Revenge, so the proverb claimed, is a dish best served cold. Is that true? he wondered. Will there be any satisfaction in bringing the man down?
Wrapping his cloak more tightly about his broad shoulders, Asmidir left the fortress building and moved across the courtyard. A young man hailed him and he turned and smiled at the newcomer—a tall young man, slender and brown-eyed, his long blond hair drawn back from his brow and tied in a tight ponytail. He was carrying an armful of rolled maps. “Good afternoon, Leofric. You are missing the feast.”
“Yes, I know,” said the other dolefully. “But the Baron wants to study these maps. It doesn’t pay to keep him waiting.”
“They look old.”
“They are. They were commissioned some two hundred years ago by the Highland King, Gandarin the First. Fine work, most of them. Beautifully crafted. The mapmakers also had some method of judging the height of mountains. Did you know that High Druin is nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-two feet high? Do you think it could be true, or did someone just invent the figure?”
Asmidir shrugged. “It sounds too precise to be an invention. Still, I am glad you are enjoying your work.”
“I enjoy the detail,” said Leofric, chuckling. “Not many do. It pleases me to know how many lances we have, and the state of our horses. I like working on projects like this. Did you know there are four hundred and twelve wagons employed around the Five Towns?” The young man laughed. “Yes, I know, it is a little boring for most people. But you try to go on a campaign without wagons and the war is over before it begins.”
Asmidir chatted with the young man for several minutes, then bade him farewell and walked swiftly to the stable. The hostler bowed as he entered, then saddled the chestnut gelding. Asmidir gave the man a small silver coin.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, pocketing the coin with a swiftness that dazzled the eye.
Asmidir rode from the stable, through the portcullis gate, and out into the wide streets of the town. He felt the eyes of the people upon him as he passed through the marketplace, and heard some children calling out names. A troop of soldiers marched past him and he pulled up his horse. The men were mercenaries; they looked weary, as if they had marched many miles. Leofric planning the logistics of war, more mercenaries arriving every day . . . The beast is not far off, thought Asmidir.
Passing through the north gate, Asmidir let the horse break into a run as it reached open ground. He rode thus for a mile, then slowed the beast. The chestnut was powerful, a horse bred for stamina, and he was not even breathing hard when Asmidir reined him in. The black man patted the gelding’s neck.
“The dreams of men are born in blood,” he said softly.
Fell was sitting by the roadside, catching his breath, when the small two-wheeled cart moved into sight. Two huge grey wolfhounds were harnessed to it, and a silver-haired man sat at the front with a long stick in his hands. Seeing the forester, the old man tapped his stick lightly on the flanks of the hounds. “Hold up there, Shamol. Hold up, Cabris. Good day to you, woodsman!”
Fell smiled. “By Heaven, Gwalch, you look ridiculous sitting in that contraption.”
“Whisht, boy, at my age I don’t give a care to how I look,” said the old man. “What matters is that I can travel as far as I like, without troubling my old bones.” Leaning forward, he peered at the forester. “You look greyer than a winter sky, boy. Are you ailing?”
“Wounded. And I’ve shed some blood. I’ll be fine. Just need a rest, is all.”
“Heading for Cilfallen?”
“Aye.”
“Then climb aboard, young man. My hounds can pull two as well as one. Good exercise for them. We’ll stop off at my cabin for a dram. That’s what you need, take my word for it: a little of the water of life. And I promise not to tell your fortune.”
“You always tell my fortune—and it never makes good listening. But, just this once, I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll ride that idiotic wagon. But I’ll pray to all the gods I know that no one sees me on it. I’d never live it down.”
The old man chuckled and moved to his right, making room for the forester. Fell laid his longbow and quiver in the back and stepped aboard. “Home now, hounds!” said Gwalch. The dogs lurched into the traces and the little cart jerked forward. Fell laughed aloud. “I thought nothing would amuse me today,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have gone to her, boy,” said Gwalch.
“No fortunes, you said!” the forester snapped.
“Pah! That’s not telling your fortune; that’s a comment on moments past. And you can put the black man from your mind, as well. He’ll not win her. She belongs to the land, Fell. In some ways she is the land. Sigarni the Hawk Queen, the hope of the Highlands.” The old man shook his head, and then laughed, as if at some private jest. Fell clung to the side of the cart as it rattled and jolted, the wheels dropping into ruts in the trail, half tipping the vehicle.
