Age of Iron (3 page)

“Only kings and Warriors are allowed to wear ringmail.”

“But you’re wearing ringmail!”

“Aye. That’s right. I’m a Warrior … Mine is more the hundreds of rings type, though not as supple or as light as his’ll be.”

“And is his horse a Worrier? Or a king?”

“Uh … neither. Thing about rules is that if you become powerful enough, you get to break them. And make them.”

“Your voice is funny.”

“I’m from the north.”

“What are you worried about?”

“What?”

“You’re a Worrier?”

“A Warrior. It’s a title, like king. But this one you earn. You have to kill ten people in a battle. If five people who are already Warriors agree that you’ve done that, then they say you’re a Warrior, and you get one of these.” Dug tapped the crudely made iron boar that hung on a leather thong around his neck. “And you’re allowed to wear ringmail, which is a neat way of making sure fewer people become Warriors and making life safer once you do. Being a Warrior also means you can claim a certain price as a mercenary. And people treat you better, like you might be given food at an inn on the understanding you’ll protect the place.”

“Can I have a boar necklace?”

“No. You’ve got to earn it.”

“But our smith could make one for me?”

“Aye, he could, but the punishment for pretending to be a Warrior is death by torture.”

The kid mused for a few moments on Dug’s shoulders.

“Probably not worth it.”

“No.”

“And the man dressed in black behind Zadar?”

“That must be his head druid, Felix.” Dug spat for good luck. They said that Felix, Zadar’s Roman druid, could command the gods’ magic like nobody in Britain had for generations. Dug had heard tales of Felix thwarting enemies’ plans by reading their minds from afar, and other stories of him ripping souls from people’s bodies or tearing then apart just by looking at them. You couldn’t believe all, or even most, of what the bards said and sang, but Dug had heard so much about Felix’s powers that some of it must have been true. He shivered despite the warmth of the day.

“And who’s that next lot? Oh gosh!” squeaked the boy.

“Aye.” Following King Zadar and Felix were fifty mounted men and women. Their helmets were hornless, their mail less polished and their horses’ spiked pony caps were dull iron. “Those are Warriors.”

Two hundred paces away they rode by, eyes front, not deigning even to glance at Barton’s suddenly pathetic-looking spear line. They’d obviously been ordered not to look to the side for effect, thought Dug. That told him two things. One, that Zadar was a showman, and two, that discipline was strong in the Maidun army. Worryingly strong.

The chariots came next.

“The chariots are built with wooden struts under tension so they can bounce over bumps, narrow burns, corpses … Two people in each, a driver and a fighter. See that first lot, with the armoured soldiers?”

“Yes!”

“Those are the heavy chariots – less bouncy, more solid. They’ll drive up to a battle line. The fighter will lob a javelin at the enemy. That probably won’t kill anyone, but it might stick in a shield, making it useless or at least difficult to use. Or it might go through two overlapping shields, pinning them together when the iron spearhead bends. Then two soldiers have the choice of fighting joined together or chucking—”

“What would you do?” the boy interrupted.

“The only time it happened to me I chucked the shield away. There’s something to be said for using a sword without a shield. It can free your senses, changing the whole direction of your—”

“What do the fighters do after they’ve thrown their javelins?” said the boy.

Dug nearly dumped the boy off his shoulders, but he remembered that his daughters had always interrupted his advice and stories, so, in their memory, he decided to give some leeway to the impertinent wee turd.

“Javelins away, the soldier usually leaps off the chariot and wades in with sword, hammer, spear – whatever. Most people down here use swords, great iron double-edged swords, for swinging. The Romans use shorter pointy swords, for stab—”

“Have you got a sword?”

“Me? No. I had one. I’ve had a few, but I’m a hammer man now. So, the soldier starts killing people and trying not to get killed, while his charioteer mills about in the background keeping an eye on things. When the guy on foot gets tired or hurt, he retreats or waves to the chariot, which picks him up and they shoot off to safety. They’ll have a snack and a piss, maybe take a shit, grab a drink, and then head back to the battle. Brilliant way to fight if you have the means.”

“Why do they have those big swords sticking out of the chariots?”

