by Angus Watson
It felt as if someone had come into a damp, abandoned hut and put a torch to the huge cauldron of oil that had waited there for years. Lowa exploded out of Chamanca’s grasp. She spun. Chamanca was already coming at her, swinging her mace. Lowa ducked easily and drove a left then a right fist into the Iberian’s stomach. Chamanca fell forward. Lowa slammed an uppercut into her face. Chamanca flew five paces and landed heavily on the arena floor, where she lay still.
Lowa had once stood under a waterfall. The noise from the crowd sounded and felt like that. She raised her arms and turned around and the cheering became even louder. And then it quietened as, from the arena walls, twenty or so of the Fifty dropped, all heavily armed. They walked towards Lowa like a team of spiders heading across a web towards a fly. Behind them, a door burst open in the arena wall. A huge man clad in preposterously thick plates of iron armour stamped out. The blades strapped to his forearms and shins were so large they looked more like farming equipment than weapons. Tadman, Lowa thought. Only he could walk in that get-up.
She looked about for Chamanca’s sword. This time the tiredness hadn’t come after the explosion. She felt ready. She’d never beat twenty of them, let alone the iron giant, but she was going to give it a go. She’d die fighting with all her wounds in the front. Unless they got behind her of course, which was likely …
There was a thwack behind her. She flicked round. A bow lay on the arena floor. It was her broken bow’s twin, made at the same time by Elann Nancarrow. She smiled as a quiver of arrows slapped down next to it. Carden and Atlas were giving her the thumbs up. Drustan, standing between them, was smiling.
She dived at the bow and whipped up the quiver. Her attackers saw what was happening and charged. No matter. She reached up, grabbed an arrow, strung, three-quarter drew – at this range there was no need for a full pull – and released. The nearest Warrior fell. Lowa’s arms pumped. Grab, nock, draw, release. The next attacker went down, then the next and the next and the next. The poor fools had brought mêlée weapons to a projectile fight.
By the time she had emptied the quiver, there was only one Warrior left in the arena. And Tadman, still lumbering towards her, but he hadn’t crossed even a quarter of the ring. Lowa unstrung the bow and brandished the thick stave.
The last Warrior held up his hands in submission and walked away.
“Yahhhhh!” jeered the crowd.
The waddling, iron-clad Tadman approached.
“You faithless shits!” Felix was purple, staring at Atlas and Carden. “How dare you!” Elliax was peppered by gobs of spittle from the druid’s uncontrolled bellowing.
“Calm, Felix.” Zadar sounded like he was dealing with a tiresome child who was spoiling a family outing. “Use the contingency. Detain them, kill Lowa.”
The purple drained from Felix’s face and he smiled. “Good idea, my king.” He turned to Elliax with a look on his face that Elliax did not like at all.
Felix’s left arm lashed out, whumping into Elliax’s chest. Elliax thought he was just being moved out of the way, but the hand stayed there and something horrible happened. He looked down. Felix’s hand was inside his shirt like a boy’s hand inside a girl’s blouse at a dance, but it was also inside his chest … squeezing, if he wasn’t mistaken, his heart. He heard himself moan like a grief-stricken goat.
Felix pointed at Drustan, Carden and Atlas. All three fell and lay immobile, apart from their eyes, which widened, pupils darting from side to side.
“Few things more useful than a life force as twisted as yours, Elliax. Especially after what we’ve put you through,” whispered Felix. “And you, Drustan! You thought you could compare to me. You dared to challenge Zadar…”
As the rant continued, Elliax smiled to himself. He may have been in an unenviable position, having the life squeezed out of him by an evil druid, but he was still managing to feel a little smug because he knew something that Felix didn’t. While the king and his dark druid were focusing on Drustan and his accomplices, they were completely ignoring their real problem: the little girl sitting peacefully on the other side of Zadar.
Mal had insisted that he and Miller come to the arena with Nita, hoping to temper her burgeoning hooliganism. He’d been surprised when he’d seen Silver with Zadar, but apparently Nita had known she was Zadar’s daughter all along.
