The Flames of the City: Cities and Gods can die

By Jim Webster

Set in the same 'Land of the Three Seas' as Jim Webster's other books, 'The Flames of the City' is the story of a desperate campaign to hold back the forces of barbarism. We follow a young man named Freelor as he takes on a job to cover a winter when he's unable to get home, where he is due to marry. Somehow he gets involved with marching armies, pitched battles, bitter fighting, the fall of cities and the death of a god. Involves full orchestration and a rather pretty girl, considered the finest hurdy-gurdy player of her generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781782347491

Jim Webster

I can cope with being described as fifty-something. During the course of a reasonably quiet life I’ve done a number of things. I’ve farmed cattle all my life, and at the same time have been a consultant and a freelance writer. I also fit in being a husband and father. My life has included some intriguing incidents, at the age of twelve, my headmaster was somewhat put out to discover that not only was I selling ammonium nitrate to other boys to make bangers, it wasn’t actually forbidden by the school rules. I’ve watched Soviet troops unload coffins from a transport plane at Tashkent; been questioned by an Icelandic gunboat captain, not so much at gun point as at 40mm Bofors point, and according to the nice man at Frankfurt airport, I inadvertently invaded Germany. I was perfectly happy to believe him, I am happy to believe anyone who points a Heckler & Koch MP5 at me. Brought up on the classic masters of SF, I bought Jack Vance, ‘The Dragon Masters,’ in the early 1970s and that book taught me that the world or society the characters lived in was every bit as important as the plot. I’ve also written Supplements for Pelgrane Press to go with their ‘Dying Earth’ role-playing game, inadvertently contributed to the design of the FH70 Field Howitzer and living where I do on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness most of my mates have at one time or another built nuclear submarines. Me, I tend to seasickness on a particularly bracing bus trip.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nalthane ‘Far-farer’ Athraskin halted his destrier and sniffed the air. He could smell the smoke of a cooking fire, and no reputable person would stray so far from the Helm Way in this part of the Madrigels. He left his horse waiting patiently and scrambled up the rocks at the side of the path. From the top he looked round. Ahead of him he could see the glow of a fire. He made his way silently along the top of the ridge and then climbed down onto a steep-sided spur that jutted back towards the minor trail he’d been following. From here he had a better view of the fire, around which five men were sitting. He made his way warily towards it, halting often and watching, searching for the lookout he would expect to be out here somewhere. Nalthane was lying in a fissure in the rock when he heard movement ahead. He glanced in that direction and was rewarded with a glint of metal. From where he lay he could see no more - the watcher was concealed in a patch of scrub. Nalthane wiggled backwards, then when safe from observation changed his line of approach and tried again. This time it was easier, he knew where to look, but this time his view was blocked by a boulder. He swung further right and crept back towards the scrub. This approach was more open and he moved with great caution. Finally he risked looking up. There was a man sitting there, from here Nalthane could see he was a Scar nomad. The distance was perhaps twenty paces and presented a clear shot, but by taking the shot he would become fully visible to his target.

Nalthane slid backwards until he was once more in cover. He noiselessly took up his long Urlan bow that had been slung across his back, and plucked two arrows from the quiver. One he nocked, the other he held in his left hand along with the bow. Then he rose slowly, drawing the bow as he did so. He saw the Scar start as he aimed, and released the string. The arrow struck his target in the throat and the man died almost silently. Nalthane dropped into a low crouch, nocked the second arrow in case there was another watcher he had missed, and waited in silence. There was no sound save a raucous laugh from one of the men at the camp fire. Nalthane moved slowly forward, eyes and ears alert. He finally came to the body and studied it carefully; a young Scar buck, perhaps on his first raid across the Maran. Nalthane put down his bow and drew his skinning knife. He took the head with a few practiced movements and hung it by its hair from his belt. Over thirty years ago, Nalthane’s father Tilforth Athraskin had ridden north with Gant Axlebow on his last expedition. Tilforth never returned, but his sword and stirrups did, and when he was eighteen Nalthane had vowed to go north and take three hundred and seventeen nomad heads, as custom demanded, in order to avenge the death of his father. So far he had taken and prepared two hundred and seven and sent them south to be judged by the protocol master at Axlebow Keep. Some heads he didn’t send, they were too damaged, some had eluded him - nomads, even dead ones, can cling to their pony and escape even when it seems impossible.

