Age of Iron (26 page)

“The trick with escape is to get the fuck on with it. We’ll get more horses. Pack.”

“Language!” said Spring.

“You’ve got to stop Farrell!” Channa wailed.

“Fuck. Off. Home!” Lowa was tempted to hit him again. “We’re going to kill Zadar,” she said slowly, carefully and loudly, as if speaking to a halfwit. “Then we’ll come back for Farrell.”

“But the girls!”

There was a scrape of metal on metal from the front of the hut. It sounded like a bolt being slid into place.
Fuck
, thought Lowa. Channa’s blubbing had riled her and she’d been talking so loudly that she hadn’t heard whoever—

A laugh boomed from outside the hut. Farrell.

“‘Going to kill Zadar!’ Brilliant! Off to kill Zadar with your mighty army – a scrawny girl and a washed-up nobody.” Farrell began to clap. Others joined in. About ten people, Lowa reckoned.

While Channa and Dug gawped at each other, Lowa dived for the back of the hut and speared her knife through the wattle and daub. She shook the blade from side to side, gouging out clay, dung, straw and twigs. The uprights seemed surprisingly tough. She slashed upwards and easily sliced the horizontal hazel twigs that made the wattle, then attacked the uprights again. The knife wasn’t cutting into them even a little, nor shifting them at all. The hut’s frame must be made from fire-hardened wood, she realised, or … She slashed left to right and up, opening a narrow gap.

“No need to come out!” Farrell shouted. “You’re in a very neat little trap. I’m sure Dug will appreciate it. I’ve always found that older men are impressed by good engineering.”

Farrell blathered on, but Lowa blocked him out and focused. Wall packing cleared, she scraped the blade against one of the uprights. It was iron! For the love of Danu, who the fuck builds huts out of iron? She couldn’t budge the bars a hair’s breadth. There was no way she could make the hole between them big enough for her, let alone Dug. There was a tap on her shoulder. It was Spring.

Lowa helped the child squeeze through and watched as she crawled into the bushes behind the hut. Farrell’s bombastic goads covered any noise Spring made, and his Wounders hadn’t circled the hut. She was glad to see that her captors were inept, and that Spring had got away, but she and Dug were still Farrell’s captives, and it wasn’t like the girl was going to be any help..

The Wounders began to strip the wattle and daub from the hut’s iron frame. Soon Lowa could see that they were men and women in uniform black leather armour. Each had a short mace hanging from one hip and a blade scabbarded on the other. With their faces twisted into what were meant to be menacing snarls, they looked like finalists in a gurning competition, but she could see uncertainty in their eyes. They’d probably never faced a Warrior before, let alone two. The moment her chance came … One of them leaned through the bars to grab Dug’s bag. Lowa could have grabbed her and killed her, but she didn’t want to antagonise them while they were in a cage, and her bow was in her own hut. Zadar would want her unharmed, or at least alive, but chances were he’d made no such stipulation about Dug. Piss them off too much and they’d spear him through the bars.

“Nice little troupe you’ve got, Farrell. Do they dance? Actually, no, sorry, they look a bit dim for dancing. Can they grunt in unison?”

Her former friend ignored her. As she watched the Wounders strip the walls, she thought how she’d spent a totally enjoyable few hours drinking and reminiscing with him just two days before and never picked up a hint of his coming treachery. Just like she’d seen Zadar act like the kindest uncle before forcing someone to suffocate his own brother for his entertainment. It wasn’t a failing in her ability to judge people, she thought, as one Wounder kicked at some stubborn wattle and she resisted the urge to grab his foot and break his leg. You can’t foresee treachery in the world’s real shits because for them it’s not treachery. If it benefits them, then it’s just how things are – what should be done. Why would they look guilty when they genuinely don’t give the tiniest of craps for anybody but themselves?

Soon they could see Farrell strutting up and down outside with his thumbs hooked over the lapels of a leather jerkin. He wore a tarted-up version of the Wounders’ uniform with silver detailing, very different from his previous rustic garb. The dawn light highlighted his long blond hair with golden flashes. The way he was shaking his mane at each turn, it looked like he knew it. How had she ever thought of him as a friend?

“Genius, don’t you think?” he said once he knew they could see him. “Not guest huts. Cages! Made of iron instead of wood. And you walked right in.”