“By Heaven, Gwalch, it is a most uncomfortable ride,” complained the forester.
“You think this is uncomfortable?” retorted the old man. “Wait till we get to the top of my hill. The hounds always break into a run for home. By Shemak’s balls, boy, it’ll turn your hair grey!”
The hounds toiled up the hill, pausing only briefly at the summit to catch their breaths. Then they moved on, rounding a last bend in the trail. Below them Gwalch’s timber cabin came into sight and both dogs barked and began to run.
The cart bounced and lurched as the dogs gathered speed, faster and faster down the steep slope. Fell could feel his heart pounding and his knuckles were white as he gripped the side rail. Ahead of them was a towering oak, the trunk directly in their path. “The tree!” shouted Fell.
“I know!” answered Gwalch. “Best to jump!”
“Jump?” echoed Fell, swinging to see the old man following his own advice. At the last moment the dogs swerved toward the cabin. The cart tipped suddenly and Fell was hurled headfirst from it, missing the oak by inches. He hit the ground hard, with the wind blasted from his lungs.
Fell forced himself to his knees just as Gwalch came ambling over. “Great fun, isn’t it?” said the old man, stopping to take Fell by the arm and pull him to his feet.
Fell looked into Gwalch’s twinkling brown eyes. “You are insane, Gwalch! You always were.”
“Life is to be lived, boy. Without danger there is no life. Come and have a dram. We’ll talk, you and I, of life and love, of dreams and glory. I’ll tell you tales to fire your blood.”
Fell found his longbow and quiver, gathered the fallen arrows, and followed the old man inside. It was a simple one-roomed dwelling with a bed in one corner, a stone-built hearth in the north wall, and a rough-hewn table and two bench seats in the center. Three rugs, two of ox skin, one of bear, covered the dirt floor, and the walls were decorated with various weapons—two longbows, horn-tipped, several swords, and a double-edged claymore. A mail shirt was hanging on a hook beside the fire, its rings still gleaming, not a speck of rust upon it. On a shelf sat a helm of black iron, embossed with brass and copper. A battle-axe was hanging over the fireplace, double-headed and gleaming.
“Ready for war, eh, old man?” asked Fell as he sat down at the table. Gwalch smiled, and filled a clay cup with amber liquid from a jug.
“Always ready—though no longer up to it,” said the old man sadly. “And that is a crying shame, for there’s a war coming.”
“There’s no war!” said Fell irritably. “There’s no excuse for one. The Highlands are peaceful. We pay our taxes. We keep the roads safe.”
Gwalch filled a second cup and drained it in a single swallow. “Those Outland bastards don’t need an excuse, Fell. And I can smell blood in the air. But that’s for another day, and it is a little way off, so I won’t let it spoil our drinking. So tell me, how did she look?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Ah, but you do. She’s filling your mind. Women are like that, bless them! I knew a girl onc
e—Maev, her name was. As bright and perfect a woman as ever walked the green hills. And hips! Oh, the sway of them! She moved in with a cattle breeder from Gilcross. Eleven babies—and all survived to manhood. Now that was a woman!”
“You should have married her yourself,” said Fell.
“I did,” said Gwalch. “Two years we were together. Great years. All but wore me out, she did. But then I had my skull caved in during the Battle at Iron Bridge, and after that the Talent was on me. Couldn’t look at a man or woman without knowing what was going on in their minds. Oh, Fell, you’ve no idea how irksome it is.” Gwalch sat down and filled his cup for a third time. “To be lying on top of a beautiful woman, feeling her warmth and the soft silkiness of her; to be aflame with passion and to know she’s thinking of a sick cow with a dropping milk yield!” The old man laughed.
Fell shook his head, and smiled. “Is that true?”
“As true as I’m sitting here. I said to her one day, “Do you love me, woman?” She looked me in the eye and she said, “Of course I do.” And do you know, she was thinking of the cattle breeder she’d met at the Summer Games. And into her mind came the memory of a roll in the hay with him.”
“You must have thought of killing her,” said Fell, embarrassed by the confession.