He looked over the body and removed two silver arm rings set with rough cut emeralds. These he would give his woman in Koggart’s Junction. She had put up with his coming and going and had borne him two children. He liked to give her something pretty when he arrived home, especially as he found other ways of showing his appreciation a great tax on his imagination.

Putting the arm rings in his belt pouch he made his way further right. The watcher had been positioned so as to see down the trail along which Nalthane had been riding. He made his way to the trail and then slowly climbed down the rocks, so that he joined the trail out of sight of the camp. He took four more arrows from his quiver and held them in his left hand along with the bow. Then, as quietly as possible, he made his way towards the fire.

At the edge of the clearing, still in shadow, he looked around. To his left there were six ponies standing quietly. Lying near them was a line of figures; Nalthane could see the glint of a chain that connected them. Prisoners, loot, taken by this party; Nalthane allowed himself a brief smile, this was indeed the band he had been following. Drawing the bow he moved quietly out of the shadow and, taking a steady aim, loosed the first arrow.

He had loosed a second before the Scar moved, and with a courage and aggression he had always admired, they moved to attack him. He released the third and fourth before they were too close for further shooting. Then he dropped his bow, drew his father’s sword and stepped forward to attack the leading man.

The Scar was good. Seeing Nalthane was shieldless, the leading warrior smashed with his heavy leather buckler, forcing Nalthane to dodge right and then the nomad struck for the Urlan’s legs. He underestimated Nalthane’s reach: the Urlan avoided the blow and a short step forward allowed him to bring his sword down on the man’s head, killing him. Even as the body sagged, Nalthane stepped right, putting the falling body between him and one Scar, and drove his sword into the stomach of the nearest warrior, before he swung round in time to parry the blow of the final man. Then as the Scar brought up his shield to smash Nalthane in the face, Nalthane stepped forward, trapping the shield between them, hammering his knee into the Scar warrior’s groin. As the man doubled up, he killed him with a blow to the back of the head with his sword pommel.

Nalthane looked round; there was silence, although the prisoners were obviously awake. He went across and checked the other two men he’d hit with his arrows and took their heads to ensure they were dead. Wiping his sword on a dead man’s cloak, he sheathed it and went across to release the captives.

***

The following section is taken, without permission, from ‘Notes and Queries for Students of Cartography’, a set of notes printed (one hesitates to say published) by Benor Dorfinngil.

The savants of Meor have, over the centuries, regularly written about the ‘Nomad Threat.’ The historians amongst them point out that at one point the Scar crossed the Visa to raid south and others mention that even the Col was crossed from time to time. The truly pessimistic will tell you that the cities on the north coast of the Upper Sea have all been sacked at some point in their long and disreputable history.

Other savants, often geographers, point out that on the Red Steppe, (lying between the Upper Maran and the Urkusk River) travellers have noted banks or decayed walls running north to south, and these are presumed to be the frontiers of empires the historians have long forgotten. The historians, somewhat put out by this, are more sceptical and claim that they are probably transient natural phenomena which less acute intellects might mistakenly suppose to be ancient ruins.

What is generally recognised is that at some times in history the peoples living in the Land of the Three Seas have been able to drive the nomads back to the east; at other times the nomads have threatened to overwhelm them.

There are three nomad peoples on the Red Steppe. To the south, against the Snake Mountains, are the Rathalan, who also control the south of the Great Central Steppe and even have contact with the Oasis Cities. The Rathalan are a horse rearing people and somewhat introspective. They trade a little, are contented enough with their own extensive lands, and react violently to Scar encroachment - so violently that even the Scar are cautious in their dealings with them.