Dug had been trying to ignore the curved blades that protruded a pace from the boss of each of the heavy chariots’ wheels. He shuddered at a memory. “If your enemy runs, you chase them. Those blades are sharp. One moment someone’s running, the next they’ve got no legs from the knee down.”

“What are these other ones? They’re smaller.”

“Light chariots. Unarmoured or lightly armoured driver, plus a slinger or sometimes an archer. No blades, thank Danu, but they’re still nasty. They’re all about speed. They fight from a distan—”

“My mum said that the bravest fighters go naked into battle to show how brave they are not needing armour.”

“That does happen. But it’s not bravery. Battles are dangerous enough. You don’t have to be naked to appreciate that. It’s mostly because they’ve drunk way too much, or it’s men showing off; usually a mix of the two. And it is always men. Women are cleverer than that. Nobody likes the naked ones they always get killed the quickest. Often by their own side.”

“Have you ever gone into battle naked?”

“I have not. But there was one time a whole gang of naked men charged a group of us. It was a cold day, and their wee blue cocks were pointed straight at us, like mice looking out of hairy holes, somebody said. They were still a way away and a girl on our side hit one of them in the bollocks with a slingstones. The noise he made!” Dug chuckled. “We were laughing almost too much to fight. It was up on the banks of the Linny Foith, a great channel miles north of here but way south of where I’m from. I’d just sworn a year’s service to a—”

“What about going into battle painted blue?”

“I’ve done that, but I don’t like it. When I was with the Murkans I was in a battle and each side had blued up, trying to intimidate the other. We all felt like arseholes, and it was hard to tell who was on which side. I’m pretty sure I killed a friend that day. Sometimes your blood gets up. I was lashing out at anybody blue, forgetting…”

“Will you kill me if Zadar attacks?”

“I will not.”

“Will Zadar’s army kill us both?”

“No, no. They can’t do a thing. They may all be Warriors but it’s just a small part of his army, and we outnumber them ten to one. They can’t outflank us because of the river, and they can’t attack us head-on because we’ve got spears and they’ve only got horse troops. If we stay in this line we’re fine. Although if they get off their horses we might have problems, and if we break we’re in all sorts of bother, whereas if we’d stayed on the other side of the river or, even better, in the hillfort…”

“What?”

“Don’t fuss. We’ll be fine.”

The procession continued. After the chariots came the cavalry, again in heavy and light order. Those fifty horsemen who had followed directly after him were plainly Zadar’s famous elite, but the couple of hundred heavy cavalry didn’t look much less useful. Dug wouldn’t have been surprised if they were all Warriors too.

Most interesting to Dug were the light cavalry – one section in particular. On the near side of the procession were six mounted female archers with long hair and bare legs. The blonde one at the front was staring at the Barton line. She was the only soldier in Zadar’s army who’d turned her head.

“Are they goddesses?”

“Aye, son, I think they might be.”

“And what are these?”

“Musicians.”

As if to prove his point, the men riding at the rear of Zadar’s army raised brass instruments to their lips and blared out a cacophony. The wooden clackers fixed on hinges in the instruments’ mouths added a buzz like a swarm of giant bees.

“I say musicians, but that’s no music!” chuckled Dug.

The men and women in Barton’s battle line looked at each other then back to the horn blowers. Other than thunder, this was the loudest noise that most of them had ever heard. The boy’s legs tightened around Dug’s neck.

“Don’t be scared, it’s just noise!” Dug yelled over the increasing din, for the benefit of those nearby as well as the boy. “We’ll be fine! Can you loosen your legs?”

Zadar’s army was all in view now, stretched out to match precisely the length of the Barton line.
That probably isn’t an accident
, thought Dug. The cavalry and chariots wheeled as one to face them. The trumpets screamed louder. Mylor’s ramshackle pseudo-army took a step back. The horns ceased. A gap opened in the centre of the Maidun line, and a lone chariot wobbled slowly towards Barton. Instead of horses, it was drawn by two stumbling, naked, blood-soaked men. They were harnessed to the chariot by leather thongs attached to thick iron bolts that had been hammered through their shoulders. Standing in the chariot, whipping the men forward, was a young woman with large, wobbling bare breasts.

