Clash of Iron

by Angus Watson

  “That’s it.” Drustan nodded. Around them the crowd clapped as more fighters began or finished. Spring didn’t know, she’d stopped watching.

  “Tell me,” the druid continued, “are the Romans coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will they conquer Britain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Definitely?” The old man seemed disappointed.

  “No. Almost definitely. You know those days when it gets dark, cold and windy suddenly and then it rains?”

  “Yes.”

  “But sometimes, almost never, but sometimes it gets dark and cold and everything, but it doesn’t rain?”

  “Indeed.”

  “It’s like that. I’m not certain they’re going to conquer us, but it looks a lot like they will. Now tell me about the active magic!”

  “Active magic,” said Drustan, “is where you are unlike anyone else I’ve met or even heard about, not just now but through all history.”

  “Yes?”

  “I said it was connected to love and death. Nobody understands why, but if you kill something, you can perform stronger … let us call them spells. So when Lowa fought the chariot, I gave her strength by killing a rat. At least I thought I did at the time. I realised soon afterwards that it had been mostly you.”

  “It was. But I didn’t kill anything?”

  “No. That is what makes you different. Felix, you see, is a more powerful druid than me, and I think he has a better understanding of magic. He seems more willing to … experiment with its darker properties. He converted Elliax into a strong power source by making him consume his wife. I don’t think that Felix been planning to sacrifice Elliax, or Anwen for that matter, to kill Lowa. I imagine that he created those magic sources for a wider purpose. However, confronted by your magic, he had to use them. And yet your magic still triumphed. What is both terrifying and exciting to consider is how powerful your magic might be if you mixed it with sacrifice.”

  “I’m not going to do that. I’m never even going to kill a fly for magic.”

  “I hope that you never have to. Especially because the more you love your sacrificial victim, the more powerful the magic.”

  “But you used a rat!”

  “I liked that rat. I caught it on Mearhold and had been looking after it since. It saddened me to kill it. I suspect that a human sacrifice would produce stronger results, but I decided a long time ago that I will never sacrifice a human, no matter what is at stake.”

  “I see. I won’t either. And no animals, too. So why didn’t Felix kill someone he loved?”

  “Nobody likes killing people they love. And perhaps he loves only himself, so that would not have been practical. I do not know.”

  “Oh yes. I see. And when Lowa wanted me to use my magic against the Dumnonians, why couldn’t I?”

  “I do not know that either. Magic is complicated and contradictory, like everything else in life. Things are only simple, Spring, in bards’ tales. Possibly you’d exhausted your quota, possibly the god or gods that you draw on were busy elsewhere that day. But, look, your fellow Dug is in the fighting ring. He seems to be upset about something.”

  Dug nodded hello to Atlas. The Kushite was built like a particularly heavyset ox, but that wasn’t why Dug had had to complain to the referee.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, “I shouldn’t be fighting him yet.”

  “I’m not surprised you’re scared. You can back out if you like. We’ll just call it a lose.” The referee was a short, proud-chested man perhaps five years younger than Dug and ten years older than Atlas.

  “I’m not scared.” The prospect of fighting Atlas didn’t exactly fill him with joy in fact, but that wasn’t the point. “But I shouldn’t meet Atlas until the final. I’m telling you this for the sake of the crowd, not me.”

  “As I said, you can back out. Otherwise, I’d like to get the fight started.” The referee walked to the edge of the circle.

  Great big badger’s bollocks, thought Dug. It would have been easier to explain the point to a sheep. “Atlas, don’t you agree? We were both given a bye so it’s crazy that we should fight each other before we fight anyone else? For the sake of the crowd?”

  A crooked but bright white smile cracked Atlas’ purple-black face. He’d probably, thought Dug, been a handsome man before Lowa had rammed a venison bone through his face. “It doesn’t make any difference to me,” he said in his booming voice, rolling his colossal shoulders.

  “Right, so if you don’t mind?” said the referee, smirking happily at Dug.

  “All right, all right. It’s the wrong way to do it, but it’s your competition. If you want to do things wrong it’s your lookout.”

  Dug walked into the circle, still muttering to himself.

