Beasts Beyond the Wall

by Beasts Beyond the Wall (retail) (epub)

  It was the width of three fingers, set cunningly with little pouches and narrow sockets. At first Drust thought they were for needles of some sort but when he plucked out what was in one, it seemed to be no more than a sliver of wood.

  ‘In my land she would be called wood-wife,’ Ugo said. ‘The splinters are all sacred to some gods somewhere. If she touches them she can make a ward against evil.’

  Drust carefully put the sliver back. The first pouch he opened had some dried plant in it, desiccated almost to dust. It smelled musty and sweet at the same time and he did not dare touch it to his tongue.

  ‘I make,’ the woman said and mimed drinking with her bound hands.

  ‘She will poison him,’ Dog growled, and Ugo laughed blood onto his lips.

  ‘I am dead already,’ he said.

  ‘Untie her,’ Drust said to Dog, and could almost feel him swell but he did not look.

  ‘Who are you to order? This woman is mine.’

  Now Drust looked. ‘This woman was taken by all of us. Untie her. If she can do good for Ugo, I want her to.’

  Dog winked on the brim of it for a moment and the knife came out of the sheath with a sibilant hiss. The moment hovered and coiled – then he reached and slit the cord between her wrists.

  ‘Leader,’ he said scornfully. ‘Father of us all, is it? A little Servilius Structus…’

  The woman massaged her wrists, then rooted for a pot and snow to melt. She refastened her belt and bent by the pot, muttering while the flames danced on her face. Sib made signs against evil.

  ‘Why?’ Drust asked her as she worked, and she looked up.

  ‘The God Bull let him live. That means something.’

  Only because the God Bull had a splitting headache and a great many other targets, Drust thought, but he did not argue – everyone was gods-hagged here.

  Drust drew apart a little, to where Dog glowered. Quintus sat on the other side, nonchalantly honing the blade of his gladius, grinning at the rasp. It was clear he had drawn it at the same time Dog had whipped out his knife.

  ‘How is that German Stupidus?’ Dog demanded.

  ‘If he was a mule,’ Quintus said through his smile, ‘I would slit his throat, for the mercy in it.’

  ‘We will make it back and Ugo will be with us,’ Drust said, trying to make himself believe it. ‘He probably broke a rib – you know how that is.’

  They had all cracked one at some time or other, usually in the practice ground with those heavy wooden swords. It taught you to be better, for all that was done for you was tight-lashed bindings and a drop to light training at the Sweating Post.

  The woman made her potion and let it cool. Then she fed it to Ugo, who drank and grimaced. There was a sheen on him now; he looked grey and the sweat had popped on his forehead like fat apple pips. Drust almost envied him the heat.

  ‘Well, brothers,’ he declared. ‘If I am bound for the Dark Land, it has been an honour. And I fought the god of the forest and won.’

  ‘You deserve the hero’s portion, for sure,’ Drust said, remembering the whispered tales of his youth.

  ‘We are already in the Dark Land,’ Kag answered bitterly.

  It grew darker, then into a sky of iron and milk as the day crawled up onto the horizon and shivered. They spent all of it waiting. Ugo growled and fought the god beast in fevered dreams while the water lashed off him and they tried to keep him covered each time he threw them off, for fear the cold would eat him where the fever-heat did not.

  Towards what Drust worked out was the next dawn appearing, Dog leashed the woman again.

  ‘They are hours late,’ he said, ‘which means Talorc is thinking to be clever. He has sent men out to move fast and get ahead of us, to the south, between us and the Wall.’

  Drust had expected it but hearing it did nothing to shift the cold settling haar of it in his belly. Then Sib called out that men were coming and Dog rose up as if his knees creaked. They probably did.

  ‘He took horses,’ he said, ‘He does not have many horses.’

  He had enough, Drust thought, to mount twenty or so men and they were not so chewed by cold that they could not climb off them, form up and fight. In the middle he saw the swaddled bundles of fine wool and fur that marked the woman and the boy.

  Dog tugged the Bull queen up and she stumbled towards him, then fell. ‘Now we watch closely,’ he said, then nodded to Drust. ‘You go and talk. Fetch the Domina and her son. Tell that whoreson Talorc that he will get the Bull woman when we are within sight of Roman walls.’

