Reign of Iron: Iron Age Trilogy: Book Three

by Angus Watson

  Chapter 12

  Ragnall pawed at the sword tip protruding from his chest. You didn’t come back from an injury like this, he thought. After all he’d survived–burial in Rome and all Harry the Fister’s tortures, he thought he’d live for ever, but no, here was the sword, stuck in him, killing him. Whose sword was it and how had it got there? Maybe it was a dream? Surely he could not really be… dying?

  Lying on his side, he could see Felix shouting at a Celerman as the creature pulled an arrow through the druid’s arm. Caesar stood nearby, looking about himself as if seeking an opening. He wasn’t going to find one, guarded by all those Maximen. The general didn’t look as relaxed as normal, but he didn’t look nearly as perturbed as he should have done. He appeared slightly frustrated, like an impatient man scanning a busy street for a friend who’s late.

  Behind the general were Lowa, Chamanca and Atlas on their crosses. Well, that was one consolation, thought Ragnall. He remembered what Felix had said about crucifixion, how it was a horrible death that could last for days. He tried to wish that Lowa‘s agony would last for an entire moon, but then he found he didn’t really want it to.

  And then he heard his mother calling. It was time to go home.

  The arrows rained down on Spring. “Stop shooting,” Lowa tried to shout at the fort’s defenders, but it came out only as a croak. She tried to pull at the enormous iron nails pinning her hands, but she could hardly move her fingers, let alone shift the bolts.

  On the fort wall, Spring was hit. She carried on, one arm lolling, running up the tortoise to the top of the fort wall. The bridge went down, Spring leapt and Lowa couldn’t see her any more.

  The five Leathermen who’d followed her across the shields reached the ramp but ignored it and leapt straight up the walls. Three of them were taken down by Maidunite arrows, but two landed successfully and sliced their way through defenders.

  Chapter 13

  “Come on, it’s not that bad, up you get,” said Dug.

  Not that bad? thought Spring, I’ve got a hundred arrows in me. You wouldn’t get up.

  “Possibly not, but I always was lazy and you’re not me. You have to get up.”

  Oh badgers’ bellends, thought Spring as she pushed herself up agonisingly onto all fours, was today never going to end?

  She stood. Colour had gone. The world was a slow-churning whirl of shadowy shapes melding together and drifting apart. Clarity returned for an instant and she saw a hut. Well, a hut wasn’t much use. What was Dug’s point? Where was she meant to go? The hut dissolved, the swirl returned and she staggered.

  “Hurry up, they’re coming!” said Dug.

  You hurry up.

  She tried to walk, but her arrow-stuck leg buckled and she fell, face whumping on the hard earth, arrows driving deeper and twisting into her ruined body. No, no, no. She was done, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  She heard a toddler’s shout. She’d forgotten the name of the woman who looked after the child. It was one of her dad’s old girlfriends. She remembered.

  “Keelin!” she called weakly. She pushed herself up on one arm and saw a Leatherman run through the fort, looking about himself, not seeing her.

  Idiot, she thought.

  Then he spotted her.

  Ah. She looked about for Dug, but he’d gone.

  The Leatherman sprinted at her, shouting and beckoning to somebody else–another Leatherman, Spring guessed.

  “Spring!” It was Keelin, holding little Dug.

  “Put Dug down,” Spring managed. Keelin raised an eyebrow and clutched the boy closer. Spring couldn’t blame her. She probably wouldn’t have handed a toddler to a dying, blood-soaked woman with loads of potentially hazardous arrows sticking out of her either. “Do it!” she shouted.

  Dug screamed angrily, holding one arm out to Spring and scrabbling with the other arm and both feet to free himself from his nanny’s grasp. “Well, if that’s what you want—” said Keelin, plonking Dug on to the ground. Keelin was yanked aside by a Leatherman as Spring took the boy in her arms.

  Time stopped.

  Little Dug smiled. Big Dug looked out of his eyes. The child glowed, Spring’s arrows dissolved and her flesh healed as she floated up from the ground, Dug smiling in her arms. A Leatherman leapt up at her. So. Slowly.

