Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  The huntress gave a low whistle, summoning Lady back to the bank. The sound of a walking horse came to Sigarni then, and she rose and turned.

  The horse was a tall chestnut, and upon it rode a black man, his cheeks, head, and shoulders covered in a flowing white burnoose. A cloak of blue-dyed wool hung from his broad shoulders and a curved sword was scabbarded at his waist. He smiled as he saw the mountain woman.

  “When hunting duck, it is better for the hawk to take it from below,” he said, swinging down from his saddle.

  “We’re still learning,” replied Sigarni affably. “She is wedded to fur now, but it took time—as you said it would, Asmidir.”

  The tall man sat down at the water’s edge. Lady approached him gingerly, and he stroked her head. “The eye is healing well. Has it affected her hunting?” Sigarni shook her head. “And the bird? Hawks prefer to feed on feather. What is her killing weight?”

  “Two pounds two ounces. But she has taken hare at two-four.”

  “And what do you feed her?”

  “No more than three ounces a day.”

  The black man nodded. “Once in a while you should catch her a rat. Nothing better for cleaning a bird’s crop than a good rat.”

  “Why is that, Asmidir?” asked Sigarni, sitting down beside the man.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted with a broad smile. “My father told me years ago. As you know the hawk swallows its prey—where it can—whole and the carcass is compressed, all the goodness squeezed out of it. It then vomits out the cast, the remnants. There is, I would imagine, something in the rat’s pelt or skin that cleans the bird’s crop as it exits.” Leaning back on his elbows, he narrowed his eyes and watched the distant hawk.

  “How many kills so far?”

  “Sixty-eight hares, twenty pigeons, and a ferret.”

  “You hunt ferret?” asked Asmidir, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “It was a mistake. The ferret bolted a hare and Abby took the ferret.”

  Asmidir chuckled. “You have done well, Sigarni. I am glad I gave you the hawk.”

  “Three times I thought I’d lost her. Always in the forest.”

  “You may lose sight of her, child, but she will never lose sight of you. Come back to the castle, and I will prepare you a meal. And you too,” he said, scratching the hound’s ears.

  “I was told that you were a sorcerer, and that I must beware of you.”

  “You should always heed the warnings of dwarves,” he said. “Or any creature of legend.”

  “How did you know it was Ballistar?”

  “Because I am a sorcerer, my dear. We are expected to know things like that.”

  “You always pause at my bear,” said Asmidir, gazing fondly at the silver-haired girl as Sigarni reached out and touched the fur of the beast’s belly. It was a huge creature, its paws outstretched, talons bared, mouth open in a silent roar. “It is wonderful,” she said. “How is it done?”

  “You do not believe it is a spell then?” he asked, smiling.

  “No.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, rubbing his chin, “if it is not a spell, then it must be a stuffed bear. There are craftsmen in my land who work on carcasses, stripping away the inner meat, which can rot, and rebuilding the dead beasts with clay before wrapping them once more in their skins or fur. The results are remarkably lifelike.”

  “And this then is a stuffed bear?”

  “I did not say that,” he reminded her. “Come, let us eat.”

  Asmidir led her through the hallway and into the main hall. A log fire was burning merrily in the hearth and two servants were laying platters of meat and bread on the table. Both were tall, dark-skinned men who worked silently, never once looking at their master or his guest. With the table laid, they silently withdrew.

  “Your servants are not friendly,” commented Sigarni.

  “They are efficient,” said Asmidir, seating himself at the table and filling a goblet with wine.

  “Do they fear you?”

  “A little fear is good for a servant.”

  “Do they love you?”

  “I am not a man easy to love. My servants are content. They are free to leave my service whenever it pleases them to do so; they are not slaves.” He offered Sigarni some wine, but she refused and he poured water into a glazed goblet that he passed to her. They ate in silence, then Asmidir moved to the fireside, beckoning Sigarni to join him.

  “Do you have no fear?” the black man asked as she sat cross-legged before him.

  “Of what?” she countered.

  “Of life. Of death. Of me.”

  “Why would I fear you?”

