Age of Iron (25 page)

Ogre and a few others sniggered. Weylin reddened under his dirty bandage. He had to regain the upper hand somehow.

“We should have stayed in Bladonfort, you’re saying, because someone in Bladonfort will know where Kanawan is?”

“I imagine that every merchant there knows where it is.”

“Good. Go and ask them. We’ll wait here.” Weylin pointed at a nearby farmhouse. A worried-looking farmer was standing on his doorstep, watching them. They’d give him reason for that worried look in a moment, thought Weylin with a smile.

“But that’ll take—”

“The rest of the day and all night. Yes. Be back here by dawn with directions to Bladonfort, or I will whip you until you’re dead.”

“You can’t—”

“Yes I can,
Savage
Banba. Zadar’s orders. He wants Lowa. I have to do everything I can to get her. Anybody who stands in the way of that will soon find themselves standing in a whole heap of shit.”

“But my mount isn’t fresh.”

“Your problem. See you later.”

Weylin dismounted and led his horse to the farmhouse. He heard Savage Banba gallop away, but he didn’t turn because he knew that not turning would look better. He felt the admiring gazes of his troop on his back.

T
he broch is the stone fort’s gatehouse. The lower half of the broch tower is carved from the cliff’s rock, the upper half built from skilfully shaped, immovable blocks of stone. The only way into the fort is up wooden stairs to an iron-barred door ten paces up the broch wall. The wooden stairs can be raised on pulleys.

High, smooth walls sweep back from the broch in the shape of a pulled longbow, until they meet the towering, sleek, black cliff. On the very stormiest days, with the wind blowing across the longest possible fetch, spray from waves
might
come over the walls. As far as attackers are concerned, however, the fort is impregnable. With the stairs pulled up, anybody trying to climb to the door or scale the walls gets a rock on their head or a faceful of boiling oil.

Behind the walls, sheltered from wind and the salt spray, warmed by the sun in the day and by heat radiating from the south-facing cliff at night, are plots of vegetables and wheat. And fenced enclosures of livestock. And, why not, a flower garden. She’d probably like that. In fact, there’s a stream running out of a cave in the cliff that babbles prettily through the flower garden before plunging into a sinkhole just before the wall. Their helpful children do the laundry and wash the pans in the stream. The cave is long and dry, despite the stream running along its base. In it is a storehouse with enough provisions – smoked and salted fish, seal and pork in barrels – to last fifty years of siege.

Around the corner from the broch the cliff sweeps inland above a wide estuary where salmon nets trap fish every tide. Their elder sons and daughters collect the fish every day and take it back to the cave, which, deep down, has an ice chamber where fish and game can be frozen. The children sleep in the cave, in comfortable rooms built of oak and lined with fur. On good days they play outside. When the weather’s bad they explore the caves and make up stories.

He and she live in the broch, nearby but separate from the cave. The tower is well lit, warm and comfortable, with an indoor shitter that drops directly down to the subterranean stream, so it never smells bad, even in winter. The top floor is a circular bedchamber with a giant bed. A wooden chest overflows with covers of stitched-together baby seal furs, so they’re snug on the coldest winter nights. In summer they leave the shutters open on the two big windows looking out over the sea. Sometimes they sit and watch the sunsets and the stars. Sometimes the sunsets and the stars watch them.

Another window looks back over the garden. There’s a pulley at that window which lifts a bucket of clean water from the stream. They can spend whole days eating smoked salmon, drinking cool water and making love in the broch, while the kids look after each other and tend the crops, the animals and the nets.

Lowa sighed in her sleep. Dug put an arm around her and she wriggled closer. The soft hairs on her shoulder brushed his nose. She smelled of heady joy. Her firm body was prime with vitality. She radiated the heat that she’d absorbed during her day in the sun. He’d never lain with a girl who’d done that before. Soon though her hair was irritating his face and a film of sweat had slicked into existence where his flesh touched hers. He pushed her away and she slept on. In the fantasy broch he was building in an attempt to get to sleep, the sea breeze would keep the sweat away, and her hair, washed daily in seal fat, ash and seaweed soap, would never irritate his nose.

