Age of Iron

by Angus Watson

  “We don’t do mutton.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Stew.”

  “With bread?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of stew?”

  “The kind you eat.”

  “Has it got meat in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of meat?”

  “The kind you—”

  “Eat. Yeah, OK. I get it. What made you want to be a barmaid? Was it your desire to serve or your love of people?”

  “Do you want the stew?”

  Dug looked for a flicker of humanity in her eyes. Nope, not a spark. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve always thought that people are about as happy as they decide to be.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I would like some stew, please. And another beer.”

  The stew was gristle all the way. He took it back to the bar, half-finished despite his hunger, and got another beer. Beer was basically vegetable soup, he reasoned, so enough of it should slake his hunger. He thought he caught the archer looking at him again on the way back, which cheered him a little.

  As he reached for his beer he noticed blood on his hand. He’d managed to get a huge splinter between his thumb and index finger while leaning on the bar. He was so focused on digging it out that he didn’t notice anything awry until a man shouted, “Arthur! Tristan! Any of Zadar’s! To me!”

  A big Warrior, bald but for a black mess of waxed hair falling from the back of his head, had the beauty pinned against the wall with a sword. What stupid hair, thought Dug. Why did the young these days go to so much effort to make themselves look like such tits?

  Soldiers stampeded into the pub, knocking Dug’s table on their way to surround Lowa and her captor. One of them then left, leaving a gap in the throng for a moment.

  She was looking straight at him. Her eyes widened just a little, asking for help. It wasn’t a panicked plea, more an “If you’ve got a moment, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind…?” She was cool this one.

  And he would have loved to have helped her. He really would. Unfortunately, helping damsels in distress was the sort of thing that got you killed, especially when the damsel was surrounded by half a dozen competent-looking Warriors.

  Badgers’ hairy bollocks, he thought, looking back to his beer and shaking his head.

  Chapter 18

  “Wait!” shouted Drustan. Ragnall didn’t hear him. The fort’s outlying village was deserted but for mutilated dead. People and sheep and parts of people and sheep lay about. Flies buzzed, animals scurried over bodies and birds flapped and hopped among the corpses. A raven flew by with a bloody strip of flesh hanging from its beak.

  What the Mother had happened? Driving his heels into his mount, Ragnall sped forward, praying to Her that he’d find the hillfort’s gates barred, defenders alive inside.

  The path up to the fort was littered with more bodies. He had to slow so that his horse could pick a path between carcasses. Mostly the blood was dried black-brown, but in some places it still pooled red, shining in the sun. One of the bodies was moving. Ragnall jerked his reins and leaped off. It was Mungo Strawhair, a horse breeder who’d taught Ragnall to ride. He was propped up against a corpse. His face was red and black with blood.

  “Mungo! What happened? Where are my parents? What happened?”

  Black blood bubbled from Mungo’s mouth. He seemed to recognise Ragnall. He smiled.

  “What happened?!”

  The muscles in Mungo’s neck slackened and his head fell to the side. Ragnall shook him but got no response. He dropped his dead riding instructor and ran on up the steep track. A cart lay on its side, dead oxen next to it, sliced open as if by an axe.

  The hillfort’s gates were closed, but next to them, where the chalk-carved ditches were shallowest – the fort’s weakest point, which his father had always said must be fixed one day – the palisade was smashed, and the chalk scarred with hundreds of hoof prints.

  Ragnall clambered over the wrecked palisade.

  The village inside the fort, his childhood home, was gone. Not one hut was left standing. As a toddler he’d run from the bigger children through the narrow gaps between the stilts of the rectangular grain stores. The stores were all smashed to the ground now, stilts poking into the air like mooring posts in a lake of rubble. Some of the larger huts were still smoking. Flames licked around the remains of the longhouse.

  Ragnall walked along the fort’s main street, the road he’d walked every day for most of his life. He stepped over corpses of dogs and people. There was Rumo the falconer lying awkwardly across a quern stone, an arrow in his chest. His kestrel was lying dead next to him, also spitted by an arrow. Arrows. Not many armies used arrows.

