Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “I am not skilled at hiding my feelings, Grame,” admitted Tovi. “I am getting old and I have no fire in my belly. They killed my son, destroyed my village. Now I feel as if I am waiting for the rest of my family to be put to the sword. I find it hard to stomach.”

  Grame nodded. “You are not so old, Tovi. And as for your stomach—well, you look better than you have in years. Felling trees and building cabins has been good for you. Come the spring, that claymore will have no more weight than a goose feather. Then you’ll find the fire.”

  Tovi forced a smile and scanned the camp. To the south the new community hall was almost half built, the ground leveled, the log walls already around five feet high. Eighty feet long and thirty wide, the structure when finished would allow many people of the encampment to gather together in the evenings. This, Tovi knew, would encourage a greater camaraderie and help lift morale. “How long now?” he asked, pointing at the structure.

  “Five days. We’ll be felling trees on the north slope today. If there’s no fresh snow for a while we might finish in three.”

  All around them people were emerging from the huts. Tovi saw the Outlander Obrin. The man was dressed now in borrowed leggings and a leather tunic; he strolled to a tree and urinated against the trunk. “I don’t like the man,” said Tovi.

  “Aye, he’s iron hard,” Grame agreed.

  “It is not that. There is an arrogance about him that slips under my skin like a barbed thorn. Look at the way he walks . . . as if he is a king and all around him are serfs and vassals.”

  Grame chuckled. “You are seeing too much. Fell walks like that. Sigarni too.”

  “Aye, but they’re Highlanders.”

  Grame’s chuckle became a full-blooded laugh as he clapped his hand on Tovi’s shoulder. “Listen to yourself! Is that not arrogance? Anyway, Obrin is a Highlander—Fell’s son.”

  “Pah! Put a wolf in a kilt and it is still a wolf!”

  Grame shook his head. “You are not good company today, Hunt Lord,” he said. Tovi watched him stride away through the snow.

  He’s right, thought Tovi, with a stab of guilt. I am the Hunt Lord and I should be lifting the hearts of my people. He sighed and trudged off toward Obrin. The warrior had removed his shirt and was kneeling and rubbing snow over his upper body. As Tovi came closer he saw the web of scars on Obrin’s chest and upper arms. The man looked up at him, his eyes cold.

  “Good morning, Hunt Lord.”

  “And to you, Obrin. How is the training progressing?”

  Obrin rose and pulled on his shirt and tunic. “Six of the groups are proving adequate. No more than that. The others . . .” He shrugged. “If they don’t want to learn, then I cannot force them.”

  “You don’t need to teach a Highlander to fight,” said Tovi. Obrin gave a rare smile but it did not soften his face. If anything, Tovi realized, it made him look more deadly.

  “That is true, Hunt Lord. They know how to fight, and they know how to die. What they don’t comprehend is that war is not about fighting and dying. It is about winning. And no army can win without discipline. A general must know that when he—or in our case she—gives an order it will be obeyed without question. We don’t have that here. What we have is five hundred arrogant warriors who, upon seeing the enemy, will brandish their claymores and rush down to die. Just like the Farlain.”

  Tovi’s first response was one of anger, but he swallowed it down. What would this Outlander understand of Highland pride, of the warrior’s code? Fighting involved honor and courage. These Outlanders treated it as a trade. Even so, he knew that the man was speaking honestly. Worse, he was not wrong. “Try to understand, Obrin,” he said softly. “Here each man is an individual. Wars between clans always come down to man against man. There was never any question of tactics. Even when we fought . . . your people . . . we did not learn. We charged. We died. You are dealing with a people who have fought this way for generations. I don’t even know whether the older warriors can absorb these new ideas. So be patient. Try to find some way to appeal to the younger men. Convince them.”

  “I have already told them what is real,” said Obrin stubbornly. “And if that wasn’t enough they have the example of the Farlain.”

  “We are a proud people, Obrin. We can be led to the borders of Hell itself, but we cannot be driven. Can you understand that?”

  “I’ll think on it,” said the Outlander. “But I never was an officer, and I’m no leader. All I know is what I’ve learned through seventeen years of bloody war. But I’ll think on it.”

