Age of Iron (41 page)

Chamanca strode around her, tapping Lowa’s bow into her palm. Lowa groaned and leaned her head back as if fainting, then darted a hand at Chamanca’s ankle. The bow came down on her knuckles and a bolt of agony shot up Lowa’s arm. Chamanca laughed.

“A new feeling for you, I think, defeat?”

Lowa shrugged. “There’s always a bigger fish.”

“Yes, there is. Now close your eyes.”

Lowa kept her eyes open. Chamanca unhitched her mace from her belt and dangled the small but heavy iron ball on the end of its chain as if taunting a child. Before Lowa saw what she was doing, there was a whoosh of air. Chamanca had swung the mace, missing her face by a finger’s breadth. Lowa jerked her head back involuntarily, knowing it would have been too late if Chamanca had meant to hit her.

“Close your eyes and keep them closed, or it ends now.”

Lowa closed her eyes. She felt the knitted reed ground shift as Chamanca walked around her. Something gripped her hair and pulled.

“Up, onto your knees. Keep your eyes shut.”

Lowa did as she was told and climbed up into a kneel, half-pulled by her hair. The hand let go. Lowa kept her eyes shut, boiling with desperation and utterly out of ideas.

Chamanca was in front of her again. “Push your hands into the back of your belt. Good, that’s it. Bit further. Good. Now keep them there. I see them move, you die. Got it?” Lowa nodded. “Good girl.”

Lowa felt the end of her bow tickle her face.

“Now, keep your hands where they are and open your eyes.”

Lowa blinked. Chamanca was three paces away, one knee on the ground, one pointing towards Lowa. She took the bow in both hands and pressed it across her thigh. “Remove the bow, and what do you have? Just a girl. A weak little girl.”

Chamanca pushed the thick yew stave down onto her leg. The muscles in her chest, shoulders and arms swelled and stiffened.

The bow snapped. Rage exploded and Lowa sprang without thinking. Chamanca fell back. Lowa was above her, then the air was driven from her lungs as Chamanca’s feet smashed into her chest and threw her up and over.

She thudded down with a choked gasp, flat on her back. By the time she breathed in, Chamanca was astride her, pinning her arms with strong legs. Lowa tried to pull free, but the Iberian’s thighs were immovable. She bucked, then lifted a leg to hook a foot around Chamanca’s neck. Chamanca leaned forward, crushing Lowa’s breasts painfully, and easily avoided her thrashing limb.

“Your bow is gone. What are you?” she whispered, shifting downwards along Lowa’s body, gripping her arms with her vice-like hands, trapping legs with legs, then lowering her face as if to kiss her. Lowa turned her head. Chamanca licked her neck and cheek with a long, slow lap, then pressed the tip of her tongue into her ear and rotated it slowly. Lowa shivered. Lips brushing her ear, the Iberian whispered, “You taste good, but you are nothing. With no bow, you are a little girl. Not even a girl. You are a shrimp. I am going to eat you like I eat a shrimp. I’m going to bite your head off first.”

Lowa bucked and strained, but she was powerless. She wasn’t scared of death, but she refused to be killed by this idiot. Especially after the tongue in her ear and that bullshit shrimp spiel.

She felt Chamanca’s head move away from her ear. She tucked her chin into her chest, but a hand gripped her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her throat. She felt another long lick, then warm wet lips on her neck. She tensed, pulling sinews tight, trying to turn her neck into iron. She felt sharpness bite.

They were still a good way from the reeds when Spring shouted, “Dug! Is that you? I’m over here!”

“Shhhh!” said Dug.

“What?” Spring shouted.

They found her at the entrance to one of the channels through the reeds and stopped there, watching the island. It was a little too deep for Spring to stand, so Dug crouched in the water with the girl balanced on one knee and his hammer on the other. They could see people running along the paths out to the western marshes. Others were swimming from the island, but none in their direction. They couldn’t see the line of attackers, but they could hear the screams that heralded its advance, and the sky was increasingly orange as more huts were set alight. There was no sign of Lowa.

“We should go and look for her,” whispered Ragnall.

“Aye,” said Dug. “You’d think that, but there’s no point. She’ll be fine. She’ll always be fine. We go back and we’ll die.”

“We can’t leave her!”

“We stay here. Every tribe’s got a story about a man who jumps into a swollen river to rescue his dog, right?”

