The Texts Of Festival (23 page)

‘They’re inside Lou’s, they’ve busted the door in.’

‘Frankie! There ain’t too much ammunition left.’

The last rush from the street had drained most of their remaining stocks but it had also broken the back of the hill men’s attack. Only a handful remained, most of them retreating to the line of outlaws who fired sporadically from the end of the street.

One-Legged Terry burst from the door of Madame Lou’s and hopped awkwardly across the Drag towards the shelter of the Last Chance. In the middle of the street he was shot down by an outlaw who appeared in the doorway.

Frankie Lee took a shot at him but missed. Before he could let go a second round, the man had ducked out of sight.

From a high window on the top floor of Madame Lou’s Iggy looked down on the Drag, comparatively quiet since the remains of the hill tribes had drawn back. The street was littered with dead and wounded. Those fuggers had cost him a lot of men but he could afford to lose tribesmen.

It was a pity that his men had had to kill the women inside Madame Lou’s: they would have been useful at the victory celebration but they had fought like wild animals and capture had been impossible.

He turned to the four men beside him and pointed to the Last Chance.

‘See that window, th’ one on the right of the door?’

‘Wha’ ’bout it?’

‘Ma’s th’ one wi’ the rapid-fire behind it. If we can fire together the boards’ll cave in an’ we’ll be able to pin ’em down while th’ rest of the boys move in.’

A hail of bullets smashed into the window and the wood splintered and cracked. Ace fell back, blood pouring from his throat.

Frankie Lee hit the floor and rolled out of reach of the shattering hail of bullets.

‘They’re firin’ from the top windows.’

Huey yelled from the other side of the room.

‘There’s more of ’em movin’ up th’ street.’

Frankie Lee sprang to his feet. The barrage of firing still crashed into the front of the building and it was impossible to reach the fire slits. He rammed the last clip into the rapid-fire.

‘Red, you better leggo the signal, we gotta get outta here.’

24.

The gate swung back and Joe Starkweather rode out into the arena with twenty mounted men behind him. In tight formation they galloped out into the arena.

As they swung towards the Drag, shouts from the direction of Shacktown caused Starkweather to turn in his saddle. Emerging from the burning ruins were a large force of outlaws.

In a flash, the elation of Killer Joe riding at the head of his men once again disappeared.

Grimly he reined in beside his second-in-command.

‘Stay here with half the men. I’ll head for the Drag an’ try an’ get those boys out from the Last Chance. If you can’t hold that bunch, beat it back behind the walls.’

Frankie Lee shot two outlaws who appeared in the shattered door. Beside him, Claudette brought down another who had attempted to swing his gun through one of the gaping windows. The remaining defenders left in the Last Chance were now crouched behind the broken furniture, trying desperately to stop the outlaws from entering the building.

Two more outlaws bust through the doorway and managed to loose some wild shots before Frankie Lee was able to cut them down with a burst from his rapid-fire.

Another outlaw leaped into the room and Frankie Lee again pulled the trigger but this time nothing happened. The final clip was empty. Before he could draw his pistol the outlaw had fired and searing pain told him that the bullet had taken him in the arm. He dropped to his knees as the man raised his carbine to fire again. Then Claudette’s shotgun roared and the outlaw fell.

Frankie climbed weakly to his feet, his left arm throbbing painfully. Another of Iggy’s men came at him swinging a long knife. Using his good arm he smashed the man in the ribs with his empty gun. The man crashed to the floor with a grunt. Frankie Lee dropped the rapid-fire and pulled out his pistol. Before the man could climb to his feet he shot him.

More outlaws poured through the door but two suddenly crumpled to the floor. The others swung round. Shouts and firing came from outside, then Joe Starkweather and three other Festival men backed through the doorway, firing into the street.

‘Okay Frankie Lee, move your people out. We’re coverin’ for you.’

Isaac Feinberg crouched in the sound shack on the side of the Stage and watched the small group of Festival horsemen struggling to hold back the outlaws who flooded out of Shacktown.

It was looking more and more like the death of Festival, and Feinberg had resigned himself to his own passing.

