“You did well, boy,” he said. “You have evaded the first hunters. But they will send more, canny men, skilled in tracking. And with them will be a Finder, a seeker of souls, a reader of thoughts. If you survive this, which is doubtful at best, they will send the night-stalkers, creatures from the pit.”
“No, no,” said Fell, “seek not to cheer me, old man, with your boundless optimism. I am a grown man, tell it to me straight.”
Taliesen hawked and spat. “I have no time for your humor. We must protect her, Fell. Her importance cannot be overstated. You must go from here to her cabin. Gather her weapons and some spare clothes; give them to the dwarf. Tell him, and the others there, what has occurred. Then you must find the hunters and lead them deep into the mountains.”
Fell took a deep breath, fighting for calm. It didn’t work. “Find the hunters? Lead them? What say you I just attack the Citadel town single-handed and raze it to the ground? Or perhaps I could borrow your feather cloak and fly south, invading the Outland cities and slaying the King? Are you insane, old man? What do you expect me to do against thirty soldiers?”
“Whatever you can.” The old man looked into Fell’s eyes, his expression as cold as ice on flint. “You are dispensable, Fell,” said Taliesen. “Your death will matter only to you. You can be replaced. Everything can be replaced, save Sigarni. You understand? You must earn her time, time to recover, time to learn. She is the leader your people have yearned for. Only she has the power to win freedom for the clans.”
“They’ll never follow a woman! That much I know.”
Taliesen shook his head. “They followed the Witch Queen four hundred years ago. They crossed the Gateways and died for her. They stood firm against the enemy, though they were outnumbered and faced slaughter. They will follow her, Fell.”
“The Witch Queen was a sorceress. Sigarni is merely a woman.”
“How blind you are,” said the old man, “and rich indeed is your male conceit. This woman was dragged to a cell and raped, sodomized, and beaten senseless by four men. Like animals they fell upon her . . .”
“I don’t want to hear this!” roared Fell, half rising.
“But you shall!” stormed the wizard. “They struck her with their fists, and they bit her. They cut her buttocks with their sharp knives, and forced her to unspeakable acts. Then they left her upon the floor of the cell, to lie on the cold stone floor in a pool of her own vomit and blood. Aye, well might you look shocked, for this was men at play, Fell. She lay there and after an hour or so a new guard came into the cell. He too wanted his piece of her flesh. She killed him, Fell. Then she hunted down the others. One she slew upon the dungeon stair. She killed a sentry in the courtyard and two more outside a tavern. And the last? You saw him, in his fine red cloak of wool. Him she tore the throat from. Just a woman? By all the Gods of the Nine Worlds, boy, in her tortured condition she killed six strong men!”
Fell said nothing, and transferred his gaze to the sleeping woman. “Aye, she’s a Highlander,” he said with pride. “But even that will not make men follow her.”
“We will see,” said Taliesen. “Now go to her cabin before the hunters reach it. Send the dwarf with weapons and clothes.”
“You will stay with her?”
“Indeed I will.”
Fell rose and swung his quiver over his shoulder, then gazed down at the unconscious Sigarni. “I will keep her warm,” said Taliesen. “Oh, and I retrieved your bow.” Lifting what Fell had believed to be a staff covered in sacking, Taliesen passed the weapon to the surprised forester.
“You even kept it dry. My thanks to you, wizard. I feel a whole man again.”
Taliesen ignored him and turned to the sleeping Sigarni, taking her long, slim hand into his own.
Swirling his cloak around his shoulders, Fell stepped out into the rain-drenched night.
Sigarni stood silently by the grey cave wall and listened as Fell and the old man spoke. She could hear their words, see their faces, and even—though she knew not how—feel their emotions. Fell was frightened and yet trying to maintain an air of male confidence. The old man—Taliesen?—was tired, yet filled with a barely suppressed excitement. And lying by the fire, looking so sad and used, she could see herself, wrapped in the rapist’s red cloak, her face bruised and swollen. I am dying, she thought. My spirit has left my body and now only the Void awaits. There was no panic in her, no fear, only a sadness built of dreams never to be realized.
