Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  Kollarin was right. Evil was not an external force waiting to seize upon a wandering heart. It dwelled within the heart, a cocooned maggot waiting for the moment to break out and feed, gorging itself on the darker forces of the human soul. This was well understood by the founders of the clan, who instilled the stories and myths for youngsters to emulate. Heroes never oppressed or tormented the weak, never lied or stole or used their powers for selfish purposes. Heroes were always subject to such dark desires, but resisted them manfully. All such stories had but one purpose—to encourage the young to battle the demons inside.

  Even with his Talent fading, Gwalchmai knew what demons drove young Jaren. Other children whispered that Kellin was his brother . . . this meant that his father had been unfaithful to his mother, and had then betrayed another woman leaving her to bring up a son in shame. Jaren would not have his father slandered in such a way, and had turned his anger toward little Kellin, blaming him for the lies. His anger and his hatred were born of love for his father.

  Gwalchmai stood in the cold sunlight, waiting.

  It was not long before he saw the boy heading back with a stocky clansman beside him. For a moment he could not remember the man’s name, then it came to him—Kars. When Gwalchmai called out to him, the man let go of his son’s hand and strode toward the Dreamer. His square, beardless face was pale with anger.

  “You lied about me, Dreamer,” he said, his tone icy. “If you were a younger man I would slay you where you stand. The Outlander is different; he will die for the honor of my family.”

  “And will the blood wash away the shame?” asked Gwalchmai, holding to the man’s gaze.

  Kars stepped in close. “The woman was any man’s for a copper farthing. That was her work and her pleasure. Aye, I rutted with her. Find me a man who did not.”

  “That is inconsequential,” said Gwalchmai. “Good God, man, have you not looked at the boy? Every line of his face mirrors yours. Yet even that is beside the point. Why should the child carry the sins of his mother? What has he done, save to serve as a reminder of a night of casual coupling? And as for the Outlander, he spoke only the truth.”

  “He called me a piece of filth!” snarled Kars. “Is that the truth, old man?”

  “He did not call you anything, Kars. He was explaining to the children about how the Outlanders perceive us. Jaren became angry and took it all personally.”

  “Enough talk!” snapped the man, drawing his claymore and turning away.

  “What now, Kars?” asked Gwalchmai softly. “Will you walk into a children’s gathering and slaughter the man who leads them in games? Can you not hear the laughter? The joy? How long since the clan children knew such moments?”

  At that instant the doors opened and the children moved out into the light. Kars stood stock-still, his sword in his hand. The laughter of the young faded away, and they stood by silently as Kollarin stepped out and swung his green cloak around his slender shoulders. A small boy moved out to stand beside him. Kars looked at the child, then at his own son, Jaren. No one moved. Kars plunged his sword into the snow and stepped forward to drop on one knee before Kellin. The little boy did not flinch, but stared back at the warrior.

  Gwalchmai felt his heart beating erratically, his breathing shallow. For Kars to accept the boy as his own would mean a loss of honor to the proud clansman, causing grief to himself and shame to his family. To reject the evidence of his eyes would bring a different kind of shame, but one that was at least private.

  The warrior reached out and placed his hands on Kellin’s shoulders. “You are a fine lad,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “A fine lad. Should you wish it, you would be welcome at my fire, and at my home.”

  Gwalchmai could scarce believe he had heard the words. Switching his gaze to Jaren, who was standing near to his father, he saw that the boy looked close to tears. Kars glanced up and called to his son and Jaren ran to him. Kars stood, then offered his hand to Kellin. “Let us walk for a while,” he said. Kellin took his left hand, Jaren his right.

  Together they walked away toward the trees.

  Kollarin strolled across to where Gwalchmai stood. “A curious encounter,” observed the younger man.

  “There is still nobility within the clan,” said Gwalchmai proudly. “And I will die happy.”

  Kollarin’s face showed his sorrow. “You are going back to your cabin, to meet the soldiers who will kill you. Why? You know that if you stay here you will thwart them.”

  “Aye,” agreed Gwalchmai. “There are magical moments when a man can change the future. But not this time. I still have one small task to perform, one last gift for Sigarni.”

