by Angus Watson
The Maidun line doubled the speed of its retreat, jogging diagonally backwards, away from the pursuing Dumnonians and out from the battle’s centre, spears brandished to keep the heavy chariots at bay. They were headed for a thickly brambled band of wood, which would protect their flank from the light chariots and their slingstones. Given the speed those chariots were coming, though, there was no way they were going to make it.
Dug was glad he wasn’t on the far right. Very soon they were going to be hit hard by a hailstorm of lethal stones. Still, it didn’t really matter whether he was there or not. If the far right collapsed under the onslaught, they were all fucked.
Dozens of balls of burning thatch crackled over Lowa’s head.
She looked across to Samalur’s position. She had a clearer view of him since both armies had split down the middle, hers retreating away from the centre, his following, leaving a gap in front of his central command position. Like her, he was perched on a burial mound, surrounded by a few guards and probably the same group of hangers-on from the day before. For an instant she was sure he was looking directly at her, but then he was obscured by smoke from the burning thatch.
Atlas’ whistle sang out three times, the signal to pick up the pace again. It would be difficult for the ranks to maintain form at that speed, so it meant that something was going wrong.
Oh aye, thought Dug, as he saw over on the right the first of the light chariots come into range and unleash a volley of slingstones. Those holding pikes in the front rows – the ones holding the blade-wheeled heavy chariots at bay – didn’t have shields. A lot of them fell. The heavy chariots charged.
“Now?” asked Spring.
“Now,” Lowa agreed, putting her hand over the ear that was nearest to the girl.
“Horrrrr – sesssssss!!!” screeched Spring. She might not be able to use her magic, but her scream, louder than all the battle trumpets combined, was proving useful.
From their hiding place behind a low rise, Ragnall and two hundred other riders armed with swords and bows heard Spring and mounted. For the first time in a while the young man felt brave, confident and full of purpose. He roared a battle cry. That drew some disapproving glances from his mostly older and more sensible fellows, but he didn’t care.
He was off. He was leading the charge.
Lowa saw then coming and sped ahead, followed by Spring. So Lowa was leading the charge now and Spring was at her shoulder. How annoying, thought Ragnall. Although also something of a relief. The first enemy stones and arrows were not usually targeted on the third rider from the front.
Up ahead, the catapulted bales burnt merrily, gushing smoke away from them, obscuring the Dumnonian army, then Lowa as she and her horse plunged into the fog, followed by little Spring on her mount. Ragnall willed his horse on. The beast complied. Ragnall took a deep breath. Gripping his horse with his thighs and his sword in his hand, he followed the new queen into the smoke.
They reached the trees and stopped retreating, but it was far from the end of problems for the right of the Maidun army. In fact, Dug realised with a snort of annoyance, it was the beginning of his.
The far right was now, as planned, protected from Dumnonia’s chariot-mounted slingers by a stand of bramble-skirted trees, but the slingers leapt from their chariots and ran across to join the warriors from the heavy chariots. Together, the Dumnonian heavy infantry and slingers advanced at the now static Maidun line. Dug gulped. There were a lot of them and they all seemed to be coming at him.
Shields went up over Maidun heads as slingstones rained down. Soon those shields would be needed to stop swords. It was a nasty situation. Retreat was tempting, but if they fled the Dumnonians would part ranks and the bladed chariots would stream through and cut them down.
There was, Dug realised with a mixture of terror and disappointment, only one thing to do.
Atlas worked it out at the same moment and five blasts rang out on his whistle. It was the signal to charge. Dug shook his head. So it was time to attack. No choice in the matter. He shuddered. Just as he thought his growing fear might overwhelm him, it morphed into raging courage. It felt like a monster was growing inside him, expanding out from his stomach, widening his shoulders and burning in his head hot as a bone-fed furnace. His battle lust was coming, he realised with a mixture of shame and excitement, and it was time to bid rational thought goodbye for a while.