  Ten paces further in, Navlin Breadmaker, the fat cheerful baker who’d always given Ragnall scraps of cake, was sitting propped against a fence. She looked uninjured, eyes and mouth wide open. Her chest heaved as if she was struggling for breath. He ran over and shook her shoulders. A small rat squeezed out of her mouth and leaped onto his arm. He jumped up, roaring and flailing, sending the rat flying. Navlin fell forward. Her back was one gaping wound, crawling with several little rats and one big one.

  A family, thought Ragnall.

  He fell to his knees, where he was sick through his mouth and nose until there was nothing left, but his stomach wouldn’t stop convulsing and he carried on heaving and coughing. Finally he finished retching, got to his feet shakily and walked further into the fort, into his father’s fort, into the fort where surely somewhere he’d find his family and his true love hiding, all unhurt and glad to see him.

  But here was his eldest brother. The face that had mocked him so many times was frozen in a purple scream. The hands that had ruffled his hair so often then later been thrown up in mock despair as he’d lost another game to his little brother now clutched at the arrow in his stomach. The higher arrow, the one through his heart, had clearly been a mercy shot, like you might give a fatally injured dog.

  Ragnall walked on, his head screaming like a million horses driven off a cliff into a stormy sea.

  His second-eldest brother was further into the fort, next to the smouldering remains of the longhouse. There were a lot of bodies here, the scene of a final stand perhaps. His brother was cloven in two diagonally, from neck to hip. It looked as if he hadn’t died straight away. His head was propped on a corpse, looking wide-eyed at his own separated legs.

  Ragnall searched the fort. He found more people that he knew, so many childhood friends. All dead. Killed in so many ways. Whoever had done this – Zadar’s army, for sure – had enjoyed themselves. But others were missing. He found no trace of his father, mother or Anwen. His search ended back at his eldest brother, knocked down by a gut shot, killed by a heart shot. He sat next to him.

  Drustan walked up a short while later, white hair bedraggled, eyes narrow in his uncharacteristically dirty face.

  “I’ve tied the horses outside.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yup.”

  “I thought I’d leave you while I said the rites for the dead outside the fort.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Anwen?”

  “No sign. Nor of my father and mother. Zadar’s taken them. He’s taken a lot of people of slave age by the look of things – there are no dead children, and fewer corpses of young people than there should be. The old and the brave he killed. Anwen will earn a good slave price. My father and mother … I’d guess they’re hostages, but there’s nothing to pay a ransom with, no one to gain political leverage over. We’ll follow Zadar’s army and take them back.”

  “We may … A different course may be…”

  Ragnall looked at Drustan.

  “All right,” said the older man. “Help me give the rites. Then we’ll get out of here. Then we’ll talk.”

  It was almost dark when they left Boddingham along the Ridge Road. They rode all night under the s
tars.

  Dawn was rising over a wood of scrubby trees when they came across a hedgehog sitting in the middle of the road, looking at Ragnall. It scooted to the side, looked at him again, then disappeared into an old flint mine, now just a steep-sided hollow in the chalk.

  Ragnall dismounted.

  “Ragnall?” said Drustan.

  “Wait.” He walked to the edge of the pit and looked into it.

  At the bottom of the slope were three bodies held together by a triple slave collar – three iron hoops connected by two pace-long iron rods. Even in the semi-darkness he could tell they were dead. Even after five years the figure at the front looked familiar. Even before Ragnall had dismounted, climbed down the bank and turned her over, he knew he’d found his mother.

  Chapter 19

  “Got the rope.”

  “Where’s Tristan? Who are you?”

  “I’m Dug. Here’s your rope.” Lowa saw that it was the shy glancer. Was he going to help her? Odds were he was just another chancer trying to ingratiate himself with Zadar.

  “Here, Arthur, take over here.” Weylin kept the sword pressed into her neck as Arthur, a fit-looking fellow with tousled hair and a chin like a fist, took the hilt from him. Lowa knew Arthur. He was one of the Fifty. Not a friend as such, but someone she’d chatted with amiably enough. He was a charming man. She was pretty sure Aithne had shagged him. Possibly Maura too. Why were they doing this?

