Age of Iron (27 page)

“Yes. Now. You try. See if you can will a pile to take light.”

Ragnall stared at a pile of wood.
Light!
he thought at it, then felt stupid.

“Concentrate!” coughed Drustan. “Call on Bel.”

Ragnall screwed up his face, clenched his fists, tensed every muscle he could find and said, “Bel, please light the fire.”

“Not out loud.”

Ragnall pleaded in his mind for Bel to light the fire. Suddenly it felt as if
something
was pushing into his head through his ears. It wriggled through his brain, down his neck into his chest. He kept on at Bel to light the fire. He pointed his fingers at the charred wood. He felt the strange presence pass into his shoulders, along his arms, into his hands and out.

He opened his eyes. The fire remained unlit. He knelt down next to it and blew. Nothing.

“I felt—”

“It will not come immediately. But try again. This time take this worm and kill it.” Drustan reached into his bag and produced another worm. “The death of a creature opens the magic path much wider. I do not know why. Nobody does as far as I am aware. But it does seem that the higher the animal, the wider the path. So kill a sparrow, and you can start a bigger fire or perhaps extinguish one, which, you might be surprised to hear, is harder. Kill a man and you can do more.” Drustan dangled the worm at him.

“You’ve been collecting worms?”

“Yes.”

Ragnall took the worm. He squeezed it between his palms like Drustan had. He tensed, closed his eyes and called on Bel, willing the fire to light. He crushed the worm, still thinking about the fire lighting and begging for help. He felt nothing. He tensed more, crushed the worm more – perhaps he hadn’t killed it yet, he thought – and willed the fire to light. He felt nothing. He kept trying for twenty or so more heartbeats but still felt nothing. He sighed and opened his eyes.

Three of the fires were burning now, including the one he’d been trying to light. He looked at Drustan.

“I’ve never seen anyone get it so quickly,” said the old man wearily.

“I didn’t feel anything.”

“Obviously not. It lit very soon after you closed your eyes.” Drustan leaned forward, bringing his hands to his face.

“It’s a trick. It must be. Are you all right?”

“It’s no trick. And no, I’m not—” Drustan toppled back off the log.

Ragnall leaped up and ran over. He gripped Drustan’s robe and shook him, but the old man was out cold.

T
he Wounders finished stripping the hut of its twigs, mud and dung, leaving just the iron cage. They goaded Dug, Channa and Lowa with spears and chained them to the bars, then opened up the metal grille that had blocked the door and came in to remove the furniture. They swept out the rushes then used spades to scrape away the packed earth, revealing that the hut floor was also made of iron bars.

Channa was glum with odd bouts of crying. Lowa was angry and beautiful.

“So, the Monster,” Dug asked Lowa, “have you got any idea what it might be?”

“It’s evil!” cried Channa. “It’ll rip us to pieces, then eat us.”

“I suspect,” said Lowa, “that it’s something Felix brought back from Rome. Everyone said it was the cursed offspring of a mother and son, but Felix told me it was an animal from Africa. So it’s no more a monster than a bear is, but fighting bears isn’t a lot of fun. This creature is smaller, but it may be stronger, and ripping limbs off did seem to be its thing. It won’t be hard to beat if you have your hammer though. If you don’t—”

“You ain’t going to be armed,” said a tall, laughing Wounder, “especially not once the Monster tears your arms off! You’ll be
unarmed
then! Get it?
Unarmed!
” The Wounders guffawed.

“Jay, how can you do this to me?” Channa groaned.

The tall man shrugged. “Nothing personal, mate. If I had my way, you’d be back doing whatever it is you do to those plants. Beyond me, I tell you, what it is you do. But we got a good thing going here, ain’t we? There’s only one person to blame here, mate. You.”

“But who’s going to look after Kelly?”

“You should have thought of that before.” Jay picked up Dug’s warhammer. “Nice piece of kit. I’ll have this.”

“Who’s Kelly?” asked Dug.

“My pig.”

“Oh.”

The Wounders left with their spoils and returned with six oxen. They attached thick ropes to the hut, the top of a heavy oak cross and the oxen’s yoke. The oxen heaved, the cross creaked upright and the end of the cage jerked into the air, showering earth. Underneath, the Wounders fitted an axle with thick wooden wheels and iron brakes. They repeated the whole process for the other end, turning the hut into an iron prison-cart. It was, Dug had to admit, quite clever.

