by Angus Watson
He headed up and came out onto a wooden floor, maybe ten paces across, surrounded by stone walls a pace high. The floor was littered with human bones and bird droppings. Maggot was leaning on a wall, looking to the west. Ragnall tiptoed across to him, trying not to step on anyone’s remains.
“And this…” said Maggot
“Is where you bring your dead? To be eaten by birds?”
“A shrewd man. We do bring our dead here. Apart from babies of course. We bury those for Bel. If they die, that is. I try and stop that happening. But they’re not why we’re here. Look around.”
Gutrin Tor was the highest point for miles and the view was colossal. To the west was flat marsh all the way to the sea, other than a a few hummocks that made islands in the mire. To the south, east and north the marsh was edged with woodland, then low hills. He could just make out a hillfort he’d skirted with Drustan on his litter, twenty miles to the north-west.
It was a simplification, but it was reasonable to say that to the south-east and east all the land was under Zadar’s iron control. To the south-west was Dumnonia. They were at a liminal point, an invisible flagpole in the sand. It all looked the same peaceful, welcoming green, but here, surely, if what everyone said was true, there would soon be a great clash between Dumnonia, the Murkans from the north and Zadar, probably backed by the might of Rome.
“I’m looking.”
“Big change will come when the Romans come, but the land will stay the same.”
“You’re sure the Romans will come?”
“They’re already here – in coins, clothes, wine, haircuts – and more than that. Attitudes, the way people think. That’s changing. Everything will change. This tower, right, been here for ever?”
“Yes?”
“No not for ever. What seems for ever to us but just a click of the fingers compared to the whole of time. Take this tower apart, roll the stones down the hill and into the mud, and it will disappear and be forgotten in the way you’ve already forgotten about that blade of grass.”
“But I remember the grass. Won’t the story of the tower remain?”
“Nah. Think of the blade of grass like the story of the tower. Could you find that blade of grass now?”
“No.”
“No. Without the tower to look at, people will forget the stories. So this tower can be forgotten, even though it’s been here for a hundred of our lifetimes and it’s made of massive fucking stones. So how easily can we disappear, made of water and crumbing bone as we are?
“I guess—”
“Which brings us, young Ragnall, to why you’re here.”
“Drustan’s ill – he needed somewhere safe.”
“Sure. But why are you travelling with him?”
“We’re going to Dumnonia.”
“Ah. You see that long ridge?” Maggot pointed south-west.
“Yes.”
“That’s where Dumnonia begins. So it’s not far now. Why are you going there?”
Ragnall looked at Maggot. Some of his orange feathers were stuck to his face with sweat from the climb. For once his eyes were still, looking straight into Ragnall’s.
“Zadar has my fiancée, Anwen.”
“So why do you want to go over there?” Maggot nodded south-west. “Zadar’s that way.”
Ragnall told him what had happened. Standing on the tower, with the land all around, it came tumbling out, from growing up in Boddingham, via school on the Island of Angels to arriving at Mearhold with Drustan. Maggot was quiet throughout, looking out over the scene, watching the rising birds. Ragnall finished his story. They leaned on the wall, wordless, as above their heads the white cloud mass shifted, broke into corrugated ranks, then into huge, bright, individual clouds.
“So,” Maggot said eventually. “Question stands. Why are you rescuing Anwen by heading away from her, towards Drustan’s home, where he was headed anyway?”
“Drustan says it’s the best way.”
“Drustan says a lot.”
“Drustan’s reasons for me going to Dumnonia are sound. I can’t face Zadar on my own and Dumnonia is building an army.”
“Drustan’s reasons.”
“Which are now my reasons because they make sense.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go back to Mearhold.” Maggot stood back from the wall. “But remember this. When someone tells you that helping them is in your best possible interests, do you really reckon it is?”
