Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  She leaned back and looked into his face. “Now we are both angry, little man. And for what? Bernt is a dolt. I have no need of fools around me. But since it is a favor to you, I shall grant it. I shall go to Bernt, and I shall tell him good-bye. Does that satisfy you?”

  He grinned and nodded. “And as a reward I shall prepare you a meal. What provisions do you have?”

  “Abby killed a duck this morning.”

  “I shall cook it with a berry sauce,” he said.

  They ate well, the duck being young and plump. Ballister cooked it to perfection; the skin was crisp and dark, the flesh moist, the red berry sauce complementing the flavor. Sigarni pushed aside her plate and licked her fingers. “If I had an ounce of common sense I’d marry you,” she told the dwarf. “I never knew a man who could make food taste so fine.”

  Ballistar was sitting in the hide chair, his little legs jutting out. He nodded sagely. “Well,” he said at last, “you could ask me. But I would only say no.”

  Sigarni smiled. “Not good enough for you, dwarf?”

  “Too good, probably. Though that is not the reason. There is something about you, Sigarni. Like the Crown of Alwen— all men can see it, but none can touch it.”

  “Nonsense. Men can touch me. I like men to touch me.”

  “No, you don’t,” he argued. “I don’t think you have ever allowed a man to touch your heart. No man has ever opened the window of your soul.”

  She laughed at him then. “The heart is a pump for moving blood around the body, and as to the soul . . . what is that exactly?” She held up her hand. “No, don’t try to explain it. Let it lie. The meal was too fine to finish on an argument. And you had better go, or you’ll be walking back in the dark.”

  The dwarf scrambled down from the chair, and gathered up the plates. “Leave them,” said Sigarni. “Be off with you, Ballistar. I have a need to be alone.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Bernt,” said Ballistar from the doorway.

  “I’ll treat him like an injured puppy,” she promised.

  After the dwarf had gone Sigarni cleaned the plates and built up the fire. She did not relish seeing the young cattle herder, for she was determined never to renew their relationship. It was not that he was a poor lover, nor even that he was dull. In the early days, last autumn, she had enjoyed his quiet company. However, during the spring he had become like a weight around her neck, following her everywhere, declaring his love, sitting and staring at her, begging for love like a dog begs for scraps. She shuddered. Why could he not enjoy what they had? Why did he need more than she was prepared to give? Idiot!

  Pouring herself a goblet of honey mead from a flagon that Gwalch had given her, she moved to the doorway and sat down beside Lady. The hound looked up, but did not move. Idly Sigarni stroked the soft fur behind the beast’s ears. Lady lay still, enjoying the sensation for several minutes, then her head came up and she stared intently toward the tree line. “What is it, girl?” whispered Sigarni.

  As horse and rider emerged from the trees, Sigarni swore softly. It was Asmidir. He was dressed now in clothes of black and riding a tall black gelding. His burnoose of black silk was held in place by a dark band of leather, with an opal set at the center. The horse advanced into the yard. Abby spread her wings and let out a screech on her bow perch. Lady merely stood, alert and waiting.

  “Come to see your whore?” asked Sigarni as the black man rode up. He smiled amiably, then dismounted. Draping the reins over the gelding’s head, he climbed the three steps to the porch.

  “You are too prickly, Sigarni. I need to speak with you. Shall we go inside? Your northern weather plays havoc with my equatorial bones.”

  “I’m not sure you are welcome,” she told him, rising to stand before him in the doorway.

  “Ah, but I am, for friends are rare in life, and not to be idly tossed aside. Also I can see from your eyes that you are pleased to see me, and I sense in you a tension only sex will resolve. Am I at fault in any of these observations?”

  “Not so far,” she agreed, stepping aside and ushering him into the room. Once inside he stopped and sniffed.

  “You have been having a feast,” he said, nostrils flaring. “The aroma makes my mouth water. Duck, was it?”

  “Yes. Ballistar cooked it for me. Now, he is a true sorcerer when it comes to food. You should employ him.”

