“Since your eyes are standing now on reed stalks, I take it that you are a breast man,” she said with a laugh. “Now Fell is a legs and hips man. His eyes are naturally drawn to a woman’s buttocks. Strange beasts, men. If God ever made anything more ludicrous She’s never shown it to me.”
Gwalch leaned back and roared with laughter. “Blasphemy and indecency in the same breath. By Heavens, Sigarni, there is no one like you. Now, for the sake of an old man’s feelings, will you cover yourself?”
“Feel the blood rising, old man?”
“No, and that is depressing. Dress for me, child. There’s a good girl.”
Sigarni did not argue, but slipped a buckskin shirt over her head. It was almost as long as a tunic and covered her to her thighs. “Is that better, Gwal? You weren’t so worried when I lived with you, and you bathed me and washed my hair.”
“You were a child and titless. And you were hurt, lass.”
“How do you kill a demon, Gwal?” she asked softly.
He scratched at the white stubble on his chin. “Is there no food in this house? By God, a man could die of starvation visiting you.”
“There’s a little cold stew, and a spare flagon of your honey spirit. It’s too fiery for my taste. You want that, or shall I heat up the stew?”
He gave a wicked grin and winked. “No, lass. Just fetch me a drop of the honeydew.”
“First a bargain.”
“No,” he said, his voice firm. “I will tell you no more. Not yet. And if that means a dry night, then so be it.”
“When will you tell me?”
“Soon. Trust me.”
“Of all men I trust you most,” she said, moving forward to kiss his brow. She fetched him the flagon and watched as he filled a clay cup. The liquid was thin and golden, and touched the throat like a flame. Gwalch drained the cup and leaned back with a sigh.
“Enough of this and a man would live forever,” he said.
She shook her head. “You are incorrigible. Do you know the legend of Ironhand?”
“Of course. Went through a Gateway, to return when we need him.”
“And will he return?”
“Yes. When the time is right.” He drank a second cup.
“That’s not true, Gwalch. I found his bones.”
“Yes, I know. Under several boulders in the pool of the falls. Why did you tell no one?”
Sigarni was surprised, though instantly she knew she should not have been. “Why do you ask, when you already know the answer?” she countered.
“It is not polite to answer a question with a question, girl. You know that.”
“People need legends,” she told him. “Who am I to rob them of their power? He was a great man, and it is nice for people to think that he actually managed to kill all the assassins, instead of being done to death by the murdering scum.”
“Oh, but he did kill them all! Seven of them, and him wounded unto death. Killed them, and their war hounds. Then he sat by the pool, his strength fading. He was found by one of his retainers, a trusted man, loyal and steadfast. Ironhand told him to hide his body where none could find it until the chosen time. You see, he had the Gift. It came on him as he was dying. So the word went out that Ironhand had crossed the Gateway and would one day return. And so it will be.”
Gwalch filled a third cup and half drank it. Leaning forward, he placed the cup on the hearthstone, then sank back, his breathing deepening.
“When will he come back, Gwalch?” whispered Sigarni.
“He already has once,” answered the old man, his voice slurring. “On the night of the Slaughter. It was he who killed the last demon.” The old man began to snore gently.
Fell loved the mountains, the high, lonely passes, the stands of pine and the sloping valleys, the snow-crowned peaks and the vast sweep of this harsh country. He stood now above the snow line on High Druin staring out to the north, the lands of the Pallides and farther to the distant shimmering river that separated the Pallides clan from the quiet, grim men of the Farlain. This was a land that demanded much from a man. Farming was not easy here, for the winters were harsh beyond compare, the summers often wet and miserable, drowning the roots of most crops, bar oats that seemed to thrive in the Highlands. Cattle were bred in the valleys, hard, tough, long-haired beasts with horns sweeping out, sharp as needles. Those horns needed to be sharp when the wolves came, or the black bears. And despite the long hair and the sturdiness of their powerful bodies, the vicious winters claimed a large percentage of the beasts—trapped in snowdrifts, or killed in falls from the icy ridges and steep rises.
