Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

A large fire crackled beneath the stone hearth inside the washroom. Shutters rattled in the wind and splinters of grey light peeked though fraying black curtains. There were basins and wall mirrors, steel baths and barrel baths, wooden benches, toilet buckets and large baskets filled with folded towels.

Stone spotted Brother Finley slumped in a wooden chair, mouth gaping open. He was the youngest of the Brotherhood, possibly thirteen or fourteen years old, and had been given night duty in the washroom. Stone usually came across him asleep because hardly anyone used the washroom during the night or the early hours of the morning. He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently shook him.

The boy suffered from incurable flushes and his sallow cheeks pulsed with a pink hue. He looked around, noting there was only the two of them, and smiled, thankful it was not one of the Elder Brothers. His skin was ravaged by spots and combined with the nervous flushes he was glowing brighter than the open fire. He scampered to his feet, awkward and gangly. His head was oddly-shaped and his brown eyes appeared too large for his face. Some of the men poked fun at his appearance but Finley had taken an oath of silence, one that was to be maintained until adulthood, so he was unable to respond to the cruel jibes. Stone doubted the boy would’ve answered back anyway; he appeared soft-natured.

Adulthood, mused Stone, as he stood at a basin whilst the skinny kid heated up the water. In the Muscane Brotherhood, adulthood was mastered in the eighteenth year, once the journey of physical remodelling had been completed. In the western state of Ennpithia, a boy was deemed an adult at the age of twelve. For Stone, a child of the southern wastelands across the sea, manhood began once you balled your fists and were taught how to use them.

The Brotherhood had beliefs that were identical from refuge to refuge, similar to the knee bending Priests he’d encountered in Ennpithia, but the Muscane’s faith was in humanity rather than an invisible deity that jostled men. The Brotherhood had no Holy Houses and possessed no visible trappings of wealth enjoyed by the Ennpithian religion. They had nothing and chose to embrace those with nothing; men and women at the end of long and winding roads. Stone had first heard of them in the city, whilst chasing down information on the enigmatic Pathfinder. It had led him to a refuge of weak and desperate people. The man he sought was a hard drinking lowlife, reviled on the streets but accepted by the Brothers, and a handful of coins had loosened the man’s tongue. During that time, Stone had observed the Brothers and found a pocket of respect for their selfless work.

He put down his coat, backpack and ammunition bag. He propped a carbine against the wall. He saw Finley glance at it. It was a superb close combat impact weapon, Kiven made, constructed from metal and wood, a pump-action reloading mechanism, an internal sling and steel ball ammunition. It didn’t have the range of a rifle or the punch of a shotgun but it was an adequate firearm; faster and more deadly than a crossbow - and he’d had plenty of practice with it.

He placed his revolver beside the basin, close at hand, unbuckled his belt and coiled it to the floor, a sheathed machete hanging from it. He took out his flask, opened the cap and drank a mouthful of whiskey. He bunched his fists, leaned against the basin, and refused to look at his reflection in the grimy mirror. He didn’t need to. He knew what he looked like.

He usually came to the washroom at this hour, before dawn. It was always empty and he enjoyed the solemn peace. The men of the refuge were a rowdy bunch once in here, telling inflated stories of women and repeating jokes with booming laughter, and he wanted no part of them or the past they clung to.

Snoring echoed through the refuge and Stone thought of the deal he’d struck with Jeremiah, wondering what the old man’s angle was but not really caring.

Finley carried over the bucket of water, droplets slopping over the rim. Basin filled, he fetched Stone a towel and washcloth.

“Thanks.”

There would be no other words. There was no need. Stone took an open razor from his pack, wet it and hacked at his wild beard, peeling away thick clumps. He dipped the blade in the water, shook it and began to tidy the remaining hair. He set the razor down, dried his chin and ran a lined hand across the short coarse hair. He glanced in the mirror. His beard looked better. Picking up the flask, he drank several mouthfuls of whiskey before taking the razor to the long hair gathered around his stern-looking face. He sawed through it, cutting it back until there was only a short crop of brown and grey.

Finley refreshed the water in the basin, then took his broom and began to sweep the floor, glancing up as the older man stripped. His skin bore the tale of a fighting man, scars old and new, and Finley had even seen branding, symbols scorched into his arm, the like of which were stamped on criminals. But if the man had a criminal past it didn’t frighten Finley because this man was not like the others. He was dour but never cruel with his words or actions, and the young brother was awed to be in the presence of a great warrior.

Stone closed his eyes as he washed and imagined Nuria’s hands gliding over his rough skin. Nightly, he saw her in the flames of the fire, looking across at him, eyes forever changing, fear and courage. He held the curve of her lips, the lines of her body, the flick of her hair and the tilt of her nose, and he carried them into his dreams. Only the dark had plans for men, especially men like him. He’d foolishly believed that the grip had been relinquished, that Nuria was the gatekeeper on the path of redemption. But she was gone and there was no gate and Stone doubted there was even a path.

He wrung out the washcloth. Water dripped into the basin, each plop a loud clang in his head.

Ennpithia had been hope; forests and hills and fresh water rivers. They had hurled themselves off the sand-blasted continent of Gallen, crossing the torrid Metal Sea and into a land of the brave, a land of the free, a land beneath the sign. But people were not free and many were not brave and the sign was the cross and communities had been suppressed and divided by it.

Stone dried himself, pulled on his trousers, and sat on one of the benches, lacing up his boots.

He sighed, he had no idea what was happening there now.

Finley’s brush nudged the dusty floor. The boy yawned. The wind howled, shutters rattled.

Stone reached for his shirt.

The scream was high-pitched; it shredded the silence of the refuge, tore along the corridors.

Finley gasped, raised his awkward eyes.

