Reign of Iron by Angus Watson Read Free Book Online

how would she fare against one campaign-hardened legionary, let alone a group of them? She carried the same type of longbow as Lowa, as well as Dug’s hammer, but Chamanca was sure she wouldn’t be able to use either of them effectively. There was the magic, of course, which had beaten Chamanca in a fight when Spring had channelled it through Lowa, but the girl claimed that her magic powers had died with Dug and the wave. So why exactly was she coming?
    Chamanca reckoned Lowa wanted her out of Britain. Many had lost friends or family to the wave, so Spring was a likely target for revenge attacks. The Iberian had seen it when she’d been young herself – a group of twats could easily whip themselves into a vengeful, murderous communal rage, even if their target had only drunk a little blood … That might be the case, but it was still no reason to send Spring on their dangerous mission. The last thing they needed was a tagalong. One weak link would get them all killed.
    She did like the girl – she was amusing and quite beautiful – but the Iberian liked herself more. If it looked like she was going to get them all killed, Chamanca would kill her first. No, in fact she wouldn’t kill her. She would break her leg and pay a village or a farm to look after her until she healed. Was she getting soft in her old age, she mused? Maybe that’s why she was having these bizarre feelings of affection – of attraction! – for sensible, boring, dependable, old, handsome, muscular, mighty Atlas …
    “I’d just rather you didn’t mention the wave,” Spring said when the palaver of setting sail was over and the boat was creaking its tubby way out to sea. Her voice was a strange mix. Mostly it was a melodious and refined British accent like Zadar’s, but she pronounced some sounds in the German way like Lowa and others in Dug’s strange northern accent. It was rather a pleasant effect, Chamanca thought.
    “Don’t worry, Spring, we won’t talk about the wave, will we, Chamanca?” Atlas spoke quietly, his Kushite bass even lower than normal.
    “What wave?” asked Chamanca.
    Atlas nodded. “Remember, when we get to Gaul we will not do or say anything to draw attention to ourselves. Not to begin with, at least.”
    Chamanca thought that simply being a massive African Warrior carrying an axe that could chop an ox in two would draw plenty of attention, and that the Gauls would be certain to notice the most attractive and well-dressed women they’d ever seen, but she held her tongue. The nondescript girl would go unnoticed, at least.
    “Why don’t you tell me all you found and did in Gaul?” asked Spring. “It would probably be best if I know as much as possible. About the Romans, too?”
    “Sure thing,” said Atlas. “The first thing to understand about the Romans and the Gaulish is that they are not Britons…” and on he droned, as the boat slipped through the night.
    The next day, after some badgering from Spring, Chamanca found herself filling in the gaps that Atlas had left, especially about the most recent expedition when it had been just her and Carden. It helped pass the time as the boat bobbed on, and the girl proved to be a pleasingly perceptive audience.
    They arrived at a small beach shortly after sunset two days later. Walfdan, the elderly Fenn-Nodens druid from the Gaulish town of Sea View, was waiting. So he’d escaped the Roman purges, Chamanca was glad to see. Most druids were idiots, but she liked this one. He welcomed them effusively and offered food and rest after their long journey. They were grateful for the food but Atlas insisted that they were ready to move on and would eat on the hoof – not literally, since they’d be walking to begin with, to limit chances of detection. As they climbed the steep dunes that backdropped the beach, Chamanca glanced at Spring for signs of shirking or fatigue, but the girl looked sprightly.
    As they paced quietly through the night, inland and eastward, Atlas