Clash of Iron (32 page)

Arranged in a fan shape, left and right of the strange ruling pair, were an array of tough-looking men and women, twenty or so armed with swords and spears. They watched in silence as the guard attached six Maidun riders and Miller to a longer chain which ran between an iron ring hammered into the rock ground and another set in a boulder the height of Spring. The boulder perched on the cliff edge. Spring did not like the look of it and neither, given the looks on their faces, did any of the others, but with hands bound and spears everywhere, there was nothing they could do.

“Queen Lowa,” spat Grummog, “I wondered when you’d grace us with your magnificent presence.” His voice was even sharper than Spring’s square-mustachioed captor’s, managing to sound offended and aggressive at the same time, like a bandit you’ve caught in the act of murdering a traveller who’s claiming that it’s all your fault while planning to attack you. It made Spring wince.

“I’m Grummog, king of all the Murkans,” he continued. “And this beauty,” he indicated the woman next to him, “is my queen, Pomax.” If Pomax was flattered by the lie about her looks, it didn’t warm her cold scowl.

“You are a fool, Grummog,” said Lowa. Spring swelled with pride at how commanding she sounded.

“Am I? Well, aren’t I lucky to have you to come up here and tell me? Would you like to explain why?”

Lowa told him about the Romans’ progress in Gaul, and the news that they were set on conquering Britain. She told him about the power of Caesar’s army, leaving out Chamanca’s report on Felix’s dark legion.

“You have made a terrible mistake in attacking my people, Grummog,” she finished, “but, if you free us now and we draw up a pact to unite against the Romans, I will forgive you and instruct my soldiers’ families not to retaliate.”

“Ooh, thanks so much for giving me the chance!” Grummog was sarcastic and Spring hated him all the more. Sarcasm was not always appropriate. “I’m so lucky, me. But tell me, just for interest’s sake, what will happen if I throw you and all your people off the cliff now?”

“The Maidun army will march here within the moon and slaughter you all. Then the Romans will come and take Britain, but that won’t matter to you because you’ll be long dead and forgotten.”

“Oh, well, I suppose we’ll just have to take that risk,” said Grummog, sounding like a fatalistic traveller warned that there might be rain on the way.

“Grummog,” said Lowa, “Caesar has pillaged, murdered and raped through southern Gaul. Northern Gaul is likely to capitulate within the moon, then he will come to Britain and take our freedom. However, if all the tribes of Britain can unite, then his army can be beaten. For the benefit of everyone, the first thing for us to do is to make an agreement to—”

“Stop, stop, stop!” Grummog waved his gnarled hands. “Stop your bleating, woman! You know, don’t you, who benefits when someone says that something is for the benefit of everyone? The person saying it, that’s who! Always! You’ve got a weak little position in the south and the Romans are going to piss all over you. I don’t see why I should stop that. You know what I say? I say that it’s,” he attempted to copy Lowa’s accent, “for the benefit of everyone for me to help the Romans against you, then live at peace with them. I say ‘you’ but I mean Maidun. You’ll be well dead before they come. Dead and curled into a little ball of black meat and charred bones.” He looked to his left, over at the wicker woman, then back to Lowa. He winked.

“The Romans will massacre you.” Lowa’s jaw was clenched.

“Your arrogance makes a fool of you.” Grummog narrowed his eyes. “You think I don’t have people with the Romans? You think you’re the only one who heard the druid’s warnings and decided to have a look what was happening? You come up here, thinking you’re doing some sort of favour for the stupid Murkans? Talking to me like I’m a child? Shall I tell you what I know about the Romans in Gaul?”

“Go for it,” said Lowa, sounding unimpressed.

“I will go for it!” screamed Grummog. “The Romans are unbeatable by anyone in Britain because they’ve been training for hundreds of fucking years, and we haven’t and we don’t have time—”

“My army can beat them.”

“Shut up! And listen, for once in your fucking life! I know who you are, Lowa Flynn. I know what you did for Zadar. And I know that you’re the last one to start preaching about fucking murder. You were at Cowton. Don’t deny it, I know you were.”

Lowa stayed quiet. She had, Spring knew, not just been present when Zadar’s army killed every man, woman, child and animal in Cowton. She’d led the attack.