  There were two ways, Dug reckoned, to fight someone bigger and stronger than you were. First was to use their weight against them, which meant being quicker or more skilled, or, optimally, both. Second was to go absolutely badger-shit crazy and overwhelm them with a furious onslaught. Problem with the latter is that people tended to get hurt, and most often it was the person going badger-shit. So Dug pretended to lunge at Atlas a few times, then stepped back towards the edge of the circle, as if inviting Atlas to have a go at shoving him out.

  Atlas came fast, but Dug was faster. He stepped to the side, stuck his leg out and reached for Atlas’ leather jerkin.

  Two heartbeats later Dug was in the air, upside-down, being carried out of the ring. As he thought about grabbing Atlas’ legs, the African dropped him, and he had to put his hands out to avoid landing on his head.

  Dug lay face down on the dirt listening to the crowd’s laughter.

  So, plan two. Dug leapt up, roared and flew at the African, fists windmilling. Atlas stepped aside and put a foot out. Dug tripped, spun to try and slow his momentum, got tangled up in his own feet and fell backwards. He thumped down on his arse, painfully, just outside the circle.

  This time the laughter was much louder.

  Badgerfucktwats, thought Dug as he walked out of the arena, cheeks throbbing with embarrassment, trying not to limp on his sore knee. He heard one person cheering. It was Spring, waving and whooping. That made him a wee bit happier. He waved back.

  As he headed for the ring’s exit, the one he’d charged through the other day to rescue Lowa, movement caught his eye. Someone had closed the door of one of the cells built into the ring wall from inside, someone who looked a lot like Lowa. He was still avoiding her. He’d been keeping busy on purpose, because every time his mind wasn’t occupied it came back to her, to her face, her smell, her voice … and that boy Ragnall’s white arse pumping up and down on her while she moaned with pleasure.

  However, without thinking, he walked over to the cell door and opened it. He’d been seeing Lowa everywhere where she wasn’t recently, so he didn’t expect to find her in there.

  “Hello,” said Lowa. She was sitting on the cell’s rude bed, her unstrung bow propped next to her. The light from the opened door made her white blonde hair shine. She smiled, a little sadly.

  “Hello,” said Dug, leaning on the door. “Well done in the archery.”

  “Thanks. I saw your fight. Tricky one, that Atlas.”

  “Aye. Big bugger got me twice in a row. If they made it best out of five … he’d have had me three times in a row. There’s always a bigger fish. Although maybe not a better archer.”

  “I’m sure there will be soon. Spring’s started learning, and with the way the gods love her…” Lowa looked at her feet.

  Dug looked at her feet too. Very nice feet they were, even cased in leather. The silence was heavy for a couple of heartbeats, then both started talking at the same time.

  “Dug, I wanted…” said Lowa

  “What are you doing…” said Dug

  “In here?” asked Lowa, as if relieved not to have to say whatever it was she’d been about to say. “This is where I was held when Zadar had me fighting in the arena. I was just
sitting here thinking how much things have changed and wondering what to do next.”

  “Aye, Lowa the fighting slave to Lowa the queen.” Dug liked using her name. It made the encounter more real, which was good, because he couldn’t really believe he was there, talking to her. It was such a precious moment, so important, that even as it was happening he felt it was already over and he was remembering it.

  “I never thanked you properly, Dug, for saving me from Tadman.”

  “I just beat up a big bastard. It was Spring really. Her powers. I could have done with them today. I wanted that prize money to get a wee farm.”

  “You don’t need the prize money,” said Lowa. “I’d thought I’d see you, but I didn’t, then I was going to send somebody to tell you and I didn’t get round to it. Sorry. The point is that all Tadman’s wealth is yours now because you killed him in battle. He had no family, no friends even, so his fortune is indisputably yours. It was a large one, gained in the same way you gained it from him. It’s more than enough to set up the largest farm you could dream of.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Yes, it is … Where will you…?”

  “I was thinking way up north, where I lived when I was young.”

  “Ah.”

  “But Spring has this idea that I could get somewhere in the south, not too far from here. That way she could live with me some of the time, and spend the rest of it training with your army. I’m not…”

  “Definitely south, near here,” interrupted Lowa.

