Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  At the use of his title Tovi stiffened, and Sigarni saw the anger in his eyes. “You have fought one battle, Sigarni. I have fought many. I know what war is, and I know what it achieves. It is no more than a pestilence. It is a terrible thing—it consumes and destroys, birthing hatreds that last for generations. But I am the Hunt Lord, and I will not leave my people in this desperate hour.”

  “Then kneel,” she said, her voice flat and unrelenting.

  Tovi stepped forward and dropped to one knee. “My sword and my life,” he said solemnly.

  “Let it be so,” she told him.

  Sigarni left him there and walked from the bakery. Grame was sitting by his forge with a bloody bandage around his upper arm. Gwalchmai was with him. The smith grinned as he saw her. Gwalchmai belched, stood, staggered, and sat down. “He’s drunk,” said Grame.

  “He always is,” said Sigarni. “Will you serve me, Grame?”

  The smith scratched his thick white beard. “You’ve changed, lass. You always had iron in you, but I’d guess it has been run through the fire and molded into something sharp and deadly. Aye, I’ll serve you. What would you have me do?”

  “Make the pledge.”

  “I gave that pledge once already, and the King ran away and left me and others to rot.”

  “I will not run, Grame. Make the pledge.”

  He stood and looked into her eyes. Bending his knee, he took a deep breath. “My sword and my life,” he said.

  “Let it be so.”

  “Where do I begin?” he asked, rising.

  “See Tovi. He will tell you what I require in the coming weeks. For now, gather all weapons and supplies and lead our people deep into Pallides territory. We will speak again when the evacuation is complete. Any man who comes to you, Grame, and wishes to serve, make him speak the pledge. From now on we are Highlanders again. Nothing and no one will ever steal our pride. You understand?”

  “Hail to thee, Battle Queen!” shouted Gwalchmai, lifting his jug in salute.

  The words chilled Sigarni. “Be silent, old fool! This is no place for your drunken ramblings.”

  “He may be drunk,” said Grame, “but he is not wrong. Only the sovereign can call for the pledge. And only to a sovereign would I make it. You are the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Nothing can change that.”

  Sigarni said nothing. Fell and his foresters came into sight, along with scores of villagers, forming a great semicircle around the forge. All had heard Gwalchmai’s drunken salute, and Sigarni saw both confusion and apprehension on the faces of the people around her.

  She walked slowly to her horse and stepped into the saddle. There was no noise now, and she felt their eyes upon her as she rode slowly toward the hills.

  Chapter Eight

  Like a gift from a merciful God winter came twelve days early, blizzards sweeping across the mountains, heavy snow-falls blocking narrow passes and making treacherous even the best of the roads. Sigarni sat alone on a high ridge, wrapped in a cloak of sheepskin, and stared out over the hills to the south. A mile away she could see three figures making their slow progress through the snow.

  The heady days of victory at Cilfallen were weeks behind her now, and all the subsequent news had been bad. Stung by unexpected defeat the Outlanders had reacted savagely, sending three forces deep into the mountains to the east and the west. Three Farlain villages had been attacked, and more than four hundred Highlanders massacred in their homes. In the east a Pallides settlement was razed to the ground, and several Loda hamlets were struck during the same week, bringing the death total to more than five hundred.

  Ten days before the slaughter Sigarni had traveled with Fell and Asmidir to the main Farlain town, seeking warriors to join their growing band. The experience had proved a hard lesson. As she sat watching the walkers in the snow, Sigarni steeled herself to recall the day.

  More than five hundred people had gathered in the main square as the Hunt Lord, Torgan, waited to greet her. There were no cheers as the trio rode in. Torgan, a tall slender man, with wiry black hair cut short to expose a sharp widow’s peak and a bald spot at the crown, was waiting for them. He was sitting on a high seat in the center of the square, flanked by six warriors carrying ritual ebony staffs, adorned with silver. Sitting at his feet was a white-bearded old man dressed in a long robe of faded grey.

  “What do you seek here, Woman of Loda?” asked Torgan, as Sigarni dismounted. He did not rise from his seat, and his words were spoken scornfully.

  “Is this the Farlain Gifted One?” countered Sigarni, pointing at the old man.