  A young woman approached them, a heavy woolen shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders. “By your leave, Hunt Lord,” she said with a curtsy. “My grandfather is sick and cannot rise from his bed. Can you come?”

  “Aye, lass,” said Tovi wearily.

  Obrin watched the Hunt Lord trudge off through the snow, saw the weariness in the man. He wears defeat like a cloak, thought the warrior. The former Outlander wandered away from the camp, climbing high onto the mountainside to the meeting cave. Three men were already present, and they had lit a fire. Their conversation faded away as Obrin entered. He walked slowly to the far side of the fire and sat, glancing down at the two bundles he had left there earlier; they were untouched. Obrin waited in silence until others arrived, some singly, some in pairs, others in small groups until twentyfive were assembled. Obrin rose and looked at their faces. Many of them were scarce more than children. They waited, sullen and wary.

  “No work today,” said Obrin, breaking the silence. “Today we talk. Now I am not a great talker—and even less of a teacher. But at this moment I am all that you have. So open your ears and listen.”

  “Why should we listen?” asked a young man in the front row. He was no more, Obrin guessed, than around fourteen years of age. “You tell us to carry rocks, we carry rocks. You tell us to run and we run. I do not need to hear the words of an Outland traitor. Just give us your orders and we shall obey them.”

  “Then I order you to listen,” said Obrin, without trace of anger. His eyes raked the group. “Your friendship means nothing to me,” he told them. “It is worth less than a sparrow’s droppings. We are not here for friendship. What I am trying to do is give you a chance—a tiny chance—to defend your loved ones against a powerful enemy. Oh, I know you are prepared to die. The Farlain have shown us all how well a Highlander can give up his life. But you don’t win by dying. You win by causing your enemy to die. Is that so hard to understand? The Hunt Lord says a Highlander cannot be driven. Is he incapable also of learning? If not, how did he acquire the skills to build homes, weave cloth, make bows and swords? What is so different about war? It is a game of skill and daring, of move and countermove. The Outlanders—as you call them—are masters of war.”

  “Masters of slaughter more like!” came a voice from the middle rows.

  “Aye, and slaughter,” agreed Obrin. “But in a battle they hold together. It is called discipline. It is nothing to do with honor, or glory. Yet all victories are based upon it.” Obrin walked to the first of the bundles and flipped back the blanket covering it. Stooping, he lifted a dozen sticks, each no thicker than his thumb and no longer than his forearm. Tossing them one by one to the nearest clansmen, he said, “Break them!”

  The first man chuckled and glanced down at the thin length of wood. “Why?” he asked.

  “Just do it.”

  The sound of snapping wood echoed in the cave, followed by laughter as someone said, “The great warrior has certainly taught us to master stick splitting.”

  “Easy, was it not?” said Obrin amiably. “No trouble. A child could do it. And that, my fine clansmen, is how the Outlanders will deal with you. It is not a question of bravery, or honor. You fight as individuals, single sticks. Now, this is how the Outlanders fight.” Taking up the second bundle, which was also composed of a dozen sticks, but tightly bound with twine, he tossed it to the jester. “Come then,” said Obrin, “show me how you have mastered stick splittin
g. Break them!”

  The man stood and held the bundle at both ends. Suddenly he bent his knee and brought the sticks down hard across his thigh. Several sticks gave, but the bundle remained intact. Angrily he hurled the sticks on the fire. “What does it prove?” he snarled. “But give me a claymore and I’ll show you what I can do!”

  “Sit down, lad,” said Obrin. “I do not doubt your courage. The lesson is a simple one to absorb. What you saw was two bundles. Each bundle had twelve sticks. One could be broken, the other could not. It is the same with armies. When the clans fought at Colden Moor they fought in the only way they knew, shoulder to shoulder, claymores swinging. They were brought down by archers and slingers, lancers and pike-men, heavy cavalry and armored swordsmen. They were beaten decisively, but not routed. They stood their ground and died like men. By God, what a waste of courage! Did any here see the Farlain dead?”