North of the Rathalan, covering most of the Red Steppe, and wintering as far west as the fringes of the Muldraen Forest, are the Scar. The Scar are perhaps the most feared, described by one particularly imaginative scholar as ugly, hawk-faced savages built of muscles and sinew, wearing leathers and furs, largely with bare arms and faces made terrible by weird tattoos and odd cuttings to noses and ears. They have no real dealings with settled folk, merely issuing edicts and enforcing them with extreme violence. They are slave takers, but traditionally they only seize female slaves or skilled male artisans. They habitually kill all other males who fall into their hands. The Scar also accept cash when they escort the annual caravans that cross the Steppe between Koppart’s Terminus and ‘Cascavai of the Silks’ in the Perfected Empire.

To the west of the Scar, and north of the Paraeba River, one finds the Uistac. To a grown Uistac man all other men are enemies and all females are mates, although in practice this is somewhat qualified. The Uistac women are more civilised than their men; they live in small kinship groups, headed by a matriarch, and they regard their male kindred as wild, lust-crazed creatures of violent temperament and strictly limited intelligence. Whilst Scar women seem submissive and dependent, the Uistac women seem happy to deal with the rest of the world, worry about what little bits of trade occur, maintain order among the clans and look after flocks and herds. In fact they seem to do everything, other than the solitary stalking through the wilds fighting anything they meet, which they leave to their men. Some scholars have even suggested that the women might be the Uistac, their men folk a mere collection of solitary individuals of no meaningful affiliation. The women do not attempt to control their men, but they lay down rules which will be obeyed. Thus there is no fighting within the circle of the tents (and all Uistac encampments have at least three tents arranged in a circle even if there is only one woman present) and there is no attacking people carrying a lance token.

But to be fair, the Uistac are not normally a problem. They spend much of their time in the Muldraen Forest, and given that even the Scar People regard them as dangerous madmen, the Uistac have inadvertently made themselves the western frontier of Scar territory. Similarly, the Rathalan incidentally ensure that the Scar no longer cross the Visa, as to do so would entail crossing Rathalan grazing lands.

The most problematic frontier with the Scar is the land west of the Upper Maran and south of the Paraeba rivers. This area is largely split in half by the Madrigels, a range of broken hills and badlands that run east to west. During the winter the Scar migration brings them west and they winter close to the Upper Maran. It is then that their young bucks infiltrate through the Madrigels, slave taking and raiding. To stop this infiltration, the towns on the Northern coast of the Upper Sea, and the towns on the upper Paraeba banded together many years ago to fund an organisation known as Lady Madrigel’s Rangers. They patrol the areas disputed with the Scar and endeavour to hold the Madrigels against them. The lands south of the Madrigels are vaguely safe; the lands north are still dangerous and not secure.

Savants have also written much on how the inhabitants of the area have coped with nomad aggression. The towns of the northern shore of the Upper Sea each have a great hedge that defends their farmlands. Pierced by fortified gates, the hedges are many yards thick, composed of thorn and similar trees, which have been woven together over the generations. Where possible, efforts are made to ensure the hedges have moats or impassable ditches. Oiphallarian also has a hedge, the only city on the Paraeba to do so.

One group living outside the safety afforded by hedges and walls is the Harvestmen. These come mainly from the city of East Shore and farm the coastal lands which lie between the cities of Battern and East Shore. They live (at least between seedtime and harvest) off the coast in boats, going ashore to plough, sow and harvest their crop, taking advantage of the nomad’s migration east during the summer. Ideally harvest is finished before the nomads return, but the date of harvest is ruled by the weather and the actions of nomad warriors by caprice. Harvest is an unchancy business, and men who can make it to the barges while the nomads burn the standing grain can count themselves lucky, at least in comparison to those who are caught.

Still, writers who have never ventured beyond the environs of Meor (which incidentally still has a hedge of its own, many miles to the east, although it is not really maintained now) will wax lyrical on the audacity and romance of the Harvestman lifestyle.

***

It was a fine day. It was the sort of day the old-timers would describe as ‘a good drying day.’ (Before commenting that you don’t get many of them now, not like the summers you got when they were young men.) There was a good hot sun to ripen the grain and enough breeze to keep the air moving.