It was no land for the weak of spirit, or the soft of body.
The cool dusk breeze brushed the skin of his face and he rubbed his chin. Soon he would let his close-cropped beard grow long, protecting his face and neck from the bitter bite of the winter winds.
Fell climbed on, traversing a treacherous ridge and climbing down toward the supply cave. He reached it just before nightfall. The flap that covered the narrow opening was rotting and he made a mental note to bring a new spread of canvas on his next visit. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it kept stray animals from using the cave as shelter, and on a cold night it helped to hold in the heat from the fire. The cave was deep, but narrow, and a rough-built hearth had been set some ten feet from the back wall below a natural chimney that filtered smoke up through the mountain. As was usual the fire was laid, ready for a traveler, with two flint rocks laid beside it. By the far wall was enough wood to keep a blaze burning for several nights. There was also a store cupboard containing oats and honey, and a small pot of salted beef. Alongside this were a dozen wax candles.
It was one of Fell’s favorite places. Here, sitting quietly without interruption, he could think, or dream. Mostly he thought about his role as captain of the foresters; how best to patrol the forests and valleys, to cull the deer herds, and hunt the wolves. Tonight he wanted to dream, to sit idly in the cave and settle his spirit. Swiftly he lit a fire, then removed his cloak and pack and stood his longbow and quiver against the wall. From the pack he pulled a small pot and a sack of oats. When the fire had taken he placed the pot over it and made several trips outside, returning with handfuls of snow that he dropped into the pot. At last when there was enough water he added oats and a pinch of salt, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Fell preferred his porridge with honey, but he had brought none with him and was loath to raid the store. A man could never tell when he would need the provisions in the small store cupboard, and Fell did not want to be stuck on High Druin in the depths of winter, only to remember that on a calm night in late summer he had eaten the honey on a whim.
Instead he cooked his porridge unsweetened, then put it aside to cool.
Sigarni’s face came unbidden to his mind and Fell swore softly. “I must have sons,” he said aloud, surprised how defensive the words sounded.
“A man needs love also,” said a voice.
Fell’s heart almost stopped beating. Leaping to his feet, he spun around. There was no one there. The forester drew his double-edged hunting knife.
“You’ll have no need of that, boy,” said the voice, this time coming from his left. Fell turned to see, sitting quietly by the fire, the oldest man he had ever seen, his face a maze of firelit wrinkles, his skin sagging grotesquely around the chin. He was wearing a tunic and leggings of green plaid, and a cloak that seemed to be fashioned from feathers of every kind, pigeon, hawk, sparrow, raven . . . Fell flicked a glance at the canvas flap over the doorway. It was still pegged in place.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
“By another doorway, Fell. Come, sit with me.” The old man stretched out a fleshless arm and gestured to the forester to join him.
“Are you a ghost?”
The old man thought about it. “An interesting question. I am due to die long before you were born. So, in one sense, I suppose I am already dead. But no, I am not a spirit. I am flesh and blood, though there is precious
little flesh left. I am Taliesen the druid.”
Fell moved to the fire and squatted down opposite the old man. He seemed harmless enough, and was carrying no weapon, but even so, Fell kept his dagger in his hand. “How is it that you know me?” he asked.
“Your father gave me bread and salt the last time I came here, nineteen years ago, by your reckoning. You were six. You looked at my face and asked me why it no longer fit me.” The old man gave a dry chuckle. “I do so love the young. Their questions are so deliciously impertinent.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“It was the night of the twin moons. I had another man with me; he was tall and recklessly handsome, and he wore a shirt of buckskin emblazoned with a red hawk motif.”
“I do remember,” said Fell, surprised. “His name was Caswallon and he sat with me and taught me how to whistle through my teeth.”