“Aye. Well done. You’re very clever,” said Dug.

Farrell ignored him. “Thanks, by the way, Lowa, for bunking up with Grampus. The huts take a while to reassemble so it was thoughtful of you to crowd into the one. But, by Bel, he’d old enough be your grandfather’s older boyfriend! I’d have given you a sympathy fuck if I’d known you were that desperate. Too late now.”

“He’s only old enough to be my father, you preening prick. And fuck you with your tiny cock? I remember not noticing it at all the last time.” If Lowa could goad him into fighting her, then they were away.

“What, this tiny cock?” Farrell pulled down his trousers and waggled his penis at the hut. It was actually quite long and fat, if strangely tapered.

“It looks like a diseased carrot,” Lowa said, curling her lip. “And you don’t know what do to with it. Other than put it into your own kids. Enid does have the look of a girl whose daddy takes hugs too far.”

Farrell laughed. “I’m not going to fight you, Lowa. Zadar wants you, so, much as I’d love to, I can’t wipe that smug smile from your face on the arena floor. You never were nearly as good as you thought you were. But don’t worry, you won’t have to wait long. We got the message just now. A fellow called Weylin Nancarrow will be here to pick you up in a few hours. Channa and your elderly friend here, on the other hand, are this morning’s entertainment. It’s been a while since we saw the Monster tear someone to pieces.”

“I’ll kill your wee monster for you,” said Dug.

“No. You won’t. You’ll watch as he rips your limbs off, then, if you’re lucky, you’ll pass out before he eats your face.” Farrell smiled.

“It’s true!” Channa sobbed, burying his face in his fat white hands.

The Wounder who’d taken Dug’s bag handed Ulpius’ mirror to Farrell, who stared at his own reflection for a few long seconds.

“Well, well. This is lovely! Roman, if I’m not mistaken. Not British, anyway – far too well made! Tell me you were carrying if for Lowa, old man? It’s too depressing to think you use this to look at your own decaying face.”

“So you’re Zadar’s puppy now?” said Lowa.

Farrell looked up from the mirror. “No, I’m his top dog. You’re the puppy. At least you were. Now you’re more like his piglet, ready to be spitted and roasted alive. Worse, probably. That Zadar! Makes the Monster look like a fairy godmother.” Farrell strode off down the hill chuckling, leaving his men stripping the hut.

Channa was still sitting on the hearth stone, crying. Dug was on the bed. Lowa went to sit next to him.

“I’ve been in worse scrapes,” he said. “We’ll be all right.”

Lowa took his hands and looked into his brown eyes. He was a good man. That wasn’t going to help him much against the Monster though.

She had an idea what it might be. A couple of years before, Felix had brought back an animal from a voyage to Rome. A homunculus, he’d called it. It was like a hairy, twisted, impossibly strong child. It was meant as an amusement for Zadar, but it had gone mad and killed a couple of girls from the harem before Carden Nancarrow had knocked it out.

Nobody had seen the homunculus after that. Some had wondered where it had gone. It looked like Lowa had found out.

“I
cannot believe those fools in the last village were terrified of the sky falling on their heads. And that tower they’d built to hold it up? Wow.” It was early evening. Ragnall and Drustan were sitting on a log next to the remnants of some previous travellers’ campfire on the edge of pastureland between the track and a river.

Drustan coughed several times with a fierce, wet rattle. He’d been coughing like that all day. Ragnall didn’t like the sound of it. The druid swallowed phlegm, then spoke slowly and quietly: “They are not fools. They are humans. Humans like the idea of a preventable doom. It makes them feel important. Usually the gods fulfil that need. People say that the gods will crush us if we don’t live our lives in a certain way. It gives them purpose. However, those villagers have persuaded themselves that there are no gods, so they’ve invented a replacement – the idea that the sky is falling down, and that they can prevent it by building towers and so on. That has become their purpose.”

“Do the gods exist?”

Drustan gave Ragnall a look that made him feel uncomfortable. “I have been meaning to talk to you about this.” He coughed again. “I do not know if there are gods in the forms that we believe in on this island – Bel, Danu, Toutatis. The Romans have gods; the Greeks have gods; the Iberians, the Helvetians, they all have gods, and they are all different. Some believe that there is one all-powerful god. What is more likely – that we are right and everybody else is wrong about creation, existence and supernatural forces, or that different people
create
different gods?”

