The Texts Of Festival (17 page)

Luther, looking around at the soaking men and horses, pulled his wet blanket more tightly round his shoulders in a futile attempt to ward off the damp. It was late afternoon and, by his reckoning, they should be nearing Afghan Promise.

Water dripped from the brim of his hat as he scanned the grey rain-blurred horizon for some indication of their position. It seemed as though they had been riding through the same featureless woodland for hours. Gradually something came into view that contrasted slightly with the uniform grey of the road ahead. As Luther drew closer he imagined that he could see a barrier across the road. An order came from the front and one by one the column halted. Luther kicked his horse and joined the group of men who stared into the rain. An officer peered into a telescope; after a while he snapped it shut and turned to the men.

‘There seems to be a barricade of some kind across the road, but there’s no sign of anyone manning it.’

The group looked at each other.

‘What we gonna do about it, mistuh? Think we should carry on an’ check it out?’

‘Best stay here until the lord has a look at it.’

A clatter of hooves on the highway caused them to look round as Valentine and two officers rode up. Valentine reined his horse to a stop.

‘What has the column stopped for? I gave no order.’

It was the officer who answered.

‘There’s some kinda barricade ahead, my lord. We thought it was best to halt until you had looked at it.’ Valentine gestured towards the telescope.

‘Let me see what this barricade really is.’

He studied the road ahead for some moments.

‘It does seem as though they have erected something across the road although I can see nobody guarding it. Here …’ he passed the telescope to one of his aides, ‘… can you make out anything?’

The aide in turn peered down the road.

‘It’s certainly a barricade but I can’t see anyone behind it.’

Valentine turned to the officer who had been leading the column.

‘I think we should advance another hundred paces, then stop and look again.’

The officer bellowed the order to ride on and sluggishly the Festival army started to move again.

Iggy sat silently under the dripping branches of the trees beside the road, watching as Valentine and his men started to move again. Around him were fifty of his original boys, all quiet and tense, waiting on his signal to break from the woods and hit the column from Festival. Hit them and run for home had been Iggy’s instructions and, as they watched, they realised that any kind of lengthy engagement with the far larger enemy force would be courting suicide although, after Iggy had distributed liberal amounts of crystal among his men, few bothered much about the odds.

When just under a third of the Festival army had passed the spot where they were hidden, Iggy raised his rifle and fired a single shot in the air. Howling, the outlaws crashed out of the trees and charged across the highway towards the troopers from Festival.

The outlaws cleaved into the middle of the column. At the sound of the sudden gunfire and shouting, the men at the front swung round and attempted to charge back the way they had come to aid their fellows; they soon became entangled with their own men from the centre who were attempting to get away from the attacking outlaws. By the time some order had been brought to the confusion, the outlaws had shot their way clear through the column of Festival men and were racing back towards the barricades, pumping bullet after bullet into the front half of the Festival army as they passed.

Valentine fought to control his plunging horse and screamed at the men around him:

‘After them! After them!’

And with a number of his men following he took off in pursuit of the fleeing outlaws. Soon the entire army was heading for the barricade in a straggling charge. As it came near Valentine stopped and, turning in the saddle and waving his pistol, urged the men behind to greater speed.

Cynically he thought to himself that it didn’t need him in the front rank to find out if the barricade was really unguarded.

As Luther and the rest of the men heading the charge raced closer to the defences blocking the road, he tensed for a hail of bullets from the other side, but then they were right on the line of overturned carts, furniture and heaped debris, and no shots had been fired. It really was undefended.

They bunched up as they hurtled through the gap in the barricade and then spread out again as they galloped off the highway and down the muddy approach to the town itself.

When Luther swung his horse into the main strip of Afghan Promise, the town appeared deserted apart from the last of the outlaw horsemen at the opposite end. Luther was surprised when, as the street filled with charging Festival troopers, one of the outlaws reined in his horse and looked backwards down the street.