  “It is. What concern is that of yours?”

  Sigarni turned away from him, scanning the faces in the crowd. There was hostility there. “Have his dreams been made known to the people of the Farlain?” she asked, raising her voice so that the crowd could hear her.

  Torgan rose. “Aye, they have. He told us of a troublesome woman who would bring death and destruction upon the clans: a Loda woman of low morals who by murder would enrage the Outlanders. And his dreams were true!”

  Despite her anger Sigarni stayed calm. “He is no Gifted One,” she said. “He is a fraud and a liar. And I will speak no more of him. Let the Farlain know this: An Outland force raided Cilfallen. We destroyed them. More will come, and they will attack and butcher any in their path, whether they be Loda, Farlain, Pallides, or Wingoras. All true Gifted Ones know this. And you will see the truth of my words. I am Sigarni. I am of the Blood of Kings. And I do not lie.”

  Torgan laughed. “Aye, we know who you are, Sigarni. Word of your Talent has reached us even here. You will leave the lands of the Farlain, and think yourself fortunate that we do not bind you and deliver you to the Outlanders for a just execution. Go back to your pitiful band and tell the idiots who follow you that the Farlain are not to be fooled.”

  “How can I tell them that,” responded Sigarni, “when it is obvious that they have been fooled already?” Spinning on her heel she strode to her stallion and stepped into the saddle. “There are other Gifted Ones,” she told the crowd, “in other clans. Be wise and seek their guidance. For the days of blood are here and if we do not join together we will be slaughtered separately. A leader has been prophesied—one who will unite the clans against the enemy. I am that leader.”

  “No whore will ever lead the Farlain,” shouted the Hunt Lord. “Begone before we stone you!”

  Sigarni touched heels to her stallion and rode from the town.

  Now, as she sat in the icy cold beneath a darkening sky, her anger remained, hot and compelling. Sigarni had been better received among the Pallides, but even here they had promised no warriors to serve under her leadership. Arriving in the Larn Valley, she had been met outside the township by the blond warrior Loran, who had bowed as she dismounted.

  “Well met, lady, and welcome,” he said. “It is good to see you again.” The memory of their meeting by Ironside’s Falls seemed as distant as a dream of another life and she found herself gazing at the handsome Pallides as if he were a stranger. “Your armor fits you well,” he said. “I am sorry that the shelters we built for the Loda people are so . . . so humble. But we did not have much time.”

  “They will suffice,” she said. From the tree line a huge man ambled into view and waved at Loran. Sigarni watched his approach with undisguised amazement. A little over six feet tall, his shoulders seemed impossibly wide, and his neck was easily as big as her thigh. His head was large, and though beardless he had grown his sideburns long and they merged with his hairline to give him a leonine appearance.

  “By God!” she whispered. “Is it real?”

  Loran chuckled. “It is my cousin Mereth. And he’s real enough.”

  “Is this her?” said Mereth, squinting at Sigarni. His voice was a low rumble like distant thunder.

  “Aye, Mereth, this is Sigarni.”

  He moved his head close to her face. “Handsome woman,” he said amiably.

  “Mereth’s vision is weak,” explained Loran. “I
t is his only weakness. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever seen.”

  “The strongest that ever was,” said Mereth proudly. “I broke Lennox’s record for the caber—and they said that couldn’t be done. They said he was a giant. I broke it. Are you the Queen now?”

  “This is not the time, Mereth,” said Loran softly, laying his hand on the giant’s shoulder.

  “I heard the Loda Gifted One named her Queen. I was only asking.”

  “The Loda Gifted One is a drunkard. Now look after the lady’s horse and I will see you at Fyon’s house when you have stabled the mount.”

  Mereth smiled. “I can fight too,” he told Sigarni. “I fear nothing.”

  Loran and Sigarni walked on into the town. “Poor vision is not his only weakness,” she said when Mereth was out of earshot.

  “Do not misjudge him, Sigarni. I admit he is not the most intelligent of men, but he is no simpleton. It just takes him a long time to work through a problem.”

