Age of Iron (40 page)

King Vole droned on: “Some claim the whole body should be used to bend the bow, but they’re wrong. A light touch is…”

King Coot, they called him behind his back, after the water-dwelling birds with black feathers and a white skullcap. Lowa had heard that name “Vole” came from his mother, Queen Vole, who’d ruled before him and been such a fan of voles and the qualities that she believed they possessed that she’d adopted the animals’ name and sought to emulate them. Since she thought that voles were hard-working, tolerant and generous, that worked out well for the tribe, and she’d been a popular queen, even if nobody had taken to the bark, grass and insect Vole’s diet that she’d tried to foist on them.

“Lowa!” King Vole was looking at her.

“Yup?”

“Try to keep up. Now. I was saying that I saw that stick you arrived with. Far too long and rough to be a useful bow. I suspect you made it yourself after hearing a story from a bard or perhaps seeing a band of archers.”

Lowa looked around and caught Dug’s eye. He was talking to Drustan, Maggot and a few Mearholders. She smiled as he drained a big mug of cider in a few gulps, despite King Vole telling him the night before that the
only
way to drink such fine cider was to sip it. Dug lowered his mug and winked, his eye twinkling in the firelight. Lowa felt a twinge of annoyance. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but her growing affection for Dug had waned somewhat. In fact his constant good cheer and reasonableness was beginning to annoy her.

“…why a recurve bow will always,” King Vole continued, “always be superior to straight bows like that crooked stick you’ve got. It’s to do with—”

There was a scream from the eastern side of the island. Then another.

Lowa jumped onto her chair to get a clearer view. Dark figures holding swords, spears and unusually large shields were climbing from the water all along the eastern fringe of Mearhold. A few gathered into a group and headed towards them. More lined up into a shield wall.

She looked around. There were no weapons nearby other than the fire itself, a stack of logs and some chairs. Her bow would be much more useful.

“Come on.” She ran for their huts, Ragnall following. Dug was already ahead. He was speedy for a large, recently injured man. He had ignored the longer route along the clay paths and was prancing across the island’s reedy surface like a fat deer.

Arriving at the hut, she found Dug tying his bag of valuables to his belt. Spring was sitting up on her bed, a rug over her knees.

“What’s going on?” The girl rubbed her eyes with her fists.

“You can swim, right?” Dug said. Lowa grabbed her quiver and slung it over a shoulder.

“Yes. Can you?”

“There’s no time for sass, Spring. Zadar’s here. Get out now. Get in the water. Swim to the reeds and stay there until I come to get you. If I don’t, you’re on your own.”

Spring looked at Lowa. “He wants me to swim to the reeds.”

“Do it. Hide among them and stay there. If it gets too cold, climb a tree.”

“Climb a tree? I’m not a squirrel.”

Lowa bent her bow on the floor and slipped the rawhide loop into place. “Now, Spring.”

Spring shrugged and skipped out of the hut.

Bow strung, Lowa followed, Dug on her heels. They were joined by Ragnall, who’d collected King Vole’s sword. Screams, shouts and the sound of iron striking iron came from the other side of Mearhold, interrupted by a splash as Spring jumped into the water.

Back at the central fire there were dead bodies all around. Some were attackers, most were Mearholders. Drustan was lying motionless. King Vole was standing over him, brandishing a carving knife and a heavy oak ladle at a swordsman. the king lashed out and stumbled. The attacker swung a killing blow at the king, but before it struck, he flew backwards, chest spitted on Lowa’s arrow.

She drew and loosed twice more. Two more attackers were flung back like flicked woodlice. The advance guard was dealt with. Lowa caught King Vole’s eye, waggled her bow at him and winked.

The rest of the invaders were advancing in a steady line across the island, large rectangular shields held at a tilt above their heads. She tried an arrow. It glanced off a shield.
Shit
. Too many, and they knew what they were doing. She’d recognised the two that she’d already killed from the Fifty. If the rest of the Fifty were here, goodbye, Mearhold.

As she watched, a clutch of Mearholders dashed from between grain stores and attacked the line. Spears flashed out between shields like tongues from a row of lizards and the Mearholders fell. The invaders advanced. She gripped her bow in frustration. Drustan was sitting holding his head, Ragnall tending to him. Dug was heading towards the advancing enemy line, hammer in his hands.

“Dug!” she shouted.