“Nah! Never was much of a lover. Roll on, roll off. She deserved a little happiness. I’ve seen her now and again. He’s long dead, of course, but she goes on. Rich, now. A widow of property.”
“Are all the weapons yours?” asked Fell, changing the subject.
“Aye, and all been used. I fought for the old King, when we almost won, and I fought alongside the young fool who walked us onto Colden Moor and extermination. Still don’t know how I battled clear of that one. I was already nigh on fifty. I won’t be so lucky in the next one—though we’ll have a better leader.”
“Who?”
The old man touched his nose. “Now’s not the time, Fell. And if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Anyway I’d sooner talk about women. So tell me about Sigarni. You know you want to. Or shall I tell you what you’re thinking?”
“No!” said Fell sharply. “Fill another cup and I’ll talk— though only the gods know why. It doesn’t help.” Accepting the drink he swallowed deeply, feeling the fiery liquid burn his throat. “Son of a whore, Gwalch! Is this made of rat’s piss?”
“Only a touch,” said the old man. “Just for color. Now go on.”
“Why her? That’s the question I ask myself. I’ve had more than my fair share of beautiful women. Why is it only she can fire my blood? Why?”
“Because she’s special.” Gwalch rose from the table and moved to the hearth. A fire had been expertly laid and he ignited his tinderbox, holding it below the cast-iron firedog until flames began to lick at the dry twigs at the base. Kneeling, he blew on the tongues of flame until the thicker pieces caught. Then he stood. “Women like her are rare, born for greatness. They’re not made to be wives, old before their time, with dry breasts drooping like hanged men. She’s starlight where other women are candle flames. You understand? You should feel privileged for having bedded her. She has the gift, Fell. The gift of eternity. You know what that means?”
“I don’t know what any of this means,” admitted the forester.
“It means she’ll live forever. In a thousand years men will speak her name.”
Fell lifted his cup and stared into the amber liquid. “Drinking this rots the brain, old man.”
“Aye, maybe it does. But I know what I know, Fell. I know you’ll live for her. And I know you’ll die for her. Hold the right, Fell. Do it for me! And they’ll fall on you with their swords of fire, and their lances of pain, and their arrows of farewell. Will you hold, Fell, when she asks you?” Gwalch leaned forward and laid his head on his arms. “Will you hold, Fell?”
“You’re drunk, my friend. You’re talking gibberish.”
Gwalch looked up, his eyes bleary. “I wish I were young again, Fell. I’d stand alongside you. By God, I’d even take that arrow for you!”
Fell rose unsteadily, then helped Gwalch to his feet, carefully steered the old man to the bed, and laid him down. Returning to the fire, he stretched himself out on the bearskin rug and slept.
It was the closest Sigarni could come to flight. She stood naked on the high rock beside the falls and edged forward, her toes curling over the weather-beaten edge. Sixty feet below the waters of the pool churned as the falls thundered into it. The sun was strong on her back, the sky as blue as gemstone. Sigarni raised her arms and launched her body forward. Straight as an arrow she dived, arms flung back for balance, and watched the pool roar up to meet her. Bringing her arms forward at the last moment she struck the water cleanly, making barely a splash. Down, down she sank until her hands touched the stone at the base of the pool. Spinning, she used her feet to propel her body upward. Once more on the surface she swam with lazy grace to the south of the pool, where Lady anxiously waited. Hauling herself clear of the water, she sat on a flat rock and shook the water from her hair. The sound of the falls was muted here, and the sunlight was streaming through the long leaves of a willow, dappling the water with flecks of gold. It would be easy to believe the legends on a day like today, she thought. It seems perfectly natural that a king should have chosen this place to leave the world of men, and journey into the lands of Heaven. She could almost see him wading out, then turning, his great sword in his bloodstained hand, the baying of the hounds and the guttural cries of the killers ringing in his ears. Then, as the warriors moved in for the kill, the flash of light and the opening Gateway.
All nonsense. The greatest King of the Highlands had been slain here. Sorain Ironhand, known also as Fingersteel. Last spring, during one of her dives, Sigarni’s hands had touched a bone at the bottom of the pool. Bringing it to the surface she found it to be a shoulder blade. For an hour or more she scoured the bottom of the pool. Then she found him, or rather what was left of his skeleton, held to the pool floor by heavy rocks. The right hand was missing, but there were rust-discolored screw holes in the bones of the wrist, and the last red remnants of his iron hand close by.