  “Why would you not? When we met last year I was a stranger in your land. Black and fearsome,” he said, widening his eyes and mimicking a snarl.

  She laughed at him. “You were never fearsome,” she said. “Dangerous, yes. But never fearsome.”

  “There is a difference?”

  “Of course,” she told him, cocking her head to one side. “I like dangerous men.”

  He shook his head. “You are incorrigible, Sigarni. The body of an angel and the mind of a whore. Usually that is considered a wonderful combination. That is, if you are contemplating the life of a courtesan, a prostitute, or a slut. Is that your ambition?”

  Sigarni yawned theatrically. “I think it is time to go home,” she said, rising smoothly.

  “Ah, I have offended you,” he said.

  “Not at all,” she told him. “But I expected better of you, Asmidir.”

  “You should expect better of yourself, Sigarni. There are dark days looming. A leader is coming—a leader of noble blood. You will probably be called upon in those days to aid him. For you also boast the blood of Gandarin. Men will follow an angel or a saint, they will follow a despot and a villain. But they will follow a whore only to the bedchamber.”

  Her face flushed with anger. “I’ll take sermons from a priest—not from a man who was happy to cavort with me throughout the spring and summer, and now seeks to belittle me. I am not some milkmaid or tavern wench. I am Sigarni of the Mountains. What I do is my affair. I used you for pleasure, I admit it freely. You are a fine lover; you have strength and finesse. And you used me. That made it a balanced transaction, and neither of us was sullied by it. How dare you attempt to shame me?”

  “Why would you see it as shame?” he countered. “I am talking of perceptions—the perceptions of men. You think I look down upon you? I do not. I adore you. For your body and your mind. Further, I am probably—as much as I am capable of it—a little in love with you. But this is not why I spoke in the way I did.”

  “I don’t care,” she told him. “Good-bye.”

  Sigarni strode from the room and out past the great bear. A servant pushed open the double doors and she walked down the steps into the courtyard. Lady came bounding toward her. Another servant, a slim dark-eyed young man, was waiting at the foot of the steps with Abby hooded upon his wrist. Sigarni pulled on her hawking glove.

  “You were waiting for me?” she asked the young man. He nodded. “Why? I am usually here for hours.”

  “The master said today would be a short visit,” he explained.

  Sigarni untied the braces and slid the hood clear of Abby’s eyes. The hawk looked around, them jumped to Sigarni’s fist. When the huntress lifted her arm and called out “Hai!” the hawk took off, heading south.

  Sigarni flicked her fingers and Lady moved close to her side, awaiting instructions. “What is your name?” she asked the servant, noting the sleekness of his skin and the taut muscles beneath his blue silk shirt. He shook his head and moved away from her.

  Annoyed, the huntress walked from the old castle, crossing the rickety drawbridge and heading off into the woods. Her mood was dark and angry as she went. The mind of a whore, indeed. Her thoughts turned to Fell the Forester. Now there was a man who understood pleasure. She doubted if there was a single woman within a day’s walk who hadn’t succumbed to his advance
s. Did they call him a whore? No. It was “Good old Fell, what a character, what a man!” Idiotic!

  Asmidir’s words rankled. She had thought him different, more . . . intelligent? Yes. Instead he proved to be like most men, caught between a need for fornication and a love of sermonizing.

  Abby soared above her, and Lady ran to the side of the trail, seeking out hares. Sigarni pushed thoughts of the black man from her mind and walked on in the dusk, coming at last to the final hillside and gazing down on her cabin. A light was showing at the window and this annoyed her, for she wished to be alone this evening. If it was that fool, Bernt, she would give him the sharp side of her tongue.

  Walking into the yard, she whistled for Abby. The hawk came in low, then spread her wings and settled on Sigarni’s glove. Feeding her a strip of meat she removed the hunting jesses; then carrying her to the bow perch, she attached the mews ties, and turned toward the cabin.

  Lady moved to the side of the building, lying down beside the door with her head on her paws.

  Sigarni pushed open the door.