S
ome time after dawn, Weylin was returning from the stream when Savage Banba pulled up in front of the farmhouse. He watched her dismount, stand for a moment as if lost, then collapse onto her back. She lay there, chest rising and falling while her horse stood breathing hard, its nostrils finger breadths from the ground. Banba raised her head, struggled to her feet and stumbled toward the farmhouse, leaving her horse where it was.

“Banba!”

She turned, surprise and fear on her exhausted face. Weylin smiled.

“I’m sorry…” she panted. “I went as quickly … I know where Kanawan … is. We can be there … soon.” She tried to square up and catch her breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t back by dawn … It was … too far.”

Weylin smiled. This was brilliant. “I know I said I would, but I’m not going to whip you to death, Banba. Not if you see me right.” He nodded towards a nearby grain shed and grinned. “We shouldn’t be disturbed in there.”

“P
sssst! Wake up!” said the voice.

Lowa was already awake, adrenaline fizzing though her limbs. The attempt to approach the hut stealthily had woken her as surely as an avalanche of bronze cowbells down an iron mountain might have woken others.

“Is that you, Spring?” said Dug, thick-voiced. He sat up, wafting a mushroomy musk. Lowa stayed down. The footsteps were heavier than Spring’s. The girl probably wouldn’t be back for a day or two anyway, judging by the intensity of the sulk she’d thrown on waking the previous morning to find Lowa in Dug’s bed.

Lowa slipped her hand under the straw mattress and pulled out her knife. She held it ready to flick into the intruder’s chest. Assassins didn’t wake you first as a rule, but neither had she ever been woken just after dawn for a welcome reason.

“It’s Channa!” whispered a voice at the door, more loudly than most people spoke. “The retting guy,” he added a little louder.

Dug put a hand on Lowa’s arm. “It’s OK. All right, Channa. Come in.”

Channa ducked through the porch. He squatted next to the bed and knocked Lowa’s leather water cup over. As he apologised, she drew the wool blanket around her and leaned over Dug’s bulk. She squeezed his shoulder. He reached a hand back and clasped her thigh.

“There’s something you need to know about Kanawan,” Channa said. Even in the semi-darkness she could see his wide eyes, like two full moons under his storm cloud of black curls.

“Let me get up. I’ll get some tea going.” Dug made to sit up further, but Channa put a hand on his arm.

“No, no, please. I don’t have much time. Listen.” Channa looked round as if somebody might have followed him into the hut. He smelled of wet hemp. Lowa kept the knife ready. The young man seemed soggily ineffectual, but you never knew.

“Have you seen that building on the other side of the river?”

“Aye, the auction ring?”

“It’s not for auctioning farm animals. Well, actually they do do that there sometimes, but that’s not what it was built for. It’s for slaves. It’s for whores. It’s for … murder! Farrell’s got a monster!”

“Slow down, slow down. A monster?” said Dug. Lowa lay back.
Yup
, she thought, she should have realised. Farrell’s village was too good to be true. The young Farrell she’d known was a fun kid but also a wicked shit who’d never put up with Kanawan’s rustic dreariness unless there was something twisted going on.

“A demon, an imp, a formori, a troll? I don’t know.” Channa’s voice was getting louder. Lowa shushed him and he continued more quietly. “Some Otherworld beast. Farrell keeps it in a cage. He makes people fight it. He calls it the Monster. It looks like a deformed, hairy child with little legs, but long arms. It’s got the strength of twenty men. It tears people apart while we all watch. A lot of people cheer. I cheer.”

“A demon?” said Dug.

Channa began to cry. “Yes! I thought you’d be able to
help
. Someone’s got to stop him. It’s got to be stopped!”

Dug continued asking about the “Monster” but Channa kept crying and repeating himself. Lowa slipped out of bed and dressed quickly. She couldn’t listen to people who thought that saying the same thing in different words passed for explanation. She took Channa gently by both hands, calmed him and made him sit on the hearth stone in the centre of the hut, where he hunched, shaking and rocking.

Now he was under the roof hole, Lowa could see more clearly his pallid, doughy, chinless face blooming with moles like mould on a soft cheese. His black hair sat on his head like a badly made, unravelling woollen hat, ready to be plucked away by premature baldness. Not a looker, this one. She made soothing noises as he bubbled snot and looked at his feet, then gripped the lapel of his frock-smock and slapped him.