Chatter spread through the Barton line like wind through a wheat field. Someone said one of the men drawing the horrific chariot was Kris Sheeplord, king of Boddingham. The other was the messenger sent by Elliax to Zadar to tell him about the parade plan.

The king of Boddingham toppled forward, pulling the messenger down with him.

“Big badgers’ balls,” said Dug. “I don’t like the look of this.”

Z
adar’s army stood motionless. Dug took the boy off his shoulders, squatted and drew him in close.

“Run,” he said. “Back over the bridge, up to the ridge.”

“To the fort?”

“No. Stay on the ridge and watch. This may be a display. But if Zadar’s army attacks, run along the Ridge Road, away from Barton. Don’t stop until you reach another fort.”

The boy stared at Dug.

“Go!”

He went. Dug stood.

Zadar’s army remained motionless, other than the troop of six female mounted archers, who trotted forward. Just within range of Barton’s slingers, they reined back their horses and halted, perhaps ten paces between each. The horses’ tails swished and the mild breeze played in the women’s hair. The metal tips of the heavy bows that each held in her left hand glinted in the bright morning sunlight. Most bows were no more powerful than slings, but these looked different. They had the double arc of a gliding seagull and were made of much thicker wood than the slender, single-curve bows Dug had come across. Probably nothing to worry about. Over-elaboration made a weapon weaker in Dug’s experience. He tapped his hammer.

The women reached for arrows, nocked them, pulled back bowstrings, aimed high and shot. The six arrows went much higher and further than arrows were meant to go. Five sailed over the Barton line and landed harmlessly in the gap between army and spectators. One flew a little further and speared an elderly man through the chest. He squawked, dropped his cider and fell backwards. The six women lowered their bows and sat on their horses, looking calmly ahead as if appreciating the view.

“Prepare to shoot!” came the order from somewhere in the Barton line. There was a pause while a couple of hundred slingers fumbled in their bags.

“Shoot!” Hundreds of little round missiles flew in graceful parabolas. They would have landed on or near enough the six Maidun horse archers had the riders not galloped forward, hooves drumming on the hard ground. By the time the salvo landed where they’d been, the archers were twenty paces from the spear line. As if it were a synchronised dance, the women lifted their bows and pulled arrows from the quivers on their backs. They nocked the arrows, drew, aimed and loosed.

Six arrows thrummed into the Barton line. Four smashed into shields with explosions of splinters. Two of these held in the thick wood, two passed through and spitted the shield holders, one in the chest, one in the stomach. The arrows that missed shields hit the faces of two men who’d peeked round their wooden protection to ogle the women. Their heads burst in sprays of blood and brain.

The dead men fell. The injured men shrieked. People screamed. Six more arrows hummed through the gaps left in the shield wall by the fallen. More screams tore the air. Wails of panic drowned out the howls of the wounded. They’d never seen missiles like these.

The six Maidun horse archers, driving their mounts with their legs, long hair streaming behind them, charged up and down, pumping arrows into the line of Barton spearmen.

The line reeled, then crinkled. The better shields did stop the arrows, but these were few. As men and women fell, more gaps opened in the shield wall and more arrowheads ripped through leather, wool, linen and flesh.

The Maidun women turned and swooped like a flock of birds, pounding arrow after arrow into the Barton ranks. The Barton army seemed to wake from its torpor and several people ran at their attackers, only to be impaled by arrows before they’d gone a few paces.

Dug watched, eyes narrow, stomach somersaulting.

The Barton slingers couldn’t get a clear shot at the archers past their own spearmen, so they pushed forward. Shields were moved aside to give them a clear view, but it was as if the women knew where each breach would appear before it did. They shot through the gaps. Slingers died.

“Concentrate!” Dug shouted. “Have courage! If you all shoot together you’ll take them out!”

He managed to gather a gang of slingers. With shouts, pushes and a couple of punches, he primed some men to drop their shields on his command, and readied his slingers. The women headed towards them. Just a few more heartbeats … As he drew in breath to shout the command, the archers spun their horses and galloped back to Zadar’s lines, kicking up soil at the shocked people of Barton.

“Badgers’ cocks,” said Dug.