  “Got her, boss,” said Arthur.

  “Right.” Weylin turned, walked over and thrust his face at Dug’s. “I said, where is Tristan?”

  “Have you been eating onions?” Dug turned his head away.

  Behind them the rest of the pub had cleared, apart from the barmaid. She was leaning on the counter, watching impassively.

  “What?”

  “Aye, nothing, but can you take a step back? I’m on your side. You’re Zadar’s troops, right?”

  Weylin moved back a little. “Right.”

  “I’m a Warrior looking to join the Maidun army. I was sitting over there and I heard you ask for rope. So I got some. I don’t have a clue where your man Tristan has gone. Thought maybe if I helped you, you’d help me join.”

  “Do I look like a recruitment officer?” Weylin turned to one side and then the other as if to bask in the appreciative laughter of his companions. None came.

  Dug looked Weylin up and down, then leaned to look round at his ponytail. “I’m not quite sure what you look like.”

  A couple of the soldiers snorted.

  “What!” Weylin reached for his sword. His fingers scrabbled at air. He remembered he’d handed his sword to Arthur and turned the scrabbling into scratching his hip.

  “Hey, I’m just joking.” Dug smiled. “Calm yourself. I just thought I’d get you a rope, and maybe you could tell me how to join up and perhaps put in a good word. So here’s your rope.”

  Dug held up a thin pile of light brown hairy lime-bark rope. “I’ll tie her up. I used to be a sailor. I’ve a knot she’ll never escape.”

  Lowa looked at Dug. He didn’t have the salt-, wind- and sun-cracked face of a sailor, nor the springy, bow-kneed walk that came from years of moving about on deck. He was no sailor. Did the lie mean he was going to help her? Possibly. More likely he did want to join the Maidun army and was simply a liar.

  She silently pleaded with the big Warrior to help. If he didn’t, she was caught and she’d die. That was bad enough on its own – knowing Zadar and Felix, it was unlikely to be quick – but what she really couldn’t stomach was the idea of dying without avenging Aithne, Realin, Cordelia, Seanna and Maura. Make him help me, please, she begged the gods that she didn’t believe in.

  “Is that rope thick enough?” Weylin asked suspiciously.

  Dug looked surprised. “Oh aye. I’ve used thinner rope to tow a clinker-built schooner from a lee shore in a complete hooly.”

  “Um … all right,” said Weylin. “Tie her up.”

  Weylin shifted his large frame aside so Dug could get through. “Clear a space everyone. You, Flynn, stand up. Arthur, don’t let the pressure off.”

  Lowa stood slowly, the sword jabbing uncomfortably into her trachea. It was a typical medium-length iron blade, made for slashing and hacking, not stabbing, so it had sharp edges but a dull tip. Pushed into her neck it was unpleasant but by no means incapacitating. It pained her that these men called themselves Warriors but didn’t realise that. If the lunk is on my side, she thought, edging round the table, this is going to be my best chance.

  She tightened her neck muscles and pushed, driving the sword and Arthur’s arm back. He countered by thrusting the blade into her, as she’d expected. She dodged to the right, bringing her left hand up to grab the sword by the hilt. With all the power of her bow-drawing arm, she thrust her right hand, fingers pointed, into Arthur’s windpipe. He went down with a strangled “Glurk!” and the sword was hers.

  Not too soon. Already an overhead sword swing was coming at her from the nearest soldier. She parried, but she had Arthur’s sword in an awkward, wrist-bent grip with the blade pointing back over her left shoulder. The blow smashed the sword onto her head, knocking her into a crouch. She rammed her fist up into her attacker’s balls. He doubled up. She whammed the heavy sword hilt into his face. His nose crunched. She pulled him over, then, anticipating another swing, leaped over him in a diving roll. She came up onto her feet, facing the body of the tavern, sword in both hands, ready.

  Dug was tossing his hammer from hand to hand in the middle of the room, facing Weylin, who had acquired a heavy iron sword. Smashed furniture and the three other Maidun Warriors lay around them. Two were out cold or dead. One was groaning and rolling, his head in his hands.

