by Mick Farren
‘How’s it goin’—how’re we doin’ for guns?’
Madame Lou looked up and brushed a stray wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes.
‘It ain’t goin’ too bad, Frankie.’
She ran her finger down the list.
‘We got thirty brung in since midnight an’ they keep a-comin’.’
She paused as a gambler came in and placed a pair of pistols on the table.
‘I come t’ sign on for th’ defence. ’M I gonna get these pieces back when it’s all over?’
‘Sure, I check y’ name in th’ book an’ if’n y’ don’ get wasted y’ get y’ guns back, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Madame Lou scribbled the man’s name in her book, directed him to Harry Krishna and turned back to Frankie Lee.
‘Problem we gonna have is ammunition. I mean, like, we got thirty pieces, ri’, but not more’n two hunred rounds have come in altogether an’ I don’ see more a-comin’ in, ’cept in the same amounts, say six or seven wi’ each gun.’
‘Tha’s a problem. We got maybe three thousand rounds wi’ the guns we nicked off Aaron but tha’s gonna be spread roun’ the whole city. I don’ see us endin’ up with more’n fifty guns an’ maybe twenty rounds for each gun.’
Madame Lou shook her head.
‘It’s the best we can do. There’s plenty bows an’ the girls’re bustin’ a gut makin’ arrows.’
‘Wha’ ’bout horses?’
‘They’re all goin’ behin’ the walls so Joe’s got some cavalry to play wi’.’
Frankie Lee nodded.
‘Many people pullin’ out?’
Madame Lou shook her head.
‘Not from aroun’ here; only a few o’ the fast boys who split to join the outlaws. But I heard a lotta the Northside families had moved out, a-headin’ out through the swamps.’
‘An’ are many boys signin’ up to fight?’
‘Enough.’
‘Good. Lissen, I’m gonna take a walk an’ see how they’re doin’ puttin’ stakes across the river, okay?’
‘Okay, see you later.’
Frankie Lee walked out the door, pausing to make room for a man who came in carrying an ancient shotgun to add to the arsenal.
* * *
Through the morning the PA regularly crackled into life as announcements and information were broadcast across Festival. Most normal business had ceased and a constant stream of outlying homesteaders poured in to take refuge in the city. With the Merchants’ Quarter sealed off, food was becoming a problem and, in addition to the regular pleas for arms and volunteers, Isaac Feinberg started putting out requests that private stocks of food be turned over to the defence committee for rationed distribution.
Joe Starkweather seemed to be everywhere: checking, urging, discussing problems with the squads of men putting in the defences. Festival seemed like a transformed city as he rode through it. The normal apathy and corruption seemed to have been stripped away in the face of the threat of attack. Even the rain that began to fall soon after noon and quickly transformed the streets of the city into seas of mud could not slow down the work. Deep in the back of Starkweather’s mind, beneath the cursing and enthusiasm, the thought lurked that in all probability the effort had come too late.
XVIII
As Luther and Valentine raced out of Afghan Promise, the men that Iggy had positioned on the barricades to cut off any Festival men who managed to escape the shambles on the main street were already picking through the fallen, shooting the wounded and collecting the weapons of the dead. For them the battle was over and the appearance of the two men on the single horse took them completely by surprise. A few shots were loosed at them as they galloped through the gap in the barricades but after that they quickly rode into freedom beyond the range of the outlaws’ guns.
Once they were safely down the highway, Luther reined in the foaming horse and stopped. He looked grimly back at Valentine.
‘Best we dismount an’ walk the horse f’ a while. If we run it any more wi’ two of us up it’ll cave in.’
White and shaking Valentine dismounted.
‘What happens if they come after us?’
‘I don’ think they’ll be a-huntin’ for us yet a while an’ a dead horse ain’t gonna be no use at all. Like I said, best we walk a while.’
Valentine stared hard at Luther.
‘Are you tryin’ to give me orders?’
Luther faced Valentine grimly.
