Kindling

Book 1: Flame of Evil

by Mick Farren

Genres: Alternative History sci-fi; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

The last bastions of freedom, the Kingdom of Albany and the Norse Alliance, stand at bay. They are threatened by the Empire of the Mosul, whose unstoppable forces, driven by the brutal theocracy of the Zhaithan and drawn by the promise of paradise, have already conquered most of Europe and now set their sights on the New World. There is one slim chance of salvation. Four youngsters must find each other, and themselves, to form an entity that can challenge the Dark Things, warrior demons raised by the necromancy of the Zhaithan. But the Four are widely scattered. Argo Weaver, fleeing his East Virginia home to escape a brutal stepfather, is concerned only with his own survival. Lady Cordelia Blakeney, aristocratic and decorative adjunct to the Army of Albany, cares more for the fit of her uniform than the state of the world. Jesamine is the slave-concubine of a brutal Teuton colonel. Raphael Vega, Hispanian conscript in the army of the Mosul, must hide his artistic talents from the heresy-seeking priests. And even with the help of the mysterious Yancey Slide, who may not be entirely human, the obstacles they face may well be insurmountable. At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: February 7, 2006

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 416

Sample

ONE


ARGO


Argo Weaver stood in the doorway of the bedroom and pointed the pistol at his stepfather. The two-shot horse pistol, with its long twin barrels and two hammers, was heavy, but his hand was steady and his aim did not falter. Argo Weaver's stepfather snored softly. To say that his mother slept next to the man was an exaggeration. She slept in the same bed, as she had done since Argo's father had been confirmed killed, but she was turned away from the man, as far from him as was physically possible to be and still remain under the same covers. When Argo fired, she would wake screaming. She would be terrified. She might even be spattered by her loveless husband's blood. The effect on his mother, as Argo could picture all too clearly, would be devastating. He had imagined the scene he was now acting out a hundred times since the man called Herman Kretch had come to their house. He would cock both of the pistol's hammers. He would slowly squeeze the first of the triggers, and, in the flash and report, payback would be exacted for all the cruelties large and small that Kretch had inflicted on Argo, his mother, and his sisters. Over and above the personal, to murder Kretch while he slept would also serve as a just punishment for the crime of being a collaborator.
With his left hand, Argo eased back the first of the hammers. The double click-click was loud in the night, and the tone of his stepfather's breathing changed for a moment. He shifted position slightly, but did not wake. Argo waited for a few moments, just to make sure, and then slowly cocked the second hammer. The pistol had been made by George and James Bolton of Jamestown. That information was engraved on the left-hand barrel, and it was dated according to the old Mother Goddess calendar, the use of which had been forbidden since the Mosul occupation and the coming of the men from the Ministry of Virtue. According to his stepfather, it was a type of small-bore, double-barreled pistol known as a "cuckold's special." Although, as far as Argo knew, Kretch had never used the gun since he came to their house, he liked ostentatiously to clean it, sipping 'shine and acting the big man. As he ran a strip of oiled rag down one of the barrels and tightened the dual spring mechanisms with a small screwdriver, he had explained to Argo why the weapon had been given such a name. "You shoot her, and then you shoot him, and then, if you feel like it, you reload and shoot yourself." But Herman Kretch was not the kind to shoot himself. He held his miserable life in far too high regard.
With the pistol cocked, Argo again took aim, but his finger did not immediately go to a trigger. This was the point beyond which his imagination was increasingly less clear. After the shot, he knew he would run, but what of his mother and two sisters? Herman Kretch was their sole support. The large, raw-boned man with the pot belly, red face, and muttonchop side-whiskers might be a bully, a braggart, and an occasional drunkard, but, for the three women Argo would have to leave behind, life would become close to impossible without him. The Mosul, the Ministry men, and the collaborators who ran things in the occupied territories showed no kindness to the widows and orphans of their defeated enemies and had scant tolerance for those who did. Herman Kretch might be a swine as far as Argo was concerned, but he was not a liar. He had made it very clear when he had proposed marriage to Argo's mother that it was not to be a union of love or even affection. He wanted a strong woman to cook and clean for him, to fetch and carry, and to warm his bed. That she was good-looking only made it an added plus, and that she came to him with three children presented no real problem. Argo, Mathilde, and Gwennie were of an age to be useful, and it made them a source of unpaid labor in these dark times when the conquered worked from morning to night and, even so, barely survived. They were three pairs of extra hands to be exploited in the fields, to help with the livestock, and clean up in the workshop where Herman Kretch repaired boots, shoes, and other leather goods for the Army of Occupation. Argo's stepfather not only kissed the boots of the Mosul, but he mended and shined them, too, along with their saddles and harnesses. He was equally pragmatic and open about his collaboration. "Hassan IX and his Mosul will take it all in the end. Carolina has gone, and the Virginia Freestate, too. Albany can't hold for long on its own. We may not like it, but Hassan is the future, and we better buckle down and get used to it."