Dug gripped his shield in one hand, warhammer in the other, and sprinted at the broad enemy line. The ground flew under him as he pumped his legs. He ran full tilt, no thought of pacing himself. He didn’t need to. He had all the energy in the world. Slingstones whistled past his ears. The front line of Dumnonian troops, a mass of bearded men, shaggy haired women, sharp iron weapons and flying stones, zoomed towards him.
A grin split his face and he screamed with joy. He smashed spears out of his way with hammer and shield. He swung the hammer, felling three of them. A sword came down. He whacked it aside with his shield and drove his hammer’s top spike into the underside of the sword swinger’s jaw.
Mal shook his head as he jogged towards the Dug-shaped breach in the enemy line. He’d seen it before, but it always amazed him when Dug, who was possibly the most workshy man Mal had ever met, burst into this rampaging ball of fury on the battlefield.
“Stay behind me!” he shouted to Nita as he knocked the first spear thrust aside and smashed his sword into a Dumnonian head.
“Will I fuck!” shouted Nita, pushing past him, her slim sword flashing in one hand, wheel iron whacking down in the other.
“Don’t get too close to Dug!” Mal shouted at her unheeding back.
Chamanca licked blood from her lips. She was soaked in Dumnonian gore from her brief foray into their lines, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“Not so fast!” she shouted at her charioteer, cuffing the girl. The Dumnonian infantry had slowed its charge and the Maidun chariots were getting too far ahead. Chamanca wanted to be ready for any overzealous and speedy Dumnonians who ran clear of the main group. Killing a dozen or so had only enhanced her appetite. She yearned to champ her teeth into someone’s neck. It had been ages since she’d sucked Weylin’s life away, and Queen Lowa’s rule wasn’t going to provide as many blood-drinking chances as King Zadar’s. Not that she didn’t like Lowa. What wasn’t to like about the brave, king-toppling, hot-bodied beauty whose blood had tasted so silky and skin felt so smooth when they’d fought on Mearhold and in the Maidun arena? But Lowa had rejected the Iberian’s offer to prove her loyalty by biting the throat out of anyone who opposed her, and made it clear that she wasn’t going to ask her to drink anyone’s blood. Chamanca was going to have to take her sanguineous dining opportunities when she could. So it was somewhat annoying to be running away from tens of thousands of racing-pulsed Dumnonians.
The enemy kept coming in their annoyingly regular line, and her chariot bounced on. The shaking and jolting was doing nothing to improve her mood. If Chamanca had been commanding this side of the line she would have ordered a charge, despite Lowa’s orders for this retreat, and despite the fact that she could see the insanity of attacking the multitudinous Dumnonians. Unfortunately, Lowa had not only put someone else in charge, but also told the other charioteers not to listen to Chamanca.
The only person Chamanca was allowed to be in charge of was her young driver. She cuffed her again, then hooked her blonde hair aside and ran her fingers down the back of her slender neck. The girl knew better than to complain or even turn round. Chamanca licked her lips.
Dug’s shield was reduced to an iron hub, fringed with splinters of smashed wood. It still worked for slamming into Dumnonian faces. His hammer swung and smashed bone. A sword clanged into his helmet. He lashed out with his hammer and another Dumnonian fell. A face screamed. A backhanded hammerblow silenced it.
A small voice scrambled up from deep in his mind and timidly suggested that he was tiring, that he couldn’t possibly keep this up. Soon he’d make a mistake or meet someo
ne stronger, better or luckier than he was. He’d done his bit, for now at least, and it was time to take a breather.
Dug snarled at the little voice to bugger off. He was busy. He ducked a sword-swipe, crunched the handle of his hammer into someone’s bollocks and his hammerhead into possibly the same person’s face. He waded on, deeper into the Dumnonian ranks, hammer flailing, shield boss punching.
Ragnall galloped out of the smoke. Already there were arrow-stuck bodies on the ground and riderless horses panicking on the burial mound. The remainder of Samalur’s guard were tightening around their king, swords aloft. Lowa was up ahead, drawing her bow, shooting down one of the guards, reaching into her quiver then nocking another arrow, drawing and shooting another guard, again and again. The movement reminded Ragnall of a waterwheel on a stream in spate.