“And her real name is Weasel-biter,” she’d said with that strangely great pleasure that she took from knowing something he didn’t. Miller had said he wasn’t surprised. Hadn’t he said that she looked high-born?
Despite his misgivings about challenging Zadar, Mal had enjoyed himself greatly. When Lowa had destroyed the chariot, he’d found himself on his feet with everyone else, roaring with pure pleasure and excitement. Now half the Fifty were falling under her bow, he was clapping enthusiastically. There was an invincible-looking, iron-skinned man mountain waddling towards her too, but he was so slow and unwieldy that Mal couldn’t see her being caught. No, the real worry, he realised as the second-last of the Warriors in the ring fell and Lowa ran out of arrows, were the rest of Zadar’s elite forces who were guarding the crowd.
He was about to voice his concerns to Nita when she put her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Now!”
With a swish of iron on leather, all around the arena hundreds of swords and knives were pulled from their sheaths and brandished at the soldiers. Most surrendered immediately. A few refused and were hacked apart. Nearby he saw a bloody hand raised, before a bleeding Warrior was pushed off the stand to thump soggily onto the arena floor below.
“You three, tie him up! You – you’re with us or you’re dead! You there, help them! No, not them, them!” Nita pointed and shouted as Mal gaped at her aghast. He was going to say something, but instead he sat down, closed his eyes and hoped that everything would be better when he opened them.
There was some kind of trouble in the crowd. The people were attacking Zadar’s remaining guards, Lowa saw with relief and confusion. Out of arrows, she wasn’t looking forward to taking on any more of the Fifty. At the centre of the rebels was a square-jawed, tawny-headed woman brandishing a hatchet. Lowa caught her eye. The woman raised her weapon in salute and shouted, “Lowa! Lowa!” Lowa nodded back her gratitude.
The crowd took up the chant. “Lowa! Lowa!” Her name crashed around the arena as she turned to face Tadman. He was approaching with the noise, speed and grace of an iron cart full of iron ingots pulled by reluctant iron oxen. There was a particularly loud clang! as one of his arm blades whacked his leg. It was a wonderful suit of armour, and it might have been some use against a massed enemy hemmed in on a battlefield, but here … He was slowing down. It looked like fatigue was going to stop him even getting to her. If he did reach her, she’d move.
Was that it then? She looked around. Chamanca was stirring, so she cracked her on the head with the unstrung bow and she collapsed. She considered following with a windpipe-crusher but realised with a pang of surprise that she actually quite liked Chamanca, or at least that she didn’t want to kill her. Weird, she thought.
Instead she picked up her sword. She might as well, she thought, go and see if there were any gaps in Tadman’s armour through which a blade might be stuck.
Elliax was still sucking in breaths. He tried to raise his arms to pull Felix’s hand from his chest, but he couldn’t. He felt himself being shifted around as Felix turned his attention to the action in the ring. The druid lifted a finger and pointed at Tadman.
There was a massive clang then a series of bangs. The iron-clad giant leaped into the air, crashed his massive arm blades together, then sprinted at Lowa. It was as if the impossibly weighty armour had suddenly become light as the finest cotton and Tadman had gained the springiness of a fifteen-year-old acrobat. Lowa felt her mouth open in dumb wonder. She clamped it shut, crouched and readied her weapon.
He was there in moments, massive arm blade sweeping. She dived, rolled and ran. The strange but joyful power was still coursing through her limbs. Sh
e’d never run so fast, even down the slope of Barton when she’d first escaped Zadar.
Lowa looked over her shoulder. Unbelievably, he’d already turned and was coming after her like a multi-limbed mobile metal mountain. More unbelievably, he was catching up. She didn’t even have speed on her side.
He was on her.
She leaped, stabbing her bow at his exposed face, planning to leap clear over his head to get behind him.
Tadman turned his head. She whacked thick metal. Something grabbed her foot. Her trajectory changed with a jolt and she was flying in the wrong direction. The crowd flashed by in a blur. He was swinging her around his head. In among the blur she was sure she saw Felix’s smiling face.