“My sister was at Cowton,” Grummog continued. “On the wrong fucking side. She was a peaceful person. She left here because she didn’t like me putting people in the wicker woman, but I loved her anyway. And she was killed for being in the wrong place. So don’t you try and tell me that you’re better than Caesar, me or anyone. And I’ll tell you another thing I know. The Romans have killed a lot of people, but do you know the one thing that links everyone they’ve killed? The common factor, if you like?”

“I do,” said Lowa, her voice like solid iron after Grummog’s whining.

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. All of them were brave men and women who stood up to Caesar, not honourless turds who capitulated.”

“Brave men and women who all died! The common factor is that they opposed the Romans. Lowa, you fight the Romans and you’ll kill everyone who calls you queen. You fight the Romans, and you give your land to the Romans. That’s what happens. I’m going to keep my land, I’m going to save my people, by helping the Romans take yours. And I’ll tell you another thing you don’t know, clever clever Lowa. It’s not the Romans you should be worried about. You won’t live to see the fucking Romans. Manfrax is sailing from Eroo any day with an army that’ll smash yours. The Dumnonians, too. They aren’t your puppies like you think. Bruxon, who you made king, went over to Eroo and asked Manfrax to invade. The Dumnonians will supply the Eroo army. They’re going to tell him about your cavalry and your chariots and all your other secrets. You think the Romans are bad? You think they rape and murder? Wait until you meet the Eroo army. The Romans at least pretend to be civilised.”

Lowa reddened. The twisted king grinned. “You didn’t know, did you? You only sent your spies over one sea. I sent mine both ways, because I’m cleverer than you. Manfrax has conquered Eroo and now he’s going to use his army on Maidun. But he won’t worry the Murkans, because guess what? The Dumnonians are going to ask me to join them and Eroo and I’ll say yes – not immediately, obviously, because I know how to negotiate and get the best for my tribe, unlike you, you stupid woman.

“While you’ve been building your army to face the Romans, Maidun’s destruction’s been planned behind you. But don’t worry, you’re not going to see. I’m going keep you until Beltane. Then you’re going in the head of the wicker woman, where you can think about how fucking brave and clever you are as you burn. And I tell you what. The rest of your life, before you burn, is going to be really, really shit. Pomax here is going look after you.” Grummog nodded at the gigantic woman. For the first time, she smiled.

Lowa looked about warily. Spring did the same. With twenty spears at their backs, twenty swords in front and their hands bound, they were short on options. It was exactly the sort of situation that could do with some magic. Spring strained to pull power from within. She stared at Lowa, willing her to become a super-warrior. Nothing. She closed her eyes. She saw a vision of Dug that first time she’d seen him, when he’d killed Ulpius and unwittingly saved her. She felt a shift, as if a weight was being lifted out of her body. She opened her eyes.

Nothing had happened. Lowa stood facing Grummog, no more powerful than she’d been a heartbeat before.

“Right!” said Grummog. “I’m bored of these other southern bastards. Pomax?”

The big queen smiled and walked from the open-sided longhouse towards the boulder.

“No!” shouted Lowa, straining at her wrist bonds. Three spear points pressed into her neck. Spring tried to run at Pomax, but strong arms encircled her from behind.

“You’ll want to watch this,” said square-moustache man in her ear, heaving her around to face the cliff top.

Spring couldn’t see what Pomax was going to do. She had no lever, and there was no way that one person could move the boulder, even if she wasn’t far off the size of an aurochs.

Pomax was going to give it a go, though. She squatted, placed her hands and a shoulder on the rock, then drove up into it, her thighs doubling in girth as bovine muscle bulged. The boulder shifted, leant and toppled off the cliff. The seven soldiers of Lowa’s Two Hundred hardly had time to scream before the chain attaching them to the falling rock snapped tight and they flew, hands first, over the edge. Miller was the last to go, staring hate at Grummog.

While everyone listened to the cries of the falling, Lowa dropped away from the spears at her neck. She dived, rolled and bounced on to her feet, elbowed a Murkan in the neck and whacked her chained wrists into another’s face. She spun to avoid a sling salvo and caught one of the slingstones. She continued her spin and hurled the stone at Grummog. He squeaked and half-raised his arms.

