimed the Map Maker. "That's not possible. You can't be."

He glanced at her legs.

"It's a lie."

"Why's that?"

"I was told the Sea Warrior was a man."

Yannis – if that's who she was – shrugged indifferently.

"Once he was. It's a family legend. What can I do about it?"

Nuria stared at the wizened faced woman.

"When did you lose your legs?"

"These," she said, slapping one of her metal braces, chuckling. "I was born like this. My mother made these for me when I was young. As I grew taller she added bits of metal and made a longer pair."

"Where is she? Your mother?"

Yannis frowned at her.

"Do you know how old I am? My mother is dust."

The Map Maker was shaking his head.

"But you can't be the Sea Warrior. How can you handle a boat?"

"You have no hands," said Yannis. "But you made it here. Across the desert. How is that possible?"

He fell silent for a moment, suitably rebuked.

"We came for passage to Ennpithia. Do you have a boat?"

She laughed, dry and hoarse. She rocked in her seat, her crackling humour the only sound accompanying the whistle of the wind.

"What's so funny? Why are you laughing at me? I don't like you laughing at me. Please stop it, stop laughing at me."

"You have no sense of humour," said Yannis, shaking her head with disappointment. "What has a boat got to do with it?"

"I don't understand," said the Map Maker.

"Will you have your drinks? Or I have wasted my time bringing you here? I thought you were thirsty."

Stone stared into her lined face. Her eyes were fearless. Something was very wrong here. She could not have survived this long alone. There had to be others. There had to be someone in league with her.

"Who are the black robed men?" he said, running a finger around his goblet. "You wouldn't understand," said Yannis.

"Are they protecting you?" he asked. "Is that how you've managed to survive this long?"

Yannis let out a mildly frustrated sigh.

"What is wrong with you people? Why do you assume I need protection? From who? Generations of my family have lived here. We've always been safe. Not many people come this far north. There is nothing here."

"How do they do it? Appear out of nowhere and then move so quickly?"

"Why do you think they appear out of nowhere?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "What if they are always there but you had only just noticed them? Had you not considered that?"

Stone shook his head, confused.

"A voice from the past. A snapshot of what once was."

"What do you mean?" asked Nuria, leaning forward.

"Caybon," said Yannis. "They are Nearly Men of Caybon. They cannot hurt you. My father called them memories. Reaching out for whoever is still here. Some mornings I watch the sunrise and I see them stir from the sand. They were not reacting to your swords. I don't believe they are truly aware of you or your weapons. I've walked amongst them many times. They simply exist. Some aspects of Gallen cannot be easily explained. We live a world that was once different. The echoes are all around us. The Nearly Men are a reminder, that's all, of a civilisation that once was. I imagine stories of them must have drifted south, frightened people. You're the first travellers I've seen in years."

"Caybon is gone?" said the Map Maker.

Yannis looked around her home.

"This is Caybon."

He sighed.

"Do you have a boat?"

"No."

Nuria lifted her goblet, drank. Stone glared at her but the water was refreshing and quenched her thirst. She scooped up a handful of meat. It was tough but had a distinctly salty taste.

A silence fell upon them. The Map Maker looked crest fallen. His dreams had been crushed.

Nuria, on seeing his face, said, "What about Ennpithia? Have you heard of it?"

"Of course," nodded Yannis.

"Then it's not a fairy tale. It really does exist."

She rose from her seat.

"Is that what people think? Let me show you. It will all become a lot clearer to you."

* * *

The four of them stood on the beach, dotted with pebbles, the wind whipping about them.

Yannis leaned on her cane, observing the stunned expressions they bore.

"Must have died centuries ago," she said. "My father called it the Metal Sea. That's what his father called it. Reckon that's about right. Stories are told that the Cloud Wars were bad here. Took away Caybon. Took away the sea. Like I told you, you don't need a boat."

They stared across the rippled mudflats, glinting with sunlight, stretching to the horizon where it rubbed against the blue and red sky.

Mangled and discoloured metal bloated starkly from the soft and blackened ground; pieces of boats, ships, sky cars.

"We can walk there," said the Map Maker.

"There have been some that have tried," chuckled Yannis.

* * *

That first night, they slept amongst the rocks.

As one day slid into another, a fragile bridge of mutual trust grew. Yannis showed them how to hunt food and water on the mudflats. They saw small fast moving creatures they had never seen before, living beneath the surface. She explained what was safe to eat and what was harmful. She opened her home to them, revealing a series of small caves that had been dug into the rock behind the hut. They were piled with collected odds and ends that she had discovered through the years. She hoarded everything she had found and stored it haphazardly. It was here she revealed how she purified the sludge like water and was able to strip away all the harmful bacteria. None of them had ever heard of bacteria.