Dropping his shirt, Stone grabbed his revolver and burst from the washroom, darting quickly to his left. It was Cali, later than he’d anticipated, but it was always going to be her. He passed a hanging lamp, glowing behind blackened glass. The pair of them slept away from the main hall in one of the side chambers. He’d figured she’d have a problem tonight. He’d suspected several of the men would attempt to take her. She would’ve been irresistible to them. There were men who drew no lines in the dirt. He had sensed it on his first day here and should have put them down there and then but the Brotherhood forbade violence.

He could hear the struggle.

He was getting closer.

Another scream.

“Where is it?” shouted a voice. “Where is it?”

The words made no sense but there was no time to think. Stone crashed into the chamber. One of the men must have been leaning against the door because he was catapulted across the cramped room. The door splintered and clattered against the floor. There were four attackers in the withering lamplight. One was pressed against Jeremiah, the outline of a triple-bladed weapon in his fist, repeatedly jabbing into the old man’s stomach. Stone fired, one shot, a loud bang, the chamber rolling, lining up the next bullet. The man jerked, the force of the bullet slamming him against the wall, spraying blood. Jeremiah slumped to the floor and rolled onto his side, face pale. The man Stone had hit with the door sprang forward, a similar looking weapon in his grip, but Stone smacked a bullet into the knifeman’s head, dropping him cold.

A third man had Cali pinned to the wall, his face pressed into her shoulder, his trousers around his ankles.

The last attacker brandished a knife. It was the same weapon, a thick round handle with three blades entwined. Stone had no intention of wasting ammunition on him or drawing his own knife from his boot. He plunged into the room and nimbly ducked and swerved the wide slashes and jabs of the deadly weapon. He timed his moment, stepped forward and ploughed a fist into the man, hard and fast, doubling him over. The man struggled to breathe. Stone struck him with a thunderous right, his meaty fist pounding into the man’s temple, sending him sprawling and the knife skittering across the floor. The man dived for it, dazed and with little co-ordination, but Stone grabbed him, wrestling him into a choke-hold. The knifeman sweated and desperately tried to escape, the seconds of his life ticking down.

Stone snapped his neck, and let the body drop.

Cali pushed away her attacker. He slumped on his back, a triple-bladed knife buried in his chest.

She stared at Stone, breathing hard, long hair hanging around a face scrubbed clean of paint.

Stone ignored her, and crouched beside Jeremiah. The old man’s stomach had been ripped open.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

Jeremiah hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. We should have been smarter. I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the Pathfinder?”

Cali was astonished. “Help him.”

“He’s not going to make it. I need that information.”

Stone cradled the old man’s head.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I’ll get the girl to Silver Road, I swear it, but tell me about Chan-pu.”

“Leave him alone,” said Cali.

“Where’s the Pathfinder?” said Stone. “Tell me, you old bastard. Tell me where I can find him.”

“Step off him, cocksucker.”

Jeremiah wailed through gritted teeth. “You, you have … you have to stop it … the fourth … get … our nation …”

The corridor became noisy with shouting and running footsteps. The old man was fading fast.

“I won’t see it, Eileen … but I’m coming, sweetheart … your Dad is coming. It’s going to be beautiful, Eileen … it will …”

Blood coated hands slapped against Stone’s bare chest.

“I was so close. You can take my place. Trust Cali, she knows. Cali, come here, girl.”

She dropped to one knee, tears in her eyes.

“Trust him. He’s a man of honour … and truth. I know it … I know it … I know it …”

Brothers filled the doorway. But the robed men were too late.

* * *

Icicles hung from roofs and windows.

Stone looked up at the blue sky, ripped with streaks of red. The sun whimpered beneath low hanging clouds as winter continued its stranglehold. The days were short and the wind was freezing but it was no longer snowing. It had been the snow storms that had driven him into the refuge. It was time to leave and he intended to move fast, covering plenty of miles before nightfall. He thrust his arms through the loops of his battered pack of supplies and pulled it onto his back. He strapped the ammunition bag across his chest and slung the carbine over his shoulder. He dug out fingerless gloves, and pulled them on, eager to start walking.

He had no map, there were few of those in the world, but he knew if he continued south he would one day reach the mountains that bordered southern Kiven. Beyond the mountains lay the Metal Sea that fed toward Ennpithia and Nuria. He had no idea if there was a way through or how he would navigate the sea. But now he had a name, Chan-pu. He wasn’t any closer to locating the elusive man but it was a beginning and that was often enough.

Only something was troubling him. Something was crawling around the back of his head.

It wasn’t the old man’s death, though he was angry he hadn’t gotten into that room sooner, and it wasn’t the girl, he would leave her to make her own way in the world. It was something, though, and he wasn’t shaking it off lightly.

Where is it? Where is it?

The words replayed in his head. He glanced around.

There was no movement in the first-world town. It was a dead place in the middle of a dead wasteland.

He started south, walked a few yards and stopped.

He turned back into town, searched and discovered the tyre tracks. They curved in from the northeast and disappeared into a half-collapsed building, wedged behind a rusted grain silo.

Stone took the carbine from his shoulder, pumped the ribbed slider. A single steel ball rolled against the tensed sling. He pushed the stock into his shoulder, and curled his finger around the trigger.

He advanced, half-crouched, boots crunching in the snow.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the weapon into the building, and spotted only the vehicle parked inside.

He cleared the area, and lowered the carbine once he was certain he was alone. He studied the ground and counted four sets of adult prints, all heading in the direction of the refuge.

The vehicle was a buggy with tyres adept at handling rough terrain. Spikes jutted from its rims and the lower body was mesh panels and razor-wire. The upper frame was exposed and mounted with four spotlights and a heavy machine gun, its long barrel ribbed and black.

The hood was painted with a triple blade emblem. Stone put his hand against it. It was still warm.