  Fyon Sharp-axe entertained her at his home in the Larn Valley. It was a fine old house, built of stone with a roof of carefully carved slate. Fyon, Loran, and Mereth sat around the long table and listened intently as Sigarni told them of the events that had led to the battle of Cilfallen. The Hunt Lord, a squat, powerfully built warrior with a square-cut black beard, forked with silver, had waited courteously until she finished her tale. As she concluded he raised a wine cup and toasted her. “You did well, Sigarni,” he said. “I applaud you for the way you saved the people of your clan. But I do not yet know if you are the leader who was prophesied. Our Gifted Ones say one is coming who will lead us, but they cannot name him. I know we have no choice now, save to battle for our lives. I will not relinquish this battle to you, for despite your victory at Cilfallen you are untried. And you are a woman. It is not a woman’s place to lead men into battle. I do not say this slightingly, Sigarni, for I admire your courage. It is merely common sense. Men are ultimately dispensable. If, in a war, all but ten of a clan’s warriors are killed, but the women remain, the clan would survive. But if only ten of the clanswomen were left it would die. Men are made for hunting and battle, women for gathering and childbirth. This is the way of the world. I cannot see Pallides warriors fighting for a woman—even one as spirited as you.”

  Sigarni nodded. “I understand your fears, Fyon,” she said. “But I would like to hear the thoughts of Loran.”

  The blond warrior leaned back in his chair. He glanced at Sigarni. “I have waited for a leader—as have we all. And I was surprised when I heard that Gwalchmai had named you. We here all know that you are of the blood of Gandarin, and that he was directly descended from Ironhand. And a boy child of yours would have first claim to the throne. Yet there is no boy child, and never have the clans been led by a woman.”

  “What of the Witch Queen?” countered Sigarni.

  “Aye, I’ll grant that,” admitted Loran, “but she was from beyond the old Gateways, drawn to our aid by sorcery. And she did not stay to rule, but returned to her own land when the war was won.”

  “As I shall,” said Sigarni.

  “Be that as it may,” continued Loran, “I cannot as yet make a judgment. I echo the Hunt Lord’s praise for your victory at Cilfallen, and I deplore the treatment of you by the Farlain. Even so, I do not believe we should commit ourselves to you at this time. I ask that you do not judge us too harshly.”

  Sigarni rose. “I do not judge you harshly, Loran. You came to Tovi and warned him of invasion. Because of your arguments he sent enough supplies back into Pallides lands to ensure survival for the people of Loda during the winter. You have given us land, built us homes. For this I am grateful. And I understand your concerns. I did not ask for this role, and would be more than happy to surrender it. But I know now that I am the one prophesied. I know it. What I need to know is what can be done to convince the Pallides. What do you require of me?”

  “A good question,” said Fyon, also rising. He rubbed at his silver-forked beard and moved to the fire blazing in the hearth. “And I wish I had an answer. We need a sign, Sigarni. Until then you must train your own warriors.”

  Ten days later Fyon had ridden his horse into the make-shift camp of the Loda, seeking out Sigarni.

  “Welcome,” she said as he ducked into the small log dwelling. It was dark inside, and lit by the flickering fire within a small iron brazier. Fyon seated himself opposite Sigarni and cast a nervous glance at the black man at her side. “This is Asmidir. He is my general, and a warrior of great skill.” Asmidir held out his hand and Fyon shook it briefly.

  “The Outlanders struck several Farlain villages,” said Fyon. “Hundreds were slaughtered, women and children among them. Torgan led his men on a vengeance strike, but they were surrounded and cut to pieces. Torgan escaped, but he lost more than three hundred warriors. He has blamed you—claims you are a curse upon the people. My scouts tell me the Outlanders are marching toward us. They will be here in less than five days.”

  “They will not arrive,” said Sigarni. “There are blizzards in the wind; they will drive them back.”

  “Only until the spring,” said Fyon. “What then?”

  “Let us hope that by then you will have had a sign,” said Sigarni coldly.

  High on the mountainside Sigarni wrapped her sheepskin cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Lady padded across the snow and hunkered down by her side. Sigarni pulled off her fur-lined mittens and stroked the dog’s head. “We’ll soon be back in the warm, girl,” she said. At the sound of her voice Lady’s tail thumped against the snow.

