Graeme Talboys - Stealing Into Winter

Torches flared in great iron brackets, lighting the main parade ground and gateway. The space was filled with men and horses and, to her astonishment, the main gates seemed wide open. For a moment she thought it was too late, that the Citadel had fallen, but then she saw that the great press of men were members of the city guard, newly arrived. And she also saw that the heavy gates were now slowly moving, blocking her only way out.

A horse stepped sideways and pushed her against a wall before its rider calmed it. Used to the great beasts, she waited anxious seconds so as not to startle it again by dashing off. And then, with one eye on the gates and the other on the melee of dismounting soldiers, she began to weave her way across the parade ground. Dodging booted feet and pikestaffs, bumped and jostled, she pushed her way to the ever-narrowing gap, tripping as a clear run opened up in front of her.

Hauled to her feet by a rough hand grasping her tunic, she turned ready to fight.

‘Get out, lad,’ said the soldier, not looking properly and making a mistake she was used to and often exploited. He marched her across to the gatehouse. ‘No place for you here,’ he added and pushed her out into the street. The gates slammed loudly behind her and she heard the first of the great locking bars fall into place.

‘May your gods protect you,’ she called as loudly as she could. And then ran off into the mayhem in the streets of the Old City.

The Citadel, a sheer-sided mud-brick fort perched on the steep hillside, had long ago become the centre of protection for the Old City and the docks. Mostly the docks. Which was why it had been maintained through the centuries. The Old City on the other hand, as old parts of cities do, had degenerated to a maze of tiny streets, small markets, and battered-looking houses where the poorest and hardest-working lived. Jeniche loved it. It was like a gigantic, sprawling family house, full of squabbling, loving, cooking, eating, reeking humanity, replete with secret places. Even though she knew no one who lived there, she always felt as if she belonged.

Tonight, it was different. Instead of a homely anarchy, the chaos of the place was driven by fear. The noise was confusing. Looks were hostile. She felt doors being closed against strangers. And all the time arrows fell and buildings burst and collapsed.

After a brief moment to draw breath, she decided the best thing to do would be to get back up into the main part of Makamba, retrieve her stash from her hideaway in the stables and head out of the city. Thieving was precarious at the best of times, more so since taking that ill-starred amulet, as she had discovered. In a city crawling with soldiers, it could easily prove fatal.

As she began to make her way uphill, moving from alley to alley and passage to passage, climbing walls, darting through cellars, the tone of the noise about her changed. She tried to place it and decided that the invaders must have by-passed the Citadel and attempted to breach the Old City defences.

Spurred on, she went faster, emerging onto the main street that ran between the docks and the newer parts of the city at the top of the hill. And stopped short.

A great length of the street seemed to be roofed with dancing fire, blazing cinders dropping to the cobbles, drifting in the warm breeze. Flags and bunting for the festival marking the visit of the God-King of the Tunduri people, flamed in the night. Paints and dyes lent their colour to the flames, blues and greens, yellows and reds, flickering and crackling.

The ropes on one great banner gave way and the whole thing fell, writhing, turning like a dying picture-book dragon. It hit the street with a whumph and scattered fragments of blazing material in all directions. Women emerged from houses and shops with brooms to beat it out.

Jeniche dodged on along the street, burning her feet on cinders, brushing them from her short hair as she ran. It seemed like a lifetime since she had wandered down this hill just three days ago, treating herself to sweetmeats and following the crowds out over the bridge and along the Great North Road to the complex of caves, hoping to catch a glimpse of the God-King of Tundur. Three endless days spent pacing that cell and listening to the ravings of the rapist. She shivered, dodging as a length of charred bunting fell in front of her.

The Tunduri had known how to enjoy themselves, even on a lengthy pilgrimage, but she still had no idea why there were ancient giant images of the first Tunduri God-King carved into the rock face by Makamba. Tundur, the Land of Winter, was many hundreds of miles away to the north, high in the mountains. She had asked some of the monks and nuns, but they probably hadn’t understood her, had simply smiled and given her flowers and bread. She’d bet that bread against her little bag of winnings that right now they were all heading north as fast as their feet could carry them, trundling their God-King in that huge, decorated wagon along the dusty roads to the north.

She was wondering, not for the first time, what the God-King would look like when her feet tangled themselves against something soft and heavy and she went down hard against a fresh pile of rubble, adding more bruises to her already extensive collection. A complex stench of rotting food, stale sweat, vomit, and cheap wine wafted over her and made her retch.

Peering into the gloom of a narrow alley, darkening as the last of the flags became drifting fragments of charred cloth, she could make out the dim shape of a body. Old boots, one with a missing heel, torn and no doubt dirty trousers. She didn’t want to speculate on the rest. Instead, she crawled into the darkness and leaned against the opposite wall, her arms around her knees. There would be plenty more like this one, she thought, and rested a moment.

‘Wha-oooh-err-eurgh.’

The emetic wailing startled Jeniche and she jerked back, banging her head on the wall. She lashed out, kicking at the body.

Another groan issued from the dark and the legs moved. ‘Whadjer wanna do that for?’

‘You frightened me and I’ve had enough of being frightened.’

‘What you frightened of? S’just a carnival.’

‘We’re being invaded,’ she hissed, peering out and down the main street which was now dark and quiet.

‘S’only nunks and muns.’ There was a pause. ‘Muns and nunks.’ Another pause. ‘Don’t feel very…’

At the sound of more vomiting, Jeniche stood and stepped back out onto the main thoroughfare. The sharp, tarry smell of burning rope and painted cloth came as a relief.

Firecrackers sounded at the bottom end of the Old City near the docks. A warehouse on fire, she thought, as she scurried on up the hill. When she reached the top, she paused on the edge of the old market square to look back down. Fires burned fiercely by the riverside and small, dark shapes could be seen flitting back and forth.

A shadow further up the hill seemed to move and she flattened herself back against the nearest wall before sliding round the edge of the square.

As she expected, the main gates in the Old City wall had been closed. It was the first time she had ever seen them like this. Even in the dark of night, she could see they wouldn’t last long; although if the dock gates burned down, the main gates would be all but redundant.

Standing on the narrow, unprotected stone bridge above the gates were several guards. Not wanting to test how jumpy they might be, Jeniche turned into a side street that ran parallel with the wall and looked for her own familiar route out of the Old City.

A faint smell of soot and smoke hung in the cool air of the cellar when Jeniche woke. She lay for a while, listening, sorting memory from dream. When she was fully awake, she moved to the door and edged it open. Early morning light filled the alley and lit the steps in front of her. She had slept for just a few hours.