by Mick Farren
The last of the refugees streamed past and soon the central avenue of the Northside was empty except for the handful of men and women who crouched behind the ring of furniture, barrels and straw bales, waiting for the outlaw assault.
It was almost quiet. The muffled roar of the burning shacks and the occasional gunfire from the highway seemed a long way away.
Then outlaws came down the square like a breaking wave. They were not the same tribesmen on their squat ponies who had rushed the barricade: these were thin leather-clad men on tall horses. They swung heavy rapid-fire guns and had faces that seemed transformed by wild, evil lust.
Elaine swung up her shotgun and. the first blast lifted one of them clear out of his saddle.
A second came at her: a slight, pale man with long, curly hair riding a huge black horse. She misjudged the shot and although his horse ploughed into the ground he rolled clear and jumped to his feet cursing and swinging his gun in her direction.
* * *
‘Ya dirty bitch!’
The shock of his horse being shot from under him seemed to make Iggy’s crystal-fed anger erupt into almost inhuman fury. His usual lazy, feminine face became a mask of hate. He jumped to his feet firing blindly. Then he saw the woman who had brought his horse down. She swung a shotgun by the barrel and was actually coming at him.
He squeezed the trigger and felt the machine gun buck in his hands. He went on firing long after the woman had fallen, watching her body twitch and jerk in the dust under the impact of the bullets.
Then his gun stopped as the clip ran out and he slowly lowered it. All round him the firing had ceased.
Winston pulled his horse to a stop beside him. Iggy looked up as though dazed when he spoke.
‘You hurt?’
‘No, no, jus’ my horse totalled.’
‘Everythin’ north of the highway is ours now. You wan’ we should set up camp here?’
Iggy looked around. His men sat on their horses waiting for orders.
‘No, pull back onto th’ highway f’ the night. Tell the tribesmen t’ burn this place to the ground.’
He paused.
‘An’ tell ’em they can do what they wan’ with any prisoners. Oh, an’ one other thing: tell ’em to start their dead singin’ soon as it’s dark. Tell ’em to sing loud an’ long. Make sho’ they don’ get no sleep in Festival.’
XXI
‘Is that hideous chant gonna go on all night?’
It was Frankie Lee’s watch in front of the Last Chance. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and shuddered. The chanting from out on the highway was getting to his head.
Claudette, who was sharing the watch with him, passed him a small jug of spirit.
‘Here Frankie boy, have a hit on this.’
Frankie Lee tilted the jug, gave it back to Claudette and wiped his mouth.
‘Like it says in me name text: “your loss will be my gain”.’
For a while the two of them sat in silence; then the sound of footsteps made Frankie Lee stiffen and tighten his grip on the gun across his knees.
Slowly he stood up.
‘Hold it right there!’
The footsteps stopped.
‘Now come forward real nice an’ slow.’
‘Take it easy, Frankie, it’s jus’ me makin’ the rounds.’
Frankie Lee recognised the voice of Joe Starkweather. The old man stepped into the porch of the Last Chance and sat down on the low wall of sandbags.
‘Everythin’ okay?’
‘Sure,’cept tha’ godam singin’. It’s givin’ me the horrors.’
‘It’s only a hill tribe singin’ the dead.’
Frankie Lee shook his head.
‘Wha’ they gotta do tha’ for?’
‘You never been in the hills?’
‘Not as far out as you find the wild tribes. I’m a city kid.’
‘After a hill tribe kills they sing a chant for the spirits of the dead. They believe it’ll stop them seekin’ revenge.’
‘They gonna do that for us?’
‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll hold ’em, maybe we won’t.’
‘Northside couldn’t hold ’em.’
‘Like I said—who knows.’
Starkweather stood up.
‘I gotta take a look at Shacktown. I’ll see you people later.’
‘Later, Mistuh Starkweather.’
They watched him disappear into the darkness and then sat in silence for a long while. It was Claudette who finally spoke.
‘You think we’re gonna die tomorrow?’
Frankie Lee looked at her and shrugged.
‘Like Joe said—who knows.’
‘You ain’t as hard as you pretend, Frankie Lee. How come you didn’ pull out wi’ the other drifters?’
‘Too much of a city kid, I s’pose.’
There was a long pause; then Claudette spoke again.
‘I was real grateful tha’ day y’ took care o’ me after th’ whippin’.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I was wonderin’ if’n mebbe you’d like to take a bottle back t’ me room after we get off this watch.’
Frankie Lee smiled at her in the darkness.
‘I’d like that jus’ fine.’
* * *
The smell of the smoke from the burned section of the city and the eerie chanting of the tribesmen had made Valentine close the window, despite the fact that the room in which he was imprisoned was small and stuffy. For a long while he sat on the hard bed and stared vacantly in front of him. It was difficult to comprehend the changes that he had gone through in the previous two days. He had ridden out of the city at the head of a well armed and supposedly invincible force. Now he was a prisoner in his own palace. It was almost impossible to grasp.
Abruptly the chanting stopped and Valentine sprang to the window. Was it the start of a fresh assault? He could see very little from the high window. He pushed it open and listened carefully; everything seemed quiet. He stared down at the long drop to the courtyard below.