Spring was trotting behind the queen, slinging out stones almost as quickly as Lowa’s arrows, smiling like a girl on a pleasure ride. Ragnall heard an incongruous noise. Was Spring singing? She was.
A remaining slinger aimed at Lowa, but a stone from Spring send him tumbling from his horse with a surprised squawk. Ragnall wondered why Samalur’s guard didn’t contain more slingers and archers, then realised that it probably had done but Lowa and Spring had targeted these first.
Lowa reined her horse to a halt ten paces from the man-high mound. Ragnall drew up next to her. The two hundred others of the Maidunite cavalry arrived behind. There were perhaps ten Dumnonian guards left, concealing the young king somewhere in their midst.
He couldn’t see any of the rest of the other hundred thousand or so of the Dumnonian army. They were all off chasing the two split horns of Maidun’s forces. The plan had been a simple one, and far from original. With a few tweaks like the burning straw bales, it was roughly how Alexander the Great had beaten Darius of Persia’s much larger force at Gaugamela. Ragnall had learnt about it on the Island of Angels. He’d been surprised at the war council when nobody else, other than his old teacher Drustan, had heard of the battle. Then he’d swelled with pride when Lowa had decided to use his plan. He was perhaps even more glad that Lowa had allowed him to take charge of her equivalent to Alexander’s Companions – the cavalry who charged through the gap to take Samalur. He felt a little glow in his stomach, remembering that Alexander had taken one of his Companions as a lover.
Lowa turned to Ragnall and the other riders, smoke whirling around her. “Surround the mound.” She said, then, louder. “Bruxon! Give us Samalur now, or you all die.”
“You don’t have a hope, Lowa! My forces … Aaaark!” Samalur’s voice was cut off, the horsemen parted, and a severe-looking black-clad man whom Ragnall took to be Bruxon marched down the mound, dragging the king by the collar.
Lowa dismounted and headed towards them, bow in one hand, sword in the other.
Bruxon thrust Samalur forward.
Dumnonia’s king stumbled toward Maidun’s queen and fell to his knees. “Lowa…” he stammered, arms outstretched and palms upward. “We need to be allies. It’s like you said. Together we can—” Lowa pulled her sword arm back. Samalur raised a protective arm and screamed: “No! Don’t!!”
Lowa spun in a whirling blur. Samalur’s hand and head flew up in the air. His body fell forwards, severed neck and wrist spurting. The gasp from his guards was overwhelmed by cheers from the Maidun cavalry.
Lowa snatched up the boy’s head, leapt on her horse, shouted “Follow me!” and galloped away.
Ragnall looked round at the others. If they were surprised as him it didn’t show. They heel-kicked their horses and sped after the queen.
“Stop!” someone was shouting at Dug.
The cowards were running!
“Stop!” They were getting away. He swung his hammer and missed.
“Dug, you arse! Stop!” Somebody grabbed his hammer arm. Somebody strong. Dug whipped round the dented, blood-covered shield boss to beat away the hindrance. He needed that arm. But something grabbed his left arm too.
“Stop!” came the annoying shout again. He tried to shake off his captors, but the little voice in his head which had been struggling to make itself heard for some time finally got through and persuaded him to desist struggling for the briefest of moments and take assess the situation.
Dug shook his head. His ears popped. It felt like a bandage was ripped off his eyes as reality whooshed back to him. Mal was holding one of his arms, Atlas the other. “Um?” He said.
“Thank Sobek for that,” said Atlas. “It’s over, you great fool. Look.”
Dug looked around. The fighting had stopped. Some Dumnonians were heading back to their chariots. Many from both sides were sitting on the bloody grass, nursing wounds. Others, less fortunate, were screaming in pain, trying to hold their guts in or staring at their severed limbs. Others were bubbling their last. An awful lot were dead. Dug looked at his blood-smeared hammerhead.
“What happened?” he managed.
“Lowa,” said Mal. Atlas was already off, shouting at the beaten Dumnonians not to stray too far.
“Lowa?”
“Lowa.” Mal shook his head in exhausted wonder.