Fell took his bow from the old man and walked from the cave. Sigarni tried to call out to him but he did not hear her. No one could hear her, save maybe the dead.
But she was wrong. As soon as Fell walked out into the rain the old man looked up at her, his button-bright eyes focusing on her face. “Well, now we can talk,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
Sigarni was both surprised and confused. The old man was holding the hand of her body, yet looking directly into the eyes of her spirit. It was disconcerting.
“I feel . . . nothing,” she said. “Is this what death is like?”
He gave a dry chuckle, like the whispering of the wind across dead leaves. “You are talking to a man who has fought back death for many centuries. I do not even wish to speculate on what death is like. Do you remember the waking of your spirit?”
“Yes, someone called me, but when I opened my eyes he was not here. How is this happening, old one?”
“I fear the answer may be too complicated for an untutored Highlander to understand. Essentially your body has been so brutalized that your mind has reeled from thoughts of it. You have entered a dream state which has freed your . . . soul, if you will. Now you feel no pain, no shame, no guilt. And while we talk your body is healing. I have, through my skill, increased the speed of the process. Even so, when you do return to the prison of flesh you will feel— shall we say—considerable discomfort.”
“Do I know you?” asked Sigarni.
“Do you think that you do?” he countered.
“I can remember being held close to your chest. You have a small mole under the chin; I know this. And in looking at you I can see another man, enormously tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a buckskin shirt with a red wingspread hawk silhouette upon the breast.”
Taliesen nodded. Childhood memories. Yes, you know me, child. The other man was Caswallon. One day, if God is kind, you will meet him again.”
“You both saved me from the demons—out there by the pool. Gwalchmai told me. Who are you, Taliesen? Why have you helped me?”
“I am merely a man—a great man, mind! And my reasons for helping you are utterly selfish. But now is not the time to speak of things past. The days of magick and power are upon us, Sigarni, the days of blood and death are coming.”
“I want no part in them,” she said.
“You have little choice in the matter. And you will feel differently when you wake. In spirit form you are free of much more than merely the flesh. The human body has many weapons. Rage, which increases muscle power; fear, which can hone the mind wonderfully; love, which binds with ties of iron; and hate, which can move mountains. There are many more. But in astral form you are connected only tenuously to these emotions. It was rage and the need for revenge which saved your life, which drove you on to wear the Red. That rage is still there, Sigarni, a fire that needs no kindling, an eternal blaze that will light the road to greatness. But it rests in the flesh, awaiting your return.”
“You were correct, old one. I do not understand all you say. How do I return to my flesh?”
“Not yet. First go from the cave. Walk to the pool.”
She shook her head. “There is a ghost there.”
“Yes,” he said. “Call him.”
Sigarni was on the point of refusing when Taliesen lifted his hand and pointed to the fire. The flames leaped up to form a sheer bright wall some four feet high. Then, at the center, a small spot of colorless light appeared, opening to become a pale glistening circle. It glowed snow-white, then gently became the
blue of a summer sky. Sigarni watched spellbound as the blue faded and she found herself staring through the now-transparent circle into her own cabin. She was there, talking with Gwalchmai. The conversation whispered into her mind.
“Who was the ghost?” asked the image of Sigarni.
“Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.” She shivered and looked away.
“I can’t.”
Gwalch chuckled. “There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni. Nothing.”
“Oh, come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won’t you help me?”
“I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don’t remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. Your eyes were blank, and you were slack-jawed. I had a friend with me; his name was Taliesen. It was he—and another—who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are strong enough to turn the key. That’s what he told me.”
Now the circle shrank to a dot and the flames of the fire returned to normal. “Am I strong enough to turn the key?” she asked Taliesen.
“Go to the pool and find out,” he advised. “Call for him!”