‘Take it how you like. I don’ think you’re in any space t’ tell anyone wha’ to do.’
‘Damn your insolence…’
‘Shut th’ fug up! You led us into that death trap back there an’ I for one ain’t takin’ no more bullshit. So you do what I say or I’ll jus’ ride off an’ leave you. Got it?’
Valentine clenched his fist and grew two shades paler but as the trooper began to walk off leading the horse he fell into step behind him.
For a while they walked in silence until the sound of hooves on the road in front of them made Luther halt and listen. Then, grabbing Valentine by the arm and dragging the horse behind him, he ran for the trees.
* * *
Carefully Iggy wiped the rain from his gun as he stood in the shelter of the porch of the Shirrif’s House and watched Winston and his men salvaging weapons from the dead who lay in the mud of the main street.
‘Hey Winston, come over here. Let them hill boys root through th’ mud for guns. I wanna talk to you.’
Winston hurried over to where Iggy stood grinning.
‘You want me?’
Iggy paused for a moment staring over the scene of desolation.
‘I guess Festival’s gotta be ours for th’ takin’, huh?’
Winston looked back over the bloody swamp that was the Afghan Promise strip.
‘Mus’ be the end of their army.’
‘Fuggin’ sho’ it is. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel, hey? You enjoy the fight?’
A slightly troubled look crossed Winston’s face.
‘A lotta good men wen’ down. We never wasted so many before.’
Iggy’s grin faded and his eyes became hard.
‘You goin’ soft on me?’
‘No, it’s jus’…’
‘Jus’ what?’
‘I dunno, it jus’ seemed too easy. I like t’ see a fight, not jus’ sit tight an’ butcher the opposition.’
‘You still pissed off ’cause I didn’ let you ride out wi’ the decoy party?’
Winston hesitated.
‘Maybe, I dunno. F’get it:
Iggy eyed him carefully.
‘There’s gonna be plenty of fightin’ £’ you to get into.’
‘Yeah sho’. I’m okay; jus’ was a lotta killin’, takes gettin’ used to.’
‘Sho’.’
For a while the two men stood in silence looking at the street. Bodies of men and horses formed grotesque humps so mud-covered that they were indistinguishable from the street itself except by their twisted shapes. After a while Iggy turned towards the door. As he opened it he glanced at Winston.
‘You send out the detail to pick up their supply wagons?’
‘Sho’, they wen’ off even before we stopped shootin’.’
‘Good, le’s go have us a drink.’
* * *
Valentine and Luther crouched in the wet bushes as a group of outlaws rode by escorting the Festival supply wagons. Silently they watched as the outlaws passed laughing and joking. The horse became restless and Luther straightened to stroke its head and quieten it. The outlaws appeared not to notice and rode on, passing around bottles of spirit obviously looted from the wagons. In front of one of the outlaws sat the girl in the red cape, her head sunk on her chest and hands tied in front of her. Valentine’s knuckles whitened but he remained still.
For some time after the outlaws had passed they remained hidden in the trees. Then Luther led the horse out onto the road, mounted and helped Valentine to climb up behind him.
They rode at an easy pace through the steadily falling rain for what seemed like hours. Cold seeped through their bodies and both men’s teeth began to chatter; it was only when the cold and damp started to become intolerable that Valentine broke the silence.
‘How long will it take to get to Festival?’
Luther looked round. Lost in his own thoughts he had almost forgotten the lord behind him.
‘If we rode through the night I guess we could be there by dawn.’
Valentine shivered.
‘We’ll die of chills before the dawn.’
Luther pulled his foot out of the stirrup and flexed his cramped muscles.
‘You could be right at that. We ought a stop although we’ll make no fire in this rain. Best go on as long as we can.’
Again they rode on silently and the clouded sky began to grow dark. Luther now knew that Valentine had been right. He was shivering constantly and was certain that the chills would get through to them before they ever reached Festival. Their problems were increased by the fact that they had emerged from the woodland and were riding across open hillside at the full mercy of the wind and rain. Then, as the hill fell away to their left into a long valley, he saw something through the rain. It seemed like a cluster of buildings halfway down the valley, either a homestead or, more likely, a ruined farm: there were no lights showing and no sign of life.
