by Angus Watson
“Silence!” shouted Tadman. “I think you said … Fish!”
There were cheers and boos.
Tadman chucked the fish to Lowa. She picked it up. It was solidly carved from wood, about half a pace long. Actually not that bad a weapon. She also had the chain attached to her ankle. It depended on what they sent at her, but the chain might be useful too.
When she looked up again, Tadman was climbing a ladder out of the ring. He pulled the ladder up after him and stood on the ring’s side “Are you ready, Lowa?”
A small cheer.
“Come here and you’ll find out!”
A huge cheer.
Tadman smiled. “Open gate one!”
Lowa heard bolts shift. She turned.
A large bear lumbered out and spun round, hollering hatred at whoever had just jabbed it out of its cage. The door swung shut. The bear surveyed the baying crowd and roared again. Probably, thought Lowa, angry from lack of food. It would have been starved for long enough to make it ravenous but not long enough to weaken it.
The chain would be no use against a raging bear fifteen times her weight. She looked at the wooden fish in her hand, then at the bear. It had seen her. It was looking at her, nose out, sniffing. Bears, they all said, ate your face first, then your liver, maybe while you were still alive but with a wet bubbling hole where your face used to be. And she had a wooden fish.
The bear took a step towards her and growled, showing its teeth.
She hefted the fish from hand to hand. Could she jam it in the bear’s mouth? Who was she kidding? She was fucked.
A flash caught her eye. A short iron sword landed on the arena floor a few paces away. She picked it up and looked into the crowd for its source. Atlas, sitting between Carden and Drustan, nodded back at her.
The bear charged.
Chapter 27
“I can make you some eggs or something?”
“Um?”
“To go with your cider. It’ll make you feel better?”
Dug looked down at the little barmaid. She really was tiny. Not a dwarf with a disproportionately large head, more like a woman who’d shrunk in the rain, or a child with an adult’s face and body. Quite a nice body. What was it about hangovers? It felt like bright light would make him vomit, but he was overrun by a base, shag-anyone horniness that the most dedicated of sex pests would consider a little over the top.
“You’re kind, hen, but just the cider will do,” he managed. “Maybe in a few pints’ time I’ll have the eggs.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.”
“Is it?” Dug searched his memory … Nope, yesterday had gone. “Aye, well, I agree with me.” He was still well enough to speak, but he knew the hangover would really kick in if he delayed any longer.
“What’s the damage for yesterday, by the way?”
“You didn’t fight last night and you’re all paid up for the night before. It looked like you were going to start something at one point, but you all ended up singing together. Remember?”
“Aye,” he lied.
“Hold the cider,” said an educated young man’s voice that Dug knew and disliked. He turned slowly.
“Ragnall.”
“Dug, you’ve got to help. Zadar’s got Lowa.”
“Left you already, has she? I’m sure they’ll make a lovely couple. Sorry for your loss.”
“He’s making her fight in the arena. She may be dead already. You’ve got to come. I can’t do a thing, but maybe you—”
“No, sorry, can’t help.” He looked back towards the barmaid. “Make that two ciders.”
“I don’t want any cider,” Ragnall said.
Dug didn’t look up. “And? They’re both for me.”
“He’s got Spring too.”
Dug turned. They were the same height, but somehow he towered over Ragnall.
“You let them take Spring.”
“You left Spring.”
Dug raised his fist. Ragnall cowered. Dug lowered his fist.
The light outside the tavern was like knives in his eyes. The world swung towards him like a great weight on a rope and … aye, there you go. He spun round, hunkered down against the tavern wall and quietly vomited an evil bright green liquid, tending, towards the end, to orange. Recovering, he blinked and looked around. It was quite a cloudy day, thank Toutatis. Who knew what unfiltered sunlight would have done to him? So this was what Forkton looked like. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in and he hadn’t left the tavern since.
It was like a crap version of Bladonfort, with ramshackle single-storey wooden buildings surrounding a market. There was a burned-out, jagged-timbered gap on one side. The odd clean-shaven, toga-wearing man and a few women with hair in ringlets looked with wrinkled noses at the man who’d disturbed the peace with his chundering, but most of the people staring at Dug looked British – leather-clad, hairy and unscrubbed.