On the coastal ploughlands half way between East Shore and Battern, Freelor Trasmur, a Harvestman aged about twenty, was feeling neither audacious, nor romantic. He was running across featureless wheat stubble with mere moments to find somewhere to hide before the nomad horsemen came over the low rise and caught sight of him.

***

Garl snuggled down in amongst the pile of sacks. As the monk entrusted with, amongst other things, lighting the fires, he was authorized to sleep in the great barrel-vaulted store rooms next to the kitchens. This was considered a reasonable perquisite of his task. The fact that Thalia his lover was snuggled up next to him most definitely wasn’t. There was a hammering on the door, which was locked from inside. Some years ago the mortice lock set into the door had failed. The Order found it cheaper to bolt the door from inside, and have a monk sleep there to unbolt the door on demand than to replace the lock.

Garl scrambled to his feet and hastily pulled on the long, cotton knee-length tunic, followed by the heavy woollen robe, the only garments allowed to the Order of the Fallen Dawn.

Coming, coming.

The knocking stopped.

Thalia burrowed more deeply into the mound of sacks and as Garl opened the door she was invisible.

Time to light the fires Garl, while I start on the porridge.

Garl nodded and slipped on his sandals. He rather liked old Terrich, chief cook and master of the kitchens.

Two bags of oats?

Terrich nodded, and Garl hoisted the top one off the pile and slung it over his shoulder. It was no hardship to carry a bag through with him as he went to lay and light the fires, and Terrich appreciated the little gestures.

Chatting companionably the two monks made their way to the kitchen, where Garl cleared out the hearths and went back to the store room for the kindling. Thalia was dressed and at work in one of the adjacent barrel vaults, sorting sheeting and towels. He greeted her formally in case someone else was in earshot and went past her to get a sack of kindling.

As he passed she said in a low voice, We cannot keep on like this.

He collected the kindling and returned.

What can we do?

You are educated; your main role here is to be in charge of the accounts! Once out of this monastery, out of East Shore, we could go anywhere with a little capital and your business head.

Garl smiled a little sadly. Capital! I don’t even own the clothes I wear.

Thalia laid a hand on his arm. If I can get some money, will you leave here with me - do you love me enough?

Garl paused, turned and looked at her. Yes, but how will you get the money? I love you too much to have you sell yourself.

She kissed him. Trust me.

***

An hour later, the monastery was busy. With fires lit and porridge made, the door was opened and the queue of mendicants was growing. As each entered the door they dropped a lead token into a bowl. Those without a lead token were taken to one side and their names entered in the ledger before being led back to eat. After their meal they were all escorted to one of the great wash rooms where they would bathe, wash their clothes and collect the garments they washed yesterday. Then they were led to the work rooms, where for the next four hours they would work for the monastery at whatever trade they could manage. Then there was a halt for another meal, another four hours’ work, and a final meal before they shuffled off into the night, each clutching a lead token and a handful of copper dregs. Those without a lead token were regarded positively; they represented mendicants from other orders who had taken the decision to switch their allegiance. A successful order would see the number of its mendicants growing.

One of the shuffling figures dropped out of line and approached Garl, where he stood watching them enter.

"Begging yer pardon brother, but what of me ‘aving something a bit medicinal for me chest?

Garl looked at the elderly man. He was sure he’d seen him before but couldn’t think of a name. And you are?

Gotten, Brother. Been with the order for seventy years, man and boy.

Garl reached across to the bench and took up a ledger. He flicked through it and found the name. Seventy years? Are you sure, it says you joined us five years ago.

Ah but that were when I changed me name, what with being cast out.

Garl began to feel that he was getting out of his depth. Cast out?

That’s what I said brother, on grounds of drunkenness and immorality. The old man’s brow furrowed. Before that I were Jangle.

Garl searched the book again. Yes, I’ve found a Jangle, but he was only with us ten years.

Aye well that was on account of me having been Doffan before that.

And before that? Garl asked.

Well I think I was Ruffan back then, but blowed if I can remember whether I was Ruffan or Welcarn first.

Against his better judgement, Garl asked, "And why did you stop being Doffan?

Arrant dissipation and extreme moral turpitude, Gotten answered. Or at least that’s what I think the old Abbot said.