He turned to look back at Valentine.
‘There seems to be some kind a build in’ down there. I think we oughta take a look.’
‘Anything that will give us shelter.’
Luther guided the horse through a gap in the rotting fence beside the highway and set off down the hillside. At the bottom they came onto a rough track that led from the distant building to join the highway at a point further on.
As they drew closer to the buildings Luther was able to see, through the dust, that it was in fact an oldtime farm, although it seemed in good repair and some of the outbuildings were of recent construction. At the end of the track an opened gate revealed a paved yard. Drawing level with it Luther halted and signalled to Valentine to dismount, then swung to the ground himself and handed the reins to the lord.
‘You got any kinda weapon?’
Valentine reached under his cloak and produced a pistol.
‘I’m afraid it’s empty.’
Luther cursed but took the gun.
‘Wait here while I look round.’
Walking cautiously on the balls of his feet to stop his boot heels ringing on the paved yard, Luther crept towards the farmhouse. Nothing moved. He got to the wall, stopped and looked around: still no sign of life. Gently he eased himself along the wall until he reached the doorway. Reaching carefully for the handle, he turned it and pushed. The door creaked open; no sound or movement came from within. In one action he swung round and sprang inside the house,immediately sidestepping so that he would not be silhouetted against the open door.
Crouching inside he stared round the dark room. It seemed empty and he fumbled in his pouch for a lighter. Three times he struck the flint on the steel but the wick refused to catch fire. He cursed under his breath: maybe the godam thing had got wet. On the fourth try it flared into life.
The flickering light revealed a deserted room, tidy, furnished, but devoid of people. An oil lamp stood on the table in the middle and Luther lit it. It was a pleasant farmhouse kitchen. A big dresser stood against one wall holding rows of pots and crockery. Cured hams hung from the ceiling beams and a black iron stove filled the chimney-piece. There was even a barrel of ale standing in one corner. Obviously a family of farmers had lived there until very recently but now they had gone; maybe they had fled to the east, away from the menace of the outlaws.
After a final look round Luther turned back to the door and yelled to Valentine.
‘Okay, it’s empty. C’mon in.’
Valentine came towards him leading the horse.
‘Will you do something about this animal?’
Luther pointed across the yard.
‘Put it in the stable, there may even be feed for it.’
Valentine compressed his lips but said nothing and tugged the horse in the direction of the barn.
* * *
Luther relaxed himself into the soft bed. The farmhouse had provided everything they had needed: a meal of cold ham and pickles, a fire to warm them and dry their wet clothes, beer and even a proper bed. The lord had eaten quickly and in silence and then retired to bed. For some time Luther sat in front of the stove, quietly going over the massacre at Afghan Promise and the progressive stages of stupidity that had led them into it. Eventually weariness had overcome him and he too had searched for a bed.
For a long while he hovered on the brink of sleep, alternating between drifting out and being brought back to consciousness by recurring images of the day’s events.
A noise in the yard brought him fully awake. He held his breath and listened. He could clearly distinguish the sound of heavy boots on the pavings and of whispered conversation.
Silently he slid out of bed, wrapping a blanket round himself. Maybe it was the farm people returning or maybe outlaw scouts. He picked up the empty pistol from beside the bed and padded barefoot to the top of the stairs. For a moment he hesitated and carefully, one step at a time, crept down them. At the halfway bend he froze as the door to the yard swung open and moonlight streamed into the kitchen. Two dark figures crept cautiously through the door. Luther watched and waited. A light flared, illuminating a mud-spattered surcoat still clearly bearing the colours of the Chemical Guild. Luther stepped forward, coming down into the room. At the sudden movement one of the men raised his gun. Luther halted.
‘Take it easy! It’s me, Luther from the palace guard.’
The gun wavered.