  Clasping Dug in one arm she pointed a hand at the demon. The creature dissolved into a cloud of dust and fell to the ground like beautiful rain.

  The fort all around–the huts, blacksmiths, food stores and the walls themselves–was aglow with great golden light. Spring realised it was coming from her and the child. A second Leatherman was running across the fort as if he were hip deep in the thickest mud. She pointed at him. His head spun round and popped off in a geyser of blood. She rose on up. The Maidunite defenders turned to look at her, shielding their eyes. The legionaries under their shields pressed on up the ramp, oblivious. Spring pointed her finger and they tumbled backwards.

  She saw the crosses on the hill. She could see them in detail, as if she were only ten paces away. Atlas, Chamanca, Felix and everyone else were staring open-mouthed as she rose. Unflappable Caesar was looking mildly confused, as if she were nothing more than a much larger pigeon than you’d usually expect to see. Ragnall was dead.

  And Lowa?

  Lowa was smiling.

  Chamanca was not enjoying her crucifixion–it was tiresomely painful–so she was pleased with the diversion of watching Spring run across the Roman army. She didn’t see the point of it, but it was amusing. Then a light rose from the fort, brighter than the sun but somehow recognisably Spring, holding baby Dug. Lowa was smiling. Did she understand what was happening? Atlas didn’t, his mouth was uncharacteristically agape, but Chamanca bet if they got out of this he’d swear he’d been fully aware at every moment.

  Spring pointed at Lowa. A beam of light burst from above the fort and shot into the queen’s chest. Her head bucked then slumped forward, as if she were dead.

  The iron nails holding her wrists and ankles melted, folded back in on themselves and flowed along Lowa’s limbs, torso and head. Soon Lowa was coated in iron. Lowa was iron.

  The iron queen fell from the cross and landed squarely. Everybody stood back and watched as she walked over and picked up her bow and quiver from where she’d placed them in front of Caesar. The metal flowed from her skin and coated the weapons.

  Chamanca looked back to Spring as a bolt of light hit her, square in the chest. She was blinded for an instant, then she could see more clearly than ever before. The pain disappeared immediately. She felt the nails melt and flow out to cover her and seep into her, with a power a thousand times more powerful than blood.

  She heard Felix scream, “Get them!” as she dropped to the ground. Atlas landed at the same time, also iron-coated.

  Oh yes, she thought. Come and get us.

  Atlas ran for his axe. He saw an Ironman almost on Lowa, now glacially slow compared to the queen’s magical speed. Lowa strung her iron bow in a trice, calmly nocked an iron arrow on the iron string, drew and shot. The missile hit the Ironman square in the sternum and went through him, drawing his armour with it. His chest collapsed inwards and exploded out of his back, showering the surrounding land and legionaries with guts, chunks of bone and shards of iron.

  Atlas picked up his axe as an Ironman swung a sword at him. Iron raced along the wooden shaft of the axe as it became part of his metal being. He dodged the sword blow easily and swung his axe back-handed. The blade struck the thick metal on the Ironman’s hip, sliced on upwards as if the demon were made of rotten wood, and out of the armoured shoulder. The monster fell away, stomach and chest opened and gore flopping out.

  A second iron giant was coming at him but an iron arrow from Lowa blew him apart. Atlas looked for another to kill.

  Chamanca screamed with joy as she picked up her ball-mace and short sword. Iron filled her weapons. It was more power than she’d felt before, more than she’d imagined possible. This was the strength
of the very land–of the rock that lay beneath it all–flowing through her veins.

  She looked around. Lowa and Atlas were slaughtering the Ironmen. The seven remaining Leathermen, however, were guarding Felix. She smiled and sashayed towards them. By Fenn, she thought, she must look amazing.

  The Leathermen came at her.

  She slipped clear of the first demon’s sword lunge and swung her ball-mace so fast and hard into the back of his neck that it came out of the front, exploding vertebrae, voice box, trachea, veins and arteries from his throat.

  Two more advanced, blades flashing. She could see their moves. She knew their moves as if they’d been discussing them for weeks and were now running through the steps in slow motion for the fiftieth time. She jinked to avoid their stabs, tossed her weapons into the air, grabbed the demons by their sword hands, snapped their wrists and pushed their own blades up, through their stomachs and into their hearts. She pushed them away, stepped back and caught her falling mace and sword.

