The Texts Of Festival (19 page)

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’self at home. There’s food an’ beer an’ even beds. Wha’ you done wi’ your horses?’

‘We aint got no horses; Theyre lyin’ in the mud at that goddamn town.’

‘You walked here?’

‘That’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 shot-gun.

‘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.’

19.

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.

It seemed to Elly-May that she was gradually joining the tribe and it was about time she did something about it.

Returning from loading a box onto the supply wagon, she met Anna struggling with a large bundle. Looking round to see that they were unobserved, they both stopped. Anna put down her bundle.

‘You okay, kid? Las’ night was kinda rough.’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve knowed rougher nights onna strip.’

‘Sure, but we useda get paid for ’em.’

‘Lissen, wha’ you think the chances are of givin’ this place th’ slip? Mebbe headin’ north an’ settin’ up in business again? We could make f’ one o’ the iron towns.’

Anna thought for a moment.

Wouldn’ be easy unless we could nick some clothes. An’ we’d havta watch out for tha’ bitch Lucille, she’d blow th’ whistle on us f’ sure.’

‘Might be easier once the men have moved out.’

‘Mebbe. We better get movin’, tha’ ol’ biddy in th’ apron’s watchin’ us.’

Anna picked up her bundle and hurried off. Elly-May went back to the pile of provisions, still thinking through plans of escape.

As she came back from loading another bundle, a commotion behind her made her stop and turn. A crowd of tribeswomen were laughing and jeering, and in the middle of them two men held a struggling girl. Elly-May walked over for a better look. The girl was naked except for long white leather boots and a wide white belt. Two of the women were haggling over a red velvet cape that they had obviously just stripped from her. Torn between horror and sadistic amusement Elly-May watched as the two outlaws walked away and the women fell on the girl, beating and kicking her and fighting over her scanty but expensive garments.

Another of Iggy’s castoffs was going through the nasty ritual.

Iggy fought to control his nervous crystal excitement as the army — his army — made ready to march. It was the fulfillment of his greatest ambition. He would lead the biggest army that the south had ever seen to the very walls of Festival.

Winston rode back and forth marshalling the men into compact groups, yelling for the troop leading to get their men into line. After some semblance of order had been achieved Iggy rode deliberately slowly to the head of the column. He shouted across to Winston.

‘Okay kid, move ’em out.’

Winston turned in his saddle.

‘Move out!’

The cry was echoed down the line.

‘Move out!’

‘Move out!’

Iggy clapped spurs to his horse and started down the highway; then like an enormous beast coming alive the outlaw army started out on its march to Festival.

Luther studied the backs of the two retainers as he plodded along the highway. After the rain of the previous day the sun had at first been welcome but by mid-afternoon the heat that beat upon his neck and was reflected from the road had become a tiresome nuisance.

The combination of sweat and his filthy clothes made him itch and his feet felt sore and blistered in boots made for riding rather than marching. To add to his discomfort the other two had not spoken to him since they had left the farmhouse, apparently blaming him for the escape of Valentine and the loss of the horse.

He found the simplest course was to put his brain in low gear and plod on mechanically, staring straight ahead. Problems like calculating the length of time it would take to reach Festival just added to his burden.

For a time he lagged a good thirty paces behind the other two; then he saw them stop and climb down the banking beside the highway to drink from a small stream. They sat down and rummaged in their food bags. Luther climbed down too, but sat a little way off from the others. He munched on the bread and ham which he had brought from the farmhouse, occasionally drinking from the stream. A distant rumble made him look up but he was unable to see the highway from where he sat. The rumble came again and he climbed back up the bank to take a better look.

Shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, he looked back and gasped.

‘Hey, hey yous guys. Take a look at this.’

The retainers looked up, resentful that Luther had broken the silence. He was standing on the highway above them pointing and shouting agitatedly.

‘For fug’s sake, c’mon an’ look.’

Grudgingly they stuffed their uneaten food back into their bags and clambered up the bank to join him.

Almost on the horizon, like a dark smudge, a large body of men was coming towards them. The rumbling was almost continuous and beginning to distinguish itself as the sound of horses and marching men.

For a while they stood transfixed watching the smudge on the horizon grow larger and more solid. Then one of the retainers snapped into life.

‘It’s the fuggin’ outlaws; we gotta get outta here.’

Luther turned round, looking for some kind of cover in the bare landscape. Further down the stream he spotted a clump of bushes and stunted trees.

‘Them bushes, we can hide up there.’

The men scrambled down the slope, crashed through the stream and, after running along the opposite bank, flopped panting into the cover of the bushes.

For what seemed like an eternity the three of them lay listening to their heartbeats. The sound of the outlaw column grew louder and louder; then the first of them came into sight.

First came ranks of lean men on tall horses with repeating rifles and carbines; behind them rode a mass of stocky tribesmen on short-legged ponies. They were followed by lines of bowmen marching to the rhythm of a guttural call and response singing. Then came a massive steam engine, its iron wheels rumbling on the road surface and its enormous pistons rattling and clanking. In its wake marched a mob of foot soldiers armed with shotguns, axes or long pikes, and then even more horsemen, obviously freelancers by their varied styles and weapons. Finally a line of creaking supply wagons pulled by teams of mules brought up the rear.

The noise of the army faded into the distance. The three men from Festival crawled from the bushes where they had been hiding.

‘Sweet prophet, didja see that!’

‘Musta been more’n a thousand!’

‘She-it!’

‘I reckon tha’s gotta be th’ end o’ Festival.’

White-faced, the three stared at each other.

‘Reckon there’s no use goin’ back to Festival.’

‘It’ll be outlaw by this time tomorrow. They don’ stand a chance.’

‘I got a woman back in Festival!’

‘Reckon you best f’get her. She’ll be strapped to a rail with her legs spread b’ time we get there.’

‘Or worse.’

‘Wha’ the fug do we do?’

For a moment they all fell silent. Finally Luther spoke.

‘Reckon I’ll work me way north, mebbe hire on with an Iron Lord.’

He picked up his pack and the other two silently followed.

Elly-May and Anna lay huddled together on the earth floor pretending to sleep and listened to the breathing of the other captive women. When they felt that all were asleep, they tentatively sat up. The rhythm of breathing didn’t alter and, one at a time, they crawled to the tent flap. Elly-May opened it a fraction and peered out. She leaned over and breathed in Anna’s ear:

‘It looks like there’s nobody about.’

Silently they slid through the flap.

Outside the remains of the evening fires made pinpoints of light and deep shadows. Some distance away one fire blazed brightly and the handful of men left to guard the town huddled round it. Elly-May and Anna carefully skirted the group of outlaws and picked their way towards the big tree at the edge of the highway where, while they were loading the wagons, they had hidden bundles containing food and clothes.