Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

Obrin was shocked. “You . . . you are a spirit then?”

  “We both are, Obrin. But you have a body of flesh to which you will return.”

  “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”

  “I called you.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Obrin. “I am not a king, nor of any worth.”

  “Do not be so harsh on yourself, man,” said the warrior, laying his iron gauntlet on Obrin’s shoulder. “You have merely lost your way. And now you are at the crossroads. You may choose a new path.”

  Obrin gazed around him. All the pathways looked the same, interminable tunnels beneath arched trees. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “They are identical.”

  The warrior nodded. “Aye, that is true. All roads lead to death, Obrin. It is inescapable. Even so, there is a right path.”

  Obrin laughed, but the sound was bitter and harsh. “How would I know it?”

  “If you cannot recognize it, then you must find a man already upon it and follow him. You will know, Obrin. Let the heart-light shine. It will light the way.”

  Obrin awoke with a start. The dawn light was streaking the sky, though the stars had not yet faded. His thoughts were muddled and his mouth felt as if he’d swallowed a badger. With a groan he sat up. His right shoulder ached abominably. Rising from his blankets, he walked to a nearby tree and emptied his bladder. Everyone else was still asleep, including the prisoner. Obrin hawked and spat, then stretched his right arm over his head, seeking to ease the ache.

  The hill sentry walked down and saluted. “Nothing to report from the watch, Sergeant,” he said, “but there are riders to the south.”

  “Clansmen?” This was unlikely, for there were few horses in the mountains.

  “No, sir. Soldiers from Citadel, I think. Too far away to be sure.”

  “Get a breakfast fire going,” ordered Obrin. Moving to the stream, he stripped to the waist and washed in the cold water, splashing it over his face and hair. Kollarin joined him.

  “Sleep well, Sergeant?”

  “I always sleep well.”

  “No dreams?”

  Obrin cupped some water into his hands and drank noisily. There was an edge to the man’s voice, like a plea of some kind. Obrin looked at him. “Yes, I dreamed,” he said. “You?”

  Kollarin nodded. “Did it make sense to you?”

  “Are dreams supposed to make sense?”

  Kollarin moved in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He has come to me before—back in Citadel when I was hunting the woman. He told me to leave her be. That is why I only agreed to hunt down the man. Do you know who he is?”

  “I thought you only read minds for coin,” Obrin reminded him. The sergeant stood and shivered as the cold morning breeze touched his wet skin. Hastily he donned his shirt, then returned to his blankets and put on his armor. Kollarin remained by the stream.

  A soldier with a swollen nose approached Obrin. “All quiet in the night,” he said, his voice thick and nasal.

  “How’s the nose, Bakker?”

  “Hurts like hell. I was tempted to cut the bastard’s throat last night, but I reckon I’ll just get myself dungeon duty and watch the torturer at work on him.”

  “We ride in one hour,” said Obrin.

  They breakfasted on porridge and black bread, but the prisoner steadfastly refused the food Obrin brought to him. With the meal finished, the cooking pots cleaned and stowed, Obrin’s men prepared for the journey back to Citadel.

  “Riders coming!” shouted one of the men. Obrin wandered to the edge of the hollow and waited as the ten-man section rode in. They were led by Lieutenant Masrick. Obrin saluted as the man dismounted.

  “I see you caught him,” said the officer, ignoring the salute. “About time, Sergeant. Has he told you where the girl is?”

  “No, sir. I was ordered to bring him back, not interrogate him.”

  Masrick swung to Bakker, who was just about to douse the breakfast fire. “You there! Keep that fire going.” Slipping his dagger from its sheath, he tossed it to Bakker. “Heat the point. I want it glowing red.”

  Masrick strode to where Fell was tied, then aimed a savage kick into the prisoner’s belly, doubling him over. “That,” said the officer, “is for nothing at all. What follows will, however, have value. Are you listening, clansman?”