  ‘And where will you be?’ Kag demanded sarcastically. Dog’s look was cold and silent for a moment, then he grinned rictus onto his ink face.

  ‘This is what a leader does,’ he said. When Drust moved out across the snowfield to where Talorc and his men waited, feeling like a bug on a silver salver, he looked back once and saw Dog standing where he could be seen, the woman leashed to him and on her knees, a spear resting lightly on her neck.

  Talorc saw it too and spoke to the Wanderer, who squinted at Drust, then past him to Dog.

  ‘Will he kill her, then?’

  ‘If you make a move to try and take her,’ Drust said. He saw the Roman woman, Julia, sitting on a small horse beside her son, seemingly unconcerned, but he also saw that she missed nothing.

  ‘Talorc thinks you will try and take them all,’ the Wanderer said.

  ‘What use is the Bull queen woman to us?’ Drust countered.

  ‘Talorc thinks Colm Deathface wants her. Maybe make himself king there.’

  ‘Deathface will not be coming back over the Wall to visit you.’

  Drust had no idea whether that was true, but he felt it. Dog would go wherever Julia Soaemias and her son would go, he thought. He looked at the boy, that perfect face, that Caracalla smile.

  Talorc spoke briefly, a short guttural spit that the Wanderer took in with a nod and then passed on.

  ‘Talorc will follow you to the Wall,’ he said. ‘When you are close to it and only then will he hand over the Roman woman and the boy.’

  Drust knew it was the best that could be achieved here, so he nodded and crossed back to Dog and the others, feeling the itch of all the Blue Face warriors on his neck and refusing to turn and look.

  He told them. Dog nodded; it was clear he had expected it. Somewhere up ahead would be Talorc’s blocking force, stopping them before they got close enough for the Wall garrisons to be a refuge. The woman gave a little soft moan and cut it off with a clench of lip; Drust almost felt sorry for her; whatever happened she was faced with captivity.

  ‘Pack up and move,’ he said. ‘Hollow square, animals and the woman in the middle, like the army do. Watch your sides like we do – Kag, you are the tail man in this.’

  Then he jerked his rasping chin to the east. ‘We go that way, run along the line of the Wall and then turn south. With luck we will avoid the closing trap.’

  Dog nodded thoughtfully. ‘That way takes us to the farm of Verrecunda.’

  Heads came up; no one wanted to go back there, but it seemed to Drust as if the gods were throwing dice, the winner pushing them in different directions. When he muttered it, Quintus offered his tireless grin.

  ‘Well, the answer there is simple. It’s how he got the name, after all – always put your stake on the dog.’

  * * *

  Hollow square was a jest for what they had – a loose ring of men with Ugo on a mule, lolling and barely conscious and the woman on another. They were all aware of the trailing warriors, but they kept their distance; Kag reported that a horseman had gone flogging out through the snow, heading south to take a message to the force there.

  ‘We should turn south soon,’ Sib called out, but that was only because he did not want to go to the house of Verrecunda and everyone knew it and ignored it.

  It had been a good plan but Drust realised just how he had underestimated the cunning of Talorc when he saw the line of warriors in the spindrifting snow. Behind them huddled the
buildings, but it was clear Talorc had sent men east.

  ‘Probably west, too,’ Kag agreed. ‘He needs to stop us going anywhere. The cold will do the rest.’

  ‘How far behind is Talorc?’ Drust demanded, and Kag squinted.

  ‘Out of sight. Could be a good walk. Might be further.’

  ‘Then we need to rush these and end them,’ Drust declared. Dog nodded. Sib laughed aloud.

  ‘Us? Now? As we are?’

  ‘Shut up, cart driver,’ Ugo rumbled amiably, and levered himself painfully off the mule. ‘I will take the mules. The rest of you hit them hard – there are only six or seven.’

  More like a dozen, Drust thought – but he was cheered by Ugo’s face, which looked better than it had. He saw the woman looking at him and nodded his thanks; Dog handed the leash to Ugo and scowled.

  ‘Make sure you don’t lose her, else this is all for nothing and we are sixed for sure.’