Without even Kretch to protect them, his mother and sisters could all too easily become three more refugees in the woods and wild places, wandering aimlessly without papers until they starved or worse. Although the worst of the atrocities that had occurred in the direct wake of defeat had been mitigated, the woods were still full of deserters, fugitives, the displaced, and the migrant crazy, as well as the regular Mosul patrols (who fired first and rarely bothered to ask questions), the Indians, who moved like ghosts, and the ghosts themselves. Under Mosul rule, women on their own were vulnerable from every side. Without even the meager rights accorded to the males among subject peoples in the Empire of Hassan IX, carpetbaggers and scallywags could seize their homes and property. The young and comely might simply disappear to serve as an officer's concubine or in the bordellos, cribs, and joyhouses of Savannah and Newport. The old would find themselves driven out to die in the rain. Rape was still a popular pastime among the Mogul grunts, the Mamaluke troopers, and Teuton uhlans, although they were now restrained by their captains from the pillage and razing of all but the occasional village or small town. Worst of all, any woman could be fingered as a witch on the most flimsy pretext and hanged if they were lucky, or put to torture and then burned alive if they were not.
The entire chain of events that had led to Argo Weaver standing over his stepfather with a loaded gun and a murderous if wavering resolve had started when, earlier that day, the Ministry men and priests of the Zhaithan had burned Gaila Ford for heresy. The execution by fire of Gaila Ford was by no means the first witch-burning in the village of Thakenham. Even with a population of less than three hundred, the place had still apparently harbored a major complement of women who were deemed by the Zhaithan Ministry of Virtue to constitute a threat and abomination to the Twin Deities, Ignir and Aksura. The burning of Gaila Ford, however, had been invested with a certain significance. The villagers had talked of nothing else for the two weeks since she had been taken, denounced with full ritual by the Masked Informer, and arrested by the Ministry men backed by a squad of Mosul soldiers from the garrison at Bridgehampton. The collaborators expressed a general opinion that it was a miracle she had survived for so long. Those, like Argo, who had as little to do with the Mosul as they could, held their silence and contained their anger. Argo had known Gaila Ford well. How could he not? Her husband, Henry, and Argo's father, Jackvance Weaver, had gone to the war together. They had enlisted in the same company of the 9th Virginia Freestate Volunteers and had by all accounts died together in the final doomed attempt to hold the Mosul horde at Richmond. Ford had been what was called a handsome woman. She was too mature to be taken as brothel fodder to Savannah, but even Argo, at just fourteen, was well aware that she turned the heads of many men and set them to wondering what she did in her cottage of an evening, all alone, widowed and childless but still obviously in her prime. That alone might have been enough to get her denounced, but worse still, she made it clear to all, in deed if not in word, that she still considered herself a freewoman of the Americas and not a second-class subject of the Mosul Empire.
A number of men had proposed marriage to her just as Herman Kretch had made his overtures to Argo's mother. Without children to consider, she had dismissed these offers out of hand. Apparently she wanted nothing to do with the cowards, gimps, and snivelers who, for their own reasons, had avoided the call to serve. Argo suspected that she might have wed either Jed Pett or Struther Broad, the only two men to return to the village alive, but seemingly neither of the shattered survivors had asked her to take them. Gaila Ford had been well liked by most. She rarely complained, seemed capable of remaining cheerful in impossible situations, and had proved a tower of strength during the winter sickness a year and some earlier. Any one of these qualities would have brought her to the attention of the Ministry of Virtue, and the entire list was more than enough to bring her finally to the flame. Argo loathed to agree with the collaborators, but it really was a miracle she had remained alive and free, at least in her own mind, for as long as she had.