  Fell raised his head and met the officer’s stare. He said nothing. Masrick knelt before him and punched him full in the face. Fell’s head snapped back, cannoning against the tree trunk. “You killed a cousin of mine. He was a wretch, but he owed me money. That was bad. But it will be worth much more to me to find the woman and bring her back to the Baron. I think you’ll help me. All you clansmen think you are tough. But trust me, when I have burned out your left eye you’ll do anything to save the sight in the other.”

  The soldiers had gathered around the scene in a sweeping half circle. Obrin gazed at their faces. They were eager for the entertainment. Kollarin was standing back from them, his expression impossible to read. Bakker brought the heated knife to the officer; the hilt was wrapped in a rag, the point hissing as Masrick took it.

  “Lieutenant!” Obrin’s voice barked out. Masrick was startled and he almost dropped the knife.

  “What? Make it quick, man, the knife is cooling!”

  “Leave him be!”

  Masrick ignored him and knelt before Fell, the knife moving toward the forester’s eyes. Obrin’s foot rose and slammed into the officer’s face, spinning him to the ground. There was a gasp from the soldiers. Masrick rolled to his knees, then screamed as his hand pressed down on the red-hot blade that was smoldering in the grass. He surged to his feet, his face crimson. “By God, you’ll pay for that!”

  “I am an acting captain,” said Obrin, “promoted by the Baron himself. You are a lieutenant who just disobeyed an order from a superior officer. Where does that leave you, you jumped-up toad?”

  “You have lost your mind,” sneered Masrick, “and I will see you hang for your impertinence. No common man may strike a nobleman, be the common man a captain or a general. That kick is going to cost you dear!”

  “Ah, well,” said Obrin with a broad smile, “may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!” So saying, he took a step forward and slammed his fist into the officer’s mouth, catapulting the man from his feet. Drawing his dagger, he moved in for the kill.

  Something struck him a wicked blow on the skull and he staggered, half turning. He saw Bakker raise his arm, then the cudgel struck his temple and he fell into darkness.

  When he awoke he found himself tied to his saddle. Masrick was leading the column and they were approaching a small castle. Fell was walking beside Obrin’s mount, his hands tied behind him and a rope around his neck. The other end of the rope was being held by the rider in front.

  “You really did it this time, Sergeant,” said a voice from his left. Obrin turned in the saddle to see, riding alongside him, Bakker. “Now they’re going to hang you! Not before time, if you ask me. You always was a right pain in the groin. Never liked you.”

  Obrin ignored him.

  The castle gates loomed ahead.

  Chapter Seven

  Asmidir had never enjoyed great talent as a magicker. Though his powers of concentration were great, and his imagination powerful, he had always lacked what his tutors termed ability of release. Magick, he was told, involved the user surrendering control and merging his mind with the powers hovering beyond what the five senses could experience. For all his talent Asmidir had never been able to fully release. Now he sat in the main hall, a huge leather-bound book open on his lap. The script was in gold, carefully set upon bleached leather; it was an ancient Kushir script and he read it with difficulty.

  Closing the book, he stood and moved to the long, oval table. Upon it was a golden dish, set on a stand above three small candles. Asmidir drew his dagger and began to speak. His eyes were closed, his spirit loose within the cage of his powerful body as his breathing deepened. The dagger
blade cut into his forearm and blood welled, dripping into the heated dish where it sizzled and steamed. Asmidir’s voice faded away. Opening his eyes, he took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. Not brilliantly, not even expertly. Let it at least be adequate, he thought. Returning the dagger to its sheath he pressed his thumb against the shallow wound on his arm, applying pressure for some minutes. A dark-skinned servant stepped forward with a long linen bandage. Asmidir extended his arm, and the man skillfully applied it.

  “Bring the officer here to me, Ari,” he told the servant. “Also the man in green. You have prepared the refreshment I ordered for the soldiers?”

  “Yes, lord. As you commanded.”

  The servant took the bowl and departed the room. Asmidir returned to the log fire and settled himself into an armchair. He heard the sounds of hoofbeats on stone, and felt the cold blast of air as the main doors of the castle were pulled open to admit the soldiers.

  Rising from his chair, he turned toward the door just as the potbellied Lieutenant Masrick strode into sight with Kollarin the Finder behind him. Masrick’s face was discolored, his lips thickened and split.