Ragnall was untying a couple of horses from a rail next to a water trough.
“Out the way, I’m going to dunk my head.”
“Actually I was thinking the river might be better? You smell quite bad…”
Dug looked at Ragnall. Ragnall took a step back.
“All right. River. But I’ll do this as well or I won’t make it that far.” Dug plunged his head into the water.
Chapter 28
Nita returned from the arena at the head of a gang, most of whom were women. Mal didn’t like the look of it. Nita peeled away from the throng, waving goodbye and shouting that she’d see them at the tavern in a heartbeat or two.
“She was amazing.” Nita’s eyes were ablaze.
“She?” Mal asked.
“Amazing. They sent in three huge bears. I don’t know where Tadman got them from. He must’ve been saving them. They didn’t stand a chance though. It was like she was dancing. Tadman looked lost. He obviously thought it would last a while but it was over in seconds. They put on a couple of dogs after and drummed up some captives from somewhere, but they were clearly an afterthought. They went even quicker than the bears. She is amazing.”
“She’s still alive then?”
“They’ll never kill her.”
“Oh, they will.” That was Miller, walking into the yard.
“Were you there?”
“I was. Part of the ever dwindling male audience.”
“Men aren’t going?” asked Mal.
“They’re trying to, but there are so many women clogging the stands that it’s tricky getting seats. They love Lowa. And that’s why she’ll die tomorrow,”
“Who’s going to kill her?” asked Nita. “You?”
“Nita, I like her too. But they have to kill her. She’s become the unwitting head of a fermenting rebellion.”
“What rebellion?” asked Mal, dreading the answer.
“The one that started at the inn, with little Silver. This idea that everyone – women particularly – will be treated badly under the Romans. People are questioning Zadar crapping on everyone else and letting the Romans come. There’s a lot of talk, a lot of very dangerous talk, that we should be bringing the Murkans, Dumnonians and all the rest into line and preparing to defend ourselves.”
“But that will mean war. It’s a stupid idea.”
“Maybe not. A lot of people have been talking to merchants and sailors. It seems that Silver was right. They all say that women are treated little better than animals in Rome and all over its empire. In fact, they’re saying that, bar a few at the top, everybody in the conquered lands is treated like shit, has to bow to Roman laws, follow the Roman gods … So pretty much everyone is speaking out against Zadar. I have some sympathy. But supporting Lowa and talking in the taverns is not the way to do things. We should choose someone to talk to Zadar ask him to reassure us that we won’t take on Roman ways. As it is, people are getting excited and angry, and that’s coalescing as support for Lowa in the ring. But you should have seen her today. She killed three bears with a sword like they were lambs, then they took th
e sword off her and she killed two wolves with a wooden fish. After that the captives never stood a chance. She can fight like Makka’s own. Plus I daresay she’ll be filling a few men’s thoughts for the days to come, if you know what I mean. If the people are ever going to unite behind anyone to oust Zadar, it’ll be Lowa Flynn. These are dangerous times and Zadar knows it. Someone needs to talk to him before he takes it out on the people.”
“But you reckon tomorrow will be the end of it?”
“I hope they’ll hold off suppressing the people, kill her tomorrow and end this insane anti-Zadar movement.”
“They won’t kill her. They won’t be able to. I’m off to the tavern. See you later!” Nita left, hips swinging.
Miller looked around as if to check that nobody was listening. “Mal, sorry, I don’t think that sending Silver off was enough. You have to talk to Nita. If killing Lowa doesn’t quieten the people, then they’ll be after the ringleaders. And Nita has very much become one of the ringleaders.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s not too late. She’s one of many. If you can persuade her not to go to the arena tomorrow and to stop spreading anti-Zadar talk, then I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“I’ll try to talk to her. Come on, let’s both go. We’ll catch her at the pub.”
“Are you sure? She’ll be with her friends.”
“Yes, but later she’ll be pissed. We’re best off catching her sooner.”
