Clash of Iron
Authors: Angus Watson
D
ug’s shield was reduced to an iron hub, fringed with splinters of smashed wood. It still worked for slamming into Dumnonian faces. His hammer swung and smashed bone. A sword clanged into his helmet. He lashed out with his hammer and another Dumnonian fell. A face screamed and a backhanded hammerblow silenced it.
A small voice scrambled up from deep in his mind and timidly suggested that he was tiring, that he couldn’t possibly keep this up. Soon he’d make a mistake or meet someone stronger, better or luckier than he was. He’d done his bit, for now at least, and it was time to take a breather.
Dug snarled at the little voice to bugger off. He was busy.
Angus Watson
is an author and journalist living in London. He’s written hundreds of features for many newspapers including
The
Times
,
Financial Times
and the
Telegraph
, and the latter even sent him to look for Bigfoot. As a fan of both historical fiction and epic fantasy, Angus came up with the idea of writing a fantasy set in the Iron Age when exploring British hillforts for the
Telegraph
, and developed the story while walking Britain’s ancient paths for further articles. You can find him on Twitter at
@GusWatson
or find his website at
www.guswatson.com
.
Find out more about Angus Watson and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at
www.orbitbooks.net
.
Y
A
NGUS
W
ATSON
Age of Iron trilogy
Age of Iron
Clash of Iron
Reign of Iron
COPYRIGHT
Published by Orbit
ISBN: 9781405528535
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Angus Watson
Excerpt from
A Dance of Cloaks
by David Dalglish
Copyright © 2013 by David Dalglish
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Orbit
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Contents
Part Three: Britain, Gaul and Eroo
For Tim
61
BC
Q
ueen Lowa Flynn of Maidun knew she’d have to fight the moment she saw King Samalur the Tough of Dumnonia. She’d been fairly sure that violence would be required when she’d heard that he called himself “the Tough”. Appearance and name aside, the fact that he’d marched an army five times the size of hers into her territory hardly heralded a friendly hello.
The boy king looked down at her from the low wall of the abandoned hillfort that he’d appropriated for Dumnonia’s temporary headquarters. He was perched on the edge of the ornately carved wooded throne. He did not look tough, or, indeed, like a king. He looked like a spoilt child who’d spent a lot of other people’s time and effort trying to look majestic. Fanning up and out behind his throne was a ludicrous, scallop-shaped wooden adornment the height of two tall men, laboriously etched and painted with hunting scenes. Lowa thought what a huge and pointless hassle it must have been for some hapless peasants to haul the thing all the way from Dumnonia.
The king’s skinny legs dangled from the massive throne, clad in the finest tartan trousers. His boots, hanging a good foot above the platform, were tipped with polished ox horn. His bony, nobble-elbowed arms sprouted from a shiny brown otter-skin waistcoat. He wasn’t much older than Spring, yet, below a bulbously arched nose and deep-set eyes, his smile shone with the unshakeable self-satisfaction that men didn’t usually achieve until much later in life (and women rarely managed; some women that Lowa knew tried the look, but it was usually unconvincing).
Around his perched throne stood granite-faced guards adorned with the boar necklaces of Warriors, and next to them young, pretty female and male attendants. The former looked at Lowa with mild interest, the latter bathed their ruler with sycophantic smiles while regarding Lowa with the same disdainful rolling-eyed glowers that they might have given an elderly flasher.
Lowa sighed. Three days a queen, already she hated it.
She’d come to meet Samalur on horseback, bringing only Carden Nancarrow and Atlas Agrippa with her, intending to show how relaxed she felt about a gigantic army invading her territory. Having seen Samalur and his gang, she now knew that she’d made a mistake. She looked cheap in their snobbish eyes and that had weakened her negotiating position. Looking up to the boy king on the hillfort wall, she was below him physically as well, which didn’t help. Perhaps she should have brought some sort of platform? Found a taller horse? She hadn’t expected to be skilled at diplomacy, and she’d been right. Things were not going well.
“I have no quarrel with you, Samalur,” she tried. “Quite the opposite. It will benefit both our tribes to unite against the Romans.”
“The Romans?” His voice was high and haughty. “Do you know where the nearest Roman is? In Iberia. Should we unite to fight all the fish in the sea – because they’re a lot closer!” Samalur giggled like the teenager he was, looking left to right at his court, who laughed along fawningly. His Warrior bodyguards smiled like men and women who’d been told to smile but weren’t happy about it.
One of them wasn’t laughing or smiling. Chief advisor Bruxon, the only one of Samalur’s retinue who’d been introduced to them, was looking grimly at the grassy ground. He was about Dug’s age with black-stained woollen clothes, a clean-shaven face and dye-blackened hair tied back in a short ponytail. He looked almost comically severe. Perhaps because he disliked his conceited ruler? Perhaps he might be useful in winning round or even unseating the young king?
“And don’t think Bruxon’s going to help you because he looks like someone’s tricked him into drinking piss!” Samalur sniggered. He’d seen her looking at Bruxon and read her thoughts. Lowa was reluctantly impressed. “He always looks like that. But he’s loyal to me. It was Bruxon’s plan for me to kill my dad and become king in the first place! He tried to make me think it was my idea, but I’m cleverer than that, aren’t I, Bruxon?” The advisor nodded resignedly. “So I’m also too clever to believe any of the crap that the druids spout about Roman invasions. They only do it to make themselves look important. That’s why I don’t keep druids near me. I killed all my father’s. And do you know what’s really funny? They bang on about seeing the future, but not one of them saw me coming!”
Laughter rang out from Samalur’s throng.
“You don’t need druids,” the boy continued, “you can talk to the gods without them. I do. But I am part god, so that probably makes it easier … I’d recommend you kill all your druids, but you won’t have time, since I’m going to kill you and take your territory. Tell you what; after I’ve wiped you and your army off the battlefield, I’ll kill all your druids for you.”
Lowa clenched her fists. “I would have agreed about druids not long ago, Samalur, but I’ve learnt differently. I know at least one druid who can see an invincible force of Romans coming to conquer us all with the same certainty that we might see rain coming across a lake and know that we’re about to get wet. I’ve seen her do things that make me believe her.”
“No, sorry, won’t work, I don’t believe her or you.”
“Samalur, if our armies clash, thousands will die. Whoever wins, both armies will be weakened and we’ll be more open to invasion. Not just from the Romans, but from the Murkans and anyone else who puts their mind to it.”
“So surrender. I’ve given you my terms.” Samalur smirked.
Even if the terms had been overly reasonable, Lowa could never have surrendered to the cocky little shit.
“You may outnumber us, Samalur, but our skill and experience is greater. We will rip the belly from your army like wolves savaging an aurochs.”
“Take the belly. There’ll be plenty left. We’ll still win.”
“Even if you do, a multitude will be killed. Your people will be weakened for generations.”
“What are armies for if not to fight? I’ve got a huge army and I want to use it and nobody can stop me. Least of all you. You’re not my mother. You can’t be, I killed her.”
Lowa put a hand on her bow.
“Lowa,” said Atlas quietly, “we don’t have—”
She held up a silencing hand. “All right, Samalur, I’ll fight your army and I’ll kill you myself. Wait here, we’ll be back after nightfall.”
As Lowa turned her horse, the laughter of Dumnonia’s upper echelons made her skin prickle. She kicked her iron heels into the animal’s flanks and galloped away.