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

Mosscar?” she asked.
    Stone smiled.
    There were footsteps. It was Boyd. “Good morning.”
    Stone let her hands drop. She tugged down her sleeve.
    “Are you ready?”
    He led them into a large building that buzzed with activity. They had expected a simple wagon with tied down boxes but Boyd’s travelling shop was packed into a rusted truck with metal plates welded across its giant tyres. It would be drawn by six horses. A man was busy harnessing them and a second man was loading onboard the last of Boyd’s merchandise. Stone circled the vehicle, noting how the engine had been stripped out to provide less weight to pull. He imagined it was the same throughout. Anything unused would have been removed. He had seen this method utilised numerous times on Gallen once vehicles had exhausted their precious black energy.
    The back doors were wide open. Inside it was crammed with boxes, sacks, crates, folding tables, stacks of wooden trays, buckets and bedding. A metal ladder led to a hatch in the roof. He stepped back and looked up; the edge of the roof was ringed with iron spikes jutting downward, ideal for repelling attackers, and metal panels formed a defensive wall, providing adequate cover.
    “Impressive.”
    “Quinn usually rides up there,” said Boyd.
    Stone put one boot onto the back of the truck.
    “What about the law forbidding the use of things from the past?”
    “I make healthy donations to the Holy House,” said Boyd, pressing his lips against the cross around his neck.
    “I’m sure you do.”
    “They understand that if I was unable to trade then I would be unable to make any further donations.”
    Nuria curled her lip. “Laws are laws until important men need to subvert them.”
    Boyd stared at her, but failed to muster a reply.
    Holding the crossbow she climbed onto the front of the truck. She unbuckled her sword and placed it at her feet. Only the seating remained of the cabin. There was no roof or doors or windshield or dashboard. The back doors slammed shut and she heard a bar drop into place. Her body was tired but her thoughts were sharp and her heart lifted as she thought of the tender moment she had shared with Stone. Her life was bereft of tender moments.
    She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms as Boyd picked up the reins.
    “I’m not a corrupt man,” he said. “I want you to know that.”
    “I’m sure you’re not.”
    The road out of Brix was heavily rutted and the horses laboured uphill for the first hour, struggling to gather any speed. Nuria looked behind her as the hatch creaked open and Stone appeared on the roof, binoculars around his neck, crossbow beside him.
    The truck bounced and jolted from side to side. Nuria was thinking she could walk quicker but Boyd seemed unperturbed and she recalled Quinn’s words about how the man knew what he was doing. The track began to fade and the ground levelled out and soon the horses were galloping across open countryside and the vehicle was powering forward.
    Stone lowered his binoculars and signalled to Nuria that there was no immediate threat, the rooftop providing a much greater vantage point. He could hear Boyd talking with her but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Boyd spoke. Nuria listened. The horses continued to steer the heavy load across deserted fields. He glimpsed streams and brooks, footpaths and wooden bridges. On the sloping hills he spotted scattered farms where men tended the land with their children. Early morning wreaths of mist dissipated and the sun shredded the lazy white clouds. It rose high and grew strong and the three of them wound scarves around their scalps for protection.
    They joined a fresh track, climbing south-west. The hills dropped and the trees thinned out. Then Boyd angled the truck west and surged along the Ennpithian coastline, hooves thundering. Stone and Nuria saw the sea for the first time that morning, shiny and glistening beneath the red scarred blue sky. Nuria looked back at him