  The three walkers were at the foot of the mountain now and Sigarni could see them clearly. The first was Fell. With him were Gwyn Dark-eye and Bakris Tooth-gone. Slowly the three men climbed the flank of the mountain, reaching the ridge just before dusk. Snow was falling again, thick and fast.

  Fell was the first to climb to the ridge. Snow was thick upon his hair and shoulders.

  “What did you learn?” asked Sigarni.

  “They have put a price of one thousand guineas upon your head, lady. And they are expecting another three thousand men by spring.”

  “Did you see Cilfallen?”

  Fell sighed. “There is nothing there. Not one stone upon another. As if it never was.”

  “Come back to the settlement,” she said. “You can tell me all.”

  “There’s one piece of news I’d like to spit out now,” he said, brushing the snow from his hair. “There was an arrival in Citadel—a wizard from the south. His name is Jakuta Khan. There are many stories about him, so we were told. He conjures demons.”

  Sigarni could see the fear in their eyes, and she hoped they could not see the same fear in hers. “I do not fear him,” she heard herself say.

  “He came to our fire last night,” said Gwyn. “Just appeared out of nowhere, and seemed to stand within the flames. Tell her, Fell.”

  “He said for us to tell you he was coming for you. He said you were lucky that night by the Falls, but that this time he would not fail. You would remember him, he said, for the last time you saw him he had your father’s heart in his hand. Then he vanished.”

  Sigarni staggered back and swung away from the men. Her mouth was dry, her heart beating wildly. Panic welled in her breast, and she felt herself adrift on a current of fear. Her legs were weak and she reached out to grip the trunk of a tree.

  The demons were coming again!

  For Tovi Long-arm the onset of winter was a nightmare. The people of the Loda were spread now across two valleys, in five encampments. Food was a problem for almost three thousand refugees. Four of the Loda herds had been driven north after the attack on Cilfallen and three had been slaughtered to supply meat for the clan, leaving only breeding stock for the spring. But meat alone was not enough. There was a shortage of vegetables and dried fruit, and dysentery had spread among the old and infirm. Lung infections had begun to show among the old and the very young, and eleven greybeards had died so far in the first month of sn
ow. Worse was to come, for soon the milk cows would go dry and then hunger would border on famine. Blizzards had closed many of the trails and communication was becoming difficult, even between camps. The structures erected by the Pallides were sound enough, but they were spartan and drafty, smoke-filled and dark.

  Complaints were growing, and morale was low. Added to this there was resentment about the Outlander Obrin and his training methods. Day after day he would order the young men to engage in punishing routines, running, lifting, working in groups. It was not the Highland way, and Tovi had tried to impress this on the Outlander.

  To no avail . . .

  It was dawn when Tovi roused himself from his blankets. Beside him his wife groaned in her sleep. It was cold in the cabin and Tovi placed his own blanket over hers. The children were still asleep. Tovi moved to the fire, which had died down to a few smoldering ashes. With a stick he pushed the last few glowing embers together, then blew them into life, adding kindling until the flames licked up. Pulling on his boots and overshirt he tried to open the door of the cabin, but snow had piled up against the door in the night and Tovi had to squeeze through a narrow gap to emerge into the dawn light. Using his hands, he scooped the snow away from the door and then pushed it shut.

  Grame was already awake when Tovi called at his small hut. The smith, wrapped in a long sheepskin coat and holding a long-handled felling axe, stepped out to join him. “The sky’s clear,” said Grame, “and it feels milder.”

  “The worst is yet to come,” said Tovi.

  “I know that!” snapped Grame. “God, Tovi, must you stay so gloomy?”

  Tovi reddened at the rebuke and glared at the white-bearded smith. “Give me one good reason to be optimistic and I shall. I will even dance a jig for you! We have nearly three thousand people living in squalor, and what are we waiting for? To face famine or slaughter in the spring. Am I wrong?”

  “I do not know if you are wrong, Tovi. That’s the truth of it. But you could be. Concentrate on that. We now have five hundred fighting men, hard men, fueled by anger and the need for revenge. By spring we could have thousands. Then we will see. Why do you need to show such despair? It does no good.”