Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  She was cold, and she stared lovingly at the flickering candle flame. The heat from it would gather in the snow cave— not enough to melt the snow overhead but more than ample to prevent death from cold. Above her she could hear the ferocity of the blizzard raking across the mountains, talons of icy sleet ripping at the land.

  Here I am safe, she thought. She closed her eyes. Safe? Only from the blizzard.

  She had seen the fear in Fell’s eyes as he promised to stand beside her against the wizard and his demons, but more than this she had remembered the awful events of her childhood . . .

  They had been enjoying a supper by the fire—when all the lanterns went out, as if struck by a fierce wind. Only there was no wind—only a terrible cold that swept across the room, drowning the heat of the fire under an invisible wave. Mother had not screamed, or shown any sign of panic, though the fear was there on her careworn features. She had leaped to the far wall, dragging down a saber and tossing it to Father who stood silently in the center of the room staring at the door. He looked so strong then, with his full red beard glistening in the cold firelight.

  “Get under the table, girl,” he told the six-year-old Sigarni. But she had scrambled to be beside her mother, who had drawn two hunting knives from their sheaths. Sigarni tugged her mother’s skirt.

  “I want a knife,” she said. Her mother forced a smile and looked at her father. Little Sigarni didn’t understand the look then, but now viewing it from the distance between adult-hood and infancy, she knew they were proud of her.

  The door exploded inward and a tall man stood there, dressed in crimson. Sigarni remembered his face; it was long and lantern-jawed, the eyes deep-set and small, the mouth full-lipped. He was carrying no weapon.

  “Ah,” he said, “everyone ready to die, I see. Let it be so!” In that moment a huge tear appeared in her mother’s side, blood gushing from the wound. Father leaped forward, but staggered and shouted in pain as blood welled from talon marks on his neck. Something brushed Sigarni’s dress and she saw the tear across her shoulder.

  Father swung his claymore. It struck something invisible, black blood appearing in the air. Screaming his battle cry, he swung on his heel and sent the sword out in a second whistling arc. It thudded into another unseen assailant—and stuck there. Blood gushed from Father’s mouth and Sigarni saw his chest rip open, his heart explode from the cavity and fly across the room into the outstretched hands of the man in red. Sigarni’s mother hurled one of her knives at the man, but it flew by him. Turning, she leaped for the window, pushing it open, then swung back into the room and sprang toward Sigarni, grabbing her by her dress and lifting her from her feet. Spinning, she hurled the terrified child through the window.

  Sigarni hit hard and rolled, then came upright and looked back at the cabin. Her mother shouted: “Run!”

  Then her head toppled slowly from her shoulders . . .

  And Sigarni had run, slipping and sliding down muddy slopes, panic-stricken and lost, until at last she came to the pool by the Falls . . .

  Jerking her mind back to the present, she peeled off her gloves and extended her hands to the candle flame. Fell would be angry that she had left him behind, but he could not fight the demons. The forester would fare no better than her parents. No. If she had to die it would be alone.

  No, she decided, not alone. I will find a way to kill some of them at least.

  She sat for more than an hour, listening to the storm. Finally it swept by and the silence of the night fell on the mountains. Lifting the candle she blew it out, returning it to her pocket. Then slowly she climbed from the ice cave, and continued on her way to the pool by the Falls.

  The journey was not an easy one. Many natural landmarks were hidden under drifts, the very shape of the land subtly altered by wind-sculpted snow. Above her the clouds cleared, the stars shining bright. The temperature plummeted. Sigarni pushed on, careful to move with the minimum of effort, anxious not to waste energy or to become too hot within her winter clothing. Sweat could be deadly, for it formed a sheet of freezing ice on the skin.

