Free Age of Iron by Angus Watson

into the woods. Lowa followed it, running full tilt into the evening warmth of the trees. She didn’t know the land. The woods were dark. She could trip or fall into a mire at any moment. Her only advantage over her pursuers was that she had nothing to lose. She saw a faint light ahead and ran for it, passing through a clearing and scattering a sounder of wild boar from their starlit grazing. Two boar ran ahead of her, groinking, then peeled off along tracks she couldn’t see. But her night vision was improving. She could make out the way very slightly now. She slowed from a sprint to a fast run.
    The path split; Lowa chose left. She held her breath for a moment as she ran. There was no sound but the pounding of her own feet. The path split again. She chose left again. Wrong choice. That way ended in another small clearing, maybe ten paces across, surrounded by thick brambles. There was a dark regular shape in the centre – a forest altar.
She could hide behind it.
No, they’d find her. She spun and ran back towards the fork. Torches were bobbing towards her through the trees.
    Reaching the fork, she wrenched the shawl with the badger-or-dog design from her waist and hurled it back up the left track before running up the right one, hoping it wasn’t a dead end as well.
    It was.
    She smelled the river before she saw it. The path ended at a low, short jetty. The river was way too broad to leap and she couldn’t swim. She listened. Something scurried nearby, an owl hooted, and, not nearly as far away as she would have liked, her pursuers called to each other.
    “Here’s her shawl! It was round her waist earlier.” That was Dionysia Palus, formerly Deirdre Marsh. Trust her to notice what another woman was wearing. “It could be a decoy. Let’s split!”
    She didn’t have long. The brambles were impenetrable in both directions along the bank. To her right, upstream, the river stretched into the distance. An eagle owl flew lazily along the centre of the channel. To her left the river ran around a wooded corner. The only route was back along the path towards Danu knew how many former friends intent on murdering her. She had a knife. They’d have slings and swords.
    She dashed out onto the jetty. How hard could swimming be? She’d seen children do it and children were idiots.
    She crouched to throw herself as far into the water as she could and spotted the coracle. The tiny circular leather and wood boat was tied under the end of the jetty. She lowered herself gingerly but quickly onto the bench that bisected it. The crazily small craft – surely meant for a child – rocked alarmingly and sank until it was two fingers’ breadth clear of the surface, but it didn’t capsize. She cut the flax painter with Atlas’s knife and pushed off downstream. There was a stout paddle under the bench. She rowed frantically. Calls came from the woods. More voices, getting closer. She heard thudding feet.
    The boat moved out into the current but Lowa’s paddling was just spinning it around. The curve in the river that would take her out of sight was a long way off. She could hear their panting now. They’d be on the jetty any moment. They wouldn’t miss her on the starlit water. In a few seconds slingstones would smash her skull. She slowed her rowing to firmer, more purposeful strokes, one side then the other. That was the way. The strange little boat picked up speed.
    It was too late. She heard feet thud onto wood. She crouched into a ball.
    “A river.” She recognised the voice. It was Carden’s brother and Dionysia’s husband, Weylin Nancarrow, the man who’d killed Cordelia.
    “Well spotted, genius.” That was Deidre/Dionysia.
    “She’s swum across or she’s hiding back in the woods,” said a voice she didn’t recognise.
    “I’m surrounded by geniuses.” Deidre again.
    “She can’t swim. She told me.” That was Weylin. They’d talked about swimming not long ago. Fenn’s teeth! Never admit your