Iggy sat on his horse and savoured the excitement of watching Valentine’s men charging blindly towards him. Then, right on cue, his men hidden inside the buildings opened fire. Iggy laughed aloud as, caught in the savage crossfire, the Festival charge disintegrated into a milling chaos of shouting men and screaming, plunging horses. Iggy’s horsemen returned and, in a line at the end of the street, added their contribution to the slaughter, ensuring that any Festival man who survived the terrible gauntlet of the men in the buildings would run head first into their guns.

One moment Luther had been charging full tilt down the main street of Afghan Promise and then, like some awful flood, the guns in the houses had opened up and the charge had turned in ghastly confusion. All around him men and horses had fallen screaming under the hail of bullets. His own horse had gone down and he was thrown into the mud. He had instinctively rolled away with his knees drawn up to avoid the thrashing hooves. For some time he lay on his side in the mud, stunned from the fall and the shock of the sudden attack.

As his senses returned Luther cautiously lifted his head. To his right a small group of his comrades who had managed to survive the murderous crossfire had bunched up and were attempting to break out back onto the highway. They had almost got to the end of the street when a heavy rapid-fire ripped into them and threw the leaders into a fallen tangle of men and horses. Those following collided with them and the last of the group were finished as they tried to get away on foot.

A bullet threw up a miniature fountain of mud close to his hand; desperately he rolled and scrambled for temporary cover between two dead horses. Further up the street he saw that a few of the others with the same idea were trying futilely to return the fire from the houses. Frantically Luther looked round for his own carbine and then saw with horror that it must have been lost in the mud when his horse went down. With a cold fear he realised that he was totally unarmed save for his knife.

Suddenly one of the men up the street broke from his cover and started running, crouched and zigzagging, towards where Luther lay. Almost impossibly he managed to evade the outlaws for about half the distance but then he screamed, twisted and pitched head first into the mud.

A realisation of imminent death gripped Luther. He knew that soon even the token resistance would be over and the outlaws would emerge from the buildings to finish those like himself who were hiding among the dead. Hopelessly, he looked round for something that might save him and like a miracle he saw a riderless horse galloping frantically down the street towards him.

He tensed himself; as the horse passed him he leaped. His hand touched a stirrup and he clung on as he was dragged bodily through the mud. His weight slowed the terrified animal slightly and halfway down the strip he was able to haul himself into the saddle. Bullets zipped by him with an evil buzz but none found its mark.

He was only paces from the end of the strip and the start of the approach to the highway when a figure sprang from the mud.

‘Stop! Stop! For the prophet’s sake, I beg you!’

Even under the coating of mud Luther recognised the black armour and pale face of Lord Valentine. Leaning down in the saddle he grasped the lord around the waist and hauled him up behind him; then they raced for the highway.

17.

Joe Starkweather raised his arms and stood very still.

The guard walked towards him, his gun pointing steadily at a spot somewhere in the centre of Starkweather’s chest. Two paces in front of him, he halted. He was a thin cadaverous man with the dark, sunken eyes of a fanatic.

‘Okay, left hand, pull that gun outta y’ belt an’ throw it over here.’

Carefully Joe obeyed and the pistol clattered on the paving. Without taking his eyes off Starkweather, the guard stooped, picked up the gun and stuffed it into his belt.

‘Okay Mistuh Starkweather, le’s jus’ step into th’ guard house.’

The guard shut the door behind them and motioned Starkweather towards a chair.

‘Jus’ sit down there, Starkweather, while I sorts out wha’ to do wi’ you. Escapin’ ain’t gonna make th’ lord go any easier on you.’

Joe sat down and studied the guard.

‘I don’t know you, do I?’

‘No, but I know you an’ I heard th’ way you talk to some o’ the boys. Too many of your comnie scum in theguard if’n you asks me.’

‘You a lord’s man then?’

‘Th’ lord is by God appointed.’

Starkweather shot the man a penetrating look.

‘You sound like a Christie.’

The man’s eyes narrowed.

‘I think you said enough.’