“I’ve heard that a few times, but—”

“What always happens?”

“The man drowns.”

“Aye, always. And the dog?”

“The dog lives.”

“Aye. Every time. We’ve got the same thing here.”

“I suppose.”

“So hold tight. Lowa will be here any moment.”

“I’m not convinced,” said Spring.

“Shush.”

“And I’m going to tell Lowa that you called her a dog.”

Lowa closed her eyes. She felt Chamanca’s teeth pop through the skin on her neck. So this was it. Killed on a stupid floating island by fucking Chamanca of all people.

The bite released. The weight came off her chest as Chamanca stood, clutching at her neck.

“That’s right. Over here, my love, bit this way. Up you get, Lowa!” It was Maggot, beams of firelight glancing off his jewellery. He was at one end of a two-pace-long iron pole. The leather noose at the other end was tight around Chamanca’s neck. Lowa recognised it as a dog- or bear-training pole. Ideally, you needed two of them and two of you to fully control a raging animal, but Maggot seemed to be managing. The feral Iberian was ducking and twisting like a hooked shark, but Maggot followed her movements and kept her at pole’s length as easily as a master dancer leading a novice.

“Let me go!” Her face bulged.

Maggot flicked his wrists and spun Chamanca off her feet to lie face down on the clay path, iron pole pressing into her neck. She bucked. “Carry on like that and you’ll choke yourself. You can see stars, right? That means you’re about to pass out.” Maggot winked at Lowa. “You’d best go.”

“In a moment.” Lowa took an arrow from her quiver.

“You had better kill me.” Chamanca twisted her head round. Her eyes were like a snake’s, pulsing up at Lowa with cold hatred. “If you don’t, I will find you and I will crush you.” Her fingers grappled ineffectively at the leather noose.

“Fingers off, please.” Maggot twisted the pole.

“I’ll go one better than killing you.” Lowa lowered herself onto the prone Chamanca and pressed the arrowhead into the small of her back. “I’ll take your legs.”

“Nah nah nah.” Maggot took the pole one-handed for a moment and wagged a remonstrating finger at Lowa. His bracelets and rings clacked.

Lowa hesitated.

Chamanca writhed. “Do it,” she said. “If you do not, I will find you and kill you.”

Lowa touched her bloodied nose. She could see one half of her bow, splintered like broken bone. “All right then.”

“No,” said Maggot, “I’ll hold her here while you get off the island.” He gestured south with his head.

Lowa shook her own head. It hurt her neck. “No. I’ll cripple her. Then you’re coming with me. Otherwise she will kill you.”

“Sorry, love, I don’t do orders. Off you trot. I’ll be fine.”

Lowa ran, but slowed immediately to a jog, then a walk. She did not feel well. She leaned against a hut, then dropped into a crouch and vomited a spurt of acidic cider. She walked on, pretty sure she was heading in the right direction.

Yes, here was the hut she’d shared with Dug. Just a few more strides and—

“Hello, Lowa.”

Oh for fuck’s sake
, she thought. There were two of them barring the way, armed with heavy iron swords. She recognised them. They were cavalrymen.

“You’re coming with us.”

“All right.” She was too tired to fight them. Maybe she could try to escape later. If Chamanca didn’t kill her … She turned back towards the middle of the island.

There was a
thomp
behind her. She turned. One swordsman was falling forward. The other was spinning, sword swinging in a wide arc. Dug dropped onto his back under the blow, swinging his hammer as he went down. The heavy iron head crunched into the Maidun man’s knees. The cavalryman half fell, raised his sword and sliced it down. Dug reached out with both hands, caught the hilt and slammed it once, twice, three times into the cavalryman’s face. The Maidun man toppled.

Dug stood.

“I thought you wouldn’t need rescuing.” Dug ran a hand through his wet hair to lift it off his face.

She smiled. “Will you get my new outfit from the hut, please?”

He walked towards her.

The world whooshed around him in a few swift, wide circles, and then disappeared as she fell into his arms.

T
he cool water was chest deep in the channel through the reeds. He shifted his grip on Lowa so she was higher in the water. “My bow…” she moaned.

“Shush,” he said, placing a palm gently on the back of her head.

He spotted Spring and Ragnall in the centre of the three-pace-wide water course. They reminded him of the seal cubs up north, whose little heads would poke out of the water expectantly, waiting for him and Brinna, and later Terry and Kelsie to swim over and play with them.

