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

almost as a physical thing, like a heavy cloak, pressing down onto his shoulders. There was a down trodden nothingness to the lives of these people, an oppression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
    Boyd’s affable nature was the only respite from the suffocating mood. Stone wondered what position the man held in the village. The man’s boots, though mud spattered, still looked clean. His clothes were neatly tailored, well presented, and colourful scarves were knotted around his neck, concealing fleshy rolls. His eyes were dark, scrunched tight, with half moon shadows beneath them, and his hair was a curious shock of grey set atop a smooth scalp, curling shaggy and untamed onto a deeply rippled forehead. He was easily ten or fifteen years older than Stone, though the vivacity in his step belied his age.
    He took them to the village inn, at the end of a rutted lane. A faded sign creaked in the wind. Inside, the ceiling was low and stale pipe smoke lingered in the air. A lit fire blazed in a large stone hearth, despite the mild temperature outside, and filled the room with warmth. Stone smiled but then noticed a wooden sign nailed above it. The sign seemed to be everywhere; on buildings, on the uniforms of men – even on Boyd who wore one on a chain around his neck.
    A bald headed man stood behind a long wooden counter and looked up as the three of them entered. He was in his thirties and wore a brown apron over a heavy woollen shirt with the sleeves rolled back, revealing thick arms covered in wiry brown hair.
    He smiled at Boyd, a near toothless grin, and cast inquiring looks at Stone and Nuria.
    “Good morning, Bertram,” said Boyd. “Food and drink for the three of us, please.”
    Boyd asked them to sit. It wasn’t a request. His voice was friendly but there was a firmness tucked neatly behind his words. It was no wonder he had persuaded the village authorities to release them to him. He was a man who got what he wanted with a smile, not a sword or a fist. He politely excused himself to speak with two men slouched on stools at the end of the counter, sipping from large mugs.
    Stone sat opposite Nuria, his back pressed against a rough wall, and carefully studied the two men. One was older, a gnarly face, grey hair, dark beady eyes; the second one was half his age, hair brown, blistered and patchy skin. Both men wore studded leather armour with heavy boots and strapped down swords. Whatever the nature of the conversation Stone knew the men were looking more and more displeased by it. Boyd spread his arms and shrugged. The older one nodded, turned away and raised his drink to his lips, shaking his head with disappointment. The talk was over, as far as he was concerned, but the younger man was not letting the matter lie; he jabbed a finger at Boyd, his face contorted with fury.
    “Did you see the way they handled the shotgun?” said Nuria, the warmth of the fire on her back. “They were terrified by it.”
    She drummed her fingers against the table.
    “Why did the captain call us Kiven? Have you ever heard of that word before?”
    He shook his head.
    “Do you think it means outsider?”
    “I don’t know,” he muttered. He paused. “They don’t look too happy.”
    She glanced over at the two men. Then turned her attention back to him. There was anger in his eyes.
    “I don’t like it here,” he said.
    “We’ve only just arrived.”
    “What is it with that sign, Nuria? It’s everywhere. Boyd is even wearing one. I hate signs and symbols and … we’ve seen enough of them.”
    She wanted to reach across the table and squeeze his hands. Her heart hammered at the thought of holding him, wrapped in his warmth. She had wanted him as a lover, attracted to his untamed ways, but Tamnica had stunted her desire for any man, severed it piece by torturous piece. All she wanted was to hold him and feel him close and for him to know that someone cared that much and wanted to be with him and that he wasn’t