  It was close to midnight when Sigarni struggled over the last rise. Below her the Falls were silent, frozen in midfall, and the pool was a field of snow over thick ice. Sigarni clambered down to the cave where Taliesen had nursed her. There was still some firewood stacked against the far wall. Releasing her pack, she built a blaze. The skin of her face prickled painfully as the heat touched her, and her fingers were thick and clumsy as she added fuel to the fire.

  Removing her topcoat, she opened the pack and lifted clear the contents, setting them out in neat rows.

  When to begin? Tomorrow? Tonight? Fear made her consider tackling the tasks now—immediately, but she was a Highlander and well understood the perils of fatigue in blizzard conditions.

  No. Tonight she would rest, gathering her strength. Tomorrow the work could begin.

  Ballistar awoke when he heard one of the warriors walk along the corridor outside and knock quietly at Kollarin’s door. The dwarf sat up. He could hear voices, but the words were muffled by the wall. Curious, he scrambled from the bed and ambled to the door. Outside, the former servant, Ari, was talking to Kollarin. The Outlander was bare-chested, his dark hair hanging loose. “The lord needs you—now,” said Ari.

  “In the middle of the night?” queried Kollarin. “Can it not wait?”

  “Now,” repeated Ari. “It is a matter of great urgency.”

  “Does he want me also?” asked Ballistar.

  Ari glanced down at the dwarf. “He did not say so—but I think your counsel would be most welcome. He will meet you in the Long Hall.”

  Minutes later, as Ballistar and Kollarin entered the hall, they saw Taliesen and the black man sitting by the fire. Ballistar cursed under his breath. He tugged the hem of Kollarin’s green tunic. “Sorcerer,” he whispered. As the two men approached the fire, Asmidir beckoned them to sit.

  “Sigarni has left the encampment,” he said. “It is imperative that we find her swiftly.”

  “Why would she go?” asked Ballistar. Asmidir switched his gaze to Taliesen and the old man took a deep breath.

  “How much do you know of her childhood?” he asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Then you will recall how her . . . parents were killed.”

  Ballistar felt his heartbeat quicken, and his mouth was suddenly dry. “They were killed by . . . by demons.”

  “By demons, yes. Summoned by an enchanter who calls himself Jakuta Khan. There is much that I cannot tell you, but you should know this: Jakuta has returned. Twice already he has tried to capture Sigarni. Once as a babe. I thwarted him then, with the help of Caswallon. Then he found where we had hidden her and came again, killing her guardians. I thought he was finished then, but somehow he survived. We must find her.”

  “Why does he want to kill her? Is he hired by the Baron?” asked Kollarin.

  “No. This goes back a very long way. As I said, I cannot tell you everything. But the heart of the matter is Sigarni’s blood, or more accurately her bloodline. She is of the Blood of Kings. Those who understand the mystic arts will know why that is important to Jakuta.”

  Kollarin nodded. Ballistar looked from one to the other. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Why?”

  “Power,” Kollarin told him. “It is believed that the soul of a king carries great power. To sacrifice such a man would bestow enormous power on the one who carried out the deed. It is said that the Demon Lord, Salaimun, conquered the world after killing three kings. I don’t know whether there be truth in such tales.”

  “Some truth,” said Taliesen. “Salaimun made pacts with the Lords of the Pits. He fed them blood and souls in return for power. Jakuta made a similar pact. But he has failed— twice.”

  “As far as I understand it,” said Asmidir, “if you fail then your own soul is consumed. Is that not one of the dangers of necromancy?”

  “It should be,” agreed Taliesen. “I can only surmise that
Jakuta used a familiar through which to cast his spells of summoning.”

  “A familiar?” echoed Ballistar.

  “A conduit,” Kollarin told him. “The sorcerer uses an apprentice, who is placed in a trance. The spell is then spoken through the apprentice. If it fails, the demons take the soul of the conduit . . . the familiar.”

  “Enough of this!” stormed Taliesen. “We are not here to educate the dwarf! Can you find her, Kollarin?”

  Kollarin shook his head. “Not from here. I must go to where she last slept, then I will pick up her spirit trail.”