The big man turned. “Aye?”

“Stop. Too many. We have to run.”

“I was hoping someone was going to say that. Come on then.”

“You and Ragnall take Drustan. Back to our huts, then into the water, find Spring and hide in the reeds. I’ll cover with the bow. King Vole, go with them.”

“I will not.” the king turned to Ragnall. “My sword, please.”

Ragnall looked at Lowa. She nodded. Ragnall handed over the sword.

“Find me in the Otherworld. I’ll be a king again by the time you get there. That bow of yours might be useful in my Otherworld army, Lowa.” King Vole raised his sword and ran towards the invaders. “For Mearhold!”

Dug nodded his respect to the king and tossed his hammer to Ragnall, who almost fell under the weight. He heaved Drustan over a shoulder and turned for the huts, then stopped and swung round again.

“Lowa, can you swim?”

“Get them to the reeds. I’ll join you there.”

He held her gaze.

“I can swim,” she said.

“Aye, all right.”

He jogged off, Drustan bouncing on his shoulder.

“I’ll bring up the rear with you.” Ragnall brandished the hammer, but only just.

There was a long scream and an angry yell, much closer.

“No. Go. Protect Drustan and Dug. I’ll be right behind you.”

Ragnall went. Lowa followed, walking backwards, turning one way then the other, arrow nocked, scanning for any more attackers who’d crept ahead of the main group. Screams of rage and pain and metallic clangs rang from the east of the island. She heard King Vole shout “For Mearhold!” again and saw him throw a burning log onto the wall of shields. A gap opened and he was through, sword swinging. The gap closed, the shield wall came on.

She was just about to turn and run when she felt a shift in the surface of the island behind her. She dropped into a crouch. A sword swished in an arc where her neck had been an instant before. She launched backwards into a spinning jump and powered the end of her stout bow into the face of the swordsman. He staggered away, blood streaming, jaw hanging by a hinge. Another was coming at her, sword raised. She nocked, drew and loosed. It was only a quarter draw, but the arrow sliced through his soft stomach and crunched into a vertebra. He gasped a short breath like a man waking from a nightmare, dropped his sword and fell.

A woman with a spear was on her before she could reach back to her quiver. Lowa parried with her bow. She recognised this one from the elite cavalry. Tillyanna. She’d been a farm girl near Maidun. One of Zadar’s riders had noticed her speed and agility while she was playing with her friends and trained her to be a Warrior. Lowa had sparred with her a couple of times. She’d liked her.

Tillyanna jabbed with her spear again. Lowa batted it away with her bow, two-handed.

“Tillyanna, what’s this about?”

“What’s what about?”

“What do you think? Your hairstyle? This attack.”

“I don’t know. I never know. I just do what I’m told. Like you used to.”

“These people have done nothing to Maidun.”

“Right. And the hundreds of people you killed for Zadar were all guilty of horrible crimes?”

“Pfft. OK. Keep coming and I’ll kill you. Before I do, do you know why Zadar killed Aithne and my archers?”

“I don’t know. Nobody seems to. But everyone’s pretty sure it was your fault.” Tillyanna jabbed the spear again. Lowa flicked it away and whipped her bow tip onto Tillyanna’s bicep. The young Warrior screwed her eyes up in pain.

“Why no armour?” said Lowa, stepping back.

“We swam across.”

“But the weapons?”

“On wooden floats buoyed by inflated bladders.”

“The shields…”

“Floats became shields. Felix’s idea. He knew that your bow would be the only real danger here. Doesn’t work so well up close though, does it?”

Tillyanna edged forward. Lowa took two steps back and found the hard clay of an island path under her feet. Tillyanna was still on the unstable straw and wood.

“I don’t want to kill you, Tillyanna.”

“That suits me.” Tillyanna thrust, much faster than before. She’d been holding back. But so had Lowa. She swung the bow underarm, knocking the spear clear and throwing Tillyanna off balance. Lowa reached back to her quiver, grabbed an arrow, lunged forward and rammed it into Tillyanna’s eye.

She eased the dead woman to the ground, pressed her bow against her forehead and pulled at the arrow. The bodkin tip was lodged in the inside of her skull and needed some wiggling.

She heard someone clapping behind her.

“Good. Very good,” said a mocking, Iberian voice.

Chamanca.