They trundled down through town, six oxen ahead and a Wounder manning each wheel brake. Villagers followed, looking more interested and even concerned than triumphant, Dug noticed. He couldn’t see any of the girls from the school anywhere. Could Spring have persuaded them to escape with her?

The oxen pulled them across the bridge to the arena. It seemed that everyone from the village was following or lining their path. The strangely subdued mood persisted, however. Rather than the decaying foodstuff missiles and jeering that a man might expect on his way to execution, Dug felt a stubborn resentment from the populace. He saw some of the larger villagers jostling some Wounders with an “Oh
sorry
, mate!” here and a “
Do
excuse me!” there.

So Farrell’s rule was not so popular, thought Dug, and he felt a surge of hope. Then he saw other villagers, uncoerced, climbing the wooden stairs on the outside of the arena, carrying wine amphoras, bags of food and cushions. They may not like their ruler, but everybody loves a violent spectacle, thought Dug, his short-lived fantasy of a pre-show revolution leaking away.

Farrell swaggered up, flanked by Ula and Enid. The chief’s wife and daughter didn’t look overly festive either.

“Take the woman out. Leave the two sacks of shit,” Farrell commanded.

Jay, the tall Wounder to whom Channa had appealed, detached Lowa from the cage but left her hands chained behind her back. “Out you come, sweets,” he said.

Lowa didn’t budge.

“Or my spear comes in.” Jay waggled his spear.

She stood, hunched, arms behind her back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of this,” said Dug, rattling his shackles. “The only problem is deciding which one of my many plans to use.”

Lowa winked at him, then walked nimbly across the bars to the door.

Jay reached in to help her. She crouched as if about to jump down, but instead exploded into a leap, her feet flying up over her head in a forward somersault. Jay tried to dodge, but iron heels crunched into his chest, his ribs splintered into his lungs and he fell back with a high-pitched, sucking gasp.

Lowa thumped to the ground on her back, rocked onto her shoulders, brought her chain-bound wrists under her feet so her hands were in front of her, and sprang up.

Three Wounders moved in, spear points first.

“Don’t kill her!” shouted Farrell. “But do hurt her!”

A narrow-waisted but heavy-arsed Wounder bounded forward, her spear aimed for Lowa’s midriff. Lowa jumped and whirled round like a dancer, kicking the spearhead with the inside of her right foot and slamming the outside of her left boot into the Wounder’s head with a sound like a mallet whacking a barrel. The Wounder fell.

But so did Lowa. As she rolled over to stand, a Wounder cracked the flat of his spearhead hard into her skull. She collapsed and lay still as two other Wounder spears pricked into her midriff.

Nearby, Jay struggled to suck in air and the other injured Wounder lay still, bright red blood pulsing through her short hair. Farrell strode up and kicked Lowa in the stomach. Air
oofed
out of her.

“Keep your spears on her,” said Farrell, “and fetch some leg irons.”

Lowa didn’t resist as her legs were chained. It seemed like the blow from the spear had knocked all the aggression out of her. Farrell pulled her up and pushed her ahead of him to the arena. He said something to her at the bottom of the wooden stairs, then slung her over his shoulder and headed up, followed by Enid, Ula and more spectators.

Dug pulled at his shackles again, but they weren’t going to give. He had nothing to do apart from watch Channa gibber, listen as the noise from the crowd inside the arena grew from a hubbub to cheers, and wish that he was armed and armoured.

After a while three Wounders approached.

“It’s your turn!” said the largest, smiling like a cruel boy fetching his brother for punishment.

Dug sighed.

“R
ight,” said Ragnall, once Drustan was fully awake, propped up and sipping a cup of water. He’d decided while Drustan was unconscious that he’d take charge of the situation rather than relying on his teacher to make all the decisions as usual. This new spirit of resolve was a direct result of the previous night’s “magic”. He was embarrassed that he’d gone to sleep believing that he’d lit a fire by squashing a worm. How could he have thought that? More and more, he was wondering if he was as clever as he’d always believed.

He still couldn’t work out how Drustan had done it, though. Or
why
he’d done it.

“Right,” he said again, pacing. “We’ll go back to that village where the sky’s falling. They’ll have a healing druid. He or she will cure you.”

“No,” whispered Drustan. “I know a better place … Mearhold. It is further, but … I know what is wrong with me.”