  “It will take three days in the snow,” said Asmidir. The black man swung to the sorcerer. “However, it did not take you three days, Taliesen. Do you know another path?”

  “Aye, but none of you could walk it,” he said despondently.

  “Why do you need to be in the hut, Kollarin?” asked Ballistar. “Could you not merely track her by using a piece of her clothing?”

  “I am not a bloodhound, you idiot! I don’t follow the trail with my snout to the snow!”

  “Then how do you hone your Talent?” asked Asmidir.

  “It is hard to explain. But for me a person leaves an essence of themselves in any building. It fades over a period of weeks, but once I hook to it I can follow it anywhere.”

  “And where is such an . . . essence . . . most strongly felt?”

  “In a bed, or a favorite chair. Sometimes attached to a family member, or a close friend.”

  “By going to the hut, could you gain a sense of her ultimate destination?”

  “No,” admitted Kollarin. “I would follow the trail.”

  “Damn!” said Asmidir. “It brings us no closer. What of you, Taliesen? You are a sorcerer. You claim to be able to see the future. How then do you not know her whereabouts?”

  “Pah!” said the old man. “You think in straight lines. You talk of a future. There are thousands upon thousands. New futures begin with every heartbeat. Aye, in all of them Sigarni is the Chosen One. In some of them she even succeeds for a while. In most of them she dies, young and unfulfilled. I am seeking the one future among so many. I do not know where she is; I don’t know why she has run away. Perhaps in this future she lacks courage.”

  “Nonsense,” said Ballistar, reddening. “She would not flee. If she knew the demons were coming she would try to think of a way of fighting them. I know her—better than any of you. She has gone to choose her ground.”

  “Where would that be?” asked Asmidir. “That is the question. And why did she not come to us to aid her?”

  “Her father was a great fighter,” said Ballistar, “but he was torn to pieces. She would not take her friends into such peril. Who among us could fight demons?”

  “I could, but I wasn’t here,” said Taliesen. “My people are fighting a war in another time. They needed me.”

  “There was no one she could turn to,” said the dwarf. “Therefore she will fight alone.”

  “Wait!” said Taliesen, his eyes brightening. “There is one she would turn to. I know where she is!”

  “Where?” Asmidir asked.

  “The cave by the pool. She has an ally there. I must go!” Taliesen rose.

  Ballistar lifted his hand. “A moment, please,” said the dwarf. “Do you know what Sigarni took with her when she left?”

  “Knives, balls of twine, some food, a bow, arrows. What does it matter?” asked the sorcerer.

  “It matters more than you think,” said Ballistar. “You had better let me come with you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sigarni put out her hand to the fire. The warmth was both welcoming and reassuring. When the demons had killed her parents all heat had vanished from the blaze in the hearth. This, she reasoned, would be her only warning that death was close. She stared at her hands. There were blisters on her palms and on the inside joints of her fingers; one had bled profusely and they were painful.

  It was the eve of her second day by the frozen Falls and she had worked hard through the hours of daylight. Fear was a constant companion, but somehow that fear was eased merely by being alone. Sigarni the Huntress had no other concerns now save to stay alive. To do that she must somehow defeat a wizard and his demons.

  They can be killed, she thought. Father struck one of them and black blood flowed from it. And that which bleeds can die. Banking up the fire, she drew her saber and honed the edge with a whetstone. Outside the light was failing fast. Sigarni hooked her quiver of arrows over her shoulder and kept the bow close at hand.

  Will it be like last time? she wondered. Will the man in red come first? And if he does, how many creatures of the dark will be with him? How many had been back at the cabin on that awful day? One? Two? More? How could she tell? Father had been struck first. Perhaps it was the same creature that slew her mother.

  Sigarni had made plans for three.