  “I’ll think on it,” he said, removing his cloak and laying it over the back of the chair. Sitting down by the fire he sat for a moment in silence staring into the flames. Sigarni sat on his lap, leaning to kiss his cheek.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. Reaching up, he ran his fingers through her silver hair and drew her close. Pushing one arm under her thighs, he stood and carried her through to the back bedroom.

  For more than an hour they made love, but skilled as he was, Sigarni could feel a different tension within him. After her second orgasm she stopped him, pushing him gently to his back. “What is wrong, my friend?” she asked him, rising up on her elbow and stroking the sleek dark skin of his chest. He closed his eyes.

  “Everything,” he said. He reached for her, but she resisted him.

  “Tell me,” she commanded.

  “I would have thought,” he said, forcing a smile, “that you would have the good grace to let me achieve my own climax before entering into a dialogue.”

  She chuckled and bit his ear. “Then be quick,” she told him, “for I have other matters to attend to!”

  “Your wish shall be obeyed, mistress!” he said, rolling over and pinning her shoulders.

  Sigarni felt loose-limbed and wonderfully relaxed as she sat by the fire and sipped her mead. Relaxed in the chair, Asmidir sat naked, save for his cloak, which he had wrapped about his shoulders against the draft from the warped wood of the door.

  “Now tell me,” she said.

  “There is a war coming,” he told her.

  “Where?”

  “Here, Sigarni. I was at the Citadel a few days ago. I saw the mercenaries arriving, and I know the Baron is studying maps of all the lands around High Druin. It is my belief that he intends to bring an army into the mountains.”

  “That cannot be,” she said. “There is no one to fight him.”

  “That is largely immaterial. He hates his position here, and probably sees a Highland war as his best chance of being recalled south in triumph. It does not matter that he will face a rabble of poorly armed villagers. Who will know? He has his own historian. His army will be able to pillage and plunder the Highlands, and he will gather to himself a force to make him a power in the land. He may even be looking ahead and planning a civil war. It doesn’t matter what his motives are.”

  “And how does this concern you, Asmidir? You are not of this land, and you are a friend to the Outland King.”

  “I served him, but he has no friends. The King is a hard, ruthless man, much like the Baron. No, for me it is . . . personal.” He smiled thinly. “I came here because of a prophecy. It has not been fulfilled. Now I am lost.”

  “What prophecy?”

  He shrugged. “It does not matter, does it? Even shaman can make mistakes, it seems. But I have grown to love this harsh, cold land with a fierceness that surprises me. It is as strong as my hatred for the Baron and all he represents.” He sighed and turned his head toward the fire. “Why is it that wickedness always seems to triumph? Is it just that evil men freed from the constraints of basic morality are stronger than we?”

  “It is probably just a question of timing,” she said, and his head jerked around.

  “Timing?”

  “We have had two kings of legend here, Gandarin and Ironhand. Both were good men, but they were also strong and fearless. Their enemies were scattered, and they ruled wisely and well. But this is the time of the Outland Kings, and not a good time for the peoples of the Highlands. Our time will come again. There will be a leader.”

  “Now is the time,” he said. “Where is the man? That was the prophecy
that brought me here. A great leader will rise, wearing the Crown of Alwen. But I have traveled far, Sigarni, and heard no word of such a man.”

  “What will you do when you find him?”

  He chuckled. “My skill is strategy. I am a student of war. I will teach him how to fight the Outlanders.”

  “Highland men do not need to be taught how to fight.”

  He shook his head. “There you are wrong, Sigarni. Your whole history has been built on manly courage: assembling a host to sweep down on an enemy host, man against man, claymore crashing against claymore. But war is about more than battles. It is about logistics, supplies, communication, discipline. An army has to feed, commanders need to gather reports and intelligence and pass these on to generals. Apart from this there are other considerations—morale, motivation, belief. The Outlanders, as you call them, understand these things.”

  “You are altogether too tense,” she told him, leaning forward and running her hand softly down the inside of his thigh. “Come back to bed, and I will repay you for the pleasure you gave me.”

  “What of these other matters you had to attend to?” he asked.