  “Ha!” she shouted.

  Three down, four more to go. Oh yes, she thought, running, leaping and spinning into them.

  Lowa levelled her bow at the last Ironman, but saw Atlas running at him and held back. The Kushite leapt and brought his axe down two-handed into the base of the giant’s neck, slicing through metal and man to his waist. The monster’s chest and stomach sprang open, blood and guts sloshed out and he fell.

  Chamanca was finishing off the last Leatherman. She’d dropped her weapons and was punching him repeatedly in the chest as he staggered back. The leather body armour was holding under the Iberian’s iron-fisted onslaught, but Lowa could hear the ribs crunching and heart and lungs squelching as her punches destroyed them.

  The Iberian took a step back, leapt, and two-foot-kicked her foe in the chest. The final Leatherman collapsed like a sackful of dead eels.

  Well, there you go, thought Lowa.

  She looked about for Felix and saw him running towards the legionaries, who’d been watching agog. Chamanca had told her what had happened on the wall at Wesont where she’d been captured by Caesar, when Felix had sliced the praetorian’s throat to give himself power, so she guessed he was about to try the same here. She wasn’t worried. She felt more than strong enough to deal with a thousand magic-powered Felixes.

  “Chamanca, Atlas, make sure Caesar doesn’t go anywhere,” she said, and strolled after Felix, ready to face his magic.

  But she wouldn’t have to. The legionaries knocked him back with their shields and sent him sprawling. She walked up, put her iron foot on his neck and he was trapped.

  Felix’s gaze moved up the iron leg and torso to the iron face looking down at him. His Celermen and Maximen had all been destroyed and Lowa was about to crush his neck under her boot. He closed his eyes and waited.

  And opened them again. Lowa was regarding him calmly and inquisitively, like a child looking into a rock pool. From one corner of his vision he could see the legionaries staring. From the other corner he saw a familiar figure approach, hips swinging.

  “Lowa. I would like him, please.” The iron Iberian’s voice echoed strangely.

  Lowa lifted her foot off his neck. Chamanca grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to his feet. She switched her grip to his neck, her iron fingers so tight that he could only just breathe.

  “Do you remember all those children you killed when you were Zadar’s druid?”

  What a hypocrite she was. “You’re worse that me.” He struggled to speak. “You’re a blood drinker. Are you going to drink mine?”

  Chamanca shook her head. “I don’t want your blood in me. This is for the children of Britain.”

  Holding his neck with one hand, she took his elbow in the other and squeezed. It popped and blood sprayed between her fingers. He screamed. He couldn’t do anything else. The pain was incredible.

  “And this,” she said, “is for a girl called Autumn.” Felix remembered her. The limping blacksmith’s daughter. He did deserve punishment for what he’d done to that girl. And he got it. Chamanca dropped to a crouch, took his knees in her hands and crushed them both. He fell, then screamed and screamed and screamed, vaguely aware that he was being dragged along by his one good limb. He wondered where to.

  Chapter 14

  Lowa hadn’t known that Chamanca was so inventive, but she was glad of it. The punishment she’d worked out for Felix herself didn’t come to close to what Chamanca did to him. It took a long time and it was nasty. Even though it made Lowa feel so queasy that she turned away, and some of the legionaries who continued watching vomited, she was sure that anybody who knew the man would agree that he deserved every bit of it and more.

  When Chamanca had finished and was wiping the blood, bone chips and brain from her hands on the grass, Lowa looked towards iron Atlas, standing next to Julius Caesar. The general was staring at something behind her in the sky.

  It was Spring, floating through the air towards them like a goddess, carrying little Dug. The boy was grinning. Spring alighted gently on the hill. Lowa felt the iron flood from her body, through the soil and back into the rock below.

  The girl walked over, holding little Dug by the hand as he toddled next to her. The little boy lifted his arms to Lowa. She took him up and hugged him tightly. He clasped her, burying his face in her neck. She breathed in deeply and he smelled of warmth and love–he smelled like big Dug.