The wood of her pyre had been piled at the north end of the village square, in front of where the church of the Mother Goddess had once stood, and where the Mosul now had their fire tower. The priests of Zhaithan were great believers in lessons taught by example, and the entire village would be assembled in the square, by force if necessary, to witness the prolonged and agonizing death. The only exceptions would be the children and teenagers under fifteen. This was not because the priests or the Ministry men sought to preserve any childhood innocence. They had simply learned by experience in their two centuries of conquest that children were too unpredictable and could be a potential for disruption of the solemnity of the ritual putting-to-death. The younger teenagers were excluded for similar if slightly different reasons. The priests also knew that the boys and girls already passing through the confused rage of puberty were one of the deepest repositories of resentment against the occupation, and if any futile protest was to occur, it would be the young who triggered it. Too full of life fully to grasp the true and absolute reality of death, they were less easily deterred by the muskets and bayonets of the soldiers.
Not that the young of the village could really be prevented from watching the burning of Gaila Ford. It was just that they would not be standing with the adults. Instead, they would be peering through gaps in the shuttered upper-floor windows of the houses around the square. They would be squatting precariously on the thatch or tile of the higher roofs or wedged between trunk and bough of the taller trees. Argo was among the latter. He had hidden himself, along with Will Steed and Jason Halfacre, in the big oak at the other end of the village street from where the flame would be lit. The three of them were in place well before the villagers began to gather and the collaborators checked the parish rolls and the lists of residents to see that none were deliberately staying away. The checking was hardly needed, however, since the morbid attraction of the brutal spectacle was more than enough to overcome any principled and dangerous boycott of the execution. Even those whom Gaila Ford had nursed through the two great bouts of winter sickness would stare transfixed as she died.
Argo's stepfather had specifically forbidden him to go anywhere near the square or the burning. "The rules are the rules, boy, and, while I personally think it might be an education to you to see the Ford woman get what's coming to her, the rules come first." Accordingly, Argo had been dispatched with a shovel and a rake to clear the dead leaves that were clogging the ditch at the north end of the top field. In a charade of obedience, Argo had headed for the top field with the designated implements, but only remained by the neglected ditch long enough to hide the tools in the long grass before heading for the village to where he had arranged to meet Will and Jason. He took the long way round so he would not accidentally meet his father along the shorter route. He considered going to watch the burning as an act of open rebellion, but he was still doing all he could not to be caught. Under normal circumstances, Herman Kretch would not have given a damn whether Argo watched the execution or not, but ever since Gaila Ford had been denounced, his behavior had been tense and strange. He had seemed more angry and impatient than usual, and Argo had wondered about this. Herman Kretch was not one to be unduly upset by anything like a witch-burning that did not affect him directly, and Argo could only suppose it was nothing more than coincidence. Then, just two days earlier, he had overheard two women gossiping as they waited on the interminable line for their weekly flour ration. A story was apparently circulating that his stepfather had been the Masked Informer who had denounced Gaila Ford, and he had done it because she had rebuffed his advances when he had gone to Ford's cottage one 'shine-drunk night, looking for an alternative bed partner to Argo's mother. Argo hated his stepfather but still found this hard to believe. And how could these women know? The identity of the Masked Informer, with hidden face and in the shapeless robe that dragged along the ground and disguised physical build and even gender, was supposed to be known only to the priests. Argo tried to listen longer, but the women had seen him and lowered their voices.