Chapter 2
As they waited for Ula to come back up from Mearhold, Lowa looked at Spring and tried to work out for the hundredth time what could explain her apparent reincarnation. She’d been dead – run through by a spear – at Kanawan, then not just alive but uninjured when Lowa found her and Ogre. Lowa had pretended otherwise to confuse the bandit into spilling his secrets, but she’d been confused enough herself. She’d seen the spear go through Spring. She’d seen the blood dripping down the side of Ogre’s horse. She’d seen her dead eyes, for Fenn’s sake!
Spring said the spear had gone under her armpit. Lowa wanted to believe her. Indeed, she had been far away and could have mistaken. She’d seen bards fake death blows by stabbing swords between arm and chest, and it could look convincing. But the blood on the horse, the sightless eyes, the clotted blood caking her clothes. How could Spring have faked all that? And why?
The whole thing had shaken her. Magic was nonsense. It had to be. The gods were a human creation to teach morals to children and to keep the moronic masses under the heel of their brighter rulers. She’d known that as long as she could remember. She’d always assumed that everyone else with a grain of intelligence understood it too but kept quiet because gods and magic worked very well to control kids and thicker adults, and because if people wanted some kind of reason for living and something to look forward to after death, why deny them?
But it had to be bullshit. She’d seen no evidence of any invisible, interfering beings. Quite the opposite, in fact. When she and Aithne had watched from the bushes as their mother was raped and killed, Lowa had decided that if there were gods, they weren’t worth bothering with. She’d realised then that humans were just ridiculously self-important animals, grubbing along, shagging and dying, looking out for nobody but themselves, no better than pigs and no more deserving of any gods’ interest.
Yet Spring had come back to life. And it had happened at a woodland shrine. Then there was the dog that died an instant before it was going to rip her throat out. And back in Bladonfort, Spring had somehow known that Weylin needed a cart. There was also her extraordinary ability with a sling and the unnatural way she’d taught the Kanawan girls so quickly and effectively. Was there a point at which coincidence became less likely than a mystical explanation? Could Lowa have been wrong all this time?
Her atheism was hanging together by sinews.
Next to all this, the fact that Spring was Zadar’s daughter was almost immaterial. Lowa had sort of known anyway, she told herself – she’d definitely recognised some mannerisms. Besides, what Ogre apparently hadn’t known – or he would have attached less value to just one of them – was that Zadar had dozens of children. So finding one of Zadar’s kids wasn’t particularly amazing. Not nearly as amazing as a girl killing a dog without touching it, then coming back to life.
But no, she told herself. Whatever the evidence, there were rational explanations. The dog could have just died, the blood could have been the horse’s – she’d seen Ogre stab it, hadn’t she? And just because Spring was preternaturally good with a sling didn’t mean the gods were involved. No, she should forget all this gods nonsense and concentrate on what was important – how she might use Spring to kill Zadar. On the way back to Kanawan after she’d rescued the girl from Ogre, Spring had said that she’d grown to hate her father because of what she’d seen him do, and that was why she’d run away. She’d asked Lowa not to tell Dug or anyone else that she was Zadar’s daughter, and Lowa saw no reason not to keep her secret, for now anyway.
&nbs
p; Since then, she had considered various ways of getting Spring to return home and stab or poison Zadar, but the girl was so weird – or maybe just so young, to be fair – that she couldn’t trust her to carry a plan through. And, of course, she was his daughter, so might baulk when it actually came to patricide. Plus Lowa wanted to kill Zadar herself.
She shook her head. Enough pointless musing. They were on the cart on the road above Mearhold, looking towards the floating island and waiting for Ula. Spring was asking Dug why sticks floated and stones didn’t.
“Don’t hassle him, Spring,” Lowa said.
“It’s fi – ine,” Dug said, his voice breaking halfway through the word. He’d found speaking painful for the whole journey. That hadn’t stopped Spring trying to get him to talk for almost all of it. “I’m feeling pretty much fine,” he finished quietly.
Lowa half-smiled but didn’t look down. “So you’ll be walking down the hill?”