Lowa twisted the shaft and felt something give inside Tillyanna’s head. She pulled the arrow out in a gush of gore and whipped round. Chamanca caught her wrist and darted in with her head. Lowa turned and the headbutt whacked into her cheek. She wrenched at her trapped wrist, but Chamanca’s grip was too strong. Chamanca grinned her spike-toothed grin and squeezed. Lowa fingers opened and the arrow dropped. She swung the bow. Chamanca’s spare hand shot up in a blur and grabbed her other wrist. Lowa was caught. Chamanca pulled her head back to butt her again. Lowa twisted, but not far enough. The Iberian’s forehead crunched into her face. Sparks burst behind her eyes. The next butt smashed into her nose and the world heaved in sickening circles. She felt her bow being twisted from her hand. She was spun around. Something crashed into her back and she fell. She lay, face forward on the reed floor, brain whirling. She choked cider-flavoured vomit into her mouth and swallowed it. This was not good. She had to ignore her spinning head and act quickly or it would be over.

She flipped around onto her back and swung her legs over her head in a retreating backward somersault. Her opponent read her. As she came up, Chamanca grabbed her by the hair and drove a knee into the side of her head. Lowa collapsed onto her back.

Dug stood on the soggy edge of the man-made island and lowered Drustan into the water, hands under his armpits.

The cold water shocked the old man into consciousness. “Stop. Pull me out.”

“There’s no time for arsing about.”

“Pull me out. Now.”

Dug did as he was bid. The old man sat. Ragnall gripped his shoulder.

“Drustan, we have to go now.”

“You do. I don’t.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“They will not kill a druid.”

“These are Zadar’s troops. They’ll kill anyone.”

“Not a druid.”

“Dug?” said Ragnall.

The sounds of battle were getting closer. There was no sign of Lowa. Ragnall was staring at him imploringly. “You’re not meant to kill druids,” agreed Dug, but he doubted that Zadar’s lot cared much for
not meant to
.

“Go on.” Drustan’s voice was weak. “If I am submerged in that cold water my lung disease will recur and this time I will die. Moreover a decrepit old man will hamper your chances of escape. In summation, leave me here and I will probably be fine. Take me with you and I will definitely die and you probably will too. So go.”

“Sounds like impeccable reasoning to me. Come on, Ragnall. And give me that hammer.”

Ragnall looked at his tutor.

“Go, Ragnall. You know I am not lying. They will not kill me. I will catch up with you.”

Ragnall nodded.

Drustan smiled weakly. “Take this purse. You will need it more than me.”

Ragnall handed the hammer to Dug and took the purse from Drustan. “But what about Lowa?”

The two men looked back across the island. Still no sign of her.

“She can look after herself. Come on.” Dug lowered himself in and waded off towards the darkness.

Ragnall looked down at his tutor.

“Go. I will be fine. As will Lowa.”

The young man followed Dug into the water.

Lowa shook her head and propped herself up on shaky elbows. Chamanca stood over her, holding her longbow, one eyebrow raised in disdain. Her sleek black hair was scraped back into a ponytail and she was clad in leather shorts and chest armour that had troubled a cow for even less of its pelt than her usual skimpy garb. The fires glowed orangely off her tanned skin. She bent the bow easily, one-handed against the clay ground, to unstring it. She seemed to hum with energy and strength, ready for anything. Lowa felt exhausted and weak, with nothing to offer.

“Lowa. Little Lo-wa. I’ve looked forward to this since we met.” Chamanca grinned and moved her hips from side to side in a supple, sultry dance. Lowa didn’t know if she had the strength to even stand.

“Hello, Chamanca.” Lowa managed a small smile. “Still dressing like a blind whore, I see.”

Chamanca stroked a hand over her stomach and onto her chest. “If you looked this good, you’d dress like this too.”

Lowa touched her nose and felt wetness. Chamanca watched her. Lowa’s mind raced. The Iberian would be on her before she could do anything. Maybe if she could goad her into a rage …

“I’ve always thought it’s like polishing a turd,” she said, feeling about on the ground for something to throw, “when someone as ugly as you spends so much time worrying about—”

Chamanca flicked the end of the bow into Lowa’s temple. Multicoloured lights danced and convulsed in her eyes.

“You’re not going to sweet-talk your way out of this one. I’ve always been better than you, Lowa. Much better. Only your bow made you Zadar’s favourite.”