“Got her. She’s all right. Let’s—”

“Shhhhh! Behind you.” Ragnall lifted a dripping arm to point.

He turned. Several log boats had launched from Mearhold and were paddling quietly towards them. There were three people in each boat, two paddling, one holding a torch.

“Badgers’ cocks.” Dug looked about. They were safe in their channel between the reedbeds for now, but any boat passing near would see them. If they tried to wade for safety, they’d be heard and overhauled.

“I can stand here,” said Spring.

“Quiet,” said Dug. They could try and tuck into the vegetation, but they’d surely be seen in the torchlight?

“Did you get my outfit?” Lowa was back in the land of the coherent.

“It’s in my pack. But keep quiet. They’re coming in boats from the island.”

“We’ve got to get out of here.” Ragnall’s voice was shaking. Dug gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided it was the cold.

“But I can also crouch down under the water!” said Spring.

A bird squawked and dashed out of the reeds nearby. There was a shout, and two boats headed towards them, slowly, making sure their paddling didn’t mask any sounds of escape. They were annoyingly proficient, these Maidun people.

“What weapons do we have? Can I stand here?” Lowa pushed herself out of Dug’s grip. The water came to her neck.

“I have my hammer,” he said.

“I gave my sword to King Vole,” Ragnall offered.

“I’ve got a knife,” said Spring.

“None of those are much use if they’ve got slings,” said Lowa.

“Aye. And if we attack one, we’ll bring all the boats on us.” Dug looked about. What could they do? Thankfully the moon wasn’t up, so it was darker than it might be. But the boats were coming closer, and they had torches. He might be able to hold his breath for long enough to stay submerged as they passed, but he doubted that the others could.

“I’ve cut some reeds with my knife,” said Spring. “They’re hollow. So I’ve got four hollow tubes. One each. They’re quite sturdy.”

“Spring, can you please be quiet,” Dug whispered.

“But we can
breathe
through the tubes and hide underwater. The fishermen showed me how. You can do it to catch ducks. Slings are easier if you’re going to eat them, but if you don’t want to hurt them…”

The boats were maybe thirty paces away. “Well, hand them out!” said Ragnall.

“What?” said Dug.

“One end in your mouth,” the young man whispered. “One end above the surface.” Ragnall edged back to the side of the channel and slipped underwater until only a short nub of his reed snorkel protruded. It looked like just another stem. Lowa followed and sank so close to him that Dug thought they must have been touching.

Spring sank too. Dug was alone.

“There’s a channel here,” said a low voice from a few paces away.

Dug backed to the channel edge next to Spring, took a huge breath, put the reed in his mouth, tilted his head up and crouched. He held the reed in a fist pressed against his lips, making sure to keep his hand below the surface but the top of the reed dry. The water was a pleasant chill on his face, the noisy noiselessness of underwater a familiar comfort from his days swimming and diving down in the sea. He puffed out a little breath and cautiously sucked one in, ready for a mouthful of water. Instead he got air. Reed-flavoured air, but air nevertheless.

He breathed out, then took a deeper breath. He stopped as firelight splayed out on the water, then danced more and more aggressively on the lightly rippling surface. The dark shape of the boat appeared. Spring gripped his arm. The boat came closer.

He didn’t dare exhale. A paddle splashed down into the water, then up out again. He watched its trail drip towards him. It was going to be close. He could dodge, but surely they’d see the movement …

The paddle crunched into the end of his reed. The reed jammed into the roof of his mouth. He gripped it, crushing it. He heard a muffled voice above. The paddle went up and came down again, just missing his face. More voices.

The boat slid by. His reed was useless. He held his breath. His brain clouded, his lungs squeezed and an anxious inner voice demanded that he surface. But the boat was still far too close. Fortunately he’d spent plenty of his youth and early adulthood diving for shellfish and pleasure, and he knew that the trick of staying under for a long time was to ignore the panicky voice. He also knew a trick to silence it. He pictured Lowa’s breasts. Was one bigger than the other? he pondered. He’d first seen them after the rainstorm …

The boat was past. He surfaced slowly. More boats were heading their way from Mearhold. Spring surfaced next to him. On the other side of the channel Ragnall and Lowa were still underwater.

“Can you cut me another breathing pipe, please?” he whispered.