“Could you give me a wee bit more detail?” asked Dug.
“Sorry, battle took it out of me. We’re not all Makka-driven madmen like you, Dug. We were fighting away, when there was this unholy scream and there was Silver – Spring, I mean – on horseback, next to Lowa.” Now Mal mentioned it, the northerner did find the memory of a weird scream somewhere amongst all the rage. “And Lowa was holding up the Dumnonians’ king’s head,” Mal continued, “shouting that the battle was over. Almost all the Dumnonians said fair’s fair and put their weapons down. And that was that, more or less. A few idiots like you fought on for a short while, but most of them gave up like men who never wanted to fight in the first place. Lowa galloped off southwards, presumably to halt the battle over there.”
“She’s gone?”
“She’s one of that lot.” Mal pointed at a flock of cavalry galloping across the plain to the other side of the battlefield.
“Badgers’ cocks,” said Dug.
Chapter 4
Ragnall had drunk way too much alcohol once before. He’d behaved like a chump, been beaten up and woken the next day feeling as if he’d been poisoned and that everything he’d done or ever hoped to achieve was worthless. So he’d made the sensible decision to never get very drunk again, in much the same way, he reckoned, that a dog might pull apart a wasps’ nest only once.
So he didn’t understand, the evening following the battle, why all the people around him, Drustan included, had drunk so much beer and cider that they were telling the same stories over and over and wagging fingers at each other as if they’d discovered the secret of life, when in fact their observations were to philosophy what farting was to singing. Ragnall decided that he’d rather lie on his own looking at the sky than listen to another half-remembered story or quarter-cultivated pearl of wisdom, so he headed off.
He was nearly clear of the impromptu outdoor inn’s rough tables and benches when a tough looking but cheerily drunken man grabbed him.
“Have a drink!”
“Thanks, but I’ve already got two over there,” he lied.
“I see! You know when I knew that Lowa would be queen?”
“I don’t.” Ragnall tried to pull away, but the man held his arm. It seemed that he had a story and was determined to tell it. Ragnall decided it would be easier and quicker to listen than try to reason his way out of the situation.
“You know when I knew that Lowa would be queen?” the man repeated.
“OK, when did you know Lowa would be queen?” Ragnall asked.
“Boddingham,” said the man.
“What?” said Ragnall.
“Boddingham,” the man repeated, nodding his head vigorously. “When we sacked it. That’s when I knew Lowa would be queen one day.”
The peaceful summer night and the victorious laughter of the revellers melted away as Ragnall reme
mbered riding home to Boddingham. His dead friends. The smashed palisade. His slaughtered brothers. Slaughtered by arrows …
He shook his head. “But Lowa wasn’t at Boddingham. She told me she was off scouting that day.”
“Wasn’t at Boddingham? Lowa? Scouting? Lowa? Nah, nah, nah. You got that very wrong, mate. First over the palisade, that was her, moving as if she and that horse were one, shooting those arrows into man, woman and beast. I said to myself right then, she’ll be queen one day, that one. She was like a goddess. You would not believe how many she killed that day. I told myself then and there that she’d be queen. Moving like she and the horse were one, she was. First over the palisade.” The man was nodding enthusiastically.
“How many?” Ragnall managed.
“How many what?”
“How many people did she kill?”
“At Boddingham?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty? Maybe ten. Probably more than ten, less than fifty. A lot. Maybe fifty.”
“I see. I have to go.”
“Have a drink! I’ll go and get you one. You look like you need a drink.”
Ragnall stopped. “All right, I think I will have another drink.” He found a space on a bench and sat down to wait. The man tottered away.
After a while Ragnall realised that the man wasn’t coming back and he got up to find his own drink.
Away from the noise of celebration, Lowa spoke to Bruxon the Dumnonian for a long time. Lowa asked most of the questions and Bruxon did most of the talking. She heard how Samalur’s father, Vidin, had been a tyrant very much in the Zadar mould, perhaps worse, ravaging Dumnonia to enrich the few and win favour with the coming Romans.