The tree that the three boys had selected was a tall and venerable oak on which village lovers had, in happier times, made it a practice to carve their linked initials. It was at the opposite end of the square from where the execution would take place, and it afforded them a better view than that of many of the adults on the ground. Argo, Will, and Jason had arranged to be in position early, well before the majority of the villagers had arrived, so they would not be spotted clambering into the high branches. They had lain and stared through the late summer foliage as the square rapidly filled with drab and ragged people who seemed to carry their air of defeat around with them like a collective shroud. As the crowd entered the square, the men went to the right and the women to the left. He saw his mother and stepfather dividing and going their separate ways. The onlookers were strictly divided by sex, and even couples had to separate until the burning was over. This segregation was enforced at all Zhaithan gatherings and assemblies. Argo had never understood why this had to happen, and no one older had ever been able to give him a reason, but many things ordered by the Mosul conquerors had no discernable reason except maybe to degrade and humiliate those under their rule. The women in the square far outnumbered the men, but that was the way of it in the wake of the terrible slaughter that had come with the Mosul invaders. The Mosul also tended to take their time where subject peoples were concerned, and, by Argo's estimate, the crowd had been kept standing in silence for at least a half hour before Gaila Ford was finally brought out from the two-storey building on the northwest corner of the square that, in the old days, had been the constable's station and the village lock-up but was now draped with the black flags and the red flame insignia of Hassan IX and served the local office of the Ministry of Virtue.
Many who had been held by the Ministry men for a full two weeks had to be carried to their deaths, but Gaila Ford emerged walking, wearing the paper shift and headdress of the condemned heretic. She had undoubtedly been repeatedly tortured during her imprisonment, but, although plainly weak and unsteady, she seemed determined to go out standing tall. A red-robed priest kept pace on either side of her, and two lines of soldiers flanked her as she was led to where the wood was stacked around the base of the iron A-frame and the metal ramp that led up to it.
* * *
Abomination!
Abomination!
Abomination!
Abomination!
Abomination!
Abomination!
* * *
For a moment she faltered. One of the priests gripped her arm to steady her, but she shook free. With what had to be the very last of her strength, Gaila Ford was plainly demonstrating to them all, including her anonymous betrayer, that she had not been broken, even by the Ministry torturers. Argo could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away before either Jason or Will noticed. She mounted the ramp that led to the hideous scaffold of blackened metal, and then stood in front of the instrument of her destruction, motionless, with her back to the chanting crowd. The two priests followed Gaila Ford up the ramp. One quickly turned her around while the other beckoned to a pair of already-designated Mosul soldiers to come and secure the chains at her wrists, waist, and ankles that would hold her in place for the consuming fire. Her arms were stretched above her head and her legs pulled apart so her body conformed to the up-pointing triangle of the scaffold. Gaila Ford neither resisted nor made any further protest. She had gone to her end with all the dignity that she could summon, and now she seemed resigned. Once her chains were locked, a third soldier moved forward with a red-painted can of kerosene. He thoroughly doused the wood at Gaila's feet and then splashed the last of the flammable liquid down the front of her body. As it soaked into the heretic's shift, the paper became close to transparent. She was plainly naked beneath the ritual garment, and the crowd fell silent at the sight until the Ministry man signaled curtly for the second phase of the death chant as the priests and soldiers moved back from the pyre and left Gaila Ford alone with her fate.
* * *
Burn the witch!
Burn the witch!
* * *
The chant was hesitant at first, but, under the grim gaze of the priests and soldiers, it grew in baleful intensity, as though the villagers were being forced to beg for their own oppression.
* * *
Burn the witch!
Burn the witch!
Burn the witch!
Burn the witch!
Burn the witch!