  For a moment only she thought of Bernt, then brushed him from her mind. “Nothing of importance,” she assured him.

  At noon the following day Ballistar found Bernt hanging from the branch of a spreading oak. The young cattle herder was dressed in his best tunic and leggings, though they were soiled now, for he had defecated in death. The boy’s eyes were wide open and bulging, and his tongue was protruding from his mouth. When Ballistar arrived at the oak grove a crow was sitting on Bernt’s shoulder, pecking at his right eye.

  Below the corpse was a hawking glove, lovingly made and decorated with fine white beads. Urine from the corpse had dripped upon it, staining the hide.

  Chapter Three

  The oxen found pulling the wide wagon too difficult over the narrow deer trails to Gwalch’s cabin, so Tovi was forced to take the long route, down into the valley and up over the rocky roads once used by the Lowland miners when there was still a plentiful supply of coal to be found on the open hillsides. The baker had set off just after dawn. He always enjoyed these quarterly trips into Citadel town. Gwalch was an amusing, if irritating, companion, but the money they shared from their partnership helped Tovi to maintain a pleasant and comfortable lifestyle. Gwalch made honey mead of the finest quality, and much of it was shipped to the south at vastly inflated prices.

  One of the oxen slipped on the rocky shale. “Ho there, Flaxen! Concentrate now, girl!” shouted Tovi. The wagon lurched on, the empty barrels in the back clunking against one another. Tovi took a deep sniff of the mountain air, blowing cool over High Druin. At the top of the rise he halted the oxen, allowing them a breather before attempting the last climb into the forest. Tovi applied the brake, then swung to stare out over the landscape. Many years before he had marched with the Loda men down this long road. They were singing, he recalled; they had met the Pallides warriors down there by the fork in the stream. Seven thousand men— even before the Farlain warriors had joined them.

  All dead now. Well . . . most of them anyway. Gwalch had been there. Fifty years old and straight as a long staff. The King had been mounted on a fine southern horse, his bonnet adorned with a long eagle feather. Every inch a warrior he looked. But he had no real heart for it. Tovi hawked and spat, remembering the moment when the King fled the field leaving them to stand and die.

  “Blood doesn’t always run true,” he said softly. “Heroes sire cowards, and cowards can sire kings.”

  The air was crisp, the wind beginning to bite as Tovi wrapped his cloak across his chest. Didn’t feel the wind back then, he thought. I did a week later, though, as I fled from the hunters, crawling through the bracken, wading the streams, hiding in shallow caves, starving and cold. God’s bones, I felt it then!

  High above him two eagles were flying the thermals, safe from the thoughts and arrows of men. Tovi released the brake and flicked the reins over the backs of the oxen. “On now, my lads!” he called. “It’s an easier trip down for a while.”

  Within the hour he arrived at Gwalch’s cabin. The old man was sitting outside in the sunshine with a cup of mead in his hands. There were three horsemen close by, two grim-faced soldiers still sitting their saddles, and a cleric who was standing before the old man, arguing and gesticulating. The soldiers looked bored and cold, Tovi thought. The cleric was a man he recognized: Andolph the Census Taker, a small, fat individual with ginger hair and a face as white as Tovi’s baking flour.

  “It is not acceptable!” Tovi heard the cleric shout. “And you could be in serious trouble. I don’t know why I try to deal fairly with you Highlanders. You are a constant nuisance.”

  Tovi halted the wagon and climbed down. “Might I be of service, Census Taker?” he inquired. Andolph stepped back from the grinning Gwalch. “I take it you know this man?”

  “Indeed I do. He is an old friend. What is the problem?”

  Andolph sighed theatrically. “As you know, the new law states that all men must have surnames that give them individuality. It is no longer enough to be Dirk, son of Dirk. Gods, man, there are hundreds of those. It is not difficult, surely, therefore, to find a name that would suffice. But not this old fool. Oh, no! I am trying to be reasonable, Baker, and he will not have it. Look at this!” The little man stepped forward and thrust a long sheet of paper toward Tovi. The baker took it, read what was written there, and laughed aloud.