To his surprise he heard a voice whispering close beside him. He looked back into the room but it was still empty. Then it came again.
‘My lord, my Lord Valentine.’
It was definitely coming from somewhere outside. Again he looked out of the window and saw a hand projecting from a window on the same floor.
‘My lord, can you hear me?’
Valentine slid his head through the narrow space.
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s me, my lord, Preach. There’s five of us boys in here. They locked us in here when we wouldn’t go along wi’ their comnie plans.’
‘So you’re prisoners?’
‘Tha’s right, my lord.’
‘I don’t really see how you can be of any use to me.’
‘We’re your loyal servants, my lord, tha’s why they locked us up.’
‘You’re nonetheless locked up.’
‘We thought there might be a chance of breakin’ out in th’ confusion of the outlaw attacks. Given the right opportunity, we might even seize the palace back from th’ cursed comnies an’ restore you, my lord, to your ri’ful place.’
‘You think there’s a chance of that?’
‘Certainly, my lord. As the outlaws cause more trouble, Starkweather an’ his crew have less an’ less time to pay attention to us.’
Hope rose inside Valentine, maybe all was not lost. Maybe he would, after all, regain his title. Once he was in control of the palace, the outlaws were only a minor problem.
* * *
Soon after the night’s drinking had begun, Iggy had slipped away from Winston’s attentive eye and walked, on his own, out of the camp on the highway.
Flames still danced around the embers of the northern section of the city and the smoke drifted across the highway towards him, occasionally stinging his eyes and throat as a billow engulfed him. For a while he stood beside the shattered barricade and noted that the dead had been removed in the tim
e since he had withdrawn his men. It was Starkweather all over: methodical down to the last detail.
He walked through one of the gaping holes in the barricade and on down the highway. The walls of Festival loomed above him and beyond them he could see the lights in the top windows of the palace. He smiled in the darkness, if only they knew that he was out here alone. One bullet could save their whole city.
After a while he turned on his heel and walked towards the still burning ruins. Bodies still littered the area and it was only the heat from the smouldering rubble that kept the rats at bay.
He picked his way down the broad main avenue, sticking fairly closely to the middle, as many of the ruins were still too hot to approach.
He heard a sound to his left and froze. Carefully he slid his gun from its holster and dropped to one knee. Holding the gun in front of him he slowly pivoted, scanning the surrounding piles of debris. The sound came again faintly.
‘Help me, help me.’
The voice sounded very weak and Iggy thought he detected a slight movement at the base of a heap of collapsed timbers in roughly the direction from which the sound had come. Slowly he stood up and, gun in hand, walked towards the source of the sound.
A man lay pinned by a large beam, the shoulder of his shirt was caked with drying blood. He was conscious and obviously in serious pain. Iggy stood over the man and dropped his gun back into its holster. The man gestured weakly.
‘For pity’s sake help me.’
A grin crossed Iggy’s face.
‘Why?’
‘Help me, please. Help me get this beam off me.’
‘I wanna know why. Some reason why I should take th’ trouble to help you.’
‘But I’ll die, I’ll die if you leave me here. You can’t let me die.’
‘Why not? I organised the manner of your death inna firs’ place.’
The man’s eyes widened in fear.
‘You’re an outlaw.’
‘No longer. I am Iggy, the new lord of Festival. You are my subject an’ godam slow at answerin’ my question.’
‘Question?’
‘The question why I should bother t’ help you in your current troubles.’
The man became desperate.
‘But I’ll die, I’ll die!’
Iggy frowned impatiently.
‘You already said that. It’s no valid reason. I’m still waitin’. For anyone who seems so hung up you don’ try so very hard.’
‘But just for human pity, mercy, call it what you like.’
‘Pity? Mercy? I never noticed that Festival was so strong on mercy or pity, wi’ your floggin’s an’ your hungry. I don’ think that’ll really do. I reckon I’m gonna leave you jus’ as you are.’
‘At least finish me. Shoot me an’ end the pain.’
‘I don’t really think tha’s possible. I’d attract too much attention.’
The man sobbed as Iggy walked into the darkness.
* * *
‘So if’n we don’ run ’em off tomorrow, tha’s it?’
‘It would seem so.’
Old Tom and Joe Starkweather sat in the kitchen of the palace, both men looking grim and tired.
‘How much ammunition we got lef’?’
‘Enough for one day’s fightin’ if they attack all three sections in force, which they mos’ likely will. We could maybe hold the palace for another day. There’s so many of them.’
‘It looks bad.’
‘Yeah. Unless we can get Iggy an’ his lieutenants. That could maybe break up the attack.’
‘When d’you figure they’ll come?’
‘Not before dawn, the hill tribes won’t fight in the dark.’
Old Tom stared into his drink for long moments. Wearily he looked at Starkweather.
‘So wha’ happens here tomorrow?’
‘I want you to take care of this section. I’ve arranged with Frankie Lee an’ the Kid to run up a signal if they can’t hold the attackers an’ I’ll take what horsemen we got an’ try an’ cover ’em so their people can get back in here. The only thing you gotta worry about is havin’ a crew on the gate that can get it open an’ shut real fast.’