  Drust felt his bowels melt – an old, familiar and unwanted feeling. No matter how rehearsed, no matter that no deaths had been paid for, every harena performance had made him sick like this. He knew Dog knew it, too, and could not look at the sneer in that skull face as they gripped weapons and started to lope at the men. He flexed his frozen fingers on the grip of the silly little square shield, gripped the hilt of the gladius more firmly and followed on.

  There was one who was clearly leader, a big one too. He stepped forward of the rest and flung his arms wide, shouting as Drust and the others came up. Dog loped to a halt and stood, hipshot. Uncertainly, Drust glanced at him, saw him grinning his death grin.

  ‘He challenges the chief of us,’ Dog said. ‘He believes it to be me.’

  His grin was carved from old stone and then he stood back and spread his arms mockingly. ‘Here it is,’ he said to Drust, his skull mouth twisted. ‘Here is the truth of it, of uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari – I will endure, to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.’

  His face shoved at Drust like a weapon, savage and feral. ‘See what it feels to be a first-rank fighter, Drust. No rehearsal…’

  The warrior strutted back and forth. He had a face marked with scars and fierce blue signs of power and boast, seemed as large as the Wall itself. He had a ringed coat under his bear pelt and the tarnished remnants of some centurion’s phalerae hung about his massive chest.

  ‘I am Lann, son of Aindreas, son of Adhamh,’ he bellowed in Local, waving his weapons in the air, then said it in his own tongue so that his folk growled and roared back at him.

  ‘I am the greatest warrior in this land,’ he roared in Local. ‘I make mountains of dead enemies. I fought the Rock Tribe’s chosen and wiped them out in one battle and took four arrows – one here.’

  Drust stood dry-mouthed, involuntarily glanced once at Dog and saw the grin. He saw Kag start to move and warned him with his eyes, the sick dread welling up. It had to be him. He had slipped and slid through contest after contest, a good actor who learned the moves and made it look real, even with a mediocre partner for an opponent.

  But here was the truth of it, as Dog had said. No rehearsals, no assured let-off in this harena. Snow or sand, it was all the same… the gods never let you miss your destiny, he thought.

  Yet some elements from those old rehearsed fights still mattered here. Flyting he knew well enough for they had worked on that many times when the fights were in harena small and intimate enough for all the audience to hear the jests and smile. He almost smiled himself when Lann indicated a vicious lash of scar beside his nose.

  ‘I got this when I fought Lorcan, champion of the Bull People and killer of forty-two men. He broke my arm with a mighty blow, but I carved him to pieces anyway. I took this coat from a lord of the Short Hairs and killed him and all his twenty-four little Romans – see this hole? It was made by my spear, even though his own went through my side.’

  At each feat, his shook his spear and sword at his men, though they barely understood Local; they had heard it all before and roared and howled. Drust worked spit into his mouth.

  ‘You should think about ducking now and then,’ he managed. ‘Or a shield. Save all those wounds.’

  ‘I will take yours when you are dead,’ Lann declared.

  ‘Since nothing you have fits me,’ Drust answered, trying not to let his lip stick to his teeth, ‘I will content myself with wearing your life for the rest of mine.’

  Lann was done with talk. He fell into a crouch, which did not make him much smaller, and started to circle. Drust felt his legs wobble and hoped no one noticed. He affected nonchalance while trembling and occupied the centre ground, following Lann’s wolfen circling in little shuffles, like a man at a crossroads wondering which road to take.

  Lann moved swiftly – blindingly swift for a man of his size – and everyone thought it was the end, for a giant who moved like a flung pilum was a victory waiting to happen. The spear blurred, the curved sword flashed and Drust reeled away, half turned and stumbled.

  He had nothing but old training, rigorous and daily, and the trick he and Menophilus had worked out one afternoon, a real crowd-pleaser. Drust spun back with sword hissing, a bar of silver that splintered sunlight. Lann, in the act of following up, sure that he had knocked Drust off balance, suddenly had to hurl himself away.