  “Good day to you,” said Asmidir, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “It is good to see you again, Masrick.” The officer responded with a perfunctory handshake. A servant appeared. “Fetch wine for our guests, Ari.” Masrick removed his iron helm and carelessly dropped it upon the highly polished table.

  “The Baron wants to see you,” said Masrick. “You are to return with us to Citadel.”

  “I think you mean that the Baron has requested my presence,” said Asmidir coolly.

  “No, I said what I meant. He told me to bring you, and that’s what I’ll do.” Masrick lifted a hand to his smashed lips, probing them. “I have two prisoners with me. Does this place still boast a dungeon?”

  “No,” Asmidir told him. He swung to Kollarin. “And you must be the Finder,” he said, forcing a smile. “I take it from the fact that you have prisoners that you have been successful.”

  “Yes,” said Kollarin. He moved to the hearth and reached out to touch the leather-bound book on the small table. Idly the man in green flipped open the cover. “Ah, a Kushir grimoire. A long time since I have seen such a work. The scripting is very fine—resin dusted with gold and then varnished. Exquisite!”

  “You read Kushir?” asked Asmidir, holding his expression to one of mild interest, while his heart beat against his ribs like a drum of war.

  “I read all known languages,” said Kollarin. “I do not wish it to sound like a boast, since it is a Talent I have possessed all my life, and not the result of dedicated study.”

  The servant, Ari, returned with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Masrick accepted his without a word of thanks. Kollarin smiled at Ari and gave a short bow of the head. “Not drinking with us, Asmidir?” Masrick asked.

  “No.” Turning back to Kollarin, he asked, “What will you do now that your hunt has been successful?”

  “Successful?” queried Kollarin.

  “Two prisoners. I understood you were hunting for a man and a woman.”

  “We haven’t caught the woman yet,” said Masrick, cutting in, “but we will. We have the forester, Fell. The other prisoner is a renegade. He struck me! Loosened several teeth. By God, he’ll pay for it when I get him back to Citadel.”

  “It does look sore,” agreed Asmidir. “Ari, fetch some of the special camomile ointment for this gentleman.” As the servant departed Asmidir seated himself before the fire, trying not to look at Kollarin as the man slowly turned the pages of the grimoire. “So,” he said to Masrick, “why does the Baron request my presence so urgently?”

  “That’s for him to tell you,” muttered Masrick. “Now where can I lodge these prisoners? Do you have no rooms with locks?”

  “Sadly, no. I suggest you bring them in here. Then at least you can watch them until you leave.”

  “Until we leave,” corrected Masrick.

  Asmidir rose and approached the officer. The black man was at least a foot taller. “At the moment, my dear Masrick, I am putting aside your bad manners on the grounds that the blow to your face, and the subsequent pain, has made you forget your breeding. Understand, however, that my patience is not limitless. Try to remember that you are an insignificant second cousin to the Baron, whereas I am a friend to the King. Now get out and fetch your prisoners. I wish to speak with the Finder.”

  Masrick’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes narrowed. Asmidir read the fury there. The black man leaned in close. “Think carefully before you react, moron. It is considered deeply unlucky to be struck twice in the face on the same day.” Masrick swallowed hard and backed away. Asmidir swung away from him and crossed the room to where Kollarin waited. For a moment only Masrick hesitated, then he marched from the hall.

  “You did not need the cloak spell,” said Kollarin softly. “I refused to hunt the woman.”

  “Very wise,” Asmidir told him, keeping his voice low. “When you return to Citadel town I will see that one hundred silver pieces are delivered to you.”

  “Very kind.” Kollarin’s green eyes held Asmidir’s gaze. “But I shall not be returning to Citadel.”

  “Neither shall I,” said Asmidir with a wry smile.

  Masrick returned to the hall and two soldiers led in the prisoners, ordering them to sit by the far wall. The officer marched up to Asmidir. “I fear you were right, Lord Asmidir,” said Masrick. “The events of the day shortened my temper. I ask your forgiveness for my . . . abrupt manner.” The anger was still present in his eyes, but Asmidir merely smiled.