Joe suddenly grinned.

‘I got it, you’re the one they call Preach, ri’?’

‘I tol’ you to shut …’

He was cut short by the clanging of the admission bell. Automatically the guard jumped to his feet but then a look of confusion passed across his face. Starkweather laughed.

‘Wonderin’ what to do with me while you answer the bell?’

The guard pointed his gun at Joe.

‘You’re comin’ wi’ me. Try anythin’ an’ I’ll blow your head off. I’d take pleasure in that.’

The bell kept up its insistent tolling as they walked out of the guard house.

Preach motioned to Starkweather to stand against the gate and without taking his eyes off him he slid open the peephole.

A shotgun barrel poked its black snout through the space.

‘Open up f’ th’ people’s militia!’

In one swift movement Preach, despite his surprise, slammed the shutter against the gun and threw himself back against the heavy gate. The only thing he was unable to do was to watch Starkweather at the same time and Joe took the opportunity.

His shoulder took Preach just under the ribs and the two of them rolled on the ground. Preach was the first on his feet and he aimed a kick at Starkweather who twisted to avoid it and grabbed the guard’s foot, throwing him to the ground. Preach rolled over fumbling for the pistol in his belt. Starkweather’s fingers came in contact with the barrel of the shotgun and, grasping it, he swung it in a wide arc. The butt struck Preach on the side of the head and he lay still. Gasping, Starkweather climbed to his feet. Keeping well out of range of the peephole he yelled to the people on the other side of the gate.

‘This is Starkweather; who is that?’

A familiar voice yelled back.

‘This is Frankie Lee, Mistuh Starkweather. We come from the Drag to get you out.’

Starkweather shot back the bolt and hauled the gate open. Outside stood fifty men and women from the Drag, armed and determined.

The meeting had gone on for hours and as Frankie Lee stood by the high window of the palace audience room the sky was growing dark and torches and watch fires were flickering into life all over Festival.

The crowded room housed representatives of all sections of Festival, many of whom had never before set foot inside the walls of Backstage. One faction was noticeably absent for, although Starkweather had himself tried persuading them to come, the merchants had solidly refused to have anything to do with the embryonic defence committee. Instead, they had closed their gates and turned the Merchants’ Quarter into a fortified city within the city, denying anyone the use of their weapons and supplies. It was a serious blow to the defence of the rest of Festival: now they would have to make do with the few weapons left in the palace arsenal; the guns stolen from Aaron; and whatever personal weaponry could be found among the people.

It had not been too much trouble to organise the structure for defending the city. Starkweather had been unanimously elected to co-ordinate the entire operation, basing himself in the palace. The rest of the city would be split into three sections. The Northside would take care of both their own defence and any attack from along the highway; they would be under the command of Mac the Smith and Nasty Elaine. The Shacktowners under the Radio Kid would watch the south and east, dividing the southern boundary (marked by the river) with the boys from the Drag under Frankie Lee who would also take care of the west side up to the Merchants’ Quarter. Old Tom and the remaining guards would look after the defence of Backstage itself; all except Preach and four others who opted to remain loyal to Valentine and had been confined under guard. The fortification of the city was to start at dawn.

Only one question had remained unanswered: what would happen when Valentine returned? The Shacktowners and the Drag crew wanted the lord arrested and the city declared a commune, while the more conservative North side and palace staff merely wanted the lord’s power limited by a council of representatives.

Starkweather listened in silence as the argument went round and round. Finally, after the debate threatened to run into its third hour, he held up his hand for silence.

‘It seems to me that we’re all gettin’ heated up ’bout somethin’ that may not happen. If Valentine handles this campaign like he handles mos’ everythin’ else I doubt if he’ll be returnin’ at all. If by some miracle he does put down the outlaws, then we got nothin’ to worry about. I think we sh’d carry on with the defence an’ sort out the problems of lords an’ such after the danger has passed.’

The Radio Kid, one of the strongest in favour of the lord’s arrest, stood up.