He let go. She was in the air for an age, time enough to wonder whether she should land with her arms out, which might break her arms, or tuck her arms back and land on her head, which would … She came down on her hands, sprang from a handstand onto her feet – How was she doing this? – spun round and—
He was already there. He kicked with his bladed shin. She dodged. His arm swung and she ducked, driving her bow at the gap where his leg plate met his groin. He shifted, she missed, and his iron-gloved hand smashed into her head. The flat of his blade cracked across her body and she spun away stumbling, then falling.
She was on her back. She’d lost her bow. She opened her eyes. Tadman’s huge iron boot crashed down onto her chest like a rockslide onto a village. He lifted his arms in victory. She punched at his iron-clad leg ineffectually. With a huge heave, she achieved absolutely nothing. He raised both arm blades high into the air, then swung them down together, to scissor through her neck. She closed her eyes.
Mal opened his eyes. It hadn’t got any better. Not only was his wife a rebel rabble-rouser, but the intended head of the rebellion was about to be killed. It would mean doom for them all. Mal could already see the future. Without a popular leader the rebellion would certainly fail, they’d have to flee, they’d be hunted down, probably by dogs …
In the arena it was all but over for Lowa. It looked like she was out cold after that mighty whack. The iron giant ran up, raised his foot, pinned her to the ground and lifted his blades. She pounded at him weakly … But what was this? Tearing across the ring, faster than a hare with its tail on fire, faster than anyone had a right to be running, especially one as stocky as this fellow, was a bearded man brandishing a hammer.
Hang on a minute, thought Mal. To his massive surprise, he recognised him. It was Dug Sealskinner. Mal had soldiered with him in the north, years back. Nice guy, he remembered. Big fan of boozing, not so keen on training, marching or anything that required effort, although he was surprisingly frenzied if you could persuade him to join a battle. He’d saved Mal’s life once and nearly killed him a couple of times despite being on the same side. And here he was. This was turning out to be a very strange day.
As the blades came down, Dug launched into the air like a hound leaping for a stick. He flew helmet first into the giant’s chest, knocking him backwards off Lowa. The blades swished together, missing her nose by a whisker. Dug fell onto his back, sprang up, grabbed Lowa by the leather chest-guard and flicked her away across the ring. Already the giant’s blade was coming down, but Dug parried with his hammer. The other blade fell, and Dug parried again. The giant smashed his blades up and down like a mushroom-demented bard beating a drum at Beltane, but Dug blocked and blocked and blocked.
Mal found himself involuntarily blowing out a low whistle. It was a sight to see. They were big men – Dug was perhaps shoulder height to the giant – but both were moving with the agility of young wildcats. Where had Dug got this from? He’d been good, back in the day, but not gods-powered amazing.
The giant stopped his aerial assault and kicked with one of his bladed shins. Dug melted to the side, swung his hammer back, under and up and spang! into the giant’s groin. The giant staggered.
“What the fuck,” asked Zadar, “is happening?”
“I don’t know. There must be another druid. A capable one.” Felix sounded more perplexed than worried. “Perhaps it’s the man with the hammer, but I doubt it. There’s a druid channelling power into him and he could be anywhere in the arena.”
Elliax smiled even though he was dead. The secret druid wasn’t a he. He knew who it was. While everyone else cheered and booed and ooed, one was still. Perhaps only he could see the shimmering river of power flowing from her to the bearded man in the ring because he was dead and nobody else was. He was pretty sure he was dead. His heart was crushed but he didn’t feel any pain. That sounded like death to him.
There was a great “Ooooooo!” from the crowd as the iron giant retreated. The Warrior followed up with hammer blow after banging hammer blow, forehand and backhand to the giant’s flanks as Tadman flailed his arms, trying to regain his balance.
“Felix. You must win this fight,” said Zadar. Was that a note of concern in his voice?
“Let’s add a moral sacrifice to our amoral one then,” said Felix. He reached out towards Anwen with the hand that wasn’t in Elliax’s chest. She flew over from where she had been bending over the prone Carden and was spitted on Felix’s outstretched limb. She gasped.
It’s always easier to have someone else in the same predicament, thought Elliax, especially someone as lovely as Anwen. He tried to say hello to the gulping girl, but his mouth didn’t work, which wasn’t a surprise, him being dead and all. No matter. He looked back to the ring. The giant had regained his balance, and the blades attached to his arms had burst into flame.