  They paused, looking at each other while the warriors howled and the snow hissed off the tops of drifts. Drust managed a grin and a prayer to Menophilus for forcing them both through that afternoon until it was perfect. Menophilus, who had died of the sweats the next year, wasting to a yellowed husk, his life-water bleeding off him into stained straw.

  Lann moved again, the spear darting, an adder tongue that slammed once, twice, three times against Drust’s shield; the blows rocked and staggered him and he heard the wood splinter. Then, suddenly, Lann whipped in with the curved sword, Drust met it with his own and the high, thin clang of blades was loud as a bell. There was a moment when Drust was sure his arm was gone entirely, but he saw it flapping and numbed useless.

  The shrieks grew wilder when folk saw the sword flying, beaten from Drust’s grasp by the sheer, brute strength of the warrior. Lann bellowed and slashed, seeing his advantage, then gave a sharp yelp and a curse when Drust desperately brought the shield rim down on his wrist and the curved half-moon spun out of his own nerveless fingers.

  I am good after all – let Dog eat this, he thought in a sudden spasm of anger.

  Yet he was blowing and unsteady, had lost his sword and now stood against a man with a face like a bag of painted blood and armed with a spear, whose point he whipped in solid bangs on Drust’s shield. Drust backed off. Lann did a swift reverse and scythed the butt round to whack the shield. Each blow was like a hammer that sent Drust stumbling; the warriors howled and, briefly, Drust caught sight of the anxious faces round Dog; Kag was clenched, ready to spring forward at the last. Dog was impassive as a tomb carving.

  Drust, barely covering himself, backed off a little and stopped, breathing hard, his face streaked with sweat.

  Lann flourished the spear in the air and grinned – then he threw it. Drust blocked and knew the mistake the moment he did it. Should have dodged… the blow sent him sprawling and he scrambled up wearily, only to find that the spear was through the shield and had almost hit him. He flung the skewered shield away and stood, empty hands by his side, while Lann raised his equally empty fists to the sky in triumph.

  Kag started to draw his sword but felt something grip his wrist in an iron clamp. When he looked, Dog stared back.

  ‘Easy,’ Dog said. ‘Stay your hand.’

  Kag struggled and wrenched himself free, glaring. ‘Fuck you in the arse, Dog – if he dies I will kill you myself.’

  ‘Only the gods know the answer to that,’ he said. ‘Helios, hear these words…’

  He prayed, to Kag’s astonishment. Quintus picked up on it, spread his arms and offered chants to Nemesis and Fortuna.

  Drust heard the chants
even through the howls of Lann’s exultant men, felt the deities swirl around him like the spin of drifting snow. Gods of the harena fighters…

  Minerva.

  Pluto.

  Mars Ultor.

  I am a grain of sand, the sparkle of sunlight on water. Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari…

  The warriors’ howls trailed off. They were uneasy about this clear sign of spell-making and called out to their own gods for help; Drust’s own skin was gooseflesh as he heard the names, one by one, each one louder than the last.

  Lann heard it and frowned, wondered if the Bull woman had something to do with it and vowed vengeance there when Talorc was done with her – then he growled, shook the sweat and blood from him and closed for the kill.

  Drust dodged, spun and whacked the giant in the mouth, so that blood flew, but Lann shook his head, spat, grinned and sprang again.

  Drust was no more than a core in a blossom of scarlet pain. He staggered sideways with a last, desperate burst of foot skill and avoided another rush, whacked the passing Lann high on the arm and bellowed with anger and pain at what the arm ring did to his knuckles.

  Might as well slap a cliff…

  Lann advanced, steady and relentless as an avalanche; Drust ducked but made a hash of it and an elbow caught him in the ribs, the pain blasting him with white light. He went off his feet entirely, flew back and landed in a sliding heap of snow. The crowd of warriors roared and stamped up more snow, beating their weapons together.

  Lann moved slowly across to where Drust lay, face down and barely aware. Lann dragged him up and threw him flying to thump and roll in a blizzard of snow; he walked forward and slammed a kick that shifted Drust in a rut, then turned and raised his fists in triumph, so that the crowd bellowed even more loudly.

  ‘Fuck you, Dog,’ Kag said and sprang forward. As if he had let go of some tether, the others rushed and the warriors howled. Steel clashed, shouts went up.