  “Why?” said Dug, stifling the urge to run over to the bed and kiss her. It may have been his imagination, but her pale skin seemed to flush a gentle pink. She paused, then said: “It will be good for Spring to have you around. And it’s warmer and lighter in the south. Better for crops and animals, too. And it’ll be more peaceful, I hope.”

  “And will you visit?” Dug dared. He felt as if he might faint.

  Lowa looked up. Her eyes shone. A sad smile grew on her yew-berry-red lips.

  “Dug, I’d—”

  Dug felt a large presence next to him at the door. “Lowa, sorry to butt in, but you’re needed.” It was Atlas. “Big fight in the stands between the charioteers and some freed slaves. They’ll stop when they see you, but if you don’t hurry people will be killed.”

  Lowa’s smiled hardened. “All right, I’m coming. Dug, see Drustan – he knows all about Tadman’s belongings and where you can pick them up. Oh – and you’ll need a couple of strong leather leashes. Actually bear poles will be better.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later!”

  She rushed past and Dug was left standing in the doorway, alone. He walked in and sat on the bed for a while. The room still smelt of her. Just when things had been looking good, she’d dodged out. Yes, she’d had to go, but she’d seemed relieved at the interruption. If he did stay in the south, it would be for Spring’s sake. He had to forget about Lowa.

  Chapter 6

  Lowa sat by Zadar’s expansive hearth, her hearth now, sharpening and polishing arrowheads. She’d cleaned out some of the less tasteful decorations from the ruler’s oversized hut – the pots containing the heads of defeated enemy rulers steeped in cedar oil had gone, for example – but rows of excellently crafted shelves were still packed with bronze torcs, silver crowns, gold bracelets and other purloined treasures. She supposed she should find their rightful owners, or at least their rightful owners’ heirs, and return them. There was so much to do. For now, though, she’d focus on polishing her beautiful arrowheads.

  She’d always put people who complained about the loneliness of command in the same full-of-disingenuous-crap sack as people who said how miserable their riches made them, but now she was beginning to see their point. Her days as queen had so far been nothing but one hassle after another. She didn’t know how to deal with most of the hassles, she had hardly any time to deal with the ones that she could see solutions to, and she had nobody to talk to about it.

  All would have been much more bearable if her sister were still alive. Lowa didn’t want help, ideas or even advice, she just wanted someone who’d listen. Dug would have been as good as Aithne, but she’d gone and fucked that up and now he was going away to the far north and she’d never see him again. She wondered what she could do to make him stay, to make him forgive her, then dismissed the idea. She didn’t deserve him. And she’d seen the look on his face when she’d clumsily suggested he stay in the south. The very idea of it had made him look ill. No, she’d lost him.

  “Queen Lowa!” A shout from outside. A visitor, no doubt, come to complain about nothing, or to put forward some self-interested proposal that they’d say was for everyone’s benefit, or to warn her about something she was already aware of … but perhaps it was Dug.

  “Ragnall Sheeplord would like to see you,” the voice continued.

  Badgers’ cocks, thought Lowa, but yelled: “All right!”

  The large hut’s door opened and Ragnall stomped in. Lowa smelt that he’d been drinking.

  “Ragnall. Thank you for helping Drustan—”

  “You killed my brothers.” Ragnall stood in the centre of the hut, shaking, pointing at her as if his finger were a weapon.

  “Yes,” said Lowa, holding his gaze. “I was acting under orders. I have since rejected those orders, and killed the person responsible for them.”

  “You’re not even going to apologise?”

  “Of course I’m sorry. Does it help if I say the words? If so, here you go – I’m sorry. But look, Ragnall, I was a soldier following orders. I’d expect people to do the same for me without question. That’s why we have rulers. If you hate the orders, you get rid of the ruler. So that’s what I did. That was my apology for everything.”

  Ragnall was staring at her open-mouthed. She was being too harsh, but she didn’t care. How dare he come here to whinge? Everyone had lost people. She’d lost everybody.

  “You should beg my forgiveness…” Ragnall managed.