A sound outside the shack caught Feinberg’s attention. The outlaws surely couldn’t have reached the Stage. The next moment the door burst open and three soldiers in grimy palace colours crowded into the small equipment-filled room.

‘Isaac Feinberg?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are ordered to play th’ final text.’

‘What? Now? Who gave that ridiculous order? I don’t believe Joe gave any such order, it’d undermine morale completely an’ things are bad enough already.’

‘The order was given by Valentine, lord of Festival.’

‘Valentine?’

‘The lord has regained his ri’ful authority.’

‘Preserve us all!’

‘Play th’ text.’

‘All right, all right. You’ll have to wait while I warm up the equipment.’

‘Hurry!’

Feinberg busied himself with his gear and small red lights blossomed into life. After a while the monitor speaker began to hum and crackle.

‘You brought the text?’

Silently the trooper handed Feinberg a worn black disc.

Feinberg placed it on the turntable and dropped the pickup arm. The crackling, distorted remains of the voice of Morrizen, the lizard king, one of the great shamanic witch lords of the crowded years of legend that preceded the disaster. Morrizen was second only to the terrible Djeggar. Morrizen, who had taken his words of doom to his unmarked grave, crooned the incantation of the Final Testament, The Last Text, and The End.

Rough hands seized Feinberg and he was dragged out onto the stage and forced to his knees. Valentine’s men faced him, the PA forcing them to yell in order to be heard above the Morrizen’s text as the voice described how the lost children wandered in a wilderness of ancient pain.

‘Feinberg, it’s evidenced tha’ you’re associate an’ conspirator wi’ the renegade Starkweather.’

Feinberg tried to speak but he was drowned out by the sound of Morrizen incanting the passage of the great seven-mile snake.

‘The penalty f’ this is summary execution, you can make no appeal.’

Morrizen was now at the crucial section of the text in which the killer son rapes the mother and murders the father.

As the trooper raised his gun, Feinberg spread his hands in resignation.

The text rang over the arena, even above the noise of battle. Mounted behind Starkweather, Frankie Lee clung to Joe’s back as the Festival troop raced for the gate only paces ahead of the outlaws. His arm was bleeding and he had difficulty staying on the horse as he grew weaker and dizzier.

They had been lucky. The text, unexpectedly roaring from the Stage, had thrown the outlaws into confusion as the tribesmen were filled with superstitious fear. It had given the Festival men time to regroup in the middle of the arena and to cut through the outlaws in a dash for the arena.

Dimly, through a haze of pain, Frankie Lee realised that the gates were not opening as they approached. In front of them Starkweather jumped from his horse and beat on the gate.

‘C’mon you fuggin’ idiots! Open the godam gate!’

The peephole in the gate slid out and a face appeared. Valentine’s voice came from within. It was cold with a brittle overtone of insanity.

‘The gate stays shut, Starkweather. You’ll never come inside these walls again.’

The peephole slammed shut and Frankie Lee saw Starkweather, white-faced and looking very old, turn to face the onrushing outlaws. Then weakness and loss of blood overcame him and he sank into a dark oblivion.

25.

Gradually Frankie Lee returned to painful consciousness. His wounded arm throbbed dully and a heavy weight pressed into his chest. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a darkening sky. The corpse of an outlaw lay across his chest. It was quiet and obviously the fighting had ceased. As he cautiously turned his head to the left, the Arena Gate swam into his vision and the memory of the last moments in front of the gate returned. Valentine’s crazy voice, Starkweather demanding entrance and the physical shock of the outlaw cavalry smashing into them, all flooded back to him.

He forced his eyes to focus and saw that the great wooden gate lay open and shattered, surrounded by bodies. Grimly he realised that if the outlaws who stood around the gate laughing and passing round looted jugs of spirit saw that he was alive, he would be shot where he had fallen.

For a while he lay still, scarcely daring to breathe. The sun was going down over the fallen city and perhaps he would have a chance to escape when it grew dark. He saw that the men by the gate were paying no attention to the scattered bodies and, cautiously, he ventured turning his head to the right. In front of him was the whipping post, tied to it hung the horribly mutilated body of Valentine. At least there was satisfaction in knowing that the pig had got his.