* * *
The first fire was taken directly from the Zhaithan sacred flame. While a prayer was offered up to Ignir and Aksura, a bundle of oil-soaked rags on the end of a Mosul pike was thrust into the hemispherical bowl mounted on the tall, tapering pylon. When the rags were thoroughly ignited, the pike was carried to the pyre and applied to the wood. Rumor had it that, now and again, a merciful executioner would rapidly strangle the victim before they burned. Either that was a lie, or no mercy had been shown in Gaila's case. The kerosene caught with an explosive sigh and a first eager fireball, and then, as it took a fuller hold, Argo had his last glimpse of Gaila contorting against the chains that held her, before her helpless figure was hidden by the conflagration. The flames burned orange, and the black smoke rose to stain the already-grey sky. A capricious wind suddenly swirled a loose smoke vortex down and directly into the square, filling the village with the stench of kerosene and burned flesh. The assembled villagers coughed, and some actually gagged, but the Ministry men refused to dismiss them. At that moment, Argo Weaver knew he could no longer stay in this place. He knew he had to run, he had to go north, he had to try and make it across the now-stalled-and-static battle lines where Car-lyle of Albany was still managing to hold back the Mosul advance. Argo was as aware as any fourteen-year-old could be aware that the odds were probably against him making it. More likely he would be picked up by a patrol or lose himself in the wilderness, but at fourteen he didn't play the odds, and even if he did, what did he really have to lose? With a teenager's optimism he pictured himself finding one of the secret ways through the Mosul lines which, according to rumor and hearsay, would bring him to the free territory of the Kingdom of Albany. He saw himself, brave and dashing in the uniform of the Albany Royal Guard, in the vanguard of the long-awaited advance that would put Hassan IX to total rout and push him and his unholy legions back into the Northern Ocean, or perhaps, somewhere in the woods or wilderness, he would make contact with the partisans, the guerrillas of the resistance, the ones whom the Mosul called bandits. On a sudden impulse, he began swinging down out of the branches of the old oak. He did not care if he was seen; he just wanted to be away from the smoke and the stench, the cringing villagers. Will called after him in surprise. "Hey, Argo, where you going?"
Argo looked up and realized that he was never going to see Will Steed again. "I'm going north, Will. I'm going north."
Will wanted to know what he meant, but Argo was already on the ground and slipping away between two buildings. Once clear of the village, he hurried, heading for home, but when the house and barn were in sight, he remembered that his stepfather would not be back from the village, and Argo did not want to be there when Herman Kretch returned from the burning. If he had not been drinking already, he would undoubtedly start. Argo changed direction and began walking more slowly in the direction of what the boys called Hunchback Hill. The high ground provided him with a view of both the village and his home, and as he squatted down on the short grass, settling himself to wait, an unbidden but very clear and absolute feeling came over him. He was looking at the two places, really the only two places that he had ever known, aside from the journeys in the old days to market at Bridgehampton, and he was looking at them for the last time in this prelude to his departure.
The Ministry men must have finally dismissed the villagers, because Argo saw a small swarm of dark figures moving away from the cluster of houses and other buildings that constituted the center of Thakenham. With the strange insight that seemed to have overtaken him, Argo realized that he truly hated the people among whom he had been born and raised. He hated their submission and their willingness to surrender, and the way they could watch, so ragged, drab, and unmoving, a horror like the burning of Gaila Ford without doing or saying anything except coughing and grimacing when the smoke billowed too thick or the stench of death became too gaggingly unbearable. With the natural intolerance of youth, he could feel nothing but contempt for the way that the villagers would endure anything, even slavery in all but the name, in order to survive, and how they lacked the courage to stand up to their oppressors and die with some degree of dignity and while shreds of honor still remained.
The Mosul had come soon after Argo's eleventh birthday. The invasion force had landed near Savannah on July 5th '96 by the old and now-forbidden Mother Goddess calendar, and, on that hot summer day, the world had changed forever. The Mosul had immediately established multiple beachheads and then fanned out to cut through the courageous but disorganized forces of the Southland Alliance in a matter of days. Within a month, Atlanta had fallen, and, with Florida cut off and the infamous treaty concluded with George Jebb and his gang of traitors in St. Petersburg, Hassan
IX had turned his attention and his armed might to the north, in the direction of the rich lands between the Appalachians and the ocean. The Southland Alliance, although doomed, had bought time for the Republic of the Carolinas and the Virginia Freestate to marshal their troops and to mount a more concerted defense. For seven bloody months, battle after battle had raged, and at the height of the terrible Winter Campaign of '97 it had actually seemed as though the Mosul would be pushed back, but an armada of troopships, under steam and sail, continued to bring what appeared to be limitless divisions of battle-hardened men and inexhaustible supplies of munitions. The ships of the Flame Banner shuttled back and forth across the Northern Ocean from Cadiz and Lisbon and other ports in conquered Hispania, protected from the privateers of the Norse Union, the small but effective Royal Albany Navy, and the pirates up from the Caribbean by formidable escorts of ironclads. It appeared that all of Southern Europe, if not North Africa and Asia Minor, was being stripped of men and machines to feed Hassan IX's megalomaniac conquest of the Americas.