No Gateway to Heaven—well, not for his body anyway. Just a lonely death, slain by lesser men. Such is the fate of kings, she thought.
A light breeze touched her body and she shivered. “Are you still here, Ironhand?” she asked aloud. “Does your spirit haunt this place?”
“Only when the moon is full,” came a voice. Sigarni sprang to her feet and turned to see a tall man standing by the willow. He was leaning on a staff of oak, and smiling. Lady had ignored him and was still lying by the poolside, head on her paws. Sigarni reached down to where her clothes lay and drew her dagger from its sheath. “Oh, you’ll not need that, lady. I am no despoiler of women. I am merely a traveler who stopped for a drink of cool mountain water. My name is Loran.” Leaning his staff against the tree he moved past her and knelt at the water’s edge, pausing to stroke Lady’s flanks before he drank.
“She doesn’t . . . usually . . . like strangers,” said Sigarni lamely.
“I have a way with animals.” He glanced up at her and gave a boyish grin. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable dressed.” He was a handsome man, slender and beardless, his hair corn-yellow, his eyes dark blue.
Sigarni decided that she liked his smile. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable undressed,” she said, her composure returning.
“Are you Loda people always so forward?” he asked her amiably.
Returning the knife to its sheath, she sat down. Lady stood and padded to her side. “What clan are you?” she asked.
“Pallides,” he told her.
“Are all Pallides men so bashful?”
He laughed, the sound rich and merry. “No. But we’re a gentle folk who need to be treated with care and patience. How far is it to Cilfallen?” He stood and moved to a fallen tree, brushing away the loose dirt before seating himself.
Sigarni reached for her leg
gings and climbed into them. “Half a day,” she told him, “due south.” Her upper body was still damp and the white woolen shirt clung to her breasts. Belting on her dagger, she sat down once more. “Why would a Pallides man be this far south?” she inquired.
“I am seeking Tovi Long-arm. I have a message from the Hunt Lord. Do you have a name, woman?”
“Yes.”
“Might I inquire what it is?”
“Sigarni.”
“Are you angry with me, Sigarni?” The words were softly spoken. She looked into his eyes and saw no hint of humor there. Yes, I am angry, she thought. Asmidir called me a whore, Fell left without a word of thanks or good-bye, and now this stranger has spurned my body. Of course I’m bloody angry!
“No,” she lied. He leaned back and stretched his arm along the tree trunk. Sigarni swept the dagger from the sheath, flipped the blade, then sent the weapon slashing through the air. It slammed into the trunk no more than two inches from his hand. Loran glanced down to see that the blade had cut cleanly through the head of a viper; the rest of its body was thrashing in its death throes. He drew back his hand.
“You are an impressive woman, Sigarni,” he said, reaching out and pulling clear the weapon. With one stroke he decapitated the snake, then cleaned the blade on the grass before returning it hilt first to the silver-haired huntress.
“I’ll walk with you a ways,” she said. “I wouldn’t want a Pallides man to get lost in the forest.”
“Impressive and blessed with kindness.”
Together they walked from the falls and up the main trail. The trees were thicker here, the leaves already beginning to turn to the burnished gold of autumn. “Do you usually talk to ghosts?” asked Loran as they walked.
“Ghosts?” she queried.
“Ironhand. You were talking to him when I arrived? Was that the magic pool where he crossed over?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe the legend?”
“Why should I not?” she countered. “No one ever found a body, did they?”
He shrugged. “He never came back either. But his life does make a wonderful story. The last great King before Gandarin. It is said he killed seven of the men sent to murder him. No mean feat for a wounded man.” Loran laughed. “Maybe they were all stronger and tougher two hundred years ago. That’s what my grandfather told me, anyway. Days when men were men, he used to say. And he assured me that Ironhand was seven feet tall and his battle-axe weighed sixty pounds. I used to sit in my grandfather’s kitchen and listen to the tallest stories, of dragons and witches, and heroes who stood a head and shoulders above other men. Anyone under six feet tall in those days was dubbed a dwarf, he told me. I believed it all. Never was a child more gullible.”
Ironhand's Daughter Page 3