He blinked wounded surprise at her.

“Stop crying. Now. And forget about the Monster. Tell me about the slaves, then the whores.”

Channa gibbered, tears bulged anew, and Lowa drew her hand back, this time clenched in a fist. The fat farmer looked at her knuckles. He wiped his nose on his shoulder then his wrist, took several short but deep breaths, then told them all about Kanawan.

He told them that Farrell Finda was Zadar’s general in the area. He told them about the Wounders
,
Farrell’s bodyguard, ten bullies in black leather armour who were the terror of the region. Channa himself had only settled here a few years before, and didn’t know how it had all started, but people whispered that Zadar had Farrell’s son held hostage. The local chiefs and kings, Channa continued, were all in thrall to Kanawan and dared not rise against Farrell because they were terrified of the Wounders, of Zadar’s retribution and, worst of all, of going into the ring with Farrell’s Monster. At this point he crumbled a little and Lowa had to raise her hand again.

Channa recovered. The local chiefs sent Farrell slaves, he explained, lots of slaves – their own people, captured enemies and travellers. Most of them Farrell sent on to Zadar, but some he kept to fight in his arena, against each other, against dogs, wolves and, worst of all, against the Monster.

Well that makes sense, thought Lowa. So many slaves came to Maidun Castle from the west that some sort of regional hub was likely. Not just slaves … Lowa guessed what was coming next. Farrell’s school.

“But that’s not the worst of it!” Channa cried. “You’ve got to do something. Those girls, those sweet girls. They think they’re learning to be princesses, but he’s preparing them for Zadar. He does it every year. All the villages and towns nearby send their most attractive girls. They daren’t not.”

“What? Zadar can’t need them all?” Dug yawned, pulling the cover around himself as if preparing for a couple more hours’ sleep.

“He doesn’t take them all,” said Lowa, hoicking her thumb at Dug in a get-out-of-bed gesture. He sat up. “He only keeps the ones he likes best. Some are sold to Rome. Others he gives to his inner circle. A few will join the army. The rest go to Maidun’s whorepits.”

The whorepits were another thing that Aithne had complained about and Lowa had told her to put up with. She really should have listened to Aithne and killed Zadar when she’d had the chance. Countless times she could have impaled him with an arrow from a couple of hundred paces, leaped on a horse and been away. But no. She’d blanked out the evil and lived the good, selfish life. And now all her girls were dead and killing Zadar was almost certainly going to mean her own life too. She was weakened by shame momentarily, then dismissed it. No regrets. Only amends.

“OK,” she said. “We have to go, now. If Farrell’s so tight with Zadar, then he must mean to give me up. You, Dug, he’ll want to trot out in his gladiator arena.”

“His what?” asked Channa.

“Place where people get killed for the crowd’s amusement. Comes from Rome. Where you’ve been cheering as your friends get ripped up by the Monster.”

Channa began to cry again. At least he’s repentant, thought Lowa. He was doing something to stop the evil, which is more than she’d done until she’d been forced into action. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Go on,” she said in the gentlest tone she could manage. “Go home. We can’t do anything now; there aren’t enough of us. But we’ll be back, in greater numbers.”

“I’ll find Spring,” said Dug, rolling off the bed and pulling on his trousers.

“No. There’s no time. Channa can tell her where we’ve gone.”

“But what if Farrell finds her first?”

“Zadar’s death is more important than one girl.”

“I’m going to find her.” Dug reached for his ringmail shirt.

“No. We can sort a meeting place with Cha—”

“Now, where could I be? In the woods playing with formoris? In the river swimming with the swans?” It was Spring. She’d been under the covers on her bed on the other side of the hut all the time.

Lowa stared at her. How had she come in unnoticed? Nobody had ever managed to creep into a hut where she was sleeping. Lowa woke up when birds flew over. There was simply no earthly way Spring could have got in.

“How did you…?” Spring glared at her and Lowa sighed.
What a fuck-up
, she was surprised to find herself thinking. She actually felt guilty about upsetting Dug’s odd little tag-along. No time for that now though, they had to get moving. “Channa, what are you still doing here? Go home, now. You two, pack. We’re leaving in a matter of heartbeats.”

“The horses?” asked Spring, already gathering up her things.