Iron Winter

6

Alxa stood with her brother on the roof of the Wall, surrounded by a crowd of Etxelur elite in their fancy ceremonial House robes, waiting for the wrestling princes to return to the parapet.

The sun was near the horizon now, and the day felt markedly colder, as if this were an autumn day, not midsummer. Lights sparked over the face of the Wall below, and in the curving reefs of the lower city. People had gathered on the plain beyond, filling the open spaces and lining the canals, waiting for the show. The crowds always came to the Giving at Etxelur, although this year, Alxa was sure, there were plenty of nestspills, that cruel Northland word, people displaced from their homes by flood or drought, by poverty or hunger or disease, here for handouts rather than celebration.

But, nestspills or not, the crowd all responded with gasps and cheers when the show started: the tremendous banners unrolling down the face of the Wall, the fireworks filling the sky with dancing light. And then came the fire-drug eruptors themselves, suddenly thrust from their portals in the Wall’s upper face, a hundred of them shouting simultaneously. Smoke belched and shot flew, gleaming red-hot, to fall in empty spaces beyond the crowds.

While the Etxelur folk applauded and cheered, Nelo watched the princes, who were stunned by the display of the mighty weapons. Only Northland, of the western countries, had the secret of the fire drug from Cathay. ‘Look at them, those loudmouths, Mago and Arnuwanda. They won’t be bragging about the might of their cattle-folk armies now.’

Their mother came pushing through the crowd. ‘There you two are,’ Rina snapped. ‘Your great-uncle’s back. Dock West One Four. Go and help him. And ask him how he managed to be eleven hours late after three years away. .’