Dug had seen plenty of man-made islands in lakes further north. Crannogs, as they called them up there, were round huts on stilts at the end of wooden jetties, perhaps ten paces out over a lake’s calm waters. They were said to be good for defence, and certainly animals and unprepared marauders would have trouble attacking them, but a lobbed torch or two would ask questions that straw- and wood-built crannogs couldn’t answer. Still, he’d stayed on a few and he liked them. They were good for fishing, and, providing you synchronised with any neighbours, you could collect drinking water easily and have an effort-free dunny.
But this was something else: a mega-crannog. Propped up in the cart, he could see Mearhold perched in the swamp like a great spider, paths like spindly legs stretching from its engorged body. There were maybe a hundred huts of varying size on the roughly triangular island, as well as outdoor work areas, storage sheds and a longhouse that probably housed the chief, a guy called King Vole, apparently. There was a grey network of tracks on the island itself, and a couple of paths led to the great marsh off to the west. Beyond the brown of the marsh, he was pretty sure he could see the brighter blue line of the sea at the horizon, but he might have been imagining that because he knew it was there and he wanted it to be there. He liked to be near the sea.
None of the tracks from the village stretched as far north as the hill they’d stopped on, nor could he see any leading to the stepped triangular hill that towered above the countryside to the east of the island.
“How do we get to it?” he asked, reaching for his large but nearly empty skin of mead.
“Here comes Ula!” Spring leaped up, rocking the cart and making Dug wince.
Queen Ula of the newly nomadic tribe of Kanawan rode up the hill from Mearhold on her shaggy horse. She was wrapped in a red and yellow tartan shawl that she hadn’t been wearing when she left them. Her lips were pushed into the same small smile that had played there for most of the three-day journey from Kanawan. Spouse murder clearly suited her. Dug had seen it before: killing the one person who had been ruining their lives did tend to cheer people up.
“All arranged,” said Ula. “Head down the hill and you’ll find a boat waiting. In return for the cart and horses, you can stay at Mearhold for as long as it takes Dug to recover, and then on for up to four moons in total. They haven’t asked that you do any work, but it would be nice if you helped out with hunting and so on. Sorry. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. I’d suggest that you, Spring, try to get in with the weavers. They make the finest woollen cloth in the land here, so you could learn a useful trade from the best teachers.”
“Get in with the weavers and learn a useful trade,” Spring said slowly “That sounds fun. I will definitely do that.”
Ula laughed. “They also hunt in boats, go slinging for birds on the marsh, and fish. You’ll find beds of sand around here that contain thousands of the most perfect slingstones. I should think you’ll find plenty of things to do that aren’t weaving. But my advice stands.”
“I might try some of those other things first. Probably the slinging first of all. But then, if you’d like me to, and there’s time, I’ll try to get in with the weavers and learn a useful trade. I will.”
“Good girl.”
“What have you told them about us?” asked Lowa.
“As we agreed, I told them the truth.” said Ula. “I told them about Zadar’s pursuit and what happened to Weylin’s troop.”
“What?” Dug nearly sat up again. “Why did you tell them all that? And they still—”
Lowa put a hand on Dug’s shoulder “Sorry, you were asleep when we discussed it. I knew you’d agree though.”
“Agree what?”
“That Mearhold and King Vole should know the risks of having us on their island.”
Dug shook his head. “So they can shout to Zadar where we are? Because it might take them, what, as many as four heartbeats to work out that protecting strangers makes less sense than staying on side with the world’s most powerful bastard?”
“I’ve spoken to Ula at length about King Vole. He won’t give us away.”
“He won’t,” Ula chipped in. “But do try to avoid any conversation with him.”
“Why?” asked Dug.
“Because he’s a … Well, you’ll see. But he’s also a decent man, fiercely proud of himself and his tribe. That makes him about as loyal and good an ally as you could have.”
“Aye, OK, so he might hold back from telling Zadar. But what about everyone else in the village? It only takes one of them to send a shout and we’re fucked.” Dug darted a glance at Spring. She was watching some geese flying over and not listening. “An island may be a refuge, but it’s also a trap.”