  Several men spoke up. Obrin nodded and waved them to silence. “What you saw was easy to read. The Outlanders were in the valley. The Farlain attacked from the high ground, sweeping down on them, their claymores bright in the morning sun. The Outlanders formed a tight shield wall, their spears extending. The Farlain ran upon the spears, trying to beat a path through. Then the cavalry came from the right, from their hiding places in a wood. Archers appeared on the left sending volley after volley into the Highland ranks. How long did the battle last? Not an hour. Not even half that. According to Fell it was probably over in a few short minutes. The Outlanders carried their dead away in a single wagon—ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty bodies at the most. The Farlain lost hundreds. Are the clans too stupid to learn from their errors?” They were listening now, intently, their eyes locked to Obrin’s face. “We all know the animals of the forest, and their ways. When faced with wolves, a stag will run. The wolves lope after him, slowly robbing him of strength. At last he turns at bay, and they come at him from all sides. If he is strong his horns will kill some, then he dies. You are like the stag. The Outlanders are the wolves; only they are worse than wolves. They have the horns of the stag, the stamina and cunning of the wolf pack, the claws of the bear, and the fangs of the lion. To defeat them, we must emulate them.”

  “How do we do this?” asked the boy who made the earlier jest.

  “Your question is a good beginning,” Obrin told him. “Understanding is the first key. All war is based on deception. When you are weak, you make the enemy think you are strong; when you are strong, make him think you are weak. When you are far away, make him believe you are near, and when you are near, lead him to think you are far away. The Outlanders did this to the Farlain. Their scouts must have told them the clansmen were near, so they hid their cavalry and archers. The Farlain saw the infantry occupying a weak position and attacked. In doing so, they walked into the iron jaws of the monster. We will not follow their example. We will fight on our own terms, choosing our own ground. If necessary, we will fight and run. We will make them the stag, and we shall be the wolves.

  “To fight like this takes great discipline and enormous strength of heart, but it is the only way to win. Go now and talk among yourselves. Choose a unit leader from among you; he will be your officer. Pass the word to the other twenty-five groups. Tell them to appoint one man to represent them. Then I want all officers to report to me here at dawn tomorrow.”

  As the men stood to leave Obrin lifted his hand. “One more point, my lads. I am from a Highland people far to the south. We are called the Arekki. I am the only man of my clan within three hundred miles. I am Obrin, and I do not lie, cheat, or steal. Not once in my life have I betrayed a friend or comrade, nor have I ever fled from an enemy. The next man to call me a traitor to my face will die on my sword. Go now!”

  Sleeting hail beat against the windows as Asmidir sat at his desk with quill pen in hand, poring over maps of the Highlands. Two lanterns were glowing close by, casting gentle light on the sheets of paper littering the desktop. Asmidir stared hard at the lines on the ancient parchment, trying to picture the pass of Duane. Sheer to the east, mildly sloping to the west, it opened out into two box canyons and a long, narrow plain. Dipping his pen into the ink jar he sketched the pass, adding notations concerning distance and height.

  Ari entered, still dressed in his armor of silver and black. He bowed. “Shall I bring your food here, lord?” he asked.

  “I’m not hungry. Sit you down.” The tall warrior pulled up a chair and sat. Leaning forward, Ari’s dark eyes scanned the lines of the new map Asmidir was creating.

  “Duane Pass,” he said. “A good battle site—if the defenders number more than two thousand. Five hundred could not hold the ridges and would be flanked to the west. Cavalry would encircle them, then no escape would be possible.”

  “Aye, it is a problem. We need more men. I’d give half of all I own to see Kalia here with her regiment.”

  Ari gave a rare smile. “Kalia and Sigarni? Panther and hawk. It would be . . . interesting.”

  “She is three thousand miles away—if she still lives. But you are right, it would be fascinating to see them together. Now, you know these maps as well as I. Where will the first attack come?”

  Ari sifted through the sheets. “They will bring an army to the first invasion fort. From there I would think they would swing northeast toward the deeper lands of the Farlain. They may even split their force and push northwest into Pallides territory. I think you are right to choose Duane; it is three miles south of their first fort.”

  Asmidir leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. “Duane is a natural battle site. The enemy trapped below with only one means of escape, the defenders with their backs to the mountains, able to slip away at the first sign of impending defeat. As you say, however, we need at least two thousand. Where else?”

  Ari shuffled through the maps. “With five hundred? Nowhere.”