Chapter 29
Despite it all, Lowa slept until dawn.
She lay on the bed as light chinked through the gaps around the edge of the door, looking up at the brightening ceiling. This would probably be the last day. That was a shame. She wished she really did believe in the Otherworld. To think she’d never wake up again was quite poignant. Almost frightening. Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. The thing was, she liked being alive. Even now, in the arena. Perhaps especially now.
She was buoyed by the adoration of the crowd, but more than that, much more than that, the life of a captive fighter thrilled her. She could rage and kill. In fact she was meant to. She didn’t have to think of others or watch her temper. She didn’t have to sneak and plan, or find food and shelter. All she had to do was kill and kill again. It was why she liked battle. Proper battle, when the plans had all gone to shit and it was fight, fight, fight. She loved nothing more. That was one reason she was so good at it.
She looked around and found that someone had been into her arena-side cell. That was disconcerting. First Spring had crept into the hut in Kanawan, and now this … She was getting old. Now in her mid-twenties, she was no longer the super-scout who woke at the sound of a mouse’s cough. Perhaps it was her time to die.
Whoever had been had left two buckets of water, a bowl of eggs fried with mushrooms, nettles and salt – strangely enough exactly the same dish that Spring had cooked the morning after she’d rescued them in Bladonfort – some bread, a short but well made iron sword and some leather garb: a pair of shorts, laced-to-the-knee sandals and a thick band with four thongs at one end and four holes at the other. They clearly expected her to tie the band around her chest. Her first reaction was that she wasn’t going to go out there dressed like an unimaginative king’s harem’s fantasy fighting girl, but then she thought, Why not?. Her fort-breaking camouflage outfit hummed with a multi-layered reek of her own varyingly aged sweat and others’ blood. And, she thought with half a smile, she’d look pretty good in a leather two-piece.
She ate, stripped and washed, then squeezed into the outfit. The shorts fit well but the chest band was tight. Which was fine. Movement was fine, and if her boobs were a bit squeezed, so be it. She washed her trousers and top and laid them on the bed to dry. Maybe, she thought, she could sleep in them that night. She stretched in preparation for the fights to come as feet began to tramp into the wooden arena, first like distant drums, then like rumbling thunder. Finally, as she sat cross-legged on the floor bending over one knee, preparing for battle, her cell door swung open. Bright light and the roar of the crowd flooded in. She stood, picked up the sword and walked out.
If anything, the cheering was louder than the day before. There were perhaps ten thousand shaggy-haired shouting faces in the stepped terraces around her. Spectating on the spectators were the armoured and armed Warriors of the Fifty, plus members of the elite cavalry and charioteers, stationed regularly along the top of the arena wall. Interesting, thought Lowa. The crowd hadn’t been policed like this on the previous two days. It looked like Zadar had become unsure of the mob’s loyalty. Or maybe he thought women were more trouble? An even higher proportion of the noisy throng today were female – shouting, screaming, even ululating. There were plenty of male voices too though, providing a bass rumble and threading a vein of wolf whistles and “phwooaarr” noises through the encouraging cheers. Lowa spread her feet, lifted her chest, raised an arm and stretched out her right flank. The male shouts trebled in volume, which was satisfying.
She turned to see who was in the posh seats above her cell. Ah, this isn’t good, she thought. They contained a less ecstatic crowd. That shit Drustan sat smugly, plus Carden, Atlas, Anwen, Chamanca, Keelin, Felix and Zadar. Even the snivelling captive from the Eyrie was there. And there was a child next to Zadar … Spring! The girl jumped up and waved frantically when Lowa caught her eye. Zadar pulled her back into her seat.
So Spring had gone back to her dad. Lowa couldn’t blame her. With Zadar as a father, Spring would have a life of ease. Assuming he stayed in power, which seemed likely, Spring could do whatever she wanted – lead a band of mercenaries, make pretty pots, travel to mysterious lands, sit around getting fat, whatever. Lowa would have gone home if she’d been Spring.