Yannis offered them a place to sleep, glad of the company, but still they chose to bed down outside. Finally, they relented and slept within the hut and the caves, consuming small amounts of food and water. The food was often hard and chewy but surprisingly flavoured and filling. One day, Stone took a shovel and dug amongst the sands. Nuria helped him and they kept at it until they clanged against metal. Furiously digging, they uncovered the outer framework of a roof. The map was correct. They truly had reached Caybon. The town was buried beneath them.

Exhausted, they lay on their backs, the sun blazing from the sky, holding up the map between them, staring at the stretch of blue between Caybon and the land marked EN.

The Map Maker had lapsed into sullen moods. Unable to draw, unable to complete any task, he would remain silent for days, wandering alone, losing hours on the beach, the moist sand beneath his feet, talking with only himself.

\--- Thirty ---

Nuria crouched beside the shore, at the furthest tip of Gallen, on the very edge of the world.

"Are you doing this?" muttered Stone.

"Stop complaining," she said.

She had cut his hair, snipping away the long strands, shaping it to fall neatly upon his shoulders. Now, she carefully trimmed his beard. She had no intention of scraping all the hair from his face. She found it hard to trust a man without a beard. A lack of facial hair made a man look curiously wild, even menacing. She had seen Stone shorn and shaven once before and the look had disturbed and frightened her; it had thrilled her, too, if she was being honest.

"Nearly done," she said.

The three of them had to make a decision soon but not today. She hoped it would not be today.

"Do you know something I've worked out about you?" she said, clipping away with a pair of borrowed scissors. "You're very quiet around people you care for."

He shrugged. He imagined the smell of the sea, the crash of the waves in his ears, but there was only the wind and the scissors.

"You always have a lot to say," said Nuria, continuing to cut back his beard. "To unimportant people, usually before you kill them."

A faint smile crossed his lips. She smiled back at him.

"So I'm starting to think you care quite a bit about me because you spend most of the day ignoring me."

The soft skin of her hand touched his face once more as she levelled off some loose strands.

"I don't ignore you."

"And you don't like to be alone, do you? You want the silence but the silence frightens you, doesn't it?"

"Nothing frightens me."

"I'm yet to meet a man," she said, playfully. "Who is frightened of anything."

He was thoughtful for a moment.

"There never is silence," he said.

The scissors paused. She placed a hand on his shoulder. She wanted to wrap her arms around him.

"We have to decide, don't we? Do you want to go back south? Or follow the shoreline?"

"I don't see any point in turning back now," he said.

"I know. I suppose I'm enjoying the peace and quiet, the solitude. Yannis is harmless to be around."

Stone grunted. She snipped at his beard.

"You still don't trust her?"

"The Nearly Men," he said. "That doesn't bother you?"

She rose, arched her back.

"It unsettles me, yes, because I don't understand it. I'm not sure I believe it, either. I mean, did we really see them the first time? We were all exhausted and suffering with the heat. We were dehydrated, I don't know, maybe we imagined it. There, all done."

Stone got to his feet, brushing off loose hair.

"We didn't imagine it. You saw what I saw. You put your sword through one of them the same as I did and nothing."

"You look very presentable," she said, ignoring his point. "And very handsome."

He stared out across the mudflats.

"Not even a thank you?"

"I'm showing you how much I care," he said, smiling faintly.

The two of them were silent for a moment, each with their own thoughts.

"Ennpithia is still out there," said the Map Maker, emerging from behind them. "You said there is nothing left in Gallen for any of us, Stone."

He swallowed.

"Ennpithia is the answer. I can fix it. You understand, don't you? I hear it all the time. In here."

He banged a stump against his head.

"I know it's there. The path I've had to take since the day I was born. I know how to put the pieces back together. You have to believe me. You have to understand how important it is."

Nuria looked at the man.

"You should have gone back to Dessan. There's a family there that needs putting back together."

"I have nothing back there," he snapped. "Why can't you hear me? I have to sacrifice Sadie and my child for this." He raised his arms. "Why do you think this was done to me? My hands. My precious hands. He could have cut off a leg or an arm or just one hand. I was being punished. I've strayed."

Nuria let out a sigh.

"So we've decided then," she said. "We're going to cross it."

"I think we have to see what's there," said Stone.

"Stone's right," said the Map Maker, latching onto him. "This has to be completed. I must mend what has been fractured."

"What does that really mean?" said Stone, turning to face him. "You say it all the time. Putting the pieces back together."

He gestured toward the Metal Sea.

"You can mend all that?"

The Map Maker frowned, shaking his head at the mudflats dotted with rusted beasts from another age.

"No, of course not."

"Then what?" said Nuria. "What are you talking about?"

He looked between them both.

"I thought you understood," said the Map Maker. "It's people. It has always been people."

He took a step forward, stared out from the beach.

"Those are the pieces I can put back together. And Ennpithia is where it begins."

THE END
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed Escape From Tamnica.

The story continues in...

Drums of War