The old man’s face showed a look of exasperation. He shook his head and whispered something that sounded to Fell like a curse. Then he looked up. “It was a night when two moons appeared in the sky, and the Gateways of time shimmered open causing a minor earthquake and several avalanches. But you remember it because you learned to whistle. Ah well, such, I fear, is the way of things. Do you intend to share that porridge?”
“Such was not my intention,” said Fell testily, “but since you remind me of my manners I am obliged to offer you some.”
“It never does a man harm to be reminded of his manners,” said Taliesen. Fell rose and fetched two wooden bowls from the cupboard. There was only one spoon, which he offered to the old man. Taliesen ate slowly, then put aside his bowl half finished. “I see you’ve lost the art of porridge in this time,” he said. “Still, it will suffice to put a little energy into this old frame. Now . . . to the matter at hand. How is Sigarni?”
“She is well, old man. How do you know her?”
Taliesen smiled. “I don’t. Well, not exactly. My friend with the hawk shirt brought her to the people who raised her. He risked much to do so, but then he was an incautious man, and one ruled by an iron morality. Such men are dangerous friends, but they make even more deadly enemies. Thankfully he was always more of a friend.”
“What do you mean brought her? She lived with her father and mother until . . .”
“The night of the Slaughter . . . yes, yes, I know. But they were not her parents. Their child died in her cot. Sigarni was a . . . changeling. But that is all beside the point. I take it the invasion is not under way yet? No, of course it isn’t. I may be getting old, but I still have a certain Talent when it comes to Gateways. It is now six days from the end of summer, yes?”
“Four days, but you make no sense, old man,” said Fell, adding more wood to the fire. “What invasion?”
“Four days? Mmmmm. Ah well, close enough,” said the old man, looking down at his gnarled hand and tapping his thumb to each of the fingers, as if working on some simple calculation. He stood and wandered to the doorway, pulling back the flap and looking up at the sky, scanning the bright stars. “Ah yes,” he said, returning to the fire. “Four days. Quite right. Now, what was your question? The invasion. Mmmm. Where to begin? The descendants of the Aenir, the conquerors of the Lowlands. What do you call them . . . Outlanders? Yes, Outlanders. They will come in the spring with fire and sword. I know you suspect this already, young Fell. Still, that is not important at this moment, for we were speaking of Sigarni. Is she strong? Is she willful and obstinate? Does she have a piercing stare that strikes fear into the hearts of strong men?”
Fell laughed suddenly. “Yes, all of those.” His smile faded. “But speak plainly, old man, for I wish to hear more of this invasion you speak of. Why would they invade?”
“Why indeed? What motivates the minds of evil men? Who can truly know, save another evil man. And, testy though I have been throughout my long life, I have never been evil, and therefore cannot answer your questions with any guarantee of accuracy. I can hazard a guess, however.”
“I never knew a man who could talk so long and say so little,” snapped Fell.
“Youth was always impatient,” Taliesen rebuked him mildly. “There are two main reasons I can think of. One concerns a prophecy being talked of in the south, about a great leader who will rise among the peoples of the Highlands. Prophecies of this nature are not usually welcomed by tyrants. Secondly, and probably more important, is the fact that the Baron Ranulph Gottasson is ambitious. He has two enemies, one is the King, and the other is the Earl of Jastey. By raising an army in the Highlands he can make himself a power again in the capital—especially with a few victories to brag of.”
“How can he achieve victories when there is no army to fight him?”
Taliesen smiled and shook his head. “For that very reason, how can he not?”
“But there is no leader. God’s teeth, this is insane!”
“Wrong again, boy. There is a leader. That is why I am here, sitting in this cold, inhospitable cave, with its dull company and worse porridge. There is a leader!”
Fell stared at him. “Me? You think it is me?”
“Do I look like an idiot, boy? No, Fell, you are not the leader. You are brave and intelligent, and you will be loyal.” He chuckled. “But you are not gifted to command armies. You have not the talent, nor the will, nor the blood.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” said Fell, feeling both aggrieved and relieved. “Then who is it?”