  “We will say no more about it, my dear Masrick. Are your men being fed?”

  “Yes. Thank you. How soon will you be ready to leave?”

  Asmidir did not answer, but strolled across the hall and stood before the prisoners. “I know you,” he said, addressing Obrin. “You were in the fist-fighting tourney last winter. You lost in the final—stumbled and went down with an overhand right.”

  “You have a good memory for faces,” Obrin told him. “Now if I’d managed to hit the Cleatian with the same power that I used on goat face there, I would have won.”

  Masrick ran forward and aimed a savage kick that thundered against Obrin’s shoulder. “Be silent, wretch!” he shouted.

  “Even kicks like a goat,” sneered Obrin.

  Masrick drew his dagger. “I’ll cut your bastard tongue out!” he threatened.

  Asmidir laid his hand on the officer’s arm. “Not here, my friend,” he said. “The rugs were expensive, shipped all the way from Kushir.”

  As Obrin’s laughter sounded, Masrick paled, and his hand trembled. But he slammed the dagger back in its scabbard.

  The servant returned, carrying a small enameled pot. As he paused beside Masrick and bowed, the officer looked at the tall servant. “Well, what do you want?”

  Ari held out the pot. “What is this?” Masrick asked Asmidir.

  “A healing ointment. Apply it to the lips and you will see.”

  Masrick took the pot and removed the lid. The ointment was cream-colored. Dabbing a finger to it, he spread some on his injury. “That is good,” he said. “Soothing! Where did you obtain it?”

  “My servants are all Al-jiin,” said Asmidir. “They are very skilled with potions.”

  Kollarin was only half listening to the exchange, but the words Al-jiin cut through him like a sword of ice. Standing beside the hearth he stiffened, his green eyes flicking to Ari. The man was tall and slender, his skin the color of age-polished oak; he had a prominent nose, not negroid like Asmidir, but curved and aquiline. In that moment Kollarin wondered how he could ever have been convinced the man was a servant. He glanced at his wine goblet. It was still almost full. How much had he drunk? One mouthful? Two?

  Ari turned slowly, his deep dark stare pinning Kollarin. The servant seemed to glide across the room. “Are you well, lord?” asked Ari. “You are looking pale.”

  “I am well at
this moment,” said Kollarin. Reaching out with his Talent, he touched the other man’s mind . . . and recoiled as if he had thrust his hand into a fire.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, lord,” offered Ari.

  “Am I to die here?” pulsed Kollarin.

  “If my lord wills it so,” came the response. “If you will excuse me,” he said aloud, “I have duties to attend to.”

  “By all means,” said Kollarin. Ari turned and left the hall and once more Kollarin reached out, seeking not the mind of the servant but choosing instead the soldiers who were waiting outside. He pictured the solid cavalryman, Klebb.

  Nothing. One by one he sought out the others.

  Still nothing. Were their thoughts being shielded? he wondered.

  Sitting by the fire he closed his eyes and dropped his spirit to the second level, opening his mind to more general astral emanations. He felt the castle and its great age, and beyond it the forest and the heartbeat of eternity.

  From here it was a simple matter to find the third level. Kollarin gasped. Moving through the castle he could see the restless, disembodied shapes of lost spirits, murdered men who did not yet know they had died.

  His eyes snapped open.

  All dead. Twenty-eight soldiers, drugged and then strangled. All that remained were the two guards in the room, and Masrick himself. Kollarin’s mouth was dry and he reached out for his wine. What are you doing, fool? Leaving the goblet where it stood, he rose and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Am I under sentence? he wondered.

  Asmidir crossed the hall. “You seem preoccupied, my boy,” he said.

  Kollarin looked up into the black man’s face, seeing the power there, and the cruelty. “Your Al-jiin have completed their work,” he said softly. “Where does that leave me?”

  “Where would you like to be left?” Asmidir asked.

  “Alive would be pleasant.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” asked Masrick, picking up Kollarin’s goblet and draining it. He belched and then sat down.

  “We were talking about life and death, Masrick,” said Asmidir, “and the slender thread that separates both.”