  “Well, it is a name,” he offered.

  “I can’t put this forward to the Roll Makers. Can’t you see that? They will accuse the old man of making a mockery of the law. And I will be summoned to answer for it. I came here in good faith; I like a jest as well as the next man, and it did make me laugh when first I saw it. But it cannot be allowed to stand. You see that, don’t you?”

  Tovi nodded. There was no malice in the little man, and as far as was possible with an Outlander, Tovi quite liked him. It was a thankless task trying to take a census in the Highlands, especially since the object was to find new taxpayers. “I’ll speak to him,” he said, handing back the paper and walking over to where Gwalch sat. The old man was staring at one of the soldiers, and the man was growing uncomfortable.

  “Come on, Gwalch,” said Tovi soothingly, “it is time for the fun to stop. What name will you choose?”

  “What’s wrong with Hare-turd?” countered Gwalch.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it—it’ll be carved on your tombstone. And you’ll not be surprised when future generations fail to appreciate what a fine man you were. Now stop this nonsense.”

  Gwalch sniffed loudly, then drained his mead. “You choose!” he told Tovi, staring at the soldier.

  The Baker turned to the Census Taker. “When young he was known as Fear-not. Will that do?” Andolph nodded. From a leather bag he took a quill and a small bottle of ink. Resting the paper against his saddle, he made the change and called Gwalch to sign it. The old man gave a low curse, but he strolled to the horse and signed with his new name.

  Andolph waved the paper in the air to dry the ink. “My thanks to you, Tovi Baker, and good-bye to you . . . Gwalchmai Fear-not. I hope we will not meet again.”

  “You and I won’t,” said Gwalch, with a grin. “And a word of advice, Andolph Census Taker: Trust not in dark-eyed women. Especially those who dance.”

  Andolph blinked nervously, then climbed ponderously into his saddle. The three horsemen rode away, but the soldier Gwalch had been staring at swung around to look back. Gwalch waved at him. “That is the man who will kill me,” said Gwalch, his smile fading. “He and five others will come here. Do you think I could have changed the future if I had stabbed him today?”

  Tovi shivered. “Are we ready to load?” he asked.

  “Aye. It’s a good batch, but I’ll not be needing the new barrels. This is our last trip, Tovi. Make the best of it.”

  “What is the point of having the Gift if all it brin
gs is gloom and doom?” stormed Tovi. “And another thing, I do not believe that life is mapped out so simply. Men shape the future, and nothing is written in stone. You understand?”

  “I don’t argue with that, Tovi. Not at all. Sometimes I have dreamed of moments to come, and they have failed to arrive. Not often, mind, but sometimes. Like the young cattle herder who loved Sigarni. Until yesterday I always saw him leaving the mountains to find employment in the Lowlands. Last night, though, I saw a different ending. And it has come to pass.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bernt, the broad-shouldered young man who works for Grame the Smith . . .”

  “I know him . . . what about him?”

  “Hanged himself from a tree. Late last night. Dreamed it sitting in my chair.”

  “Hell’s teeth! And it has happened? You are sure?”

  The old man nodded. “What I am trying to say is that futures can be changed sometimes. Not often. He shouldn’t be dead, but something happened, one small thing, and suddenly life was over for Bernt.”

  “What happened?”

  “A woman broke a promise,” said Gwalch. “Now let’s have a swift drink before loading. It’ll help keep the cold at bay.”

  “No!” said Tovi. “I want to be at the market before midmorning.” Gwalch swore and moved away to the barrel store, and together the two men loaded twelve casks of honey mead alongside the empty barrels Tovi had brought with him. “Why don’t you let me leave the empties here?” asked the baker. “You might change your mind—or the dream may change.”

  “This dream won’t change, my friend. There’ll be no market for our mead come springtime. You know that; you’ve spoken to the Pallides man.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Tovi as the two men clambered to the driving seat of the wagon.

  “Nothing he didn’t already know,” answered Gwalch. “The Pallides Gifted Ones are quite correct.”

  “And that was all?”