Lowa shook her head. “It’s not Kanawan. Sorry, Ula. Mearhold has no reason to betray us. In fact, it’s the opposite. Mearhold thrives because it sits between Dumnonian and Maidun territory. The festival here is one of the things that keeps the two sides from attacking each other. Mearhold won’t do anything to favour one over the other.”
“Lowa, if Zadar sent that many people to Kanawan, he’s not going to give up. He might send someone who can tell the difference between their arse and their head next time. With an army.”
“He won’t know where we are. He doesn’t know about your injury, so he doesn’t know that we have to lie—”
“Aye. My injury. You could get to safety. You could be across the sea tomorrow.”
Lowa narrowed her eyes as if trying to focus on something in the distance.
“Sorry to interrupt your tiff,” said Ula, “but I’ve got to push on now if I’m to catch the tribe by nightfall.”
“Aye,” said Dug
“Of course,” said Lowa.
Ula looked to each of them in turn. “Lowa. Dug. Spring.” She shook her head and smiled as tears shone from her eyes. “I owe you my life and the life of my tribe. You rescued us from ourselves. The Kanawan tribe will always be ready and willing should you need us. I’m sure our paths will cross again. May Danu and Bel and all the gods favour you and protect you until they do.”
Queen Ula pulled her horse around and rode away to the north, iron horseshoes crunching on the metalled road.
“So,” said Dug when she was out of earshot. “Do you really think Zadar will give up the chase?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why he sent so many to Kanawan. I don’t know why he killed my sister and my women in the first place. The thing is Dug, I am going to kill Zadar. I have a plan which may work. But … it involves you. With good care you’ll recover in half a moon. If you’re prepared to help, I’ll wait. The plan isn’t carved in stone yet, but it’s likely to be difficult and possibly fatal.”
“You sell it well.”
“I don’t want to lie to you.”
Dug looked up at Lowa, standing over him on the cart. It was a good angle.
“I’ll help you.”
“What about me? Can I come?” Spring asked.
“You don’t have to, Spring. But you could help a lot. Do you want to help?”
“Course. Now can we stop talking and get to this Mearhold place? I’ve never been in a boat.”
Chapter 3
A boy carrying a hemp sack came into the hut behind the druid.
Dug had been asleep. After the cart it was bliss to stretch out on a decent bed. The summer heat had returned after the rain, but a cooling breeze wafted through the windows and door, carrying the muddy ming of the marsh mixed with a mild sniff of salt and the aroma of cut reeds.
His chest already felt easier, possibly because of the rest but more likely because of the cider. He’d never had the like. It tasted no more potent than watered-down apple juice, but moments after the first couple of gulps he’d felt the alcohol fumes swimming up into his head like a confused but persistent school of ethereal fish.
“All right,” said Maggot. “This is going to seem weird and you’re not going to like it, but it works. All right?”
“You’ve done it before?”
“Loads of times. Some people almost survived. Joking. It won’t harm you. Now lie back and don’t move.”
Maggot unlaced Dug’s leather jerkin, said, “Up on your elbows,” and eased the sleeveless top off him. The druid leaned forward, lank blond hair draping his face. With fine iron scissors he snipped through the bands of wool that held Dug’s chest bandage in place and peeled it down slowly.
Dug closed his eyes. He could feel strips of skin coming away with the cloth. He was booze-numbed enough that it didn’t hurt overly, but it did feel disgusting. And the smell! It was like unwrapping a wheel of cheese and a hunk of beef that had been left bound together in the sun for a moon. He swallowed to avoid gagging.
“Not bad, not bad.” Maggot seemed not to notice the stench. “You’ll be walking in six days, all right in twelve, back to how you were in a moon.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Maggot eased a woollen blanket under Dug’s back, went to the other side of the bed and pulled until there were equal lengths of blanket hanging out either side. “And here’s the fun bit. Sack, please.”