From
the top of the tumbled hill Gusta and Tommo could see the Crossings of
the Brown River. Down the tilt of the world it flowed, glinting in the
skylight, visible as it twisted its way though a narrow gorge onto the
relatively flat plain below, which had once been the broad side of a
hill before the world tilted. Here it should have been easy to cross
the braided river, as it split into thousands of stony steams before
plunging over the edge of the old valley into a new series of canyons.
But not today.
“Curse the sky and ground! Where have all those idiots come
from?” Tommo said, clutching his machete in its new sheath.
He wore the (still slightly bloody) leather armour of the former
ganger, Jhonny, who had been persuaded to part with it. In a manner of
speaking.
The Crossings were covered in tents and rough shelters, pitched on
every gravelly island.
“Well they have heard the rumours of a gathering, as have we
all. To reach the Forest of the Mummers we have to cross this river,
and all the bridges are shut.” Gusta drank from the
waterskin, with the river in sight, she could hope soon to get more.
“The cursed Merchants arrange this to happen every time there
is a gathering,” Tommo growled. “They know full
well we will fight like dogs to be taken away from this world, then
they dance by and pluck the victors. My little matchlock will soon be
busy.”
“Don’t be a fool. You take far too long to reload
that thing. Best keep it for when there area fewer targets.”
As the glimmering sky darkened towards evening they stooped and
scuttled through rough brush toward the river, and were joined by
several other stooping figures. As they went forward, thy picked up
choice items from the bundles of clothes that lay by the path, often
with arrows piercing the garments in various places.
One bundle still had a person in it, a woman pierced from collarbone to
armpit by a large heavy arrow. She did not look like she would last the
night. Tommo looked at Gusta, who drew her knife.
“Thank you,” said the woman, before Gusta cut her
throat, with experience gained from centuries of killing animals and,
all too often, other people. After a second or two the clothes were
empty. They took what was valuable and waded into the river, which
flowed fast in the night.
The first large river island was covered in tents, and the ground felt
soft enough despite the pebbles at the edge. The tents and
shelters were rough, but semi permanent, held up by driftwood branches
and logs.
“There is no room to pitch our tent, curse the
luck,” said Tommo.
“No need. There is plenty of shelter here it seems to me that
nobody is laying claim to. There have been many people passed over this
island, it seems not many stay long.”
“Aye, but many seem to have left a deal of gear
behind.”
An uneasy peace must have broken out somehow, as many people were
sleeping, and others watched one another closely, but there were no
fights. Before they knew anything else, they were both asleep, tucked
under a corner of a ragged sheet.
As the sky began to lighten again, Gusta was awakened by a commotion.
She looked straight up at the ragged sheet, seeing what it was for the
first time- a patchwork of old clothes, sewn roughly and hastily
together, some bloody.
“Whasshappen?” said Tommo.
“Wake up, we had better get going. Sounds like there is
something going on.”
People were scrambling about, diving into the water. A trio of tall
masked men, with the feathers and beaks of ravens and eagles, were
walking about in a tight formation hacking at the sleeping people with
swords. Each one they hit soon vanished.
“They must be the Mummers! They are defending the
crossings after all. Why doesn’t anyone fight
back?” Tommo picked up his machete and flintlock.
“Tommo, no!
They are too well protected for us to fight without help. If we could
gather a few of the strongest –“
A fierce looking Servile man with a long moustache threw himself at the
strange figures, but the birdmen were well trained, and the fighter was
soon cut down with three blows. Further away some archers loosed their
arrows, which tore through the dark feathered cloaks but rang against
steel beneath. It seemed the Mummer clothes were hiding dangerous
warrior caste killers. Tommo put his flintlock away, and they scrambled
toward the river again.
“Not that way, make for the far shore. They can’t
get us all, they are too slow.” Gusta dragged Tommo round to
the far shore and they waded into the water with thousands of others.
On some of the islands Mummers stood, swinging swords and halberds. On
the others, people scrambled for a foothold among the shantytowns made
of dead men’s garments. The Far shore was well protected by
Mummer warriors and other, poorly masked figures with sticks and
billhooks, the poor infantry no doubt.
As they climbed onto a crowded islet, a half crippled man looked up
with resignation from his bundle. “We won’t make it
into Mummerland while they still hold the shore,” he spat.
”This all happened the same way yesterday and the day before,
mark you. We must wait for help from above. Or from the river,
eh?” He seemed at least half mad, which was common in the
Tilted lands.
“We cannot stay here and starve, old fool. They are not so
many,” Tommo felt the short flintlock inside his leather
armour. It still seemed mostly dry.
“What do you mean, from the sky or the river?”
Gusta gave him a piece of valuable biscuit.
“Some make their way though the shore guards- when many try
at once, there are always some that get through. But when help comes
from the sky, or the river, more get through.”
Just as he said that the other serviles on the island gasped, and a
long serpentine shape moved through the water towards the Mummers on
the riverbank. Ignoring the huddled hordes on the islands, the river
Orm wanted to test itself against more worthy opponents. It flung
itself half out of the water at the armoured figures, then laboriously
dragged the rest of its body on to the shore, and proceeded to roll
over the Mummers one by one.
“That’s our chance – move!” The
twisted little man leapt into the water, and crabbed across the fast
moving river to the shore.
“Ready, Tom? The worm doesn’t seem
interested in us poor serviles – just keep out of the way of
its tail.” They waded towards a clear section of beach,
holding their possessions above their heads. As they stumbled up the
bank, in a crowd of other hopefuls, a single Mummer came running past
them towards the river Orm. He was holding a long firearm of some sort,
then dropped right in front of them, frantically trying to jam the
powder and ball into the wide neck of his gun.
Tommo dropped his bundle, and fished out his own small flintlock. Going
through the same motions as the Mummer he made ready to fire.
“Leave him, for sky’s sake. He is only interested
in the worm.”
“Hah! One less birdbeak is all the better.” Tommo
raised his weapon and released the flint. It sparked but did not catch.
The Mummer noticed him, as he repeatedly tried to ignite his powder,
and with a sudden flash and dull pop of his gun demonstrated that he,
for one, had kept hid powder dry.
Betrayed by his stolen flintlock, Tommo fell into the mud.
Gusta dived out of sight, but of course there would be no second ball
until the Mummer had reloaded, so she scrambled away. She did not wait
around to watch Tommo vanish, if that was indeed his fate- the shot
from those weapons was better at wounding than killing. Ahead were the
trees and hills of the Mummerland Forest, and, for her, a possible
escape from this senseless existence.