Zadar looked at her, dead-eyed. He was unchanged. She hadn’t dented his rule, let alone brought him down. She hadn’t even spoiled his day. That was annoying. But what had she expected? He was King of Maidun, she was a lone soldier. Try as much as you like, you can’t change the world on your own because, no matter how important and clever you think you are, there’s so much more to it than just you. She was like one starling splitting from a huge flock. Nothing was going to change and it didn’t matter to any of the other birds.
When they were no more than Spring’s age and wandering, she and Aithne had gone through a phase of killing sheep. If they came across an unguarded flock, the rule was that you had to fire an arrow as high as you could, angled slightly to come down among the grazing animals. Every now and then they hit one. The rest of the flock might be startled for a moment, but soon after Lowa or Aithne had finished off the unlucky sheep, the others would go back to munching away at the grass as if nothing had happened. Today Lowa was the unlucky sheep. Fate’s arrow was zooming down out of the sky, straight for her. Wasn’t her fault, nothing she could do, and nobody would really give a crap afterwards.
She turned back to the crowd. Wave after wave of cheering buffeted her like a warm sea. There were no boos. It felt good. Even if she was about to die. Now, she thought, who – or what – was she going to be killed by?
As if in reply, two big bearded men in leather garb appeared from the door that Tadman usually swaggered out from. One had a nasty-looking hammer, the other some sort of short, vicious stabbing weapon. Lowa checked that she had enough play on her chain and waited. She didn’t recognise them, but they were tough-looking bastards, perhaps newly recruited, probably superbly skilled with their weapons. When they were five paces away she raised her sword two-handed and crouched with her weight on her back leg, ready to spring.
“Danu’s tears, stop!” shouted one, holding out a hand. “We’re here to take your shackle off.” He nodded towards her ankle and held up a thick chisel.
The other waggled his hammer. “That’s all, princess, I promise!”
“All right.” Lowa proffered her chained ankle. “But don’t call me princess.”
“All right, but that’s what they’re calling you.”
“Who are ‘they’?”<
br />
“People.”
“Why?”
“Cos they reckon you’ll be queen soon.”
“I’m going to be dead soon.”
“Yeah, more people are saying that.”
“Thanks for the boost.”
The men got to work. Once they’d finished, unseen hands dragged the chain back into her cell. It snaked back jingling across the ring.
“Hang on,” said Lowa as the men turned to leave. “Leave your tools.”
“But…” They said in unison. Lowa waggled her sword at them. The blacksmiths looked at each other, shrugged, put the hammer and chisel down on the reed-strewn arena floor, and jogged away accompanied by the laughter and jeers of the crowd … which changed to cheering as a wide gate opened and a horse cantered into the ring, followed by an adapted war chariot. The vehicle had a light chariot’s frame but the bulkier wheels and, more noticeably, the pace-long wheel blades of a heavy chariot. The driver was a slight, long-haired, bum-fluff-bearded boy of maybe sixteen whom she’d never seen before, but she recognised the Warrior.
Dord Chandler was a bald, round-headed, dark-skinned man with a large, powerful frame, stiff black moustache and an attractive twinkle in his eye. Lowa had spoken to him a few times and found that he wasn’t nearly as interesting as he looked. He talked only about chariots and fighting from the back of them. Try to change the subject, and he’d relate it to chariot warfare. “Eggs? Yeah, I like a good yolk but I prefer the new triple wood yoke that Elann Nancarrow and me…” And so on. She hadn’t taken to him. Still, the obsessives were usually the best, and his reputation was strong. So was hers, of course, but only as an archer, and she didn’t have her bow.
So, finally, they’d sent a name against her. She wasn’t meant to walk away from this one. Lowa was mildly surprised. If she’d been organising, she would have spun her death out over the morning – maybe some lions or a better-armed group of captives. Zadar obviously wanted her dead quickly. She turned to the king and waved. He looked back impassively. She changed her wave to a V-fingered “fuck off” gesture. Pretty pathetic, she thought, but the people seemed to like it, going by their noise. She bowed, turning as the crowd cheered some more. She might as well, she thought, enjoy this.