‘Wha’ the fug are you doin’ here?’
Luther came forward again.
‘Jus’ crashin’ f’ the night. Light th’ lamp on th’ table an’ we’ll be able to see each other.’
The lamp glowed into life revealing two men in Guild colours. The second man spoke quickly to the one with the gun:
‘It is! Tha’s Luther, I seen him before.’
He peered at Luther.
‘You escape that blood bath too?’
Luther sat down.
‘I don’ wanna go over it again.’
He paused.
‘Lissen, you might as well make y’selfs at home. There’s food an’ beer an’ even beds. Wha’ you done wi’ your horses?’
‘We ain’t got no horses; they’re lyin’ in the mud at that godam town.’
‘You walked here?’
‘Tha’s ri’.’
‘Shit.’
There was silence as the two men investigated the food and beer. As they ate, the one with the gun glanced at Luther.
‘Anyone else get away wi’ you?’
‘Sure, Lord Valentine’s asleep upstairs.’
The man jumped to his feet and picked up his shotgun.
‘That son of a bitch asleep wi’ all them good men dead on his account. He ain’t gonna sleep f’ long.’
Luther stood up.
‘Hold it, hold it! He’s gonna be more use to us alive in Festival than layin’ dead here.’
Reluctantly the man sat down.
‘Maybe you’re right, but I sure hate to see that mutha walkin’ round livin’.’
* * *
Valentine awoke just as the eastern sky was starting to grow light. Before falling asleep he had planned what he was going to do.
He stealthily crawled out of bed and made his way to the stairs and down to the kitchen.
Locating his clothes, now almost dry, he quickly dressed, then eased open the outside door and hurried across the yard in the direction of the stables.
In a matter of minutes he had saddled the horse and was mounted and heading along the track towards the highway.
* * *
The sun was high as he approached Festival
and the rain-soaked landscape was slowly drying out. As he galloped down the final stretch of highway he saw that a barricade had been erected across the road in an almost identical manner to the one built by the outlaws at Afghan Promise.
For a moment he panicked and started to turn his horse. Could it be that they were already there? Then he realised that it was simply not possible for the outlaws to have marched and taken the city in so short a space of time. The barrier had probably been erected by the merchants as a defence measure.
As he came up to the barricade a labourer appeared pointing a crossbow at him.
‘Halt or I fire.’
Valentine pulled his horse to a stop.
‘Put down that ridiculous weapon, you fool. Don’t you recognise the lord of the city?’
The man disappeared and a portion of the barricade was pulled to one side. Valentine urged his horse forward.
Suddenly he was surrounded by a crowd of ragged labourers, all holding weapons and all levelling them at him. One of them seized his horse’s bridle and looked up at him.
‘You’d better dismount, Valentine. I’m arrestin’ you in the name of the People’s Defence Committee.’
XIX
The town hummed with activity as the outlaw army prepared to move out. Elly-May found herself, along with the other slave women, running backwards and forwards carrying bundles of provisions from the tents to the supply wagons.
Life in the outlaw camp was still hard and sordid for the captured women but not like the hell of the first day when Iggy had handed her and Anna over to the tribeswomen who had stripped and beaten them, then divided their clothes and, thrown them ragged loin cloths to cover their nakedness. After that, the open brutality both from the outlaw women and from the other captives that seemed rooted in their jealousy of the initial attention paid her by Iggy, began to diminish. The long hours of hard work were still accompanied by kicks and blows but it seemed as though the captives were being gradually absorbed into the life of the tribe. Elly-May could see herself, in a matter of months, pregnant and wearing the same homespun dress and sandals as the other women. Even the attitude of the men seemed to be gradually changing, for although she still ranked as the lowest of the low, available at any time to any horny outlaw, it was the women taken from the Festival army who had suffered the gang rape during the victory celebrations. While she and Anna had still been passed from outlaw to outlaw until they were aching and exhausted, there had been no actual viciousness directed at them and one outlaw had even muttered drunkenly about taking her for his woman.