  What the Bel? She reckoned she’d dispatched her two pretty quickly, but it looked like Dug had taken out three of Maidun’s finest while she’d been busy.

  Lowa raised her own sword and took a step towards them. She didn’t fancy her rescuer’s chances again Weylin, who was a good deal taller, and maybe twenty years younger. Dug was probably about the same weight, but Weylin was all muscle.

  Weylin drew his sword back, but it was just a feint to entice Dug to move in, which the idiot did, looking at Weylin’s sword. Lowa shook her head as Weylin’s left fist swung, unseen, towards Dug’s head.

  Without taking his eyes off the sword, Dug flicked his hammer one-handed to meet Weylin’s wrist. Weylin yelped. Dug darted in, grabbed Weylin’s sword arm and spun the larger man like a father might spin a daughter in a Beltane dance. It ended with Weylin kneeling in front of Dug, his ponytail in one of Dug’s hands and the pointed hammer shaft pressing into the small of his back.

  Dug looked up at Lowa. “We’d better go.”

  Lowa leaped a body and slashed open her bundle of reeds. Her bow and quiver came tumbling out. She tossed the sword aside, grabbed the bow as it fell and slung her quiver onto her back.

  “I’d wondered what that was,” said Dug. “What should I do with this one?” He nodded down at Weylin.

  “Kill him.”

  “That’s a bit too … Well, he’s done nothing to me.”

  “He killed my friend. But fine, I’ll do it.” Lowa reached into her quiver.

  “Oh no, don’t waste an arrow. If he killed your friend…”

  Dug pulled back on the ponytail. Weylin strained to escape. Dug let go. As Weylin fell forward, Dug whipped his hammer round to clunk into the side of his shaved skull. Weylin went down.

  “Right, let’s go.”

  “You! Northerner!” The barmaid’s voice sliced the air. She was still leaning on her counter.

  “Yes?” Dug turned back.

  “That was good.”

  Dug’s eyes widened questioningly.

  “Your fighting. I appreciate things like that. I see enough, and that was the best I ever saw. Next time you’re here, the beers are on me, and I’ll give you the stew that we eat, not the shit we give the customers. In fact, why not stick around now? I could talk
to the boss about guard work?”

  Dug looked lost for words.

  “Come on!” said Lowa, walking out of the door.

  Chapter 20

  “That way!” Dug squinted in the sudden brightness and pointed across the market. Lowa nodded and set off at a jog. Dug followed. He hoped it was the best way. He’d come from the other direction and never been to the town before, so it was something of a guess.

  As they passed the post with its nailed hands a shout came from behind: “Stop the blonde woman and the man! Zadar will reward you! With … big rewards!” It was Weylin, lurching out of the pub, one arm dangling, one hand holding his head.

  “Sorry,” Dug said. “He must have a thick skull.”

  “Never mind. Run!”

  They never got started.

  A dozen market guards barred their way, armed with knives, swords, cudgels and slings. Dug turned, but half a dozen more guards had closed in behind them.

  “Badgers’ scrotums!” He must remember, if he got out of this, to give himself a massive kick up the backside for breaking his rule about helping people. It was never, ever worth it.

  He readied his hammer. Lowa plucked an arrow from her quiver, nocked it and half-drew.

  The guards took a tentative step towards them. They were a handy-looking lot. A couple wore Warrior ringmail, which made sense. Dug had done some market guarding himself. It paid well.

  “What’s the reward?” Dug shouted to Weylin, keeping an eye on the guards. “Is it worth dying for?”

  As he said “for”, Lowa loosed an arrow. It went through the upper arm of the nearest guard, ten paces away. Before his dropped knife had hit the ground, Lowa had another arrow nocked and the bowstring drawn.

  “I don’t want to kill any of you,” said Lowa, “but we are going to leave. If you try to stop us, the next shot will be through someone’s head. So drop your weapons and move to the edge of the square. We’re going to walk out of here and you’ll live to see the sunset.”

  Dug looked at her. She was a cool one.