That’s clever, thought Elliax.
Dug whacked away the flaming blade. The other one came closer before he could knock it back, and he felt his face blister, but that didn’t matter so much. He’d never felt better. He leaped in a diving headbutt at his large opponent’s face, the only exposed part. He felt his helmet crunch bone. He leaped back. The giant, blood in his eyes, flailed at him blindly with his flaming swords. Dug dived, rolled, came up behind him, jumped and slammed his hammer down two-handed onto Tadman’s head.
Lowa stood. The lethargy was on her again. She shook her head to clear it and met Tadman’s eyes just as Dug’s hammer crashed down. The German’s thick helmet bent almost imperceptibly out of shape, his pupils widened and his jaw bulged. Dug leaped and brought his hammer down again. A tooth and a squirt of blood jetted from Tadman’s pursed lips. Dug jumped and hit him again and again, like a determined madman malleting a post into rocky ground. The helmet crumpled, whack by whack. Lowa watched, fascinated, as Tadman’s face collapsed into pulverised teeth, bone and brain.
“Felix?”
Zadar turned to his henchman, but Felix was staring past him, slack-jawed, at Spring, who was sitting happily as if waiting for a favourite bard to begin, as if she’d been absolutely nothing to do with the carnage in the ring.
“You!” Felix pointed at the girl.
Finally, thought Elliax.
The girl didn’t respond. She was focused on Dug.
“Zadar, you must kill Sabina now,” said Felix through tight lips.
If the idea of killing his own daughter caused Zadar a moment of internal debate, it didn’t show. He whipped out a blade and slashed it across the girl’s throat.
Chapter 34
“Are you all right?” His brown eyes bulged with concern as if her well-being was the most important thing in the world. It was an awful lot more than she deserved.
“Dug. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t fuss, Lowa. Things happen. Are you injured?”
Lowa reached her hand to her neck then looked at it. It was covered in blood. She showed her bloody hand to Dug with a questioning eyebrow.
“Aye. OK. Are you injured badly? Are you going to die if I don’t get a druid to you immediately?”
“No, I’m all right for now.”
Nita looked about herself and nodded. Mal followed her gaze. Yes, she and her followers had subdued all the Warriors who’d been guarding the crowd, but
they were just a fraction of the troops that Zadar commanded. What would come next? What had she done, by Toutatis? And surely, whatever it was, she could have involved him in it a little more? At least told him something was going to happen.
Ragnall climbed the arena wall. As he’d watched Dug defeat Tadman it had struck him yet again that he was hardly the hero. Dug had defeated the giant. He had fetched Dug and found the service route into the arena, so he had been useful, vital even, but in the bard’s tale of the day he’d appear as sidekick at best. Not even that probably. Useful ally perhaps. Quirky friend.
And now it was time to face Anwen.
When Raynall reached the top of the wooden wall, he saw a small man with receding hair holding Anwen by the chest with one hand and a skinny man in the same way with the other.
To the left was Zadar and, next to him, Spring.
“Anwen!” he shouted.
She didn’t respond.
He started up towards them.
The small man said something to Zadar.
A blade flashed into Zadar’s hand and he lashed out at Spring, slashing the blade across her neck. Spring didn’t seem to notice. Zadar looked at his hand. Where the dagger had been was a long, brown duck feather. He threw it away and looked disgustedly at Spring. Spring looked back at him, enough disappointment for a hundred lifetimes on her young face.
Zadar turned to the small man, said something, and the latter … disappeared. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. The man he had been holding and Anwen collapsed, thumping down onto the seats.
“Anwen!” Ragnall cried. Next to her, Drustan and two large Warriors struggled to their feet.
She was face down on a bench. He turned her over. Her eyes were open and beautiful and sad and dead. He felt her neck. No pulse. Ragnall stared at her, waiting for the tears to come. They didn’t. He called on the gods to breathe life back into her. Nothing happened.
“Hold Zadar!” he heard Drustan say. The Warriors pushed past him.
