The Texts Of Festival by Mick Farren Read Free Book Online

from the firebox that was already darkening their overalls with sweat.
    Iggy sat on his horse, hitting crystal and feeling pleased. The meeting between his boys and the barbarians had gone off without serious incident. The overnight camp had resulted in one of his men knifing a tribesman but Winston had shot the man and Oltha wasn’t making any trouble, so at present everything was working out very well.
    Iggy’s girlish face, framed by his wide-brimmed hat and long, curling black hair, was brought to unpleasant life by a slight smirk as he watched Winston setting out his men for the ambush. His grin broadened as he remembered how the hicks’ eyes had popped out of their heads when the battle wagons had been rolled out, with their four-horse teams, driver and the six guns behind their steel shields and overhead leather canopy. He had noticed the great degree of respect with which Oltha treated him since the chief had seen Iggy’s entire force made ready to fight.
    Iggy was still grinning when Oltha rode up on his short-legged pony.
    ‘Hey, hey, buddy, how’s things?’
    Oltha halted.
    ‘A good, good ambush.’
    Sure it’s a good ambush, thought Iggy, I spent a longtime figuring it. Ruined Hill was a high escarpment with a long, even climb on one side and a steep drop on the other. The caravan would sweat their way up the hill, through the deserted town from which the hill got its name, every minute half expecting bandits to jump them from the overgrown ruins. They’d reach the top with a sense of relief and start to roll down the highway that sharply traversed the face of the scarp.
    When they were rolling too fast to stop, the horsemen would break from the woods at the top of the hill and attack them on the run. At the foot of the hill a short upgrade would break the caravan’s speed and the archers could go into action. At that point the wagonmaster could do nothing except pull his wagons into a loose protective circle. Then his battle wagons could go in, followed by Oltha’s foot men and it would be all over. It was a neat ambush and Iggy knew the hill chief was aware of the fact.
    ‘Your men in position?’
    ‘My men are ready.’
    ‘Scouts’re down the road a piece. Nothin’ to do but wait.’
    ‘I go join the horsemen.’
    ‘I reckon I’ll stay here a while. Till the scouts come in. Then I’ll join ya.’
    Oltha turned his pony and rode off in the direction of the woods.
    Iggy fingered his gun, flicked the reins, and flexed his fingers, watching his rings sparkle in the sunlight. The crystal and the excitement were beginning to get to him. The waiting was hard; he’d better ease off on crystal until the scouts returned. He pulled on his thin black gloves.
    Winston rode up and told him everything was ready.
    ‘How’re the hill boys makin’ out?’
    ‘Fine man, they may be dumb, but they’re pros.’
    Ri’ on, head for the woods and I’ll come in with the scouts.’
    Winston rode off, leaving Iggy alone on the sunny hillside. To all appearances it was now deserted save for a single rider on a large black horse.
    Iggy sat peering into the hazy distance. Where was the mutherin’ caravan?

5.
    It was a fine morning and Joe Starkweather was walking, taking the air, watching life in the town of Festival. Many men of his age would have been content to sit home and watch life go past but Joe Starkweather was not many men. He knew he stood apart from the majority of people, separated by the Starkweather legend, the spurious myth that was remembered while the ideals that had created the legend were forgotten. To most of them he was just a tall grey-haired man in a leather campaign coat and riding boots, whom they respected because they had always respected him. That seemed to be the way of Festival, the way of humanity. It was reflected all the way from the wild-eyed crystal freaks to textkeepers who bickered about the literal interpretation of words and phrases, and waited for a revelation that would