  “Precisely my thoughts. And the Baron is no fool, he will know our approximate number. Son of a whore!” Lifting a detailed sketch of an Outland fort, he passed it to Ari. “What if we took it before they arrived? They’d have no supplies. How long could we hold them?”

  “Four or five days. But they have three supply forts, not one. They will merely send a force around us. And then there would be no escape for the defenders. No prospect of victory either.”

  Asmidir pushed himself to his feet and wandered to the window. The snow was falling thick and fast, piling against the base of the leaded panes. “My head is spinning,” he said. “Tell me something good. Anything.”

  Ari chuckled. “Our enemy is the Baron. He is hotheaded and reckless. Better yet, he is impatient and will not give us respect in the first battle. That is an advantage.”

  “That is true,” agreed Asmidir. “But it is not enough to give him a bloody nose. The first battle must be decisive.”

  “And that means Duane Pass,” said Ari.

  “Which the Baron will also be aware of.” Asmidir shook his head and laughed. “Are we being fools, Ari? Have we waited this long merely to stand and die on a foreign mountain?”

  “Perhaps,” agreed the warrior. “Yet a man has to die somewhere.”

  “I’m not ready to die yet. I swore an oath to make the Outlanders pay for the rape of Kushir. I must honor it—or my spirit will walk forever through the Valley of Desolation and Despair.”

  “I also swore that oath, lord,” said Ari. “We all did. Now our hopes rest with the silver woman.”

  Asmidir returned to the table and stared into the dark eyes of the man opposite. “What do you think of her, Ari? Could she truly be the One?”

  The warrior shrugged. “I do not know the answer to the second question. As to the first—I admire her. That is all I can say.”

  “It does not bother you that this Chosen One is a woman?”

  “Kalia is a woman—and she has fought in many wars. And Sigarni’s battle plan at Cilfallen was inspired. Fraught with peril—but inspired.”

  Asmidir gathered up the maps and sketches. “I must be heading
back to the mountains tomorrow. I need to see her.”

  “It will take around four days now,” said Ari. “The snows have blocked many passes. Perhaps you should wait for more clement weather.”

  “These mountains do not know the meaning of clement weather,” said Asmidir with a wry smile. “Even in summer the wind can chill a man to the bone.”

  “It is a hard land,” agreed Ari, “and it breeds hard men. That is another advantage.”

  Another warrior entered and bowed. “There is a man to see you, lord,” he said. “He came out of the snow.”

  “Do we know him?” Asmidir asked.

  “I have not seen him before, lord. He is very old, and wears a cloak of feathers.”

  “Bring him in.”

  The warrior stepped aside and Taliesen entered. He did not pause or bow but strode straight to the table. Snow had gathered on his feathered cloak and his eyebrows and eyelids were tinged with ice.

  “She is gone,” he said. “The demons are coming—and she has gone!”

  The blizzard came suddenly, fierce winds slashing across the mountains, sending up flurries of ground snow to mix with biting sleet. Sigarni was on open ground with the temperature dropping fast. Shielding her eyes with a gloved hand, she looked for shelter. Nothing could be seen. To be caught outside was to die, she knew, for already the sleet was penetrating her leggings and soaking into the sheepskin coat she wore; her fur-lined hood was white with ice and her face was burning with pain.

  There was no panic in her, and in the distance she saw a huge fir tree, part buried in the snow. Striking out for it she waded through a thick drift, half climbing and half crawling until she reached the lee side of the tree. The branches of such a fir would spread in a radius of at least ten feet from the trunk, she knew, and that meant there was likely to be a natural cave below the buried branches. Lying on her belly, Sigarni began to dig with her hands and arms pushing aside the freezing snow, burrowing down beneath the boughs. Her pack snagged against a branch, and snow cascaded down on her. Digging deeper, she squeezed herself under the bough. Suddenly the snow beneath her gave way and she slid headfirst into the natural pocket below. The snow cave was around seven feet deep and eight feet across, the fir branches above forming the roof. Out of the biting wind, Sigarni shivered with pleasure. From the side pocket of her pack she took a small tinderbox and the stub of a thick candle. Striking the flint, she ignited the dried bark scrapings, gently blowing them to life, before holding the candle wick over the tiny flames. With the candle lit, she set it on the ground beside her and leaned back against the trunk of the fir.