  Fell was sitting by the fire, eyes closed, his long legs stretched out before the blaze. It angered her that she could feel a sense of rising excitement at his presence. He looked just the same as on that last day, his long black hair sleek and glowing with health, swept back from his brow and held in place by a leather headband, his beard close-trimmed and as soft as fur. Sigarni took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

  “What do you want here, Goat-brain?” she snapped.

  Then she saw the blood.

  There were wolves all around him, fangs bared, ready to rip and tear. A powerful beast leaped at him. Fell caught it by the throat, then spun on his heel hurling the creature into the pack. His limbs felt leaden, as if he were wading through water. The wolves blurred, shifting like smoke, becoming tall, fierce-eyed warriors holding knives of sharpened bronze. They moved in on him, smoothly, slowly. Fell’s arms were paralyzed and he felt the first knife sink into his shoulder like a tongue of fire . . .

  He opened his eyes. Sigarni was kneeling beside him with a needle in her hand, and he felt the flap of flesh on his shoulder drawn tight by the thread. Fell swore softly. “Lie still,” she said and Fell obeyed her. His stomach felt uneasy. Snapping the thread with her teeth, she sat back. “Looks like a sword cut.”

  “Long knife,” he told her, taking a deep shuddering breath. He said no more for a while, resting his neck against the thick, cushioned hide of the chair’s headrest. Focusing his gaze on the far timbered wall he ran his eyes over the weapons hanging there—the long-handled broadsword with its leaf-shaped blade and hilt of leather, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows, the daggers and dirks and lastly the helm, with its crown and cheek guards of black iron and the nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Not a speck of rust or tarnish showed on them.

  “You keep your father’s weapons in good condition,” he said.

  “That’s what Gwal taught me,” she told him. “Who gave you the wound?”

  “We didn’t exchange names. There were two of them. Robbed a pilgrim on the Low Trail. I tracked them to Mas Gryff.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Oh, they’re still there. I returned the money to the pilgrim and made a report to the Watch.” His face darkened. “Bastards! You could almost feel their disappointment.” He shook his head. “It won’t be much longer, you know. They’ll look for any excuse.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said. “I’ll make some broth.”

  He watched her move away; his eyes lingered on the sway of her hips. “You’re a beautiful woman, Sigarni. Never saw the like!”

  “Look on and weep for all you’ve lost,” she said, before disappearing into the back room.

  “Amen to that,” he whispered. Resting his head once more, he remembered the last parting two years before, Sigarni standing straight and tall and proud . . . always so proud. Fell had walked across the glens to Cilfallen and paid bride price for Gwendolyn. Sweet Gwen. In no way did she match the silver-haired woman he had left, save in one. Gwen could bear children, and a man needed sons. Ten months later Gwen was dead, the victim of a breech birth that killed both her and the infant.

  Fell had buried them both in the Loda resting place on the western slope of High Druin.

  Sigarni returned to his side. “Flex the muscles of your arm,” she ordered.

  He did so and winced. “It’s damned sore.”

  “Good. I like to think of you in pain.”

  “I buried my son, woman. I know what pain is. And I’d not wish it on a friend.”

  “Neither would I,” she said. “But you are no friend.”

  “Your mood is foul,” he admonished her. “Had a falling-out with your black man, have you?”

  “Have you been spying on me, Fell?” It irritated him that she did not deny the association.

  “It is my work, Sigarni. I patrol the forest and I have seen you enter the castle, and I have seen you leave. How could you rut with such as he?”

  She laughed then, and his anger rose. “Asmidir is a better man than you, Fell. In every way.” He wanted to strike her, to slap the smile from her face. But the growing nausea finally swamped him and with a groan he pushed himself from the chair, staggered to the door, and just made it to open ground before falling to earth and vomiting. Cold sweat shone upon his face in the moonlight, and he felt weak as a day-old calf as he struggled to rise. Sigarni appeared alongside him, taking his arm and looping it over her shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed,” she said, not unkindly.

  Fell leaned into her. The scent of her filled his nostrils. “I loved you,” he said as she half carried him up the four steps to the doorway.

