Flames of the City

Jim Webster

Description

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.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 03 juin 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782347491
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE FLAMES OF THE CITY
Cities and Gods can die
By
Jim Webster



Publisher Information
The Flames of the City
First published in 2012
This edition published in 2015
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © 2012, 2015 Jim Webster
The right of Jim Webster to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Author’s Preface
It has been said, (by no lesser person than Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington) that “The history of a battle is not unlike the history of a ball. Some individuals may recollect all the little events of which the great result is the battle won or lost, but no individual can recollect the order in which, or the exact moment at which, they occurred.”
Where battles and balls differ is that one rarely fears that one might not leave the ball alive. Again, it is rare that one arrives at a place and awakes to discover that a ball is being held around you. Still the quote has merit. In this telling of one particular ‘ball’ we shall follow several of the ‘dancers’ as they were drawn into its sway.



Continent Map





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 ext