“So religion is … senseless? Madness?”

“No. It can be dangerous, almost laughably so when people attack others who have slightly different versions of the same stories, but humans will always find excuses to fight and kill. Religion is not as important in that process as the atheist philosophers like to claim.” Drustan shuddered as he coughed. He sounded like a dying bear gargling honey.

“You don’t sound well.”

“I’m not. This is the longest I have spent riding and sleeping outside for a long while. The rain did not help. I have developed a sickness. But I shall be fine by morning, I am sure.”

Ragnall nodded. The old man coughed a little more and seemed to recover.

“Where were we?”

“You were telling me that pretty much everyone I’ve ever met is wrong and you’re right, and that there are no mysterious forces in the world.”

“No no no. No mysterious forces? Oh, quite the opposite. Do you really think that something as complex as you – with your loves, quirks and proclivities – came from nothing? No, that really is an arrogant notion. Of course there are gods or there is a god – we just don’t know his, her, their, its … form. But we don’t need to know. Whatever name or names we use, some of us can draw on the power of the gods.” Drustan paused and looked at Ragnall. “I’m one of those people. I think you are too.”

It wasn’t a very good jest, but Drustan was ill. Ragnall smiled. The old man looked back levelly.

“Um…?” A small laugh burst from Ragnall’s nose.

“I think that you’re one of the few who can draw on the power of the gods. A true druid.”

“Yes, I’m a druid I passed the—”

“No. There are thousands of druids who can slit open birds and make non-specific predictions that seem to come true. There are many who do good work as healers, philosophers and dispensers of justice. There are many more who pretend they can cure, and others who console and judge for their own benefit.”

Drustan shifted uncomfortably on the log. Ragnall offered a steadying hand, but Drustan waved him away.

“Here is a story. A man walks into a tavern. A druid begins talking to him at the bar, looks at the pattern in the dregs of his beer and tells the man that he has two days to live. The man stabs the druid for his impertinence. Two days later the man is executed for killing the druid.”

“So the gods—”

“So the gods nothing. That story, which may or may not be true, shows that calling on magic can make it seem like it exists. But beyond coincidence, beyond trickery, there
is
real magic. However, there are very few druids left that can use it, perhaps fewer than ten. I am one. I think that you are another.”

Ragnall stared at Drustan open-mouthed, then laughed. He stopped when he saw Drustan wasn’t laughing along.

Drustan pointed at the long-dead fire. It was blackened logs and sticks rather than just a pile of ash, clearly extinguished by rainfall or a bucket of water. “Split that into four piles please, with a good pace between each.”

Ragnall did as he was bid then sat down.

“Now watch.”

Drustan looked at the pile of charred wood nearest him, closed his eyes, screwed up his face and bunched his fists. His face went red, then he began to shake and his face turned purple. Ragnall was about to say something to stop him – he did not look well – when he caught movement in the corner of his eye. A wisp of grey smoke was rising from the pile of embers nearest Drustan. There was a soft pop and small flames began to lick along the edge of a log.

“By all the gods…”

“Or by just one of them. I was drawing on Danu. Or at least I think I was.”

“Is this anything to do with ley lines?”

Drustan laugh-coughed. “No, no. Those are made-up nonsense.”

“Not lines of power, making up a network of—”

“There are places of power, I think, and you can draw lines between them, but that doesn’t make the lines powerful.”

“Well…”

“Two horses in a field. Is the space between them a horse line?”

“No.”

“No. Several horses. Does that give you a network of horse lines?”

“No.”

“No. Now watch this.”

Drustan coughed, then reached into his bag and raised his arm, dangling an earthworm between thumb and forefinger. He brought his palms together, the worm in between them. He twisted his right hand, mashing the worm, and pointed at the pile of burned wood furthest from him.

Woof!
It burst into bright flame.

Nearby, birds took off in a clamour of leaves and a fox screamed.

Ragnall looked at the merrily burning little fire, then at Drustan.

“Are you all right?” Drustan looked terrible. His hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and his face shone orangely in the firelight.