Reign of Iron by Angus Watson Page A

things.”
    “So?”
    “We fought only four. How many more are to come? From the noise in the square, many. And I don’t think those little leather-clad men are the worst of it either.” He glanced down at her bleeding stomach. “And you’re hurt. We go now. Can you walk?”
    “Of course I can walk. I can run.”
    Spring scanned the edge of the tents, arrow ready, as the two British Warriors ran towards her and the bridge. There were more Germans fleeing the camp, some of whom were wearing leathers. She nearly let fly at a couple of them before realising at the last moment that they weren’t the enemy.
    The enemy … had been extraordinary. She’d held back initially, since killing the attackers after the others had claimed them would have been like shooting someone else’s bird on a game shoot and she knew that Chamanca in particular would not have been impressed. By the time she realised they were in trouble, it had been too late to save Senlack. She’d tried, but his attacker had dodged her first two arrows – while parrying Senlack’s attack – then sliced the Ootipeat king’s stomach open before she’d managed to hit him. Atlas had beaten one, but not easily, and Chamanca, facing two, had been losing when Spring intervened. How many troops like this did the Romans have? How could Lowa’s depleted army hope to hold against them? And would Chamanca be angry about Spring shooting her attackers before she’d had a chance to kill them?
    “Come on!” Atlas said as he and the Iberian ran by. “And well done.” The clanging of iron on iron was so loud that it sounded like a crowd of giants in iron armour were running towards them through the camp. She was very happy to join the retreat.
    “Thank you,” said Chamanca as they ran.
    “Don’t mention it,” said Spring.
    “Wasn’t planning to again,” said the Iberian, but she turned and flashed a genuine, pointy-toothed grin that gave Spring a warm rush despite the circumstances.
    They bounded up the steps onto the bridge. It was a thin, wooden affair, supported on stone columns. The river below was brown and churning, fizzing white around the bridge supports. It was not a waterway you’d want to swim across.
    On the other side was Walfdan, holding a flaming torch and standing next to a barrel of oil. Spring turned to look at the line of tents and her breath caught in her throat. An iron-encased giant ran into sight among the crowds of refugees. He picked up a German by the leg and threw her forty paces into the air. He grabbed another and did the same, then another and another. A couple of dozen more iron giants appeared. They had blades attached to their wrists and shins, and swords the length of hut posts. They set to killing. She saw one throw a German to another, who whacked the flying man with his wrist blade, slicing him in two in a spray of guts and blood. Another picked up a man, pulled his arm off, then beat him about the head with his own limb. They all killed in different ways with one uniting theme – they enjoyed it. They were playing.
    “Wait until the Romans are on the bridge, then burn it,” said Atlas.
    Spring opened her mouth to disagree – there were a lot of Germans on the other side of the Renos still – but he was right. It they didn’t burn the bridge those who’d made it across would die as well. She tried a few arrows on the giants but her missiles bounced off thick armour. More of the Leathermen appeared and she tried to hit them, but they moved so quickly that it was impossible at that distance. She’d just as likely hit one of the Germans. Not that that would matter really, since they were all going to die anyway.
    A couple of iron giants gave up killing for a moment to sprint for the bridge.
    “Now,” said Atlas.
    “No,” said Walfdan. Spring saw that he was right. The armoured men didn’t intend to cross the bridge; they were there to stop any more Germans reaching safety. A company of Ootipeats and Tengoterry