“What is it?” Ragnall squatted next to the old man. He had to wait for a reply as Drustan’s throat convulsed and he hoiked up goo from his lungs. He spat it weakly at the fire and missed. The gob of sputum was yellow, green and streaked with blood. Drustan looked at it and nodded weakly.

“Yes. I have a disease in my lungs.”

“What should we do? A sacrifice? Got any more worms?”

“No, no … I need to … rest … Not here though … Weak and vulnerable … Friends in Mearhold…”

“I’ll make a litter.” Ragnall sprang to his feet.

“No … we cannot take horses to Mearhold … I will ride as far as I can … Just sleep first … then ride a bit … until we get there … or … I … die.”

“
Die?
”

“Yes … Lung disease at my age … Probably die.”

Drustan passed out again. His breathing rattled wetly but regularly. Ragnall squatted next to him and looked about.
What do I do now?
He’d already tidied everything away that wouldn’t be needed before they left. He tried to make a tree burst into flame by looking at it. Nothing happened. Of course. And, Ragnall thought, here was final proof, if proof was needed, which it wasn’t, that he’d been tricked. If Drustan really could command the gods’ magic, why didn’t he cure himself?

C
hanna ran to the far side of the ring, wrapped his arms over his head and hunkered down in a craven ball against the wall. A Wounder leaned over the arena wall above him, hawked and dribbled spit onto his back.

Prodded by a spear, Dug had no choice but to follow Channa out of the corridor into the open circle. It was twenty paces across, with a packed-earth floor and smooth wooden walls about double his height. Above the wall it was all faces. All were looking at him. Sweat sprung from his armpits. The Wounders, Farrell himself and a few more were cheering and jeering, but most of the crowd were clapping unenthusiastically, looking uncomfortable and avoiding Dug’s eyes. He walked into the centre of the arena, massaging his wrists where the shackles had rubbed. He felt outside himself, a bit drunk. He guessed it was the effect of having so many people looking at him.

There was Lowa, between Farrell and Ula. Dug gave her a little nod. She smiled wryly and waved as much as her manacled wrists allowed.

The door to the arena slammed shut. He heard a heavy bolt slide, then another.

The one way in and, more importantly, out, was blocked. So where was this Monster?

“Come on!” shouted Farrell, trying to waft some enthusiasm from the spectators by waving his arms. Lowa and, Dug noticed, both his wife and daughter looked at Farrell as if he was encouraging all the fathers to hit their children. A few more people clapped, but it was still far from the frenzy that Dug had seen at similar events.

A crazed scream followed by alien hooting made Dug stiffen. He heard the bolts on the arena door slide back. It swung open. In came the Monster.

It waddled towards him on comically short legs, swinging incongruously long arms. It looked like a little, old, crazily hirsute man with a low hairline, swollen brow, wrinkled brown face, wispy grey beard and thin lips lining a wide mouth set in a round, yellow-pink muzzle. Its ears were huge and hairless, sprouting at right angles from its head like fan fungus from a tree stump.

Demon, animal or man, it picked at its lips with one hand and scratched its arse with the other, looking at him like a friendly dog.

Dug glanced up at Farrell. Was this a joke? The happy, hungry look on Farrell’s face suggested that it wasn’t. Lowa looked scared. That was nice but not heartening.

Channa wailed, “No!” and reburied his head in his hands. The Monster screamed at Channa, Dug, the crowd and then the sky. In its mouth were four yellow, human-like incisors flanked by long, pointed yellow canines like a bear’s.

It came at him in a rolling jog. Dug raised his right hand, palm flat, as if to calm an aggressively drunk idiot. The Monster stopped, reached up and slowly curled the long black fingers of its left hand around Dug’s right wrist. Monster and man looked at each other. Dug shook his wrist. The grip tightened to somewhere between uncomfortable and unbearable. Dug tried to jerk away.

“Let go, you wee—”

The Monster snarled and pulled. Hard. There was a loud sucking noise and Dug cried out as his upper arm bone dislocated from his shoulder. He tried to pull free, but any movement was agony. Still holding his wrist, the Monster walked away. Dug had no choice but to follow as it waddled around the ring. His shoulder was blazing with pain. He stopped, and pulled back a leg to kick the beast, but that stretched his shoulder too much and he couldn’t bear it. He jogged a step to catch up.