Somehow Pomax had sprinted back from the cliff edge. One of her hands flashed out and caught the stone, the other cracked her whip. Lowa tried to dodge, but the whipcord struck home, flicked around her torso and pinned her arms. She tried to pull away, but Pomax was a pace taller and three times her weight. She needed only one hand to hold the queen of Maidun. Lowa’s only option was to run head first at Pomax, which she did. Pomax met her charge with a lazy backhanded slap across the face. Lowa’s head snapped back, and she slumped. Pomax flicked the whip, Lowa pirouetted a grotesquely floppy dance and collapsed on to the bare rock, out cold.

Grummog turned to Spring, still in the clutches of square-moustache man, and smiled.

“Right, now. Spring.” He said. Spring was confused. She hadn’t said her name. How did he know her name?

“Or should I say Sabina?” Oh badger’s balls, thought Spring. Sabina was the name her father, King Zadar, had given her. If Grummog knew that …

“Yes, that’s right, I know who you are. My people saw you in the arena with your dad. I even know the stupid name you gave when you came back after running away. Well, I don’t really – it’s too stupid to remember – Ing-bo, Ong-bo something something? My point is, Spring, I know things. That’s why I rule.”

“Well done you. Your mum must be proud.” Spring nodded.

“You southern cunt!” Grummog’s face had become purple in the blink of an eye. “Just a child, but already so smug and so fucking superior. I was going to keep you, maybe whore you out to my men and then the Romans, but I’ve got a good mind to have you thrown off the cliff now.”

“Why don’t you, you pig-faced badger’s cock?”

“How dare you, in front of my men and women call me—?”

“I’m sorry,” said Spring, “I’ve insulted pig-faced badgers’ cocks. You’re actually much uglier than that. And smellier.”

“That’s it!” squeaked the king. “Pomax!”

Pomax looked at Spring, a hint of a smile on fleshy, glistening lips. She approached, coiling the whip with her clawed left hand. Spring almost fainted as her cockiness drained to be replaced by what she guessed must be fear. There was more to Pomax than size. Spring could feel magic radiating from the woman. That was how she’d been quick enough to best Lowa. Spring bet Pomax’s magic wasn’t as powerful as hers. If only she could find her magic again, she’d show the fish-faced giant. Surely it was meant to come at times like this? She strained. Nothing.

Square moustache held her tight while Pomax grabbed her neck and her thigh, encircling both easily with long, thick fingers. Her needle-sharp fingernails cut into Spring’s. Square moustache released his grip.

The world swung as Pomax held Spring aloft. The Murkan queen walked towards the cliff edge, Spring thrashing above her head. She tried to whack the big woman’s face, but couldn’t reach. She clawed at her arms, but it was like trying to grip polished wood.

Pomax threw her upwards. She flew into the air, spun and fell. The giantess caught her again, one hand holding the back of her skirt, the other circling her neck from behind. She turned slowly, pivoting Spring so that she could see Grummog and the Murkans smiling at her. The girl writhed uselessly. She willed magic to bring Lowa back to life to save her, but the queen of Maidun lay motionless in a broken-looking pile.

“I’m going to kill you all,” Spring said. They laughed.

Pomax turned. Spring could see the vast view and the road that she’d ridden along so happily, snaking away to the south. Funny how things can change so quickly, she thought, as Pomax hurled her off the cliff.

“T
hat,” said Carden, “is the sweetest little position I ever saw. Are we sure we don’t want these people conquering us? I’d love to be with an outfit that could set up something like that in a day. And, is it just me, or has it grown since we saw it last?”

“Caesar has hired two more legions, another ten thousand men,” said Atlas, “and don’t be wowed by their pretty camp. The Maidun army would never have given them the space or time to build it.”

It was a lovely position, Chamanca thought, so different from the sprawl of Gaulish camps that faced it. She, Carden and Atlas were on horseback on a hillside that was thronged with an army larger than Chamanca had imagined possible. An agglomeration of tribes united under Queen Galba to prevent Rome’s advance, the new Gaulish army was said to number half a million infantry, plus cavalry. Chamanca didn’t believe that, but they had been riding along the hillside for an hour, and they’d been passing throngs of warriors all the way. The variety had been fascinating.

Trying to describe the typical Gaulish fighter, thought Chamanca, would be like trying to describe the plumage of the average bird. There was a large troop of survivors from Hari the Fister’s tribe wearing nothing but their furry groin-cloths. Here was a small army of men and women with long, lime-lightened hair, all carrying spears with twisted points. Over there, looking down their neat noses at the lime-haired lot, was a knot of stiff-necked archers on sleek horses, their shining silk clothes interlaced with gold thread.