  She put the boy down and spoke to Spring. “Would you mind looking after him a moment more? I have something to do.”

  She walked over to where Atlas was standing next to Julius Caesar. Chamanca and Spring followed. On the way she passed the woman and the two black-clad Romans who’d helped to rescue Spring. All three were bruised and bloodied but smiling. She was glad that they’d survived their tussle with the demons. She smiled back at them and gave them a nod that she hoped conveyed welcome and gratitude.

  Caesar coolly watched her approach.

  “I retract my surrender,” she said.

  Atlas translated, Caesar said something and Atlas said: “He’s querying whether a surrender can be retracted.”

  “Tell him it’s my island and I make the rules here. And besides, it was the Romans who restarted the battle. I retract my surrender and I demand that he surrenders.”

  Atlas did, Caesar nodded then spoke at some length.

  “He apologises for the behaviour of his druid,” said Atlas. “But he sees no reason to surrender. He has most of your army in chains, and even if they were free he still outnumbers you.”

  “He’s seen what my druid can do. Does he want me to kill every legionary now or would he rather take them home? He does not have to formally surrender, but he must promise to leave Britain this moon with all his legions.” Lowa turned to Spring. “Spring, who are these three who saved you from Felix?”

  “Tertius, Ferrandus and Clodia Metelli. They’re two of Caesar’s elite guard and… Clodia.”

  “All right. All his legions will go but one. We will keep that legion here for two years to tidy up the mess that he’s caused. If the three of them agree to it, this legion will be commanded by Clodia Metelli, with Tertius and Ferrandus as her deputies. And here’s the important part. No other Roman legionary will set foot again on British soil for a hundred years. If they do, British druids will kill every one of Caesar’s family.”

  “Why not kill Caesar?” asked Chamanca. “He’s done terrible things and he will do more if you let him go.”

  “Evil shit he may be,” said Lowa, “but I trust him. I think we can count on him to remove his men, and not to come back.”

  “Why only a hundred years?”

  “Because forever doesn’t mean anything. A hundred years, they might actually stick to. If Britain hasn’t learnt its lessons and made itself ready to repel invaders by then, it deserves to be conquered.

  “Atlas, translate my demands, please, although not that last part.”

  “Can I?” asked Spring.

  “I don’t know, ca
n you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then go for it.”

  Spring spoke in what sounded to Lowa like confident, flowing Latin. Caesar looked surprised initially, then listened, then spoke, at one point questioning Clodia, Ferrandus and Tertius, who looked like they all replied positively.

  “He agrees to everything with two conditions,” said Spring. “First one is easiest. He’ll write the story of the invasion–I’ve heard him write his journals, he makes it up as he goes along–and he wants you to agree that neither you nor any of your agents will go to Rome and deny what he writes.”

  “Fine. Next?”

  “He will leave a legion behind, on the condition that it’s made up of volunteers from his legions as far as possible, that the men are treated well, and, most importantly, that after two years are up, they should be given land in Britain and remain here. I guess he doesn’t want them flooding back to Rome and spoiling his story.”

  Lowa nodded, pleased to see that Spring’s year with the Romans didn’t seem to have caused any harm, in fact the opposite. She seemed more assured, and, most importantly, she didn’t seem to hate Lowa any more.

  Caesar’s first condition she couldn’t have given the smallest of craps about. He could tell whatever stories he liked as long as he buggered off. The second rather suited her. The Spring Tide had depopulated Dumnonian and Murkan land, and more men had been killed than women, so it would be no hardship to accept five thousand immigrants. She would have Spring, Atlas, Clodia and the two praetorians vet the legionaries and she’d send any they didn’t like to Eroo, but Caesar didn’t need to know that.

  “Tell him I agree to his conditions.”

  Spring translated. Caesar nodded and wordlessly held out his hand. Lowa held out hers. He gripped her elbow, she gripped his and they shook.

  Lowa looked around. Chamanca was holding Atlas’ arm; the African was looking at her, a rare half-smile on his scarred face. It seemed Lowa hadn’t stopped running since the day she’d given him that scar. Maybe now, finally, she could just sit down for a while, watch her son grow up and teach him to avoid people like Zadar–and herself, she supposed.