“You will see. In three days, outside the walls of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”
The old man stood and his joints cracked like dry twigs. Fell rose also. “If you are some sort of prophet, then you must know the outcome of the invasion. Will my people survive?”
“Some will, some won’t. But it is not quite so simple, young man. There is only ever one past, but myriad futures, though sometimes the past can be another man’s future. Now there is a riddle to spin your head like a top, eh?” The old man’s features softened. “I’m not trying to baffle you, Fell. But I have knowledge gained over twenty times your lifetime. I cannot impart it to you in the brief moment we have. Let us merely say that I know what should happen, and I know what could happen. I can therefore say with certainty what might happen. But never can I tell you what will happen!”
“Even Gwalch is more sure than that,” put in Fell, “and he’s drunk half the time.”
“Some events are set in stone, and a part of destiny,” agreed Taliesen, “as you will see in three days at Citadel town. Others are more fluid.” He smiled. “Don’t even try to make sense of what I tell you. Just be close to Citadel town. And now I will show you something more memorable than teeth whistling. Watch carefully, Fell, for you will not see its like again.”
So saying, the old man walked toward the wall—and through it. Fell gasped, blinked, then pushed himself upright and ran to the wall.
It was solid rock.
But of the old man there was no sign. For a moment Fell stood there, his broad right hand resting on the rock. Then he turned and glanced back at the fire. It had died down. Adding more wood, he waited until the flames rose and flickered high, then settled down beside the fire. It was pitch-dark and icy cold outside the cave now, but he felt the heat from the blaze and was comfortable. And as he dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep he heard again the words of the old man.
“Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”
Will Stamper moved through the market crowds, scanning for signs of cutpurses or beggars. He had been corporal of the Watch for two years now, and the burly soldier took his job very seriously. Beside him the shorter Relph Wittersson munched on an apple.
“More people this year,” said Relph, tossing away the core. A mangy mongrel sniffed at it, then moved away.
“Population’s growing,” Will told him, stroking a bro
ad finger under the chin strap of his iron helmet. “All them new houses on East Street are sold now, and they’re talking of building to the north. God knows why people want to come to this place.”
“You did,” Relph pointed out. Will nodded and was about to speak when he saw a small grey-haired man in a dirty brown tunic moving at the edge of the crowd. The man saw him at the same instant and swiftly darted down an alleyway.
“Alyn Shortblade,” said Will. “I’ll have the old bastard one of these days. What was I saying?”
“Can’t remember, something about buildings going up and immigrants coming in,” answered Relph, pausing at a meat stall and helping himself to a salt beef sausage. The stall holder said nothing and looked away. Relph bit into the sausage. “Not bad,” he said, “but too much cereal. Shouldn’t be allowed. Can’t rightly call it a sausage if there’s more bread than meat in it.”
The two moved slowly through Market Street, then down Baker’s Alley and into the main square, where the tents and marquees were being erected ready for Tournament Day. The sound of hammers on nails filled the square as workmen continued to build the high-banked seats for the nobles and their ladies and Will saw the slight, blond Lord Leofric directing operations. Beside him stood the captain of the Watch. Will cursed softly. Relph tapped Will’s arm.
“Let’s go back through Market Street,” he advised. Will was about to agree when the captain saw them. With an imperious flick of his finger he summoned them over. Will took a deep breath. He had no liking for the captain, and worse, no respect. The man was a career soldier, but he cared nothing for the well-being of his men.
Redgaer Kushir-bane, Knight of the Court, son of the Earl of Cordenia, did not wait for the soldiers to reach him. Arms clasped behind his back he strode toward them, his red beard jutting. “Well?” he asked. “Caught any cutpurses?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Will, giving the clenched fist salute.
“Hmmm. Nor will you if that stomach keeps spreading, man. I’ll have no lard bellies under my command.”
Ironhand's Daughter Page 8