Sigarni stood silently for a moment, then moved past the old man and out into the night. The rain was still hammering down, but she could not feel it nor, strangely, could she hear it. Water tumbled over the falls in spectacular silence, ferocious winds tore silently at the trees and their leaf-laden branches, lightning flared in the sky, but the voice of the accompanying thunder could not be heard.
The huntress moved to the poolside. “I am here!” she called. There was no answer, no stirring upon the water. Merely silence.
“Call to him by name,” came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.
And she knew, and in knowing wondered how such an obvious realization should have escaped her so long. “Ironhand!” she called. “It is I, Sigarni. Ironhand!”
The waters bubbled and rose like a fountain, the spray forming an arched Gateway lit by an eldritch light. A giant of a man appeared in the Gateway, his silver beard in twin braids, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore silver-bright armor and carried a long, leaf-bladed broadsword that glistened as if it had been carved from moonlight. He raised the sword in greeting, and then sheathed it at his side and spoke, his voice rich and resonant. “Come to me, Sigarni,” he said. “Walk with me awhile.”
“You spoke to me in Citadel town,” she said. “You urged me to flee.”
“Yes.”
“And you fought for me when I was a child. You slew the last Hollow-tooth.”
“That also.”
“Why?”
“For love, Sigarni. For a love that will not accept death. Will you walk with me awhile?”
“I will,” she said, tears brimming.
And she stepped forward to walk upon the water.
Chapter Six
Despite the excruciating pain flaring from the empty eye socket, the Baron Ranulph Gottasson enjoyed the awestruck and fearful expressions of the men before him. Idly the fingers of his left hand stroked the carved dragon claws on the arm of the ornate chair. Sharp they were as they gripped the globe of ebony. The men waited silently below the dais. He knew their thoughts and, more importantly, their growing anxiety. They had failed—the woman who had robbed him of his eye was still at large. The Baron leaned back on the high carved chair and stared balefully down at the twenty men before him, his single eye bloodshot but its gaze piercing.
“So,” he said softly, his voice sibilant and chilling, “tell me that you have captured the woman and the renegade.”
The officer before him, a tall man sporting a square-cut beard but no mustache, cleared his throat. His chain-mail leggings were mud-smeared, and his right arm was clumsily bandaged. “We have not caught them yet, my lord. I brought the men back for fresh supplies.”
“You did not catch them,” repeated the Baron, rising from his chair. “One woman and a forester, riding double on a stolen stallion. But you did not catch them.” Slowly he descended the three steps from the dais and halted before the officer. The man dropped his head and mumbled something. “Speak up, Chard. Let us all hear you!”
The officer reddened, but he raised his head and his voice boomed out. “They fooled us. They turned the stallion loose and cut out across the valleys. Then the storm came and it was impossible to read sign. But we followed as best we could, thinking the woman would return to her people. The renegade forester, Fell, shot at us from ambush, wounding two of my men. We gave chase, my lord, but heavily armed riders are useless in the thickets. We left our horses and tried to follow on foot. It was like trying to catch a ghost. I had no archers with me. Three more men were struck by his arrows. Happily their armor saved them from serious injury, though the mercenary, Lava, still has an arrowhead lodged in his shoulder.” Chard fell silent.
The Baron nodded solemnly. “So, what you are saying is that thirty Outland warriors are no match for a woman and a clansman.”
“No, my lord. I am saying . . .”
“Be silent, fool! Did you think, at any time during the four days you have been gone, to send back to Citadel for trackers? Did you not consider hiring the services of the Finder Kollarin? Did you set the renegade’s own people to hunt him?”
“His own people . . .”
The Baron half turned away, then swung back his fist, smashing the officer’s lips against his teeth. The skin split and blood sprayed out as Chard was hurled backward. He fell heavily, cracking his skull against the base of a statue. Chard gave out one grunting moan, then slid into unconsciousness. “You have all failed me,” said the Baron, “but his was the greatest sin. He will suffer for it. Now you!” he said, pointing to a burly soldier with close-cropped fair hair. “You are Obrin the Southlander, yes?”