  The wind was building outside, and flurries of snow were blowing into the cave mouth. A distant wolf howled. The fire crackled and spat and Sigarni knocked a burning cinder from her leggings. Feeling drowsy, she took up her bow and walked to the mouth of the cave, drawing a deep, cold breath. How long since you slept? Too long, she realized. If they did not come tonight, she would catch a few hours after dawn.

  Perhaps they won’t find me here, she thought suddenly. Perhaps I am safe.

  The moon shone in a cloudless sky, but the wind continued to blow flurries of snow across the frozen pool, rising like a white mist and sparkling in the moonlight. The air was cold against her face, but she could just feel the warmth of the fire behind her.

  Alone in the wilderness of white Sigarni found herself thinking of her life, and the great joys she had known. It saddened her that she had not appreciated those joys when she had them; those glorious golden days with Abby and Lady, walking the high country without a care. Recalling them was a strange experience, as if she was looking through a window onto the life of a twin. And she wondered about the white-haired girl she could remember. How could she have lived in such a carefree manner?

  Her thoughts roved on, and Bernt’s sweet face appeared from nowhere. Sigarni felt a swelling in her throat and her eyes misted. He had loved her. Truly loved her. How callous she had been. Is this all a punishment for my treatment of you, Bernt? Is God angry with me? There was no way of knowing. If it is, I will bear it.

  A white owl swooped over the trees—silent killer, silent flight. Sigarni remembered the first time she had seen such a creature. After the murder of her parents she had lived with old Gwalchmai. He had walked her through the woods on many a night, educating her to the habits of the nocturnal creatures of the forest. The old drunkard had proved a fine foster father, restricting his drinking to when Sigarni was asleep.

  Sigarni sighed. Only a few short months ago she had been a willful and selfish woman, reveling in her freedom. Now she was the leader of a fledgling army with little hope of survival.

  Survival? She shivered. Will you survive the night?

  Weariness sat upon her like a boulder, but the bow felt good in her hands. I am not a child now, she thought, running from peril. I am Sigarni the Huntress, and those who come for me do so at the risk of their lives.

  Moving back into the cave, she added two large chunks of deadwood to the fire, then returned to the entrance.

  Doubts blossomed constantly. Your father was a great fighter, but he lasted only a few heartbeats.

  “He did not know they were coming,” she said aloud. “He was not prepared.”

  How can you prepare against demons of the dark?

  “They have flesh, even if they cannot be seen. Flesh can be cut.”

  Fear rose like a fire in her belly, and she allowed the flames to flicker. Fear is life, fear is caution, she told herself.

  You are a woman alone!

  “I am a Highlander and a hunter. I am of the blood of heroes, and they will not bring me to despair and panic. They will not!”

  A silver fox moved out into the open and
padded across to the poolside. “Hola!” shouted Sigarni. The noise startled the beast and it leaped out onto the ice and ran across the pool. As it reached the center it swerved to the left, then raced to the other side. Sigarni’s eyes narrowed. Why had it swerved? What did it see? Whatever it was remained invisible within the snow mist. Sigarni ran back to the fire; it was still warm. Notching an arrow to her short hunting bow, she returned to the cave mouth and waited.

  Long minutes passed. Then he appeared, walking with care upon the ice. He was not as tall as she remembered, but then she had only looked upon him with the eyes of a child. Shorter than Fell, he was a stocky man, his belly straining at the red leather coat he wore. His hair was black, close-cropped, silver at the temples, his face fleshy and round. His leggings and boots were red, as was the ankle-length cloak he wore.

  Sigarni drew back the bowstring, took careful aim, and waited as he approached. The man saw her, and continued to move closer. Forty feet, thirty. He looked up and smiled. Sigarni let fly and the arrow flashed through the air. He raised his hand and the shaft burst into flame. She notched another.

  “Don’t waste your energy, child,” he said, his voice surprisingly light and pleasant. “This is the day you die—and move on to worlds undreamed of. Great adventures await you. Accept your destiny with joy!”