‘I’ll make sure of that, don’ worry.’
XXII
Banana surfaced from a deep sleep to find Winston shaking him. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Inside the tent it was still dark.
‘Whassamatta?’
‘Iggy wants you, you better get up.’
‘It’s the middle of th’ fuggin’ night.’
‘It’s jus’ before dawn, so get up.’
Banana rolled out of his blankets and stood up yawning.
‘Wha’s th’ trouble then?’
‘Iggy’ll tell you when we get there.’
He pulled on his boots and jacket and followed Winston through the still slumbering camp. To the east, beyond the city, the sky was a lighter shade of grey.
Two armed guards stood outside Iggy’s tent and one of them held back the flap as ‘Winston and Banana ducked inside. Iggy sprawled in the chair that had once belonged to Oltha. He nursed a bottle of spirit and looked as though he had not slept. He glanced up as the two men entered the tent.
‘Looks like this is the big day, we should have the whole city by nightfall.’
Banana grinned.
‘Good times tonight, huh boss? Get us them Festival women?’
Iggy grinned.
‘Sho’ nuff kid, but we got work to do ri’ now.’
‘Sho’ boss.’
‘How long you need to get that puller goin’?’
Banana thought for a moment.
‘Shouldn’ take too long; there’s plenty wood. Maybe an hour at th’ outside.’
‘Good, then start it happenin’.’
‘Okay chief.’
Banana ducked out of the tent.
‘An’ Winston.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You better start wakin’ up the camp.’
* * *
Claudette’s body was warm against Frankie Lee as they lay together in the narrow bed. It was tempting to shut his eyes and go back to sleep but the knowledge of the outlaws outside the city forced him into wakefulness.
Claudette mumbled in her sleep as he slid out of bed and padded naked to the window. He swung open the shutter a little and looked outside. The sky was lightening and the city was quiet, nothing moving in the empty avenue. Only the pall of smoke to the north belied the peaceful appearance.
He looked back at Claudette who had rolled over on her stomach and lay sprawled across the bed. Although they were fading, the marks of the flogging still showed as parallel stripes across her back.
He walked back to the bed and sat down. Softly he kissed her ear.
‘Wake up babe, it’s dawn.’
Sleepily she rolled over.
‘Wha’?’
‘It’s dawn babe, we oughta be movin’.’
She opened her eyes and pouted.
‘Already?’
‘ ’Fraid so.’
‘Aw, c’mon back t’ bed f’ a while.’
‘We oughta be gettin’ over to th’ Chance.’
‘They can wait a while; c’mon back here.’
She ran fingernails lightly across his stomach.
‘C’mon.’
* * *
The puller rolled slowly down the highway. Crowded behind it were a horde of foot soldiers staying close to the machine, ready to use it as cover if fired upon. Behind them, some way back, Iggy sat motionless in front of a mass of horsemen who spread out over the entire highway.
The puller moved slowly forward, allowing the men on foot to keep pace with it. Heads appeared on the walls of Festival but no shots were fired. The only sound was the clank and rumble of the machine and the shuffle of the men moving forward.
They passed the barricade, and the sun resting on the horizon caused the tall engine to cast a long shadow over the men following it.
Gradually it began to
pick up speed and then, at the side road that led to the Merchants’ Quarter, it abruptly swung to the right and raced down the incline that led to the high fence and wooden gates. The men on foot became strung out behind, running to keep up.
A few shots were fired from the Quarter walls but these had no effect on the steel-shielded machine. As it raced towards the walls it showed no sign of braking or slackening speed. Some defenders leaped from the firing gallery to avoid the inevitable impact while others remained, firing futilely at the oncoming giant.
There was an awful rending crash as the machine hit. The gate fell backwards and a length of wooden wall collapsed. The puller swung into a tight turn, attempting to repeat the trick of the day before as the attackers on foot raced towards the gap. Halfway through the manoeuvre the machine appeared to falter. Inside the cab, Banana fought with the steering rods. For a long moment it appeared to hang poised on two wheels, then ponderously it began to topple.
It fell on its side with a crash of anguished metal. The shields dropped from the cab and men burst from it firing. Defenders rushed to surround the wreck. Banana found himself grappling hand to hand with a burly retainer.
Then the boiler blew.
The noise was so intense that it was felt as a pain rather than heard. Steam rocketed in every direction, both sides stood frozen as the echoes faded and were replaced by the screams of scalded, dying men.
The moment passed, the air was filled with the thunder of hooves and yelling of warriors as Iggy’s entire cavalry charged down the highway.
* * *
They boiled into’ the Merchants’ Quarter shooting and hacking. The terrified population ran around like ants whose nest has been stirred with a stick. Some tried to save possessions while others attempted to resist the invaders, but for the most part they simply ran up and down the avenues trying to avoid the howling outlaws.
Leaving the tribesmen and the freelancers to rampage freely, Iggy and his original seventy headed straight down the central avenue, straight for the South Gate. A handful of retainers ran from the gate house but were cut down by the leading horsemen.