A little way off stood a group of outlaws who, from the attitude of others who came and went, seemed to be in authority. One of them turned in Frankie Lee’s direction and in a flash of recognition he realised that it was Iggy, the outlaw leader. Anger flared like a spark of life in his shattered body. He was so close to the man who had caused the death of all his friends and destroyed the only place he had ever called home. He was so close but there was nothing he could do.

The weight of the dead outlaw seemed to be pressing something hard against his stomach. Gingerly, with the minimum of apparent movement, he slid his hand under the corpse and along his own body. His fingers touched metal.

The gun!

He still had the pistol, the one he had scored from the rube in what now seemed a different age. Maybe there was a chance he could even the score.

Iggy stared over the ruins of Festival. Now that the city was his he felt strangely deflated. The sense of power that had been so strong during the fighting had totally left him. Despite the crystal he had taken he felt drained and tired; the prospect of reconstruction and of organising his kingdom filled him with a weary reluctance to do anything. Even Winston’s solid enthusiasm was becoming irksome. He shrugged: he was probably coming down.

He turned and walked towards a group of men who clustered laughing and drinking beside the Arena Gate. Winston and his bodyguards fell into step behind.

None of the outlaws seemed to be looking in his direction and Frankie Lee decided to take a chance on moving. He managed to wriggle slowly forward until the corpse was draped across his legs as he lay on his back with his hand, holding the gun, hidden beneath him. He froze as Iggy and his entourage walked past only a few paces from him. He watched Iggy halt among the men at the gate. They all had their backs to him and, although the light was fading fast, there was still enough to shoot by. It seemed to be his chance.

He pulled his legs free of the dead man and rolled onto his side. Steadying the gun with both hands he took careful aim.

Winston watched Iggy as he joked with the men standing around the shattered gate. He was looking rough. Three days without food or sleep, surviving on straight crystal, would soon make their mark on him in the form of a prolonged comedown of which withdrawal and tiredness were the first signs. Iggy’s comedowns were never pleasant for those around him.

Winston fretted at Iggy’s unwillingness to do anything. There was the problem of the dead. Most of the men would be unwilling to do anything but party for the next few days but if the bodies were not quickly cleared, rats, wild dogs and finally plague would overrun the city.

The shot took him completely by surprise. At first he assumed that it was one of the men either celebrating or fighting. It was only when Iggy pitched forward that he realised it was an attempt to kill his chief.

Drawing his own gun he swung round staring into the darkness for some sign of the assassin.

‘There! Runnin’!’

One of the men beside him shouted and fired. A dark shape was racing along the wall heading desperately for the ruins of the Merchants’ Quarter. Winston fired a burst from his gun but the figure was an impossible target, alternately silhouetted against the flames and invisible in the black shadows they cast, then it seemed to vanish in the burning ruins.

One of the men kneeling over Iggy looked up, his face white with shock.

‘He’s dead!’

Turning towards the Merchants’ Quarter, Winston broke into a run.

Two men crouched beside Iggy’s body while the rest took off after Winston.

Frankie Lee felt sick and dizzy but he stumbled on. At first he had run blindly, expecting to be shot down at any time, but once he had reached the ruins he realised that there might be a chance that he could actually escape.

His arm throbbed painfully and his knees were dangerously weak. It was pointless in his condition to try and run from the pursuers who crashed through the ruins behind him. He looked around for a place to hide. A narrow space under a fallen wall, just big enough for a man to crawl inside, seemed ideal. Quickly he dropped to his hands and knees and wriggled into the gap. Gratefully he lay down in the darkness and waited.

Waking with a start he realised that he must have drifted into unconsciousness. There was no way of knowing whether he had been out for minutes or hours. He peered out from his hiding place. Everything was quiet and it looked much darker. It was probable that he had lain there for hours. His arm and shoulder hurt like hell as he crawled out of the hole in the ruins and for a moment he crouched on the ground, biting his lip until the pain subsided. Then he stood up and looked round, taking stock of his situation.

There was little point in heading west, the outlaws held the highway at least as far as Afghan Promise. His best bet was to work his way through the Northside, then strike out along the highway for the eastern villages beyond the swamp, perhaps he could even make it to the ’Nglia seaports.