  “You left me,” she said.

  When he woke it was daylight, the rising sun shining through the open window. The sky was clear and Fell saw the hawk silhouetted briefly against the blue. With a groan he sat up. His shoulder was burning, and his ribs were badly bruised from the fight with the two Outland robbers.

  Rising from the bed he moved to the window. Sigarni was standing in the sunlight, the hawk on her glove, the black hound lying at her feet. Fell’s mouth was dry, and all his long-suppressed emotions surged to the surface. Of all the women he had known—and there had been many—he had loved only one. And in that moment he knew, with a sickening certainty, that it would always be thus. Oh, he would marry again, and he would have sons, but his heart would remain with this enigmatic mountain woman until the daggers of time stopped its beat.

  Though still weak from loss of blood, Fell knew he could stay no longer in sight of Sigarni. Gathering his cloak of black leather he pulled on his boots, took up his longbow and quiver, and walked from the rear of the cabin, heading back on the long trail to Cilfallen. There was a maid there, of marriageable age, whose father had set a bride price Fell could afford.

  “I hate this place,” said the Baron Ranulph Gottasson, leaning on the wide parapet and staring out over the distant mountains. Asmidir said nothing. It was cold up here on the Citadel’s high walls, the wind hissing down from the north, cutting through the warmest clothes. But the Baron seemed not to notice the inclemency of the weather. He was dressed in a simple shirt of black silk and a sleeveless jerkin of the finest black leather. He wore no adornments, no silver enhancements to his black leather leggings, no chains or ornate discs attached to his knee-length boots. As Asmidir stood shivering on the battlements, the Baron turned his pale, hooded eyes on the black man. “Not like Kushir, eh? Too cold, too bleak. Ever wish you were back home?”

  “Sometimes,” Asmidir admitted.

  “So do I. What is there here for a man like me? Where is the glory?”

  “The kingdom is at peace, my lord,” said Asmidir softly. “Thanks mainly to your good self and the Earl of Jastey.”

  The Baron’s lips thinned, the hooded eyes narrowing. “Don’t speak his name in my presence! I never met a man so gifted with luck. All his victor
ies were hollow. Tell me what he has ever done to match my conquest of Ligia? Twenty-five thousand warriors against my two legions. Yet we crushed them, and took their capital. What can he offer against that? The Siege of Catium. Pah!”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Asmidir smoothly, “your deeds will echo through the pages of history. Now I am sure you have more important matters to attend to, so how may I be of service to you?”

  The Baron turned and beckoned Asmidir to follow him into a small study. The black man stared longingly at the cold and empty fireplace. Does the man not feel the cold? he wondered. The Baron seated himself at a desk of oak. “I want the red hawk,” he said. “There is a tourney in two months and the red hawk could win it for me. Name a price.”

  “Would that I could, sir. But I sold the hawk last autumn.”

  The Baron swore. “Who to? I’ll buy it back.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to find the man, sir,” Asmidir lied smoothly. “He came to my castle last year. He was a traveler, I believe, perhaps a pilgrim. But if I see him again I shall direct him to you.”

  The Baron swore again, then lashed his fist against the desktop.

  “All right, that will be all,” he said at last.

  Asmidir bowed and left the study. Descending the spiral staircase he moved down into the belly of the fortress, emerging into the long hall where the feast was in progress. Red-liveried servants were carrying platters of food and drink and more than two score of knights and their ladies were seated at the three main tables. Fires were blazing merrily at both ends of the hall and minstrels sat in the high gallery, their soft music drowned by the chatter of the guests.

  Asmidir was not hungry. Swiftly he walked from the hall, and down the long stairs to the lower chambers and the double-doored exit. His thoughts were somber as he recalled the Baron’s words. Asmidir remembered the conquest of Ligia, the battles and the massacres, the rapes and the mutilations, the torture and the destruction. A rich, independent nation brought to its knees, humiliated and beggared, its libraries burned, its holy places desecrated. Oh, yes, Ranulph, history will long remember your bloody name! Asmidir shivered.