“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed.
“You have fought barbarians before, I understand. In Kushir, Palol, Umbria, and Cleatia?”
“Yes, my lord. And served also in Pesht under your command. I was there when you stormed the wall, sir, though I was but a common soldier then.”
“And now you are a sergeant-at-arms. Answer me well and you shall assume command of the hunt, and become a captain. Tell us all now what errors were made by the idiot lying at your feet.”
Obrin drew a deep breath and was silent for a moment. The Baron smiled. He knew what was going through the man’s mind. No enlisted soldier wished to be made an officer: the pay would not cover the mess bills, and from its meager supply he would have to purchase his own horse and armor and hire a manservant. Obrin’s round face paled; then he spoke. “The trail was cold from the moment the storm broke, my lord. We should have headed for Cilfallen and taken hostages. Then the foresters themselves could have hunted down their comrade. I would also have posted a reward for their capture, just in case. There’s not much coin in the Highlands. And there’s always some bastard who’d sell his mother for a copper or two, if you take my meaning, my lord.” Obrin paused and rubbed his broad chin. “You have already mentioned the Finder, Kollarin, but—I’ll be honest with you, my lord—I would not have thought of him, sir, and if it please you, I don’t want Captain Chard’s command. I’m no nobleman. And I wouldn’t fit in. I don’t have the brains for it. But I am a good sergeant, sir.”
The Baron ignored the soldier and climbed to the dais to return to his seat. His eye socket was throbbing and tongues of fire were lancing up into his skull. Yet he kept his expression even and showed no trace of the pain he was feeling. “Find Kollarin and take him with you when you have your supplies. Take fifty men. Split them into two sections. One will ride to Cilfallen and post a reward of one hundred guineas; this group will also take four hostages and return them to Citadel. The second group, led by you, Obrin, will include
Kollarin. You will start your search at the woman’s cabin. And before you leave you will take the former Captain Chard to the whipping post, where you will apply fifty lashes to his naked back. With every lash I want you to consider this: Fail, and one of your men will be lashing you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Obrin miserably.
The Baron waved his hand, dismissing the men. “Not you, Leofric,” he said as the slender blond-haired cleric was about to leave. “Shut the door and come to me in my study.” Leaving the dais the Baron strode across the hall and through a small side door, leading to a flight of steps that took him up to the parapet study. A goblet had been placed on the desk, filled with dark, noxious liquid. The Baron hated medicines of any kind, and pain-masking opiates in particular. But the injury was now interfering with his thought processes and he drained the foul brew and sat with his back to the open window.
Leofric knocked twice, then entered the study. “I am sorry, cousin, for your pain and your disappointment,” he said uneasily.
“The pain is nothing, but I am not disappointed, boy,” the Baron told him, motioning the younger man to a seat opposite him. “Far from it. The Highlands need to be purged, and the excuse has now fluttered in on the wings of a dead hawk. A woman rebel was arrested after attacking the King’s Emissary. Highlanders raided the dungeons to release her. Then they attacked the King’s soldiers. When word reaches the south the King will send another five thousand men to serve under me, and we will march from Citadel to the sea and wipe out the clans once and for all.”
“I don’t understand,” said Leofric. “How are the clans a danger to the empire? They have no military organization, indeed no army, and there is no insurrection.”
The Baron smiled. “Then we cannot lose, can we, Leofric? And at the end I will have an army as large as Jastey’s. The King grows old and soft. You think Jastey has no plans to seize the crown for himself? Of course he has. And I can do nothing to stop him while I am stuck away here in this god-forsaken wilderness. However, a war against the clans, well, that has great merit. In the south they still fear these northerners, and old men recall with dread how the shrieking savages erupted from the mountains bringing fire and death to the Lowlands. You will see, Leofric. As soon as news reaches the south of this latest outrage, the price of land south of the border will plummet. The weakhearted will sell up and move and panic will sweep through the immediate Lowland towns.”
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