So just how many times have you been cast out?

Gotten paused and appeared to be counting on his fingers. After several recalculations he said, tentatively, Six, but it might be seven.

Garl stared at the old man. So why are you still here? he asked, a trifle helplessly.

Best man t’order’s ever had when it comes to polishing bottle necks to take a stopper. Young un’s today haven’t the eye or the patience for that sort of work. The old man suddenly seemed to recall his errand. Anyhow, have you anything medicinal, on account of me chest?

Garl put down the ledger and lifted the desk lid. He held up a bottle of rubbing alcohol. This is all there is.

Gotten took it off him and slipped it inside his tunic top. Then it’ll have to do. Still, leave it overnight with a bit of blackstrap and it’ll go down smooth tomorrow.

With this he wandered off in the direction of the baths.

***

Garl returned to his desk in the monastery counting house. The monastery was a complex operation: there were not merely the goods produced by the mendicants to sell, there was grain provided by the Harvestmen allied to the monastery. These were free men, but were supplied with seed corn by the monastery, and if necessary loaned other capital, and the Harvestmen provided a return on capital in the form of grain delivered to the monastery store. Compared to the other orders, the Order of the Fallen Dawn had few Harvestmen and depended upon having a respectable number of mendicants working. In East Shore there was continual competition between the various charitable orders over which Order controlled the labour of the most mendicants. The older orders were at an advantage, they had built up relationships with larger numbers of Harvestmen and thus they had considerable grain stockpiles - they could feed more people and feed them more cheaply. The Order of the Fallen Dawn was struggling, forced to buy grain from competitors or from the market; Garl felt that they were losing out. Most of the other orders baked fresh bread every day; breakfast for their labourers was fresh bread and was even accompanied by slices of grilled mott. Looking at the accounts, Garl doubted that he would be able to authorise the purchase of fresh meat for some time. He knew that they were slowly losing mendicants; there were boxes of lead tokens in the store rooms that were no longer issued.

***

It was three days later, at the end of the labour week; he presented the figures to the Abbot and senior chapter. As was his duty, he tried to pick out long-term trends. The Abbot, who habitually wore half-glasses for reading, peered at him over the lenses.

So, your long-term prognosis?

I’m afraid that we are seeing a slow but steady decline in our labour force. If things continue at the present rate we will become unable to keep them at some point in the next two years. At that point we would have no option but to revert to being a small, self-sufficient, enclosed community. But I cannot imagine that we would be able to maintain the building, even if we could feed ourselves.

The Abbot turned to his senior chapter. Have we any suggestions?

There was silence, and then one hand was raised.

Brother Rabendary.

The Brother was a short, thickset man.

Can we perhaps cling more closely to the mendicants we have?

The Abbot smiled a tired smile, Incarcerate them you mean? We already have a score of skilled craftsmen who enjoy our more inclusive hospitality; they enjoy conditions at least as good as we do, but with the added benefit of conjugal visits. He winced and looked at Garl, who nodded.

Yes Father Abbot, we organise these visits, arranging for a fixed number of... and here he glanced at the contract in his pile of papers, "young women - clean, presentable, enthusiastic and of acceptable pulchritude, for which we pay a fixed sum, weekly. By my reckoning we are three months behind on our payments and I was going to ask for permission to draw down our reserves to pay."

We must honour our contracts my son, you have permission.

The Abbot turned back to Brother Rabendary,

As you can see, unless we incarcerate them in poorer conditions we cannot afford it, and those in poorer conditions will inevitably get word to some other Order, who will arrange their escape.

He looked around the table. Sister Evardine?

The sister chosen was an older woman, her hair cropped short.

Are we carrying too much dead wood? What about the various brothers and sisters?

She was looking at Garl, so he felt he was the one to answer. Currently we have the lowest ratio of brethren to mendicants of any order in East Shore. We could doubtless cut back, but I think we are close to the limit.

The Abbot nodded and looked round the table again.Sister Plaint?

Why have we so few contracts with Harvestmen?

Again, it was Garl who answered."A previous Abbot took an executive decision that the Nomad threat to the