The outcome was probably inevitable. Volunteer farmers, miners, and merchants, a few mountain men, hunters, and traders, and their mostly amateur and inexperienced officers, were no match for Hassan's highly disciplined and religiously motivated blitzkrieg. The men of Virginia might be brave and strong, they might be crack shots, and, one on one, as they had so often and proudly boasted in the early days of the conflict, worth any ten Mosul, but they had gone to war with a fatally imprecise idea of what manner of foe they faced. Two hundred years of carnage might have come and gone since the Mosul, originally tribal nomads from an area to the east of the Black Sea, had advanced into Europe with fire and sword and formed their unassailable alliance with the Teutons of Germany and the Mamaluke warlords in North Africa to subjugate the land of the Franks, the city states of Italia, and all of the Hispanic Peninsula. Somehow the people of the Americas had felt immune to the danger. They had become too safe in their supposed isolation and too confident of the broad protection of the ocean. Many of the American settlers' parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents might have crossed the seas as a direct result of the Mosul terror, but even that had not equipped them to face down the most murderous and implacable war machine the world had ever had the misfortune to see, or to defeat the Mosul's iron discipline, fanatic religious motivation, and honed battle tactics. Through the spring of '98, the tide of conflict had turned against the defenders, until, fighting little more than desperate rearguard actions, and constantly regrouping as their numbers were decimated, they had fallen back on Richmond for the last battle of a war that seemed to have taken on the towering melancholy of a grand and tragic opera. On May 10th, all hope for Virginia and the Carolinas had gone with the wind as the last stand had collapsed to relentless shot and shell followed by butchery and fire.
In Thakenham, the war had seemed to happen in a number of phases. At first, life had seemed strangely routine and eerily close to normal. The majority of the men might have gone off to the September start of the war, boasting that they would be home well before Solsticetide, but the cows still had to be milked, the eggs collected, the hogs slopped, the bread baked, and the beer brewed. Dogs still barked, babies still cried, roofs leaked when it rained, and eleven-year-old boys roamed the woods and fields playing soldier and wishing they were men already, so they could go off gloriously campaigning like their fathers. In the beginning all had been optimism. The headlines of the broadsheets and the wireless broadcasts had always trumpeted imminent victory and continued to promote the happy certainty that the Mosul would be driven into the sea by the end of the year, but some of the volunteers' letters home were less sure. They had hinted that the fighting was far more grim and a lot less decisive than the official reports wanted it to be. By October, the first casualty lists had been posted on the public notice board in the village square, but, since none of those listed were Thakenham men, no one paid them too much mind. As the days grew shorter, and the lists of the dead and missing grew longer, however, the atmosphere changed. The official reports now stressed the heroic rather than the victorious, and those, like Argo's mother, who were capable of reading between the lines of the propaganda, knew that which was already bad was rapidly turning worse.
Even blind optimism had to cease when the casualty lists were no longer posted, the broadsheets were no longer distributed beyond the confines of Richmond and Lynchburg, and the wireless played music more than the repetitively grim war news. Although the fighting never passed through their village, the residents of Thakenham had heard the sound of the guns in the distance, at first from the south, but then moving up and past them, and finally booming from the north. Exhausted soldiers, in small groups, squads, and companies, had trudged up the Bridgehampton Road on their way to whatever place had been selected for their next attempt to contain the invaders. Argo had stood beside his mother with a hand on her shoulder as the ragged lines of retreating men had tramped through the village. He had looked for his father among the walking wounded, but his father had never come. At the start of the retreat, the columns were still organized by regiment. Argo could tell that by their uniforms and collar tabs, but, as the enemy front rolled deeper and deeper into Virginia, and company after company, and battalion after battalion, were wiped out by the iron Teuton land-crawlers, the savage Mamaluke cavalry, the jogging columns of implacable Mosul foot soldiers, and the Dark Things that no one dared name, the squads became cobbled together from all the survivors who could be rounded up and sent back to the lines. Now old men and boys only a couple of years older than Argo were being sent to face the foreign invaders.
One late afternoon, a group of about forty men had passed through town, and Argo had recognized that some were wearing the patches of the 9th Virginia. He ran up and grabbed one of them by the torn sleeve of his t