  Lowa looked at him and saw privilege and entitlement looking back. He’d had a life of getting his own way and now that things had turned sour he wanted an apology? She felt the frustration of the previous few days rise. She thought of twin girls she’d seen after the battle on Sarum Plain, wailing with grief, clearly mourning a dead parent or perhaps two. She thought of her crew, her sister, murdered by Zadar. Rage boiled up like a storm surge. Even as she drew in the breath to shout, she knew that Ragnall wasn’t the real target for her anger, or even a legitimate one, but out it came all the same.

  “Beg you!?” she raged. “Take your head out of your arse and stop whinging about the past. Either get over it and fuck off or stop whining like a bitch and do the only thing you can do to a queen when you disagree with her. Try to kill me. Come on.”

  Ragnall stared at her. His gaping mouth slowly closed. His wide eyes narrowed into hard slits. His fingers reached for the hilt of the sword at his waist.

  Lowa took a step towards him, lifting the arrow that she’d been polishing. She’d have his thoat out before his sword was halfway from its scabbard.

  Ragnall’s face crumbled. He lowered his head with a long, low moan. The moan became quieter but higher pitched until it sounded like a distressed seabird keening out from deep in his throat. His whine was cut off by a snotty snort, then his head bobbed with regular, sucking sobs that made him sound like a bereaved seal.

  Oh for Bel’s sake, thought Lowa.

  “Here, sit down,” she said, leading him to a chair. She handed him a scrap of linen and sat across from him. Now she felt bad for shouting at him. She felt bad for killing his brothers, too – one brother anyway, she was pretty sure she’d killed only one of them – but she couldn’t let herself go down that path. She’d killed so many people. If she started to feel bad about it, she would fall apart. She had to believe that destroying Zadar and his regime absolved her, and that she could make further amends by ruling justly, by fighting off the Romans and
saving more lives than she’d taken. The alternative was suicide and that did not appeal.

  Ragnall’s blubbing reduced to snivelling and she said: “By bringing down Zadar together, we have avenged your brothers, your parents and everyone that his regime killed. And I mean ‘we’. It couldn’t have happened without you.”

  “I didn’t do anything. It was all you and Drustan and Dug and Spring,” Ragnall cried. He bubbled more snot and blew his nose into the already sodden rag.

  “You saved Drustan’s life. It was your idea to take the boat which let us escape from Mearhold. Dug wouldn’t have known I was in the arena if you hadn’t thought to get him and persuaded him to come. Without your plan, the Dumnonians might have beaten us on Sarum Plain and all would have been for nothing. We certainly wouldn’t have beaten them so easily, so at the very least you saved thousands of lives. You have done a lot. I would not be alive, let alone queen, if it weren’t for you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And I need you to do more,” Lowa continued. “I have a mission for you and Drustan. But first … look, I shouldn’t have been so harsh. You’ve had a bad time, and I understand why you’re angry. Why don’t you stay here for a while and tell me all that you remember about your family?” She’d heard somewhere that talking about the dead could help people get over their grief.

  “OK…” sniffed Ragnall. “My first memory was seeing my father climbing down a ladder. I remember being worried that he’d fall through the gaps of the ladder, even though…”

  Oh for the love of Danu, thought Lowa, pulling her face into a caring smile.

  Dug walked slowly across Maidun Castle’s torch-lit lower expanse. The evening was warm, the journey was generally uphill and he knew that if he walked quickly the sweat would come and wouldn’t stop. He did not want to be sweaty for the task ahead.

  He’d seen Drustan that afternoon and almost fallen over when the old druid had told him how much wealth Tadman Dantadman had amassed through killing people. Dug was surprised that there was anyone left alive. Lowa had taken half to fund the army, but the remaining half still made him a very rich man. He could have bought a gold-plated farm by any coast and filled it with sheep made of silver. He’d made some half-hearted objections – he didn’t deserve it, it could be put to better use – but Drustan had insisted that it was all his and he hadn’t complained for long. The only downside, Drustan had said, was that he’d also inherited Tadman’s two pets, two large war dogs named Sadist and Pig Fucker. He hadn’t met those yet, but he didn’t like the sound of them.