The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) by Laurence Moore Page A

narrowed his eyes.
    “You knew that weapon was empty,” he said, turning to Stone, “and I saw the way you handled it. You three are Kiven.”
    “We’re what?” said Nuria, her heart beginning to race. She licked her lips as a cluster of bowmen advanced and gathered around them, bows raised. Had they left behind one crazy world for another? She couldn’t understand the hostility.
    “We’re from Gallen,” said the Map Maker, nervously. “His name is Stone. That’s Nuria. I’m the Map Maker.”
    Duggan let out a low whistle. “Now I find that very hard to believe. Few men find their way here from Gallen.”
    “Us men seem to have made it just fine,” said Nuria.
    Stone let his hand drift toward his sword.
    “I wouldn’t do that,” said the captain, taking a step back. “I’m placing you in the barracks. Surrender your weapons or we take them.”
    “Captain Duggan,” said a voice, pushing through the knot of bowmen. “Captain Duggan, please.”
    Stone observed a tall slender man with freckled skin. His scalp was covered with a fuzz of blond hair. He wore black, from head to toe, with a white sign emblazoned across his chest, identical to the one the soldiers’ wore. Hands clasped together, he presented himself to Duggan and said, “Mr Boyd claims knowledge of this party. They are here at his request.”
    All heads turned toward a portly man with a shock of grey hair, standing on the edge of the village.
    “Deacon Rush, with all respect, I do not place tremendous faith in the word of Mr Boyd.”
    Rush smiled. “I cannot imagine that Mr Boyd would spin a lie on Reverence Morning, Captain. He’s an honest, hard working man.”
    Duggan chewed his lower lip. He glared at Stone.
    “You know Mr Boyd?”
    Stone and Nuria remained silent. Bowstrings strained. A few villagers began to wander over, intrigued by the stand off with the newcomers.
    “Mr Boyd states he can vouch for these people,” said Deacon Rush. “I think his word should be good enough, Captain.”
     
     
    They didn’t know him but it appeared everyone else did; there were vigorous handshakes as Boyd led them through the village, firm hugs, waves, slaps on the back and a plethora of polite nods, all accompanied by a warm and genial smile.
    Nuria whispered to Stone but he had no answers for her. Boyd had saved them from the barracks and for the moment that was good enough. He was in no mood for any further slaughter, having only reached the shores of Ennpithia, and despite the bodies in the canyon, he wanted his sword to remain sheathed, at least for now. If they had been taken to the barracks he would have been forced to resist and kill all the Churchmen and would have done so without hesitation. He had lived a long and bloody life. In the wastelands of Gallen they had many names for him; the Tongueless Man, the Wasteland Soldier, to conjure only a few. But they knew him and feared his violent wrath. Here, he was a stranger and for now the anonymity appealed.
    Glances lingered for a few seconds longer as Boyd walked them through a bustling and hard working community. The village had stood for many centuries, a post Cloud Wars settlement, that much was obvious. The inhabitants had ritually observed Reverence Morning with solemn reflection but now, with the sideshow of Munton’s arrest over, the rest of the day would unfold into labour, and little else.
    Stone could hear the groan of cattle. Beyond the humble dwellings he spotted fields of black and white beasts, chewing grass, tails swatting away flies. He could see long necked white creatures with orange beaks and recognised them as gleff, tasty but vicious things, very rare in southern Gallen, where he was from, but more common in the north. Later, he would learn they named them geese here. There was hammering and sawing and stitching and cooking and tending and gardening but despite the hum of activity, despite the loud chatter and the occasional burst of song, Stone could feel tension,