  “You will plant a seed,” said Kollarin sadly, “and you will die for it.”

  “Take care of my dogs, young man. I have grown to love them. And now I must go.” Suddenly Gwalchmai chuckled. “There are two jugs of honey mead liquor hidden in my loft back home. I can hear them calling to me!”

  Kollarin put out his hand. “You are a good man, Gwalchmai, and a brave one. I know you are concerned about Sigarni, and how she will fare without your guidance. I will be her Gifted One . . . and I will never betray her.”

  “There is one who will,” said the old man. “I do not know who.”

  “I will watch for him,” promised Kollarin.

  Leofric’s servant banked up the fire and brought in fresh candles which he lit and placed atop the dying stubs. The blond-haired young man did not acknowledge his presence, but remained poring over maps and calculations. Leofric was not a happy man. Much as he enjoyed the logistics of a campaign, he could not divorce himself from the feeling that it was all so unnecessary. The clans had been peaceful for years, and now the Baron was set to bring fire and death into their lands. And for what? A little glory and the chance to rise again in the King’s eyes. That and the speculation on land prices south of the border.

  It was all so meaningless.

  The servant placed a goblet of steaming tisane before him. Leofric lifted it and sipped the brew, which was sweet and spiced with liquor. “Thank you. Most thoughtful,” he said, looking up at the servant. The man disappeared from his mind instantly.

  The army would march in ten weeks. Each of the six thousand men would carry four days’ food supply with them. Leofric lifted a quill pen. One pound of oats, eight ounces of dried beef, half an ounce of salt. Seven pennies for each pack, multiplied by six thousand. He shook his head. The Baron would not be pleased at such an outlay.

  Sipping his tisane, he leaned back in his chair.

  By his reckoning this war would cost twelve thousand four hundred gold pieces in wages, food, and materials. But the Baron had budgeted for ten thousand.

  Where to make cuts? Salt was expensive, but soldiers would not march without it, and it was common knowledge that an absence of beef in the diet led to cowardly behavior. But halving the oats ration would mean less bulk food, and besides would save only . . . he scribbled down a calculation, then multiplied it. Three hundred and forty-two gold pieces.

  Then he brightened. You have not considered the dead, he thought. The Highlanders will fight, and that means a percentage of the army would not be requiring food or payment. But how many? On a normal campaign with the Baron the losses could be as high as thirty percent, but that would not be the situation here. Half that? A quarter? Say five percent: three hundred men. Once more he bent over his calculations.

  Almost there, he decided.

  The servant returned. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a man to see you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little before midnight, sir.”

  “An odd time to be calling. Who is it?”

  “I do not know him, sir. He is a stranger. He asked for you and said he had information you would find invaluable.”

  Leofric sighed; he was tired. “Very well, show him in. Give us no more than ten minutes, then interrupt me on a matter of importance—you understand?”

  “Of
course, sir.” The man bowed and departed.

  Leofric rubbed his eyes and yawned. Midnight. Dear God, I have been working on these papers for seven hours! Hastily he gathered them together, pushing them into a drawer. The servant returned, ushering in a middle-aged man with a round fleshy face and glittering eyes.

  “I trust you will forgive this intrusion,” said the new-comer. “But the news I have could not wait for the morning.”

  “And why is that, pray?” countered Leofric, gesturing the man to a seat.

  “You were working on the invasion plans,” said the other with a smile. “My information will force substantial changes.”

  “How do you know what I was working on?”

  “Let us come back to that, Leofric,” said the man with a wide smile. “For now, let me tell you that two of your three forts have fallen to the clansmen, and all the supplies they contain are now being consumed by your enemies.”

  Leofric’s weariness vanished immediately. “That’s not possible! I supervised the structures myself. They were impregnable!”

  “Not from deceit, it appears.”

  Leofric sat down. “Deceit?”

  “The woman Sigarni sent the traitor, Obrin, and a hundred men posing as a relief force. Both forts surrendered without a fight.”

  “How . . . ? Who are you?”

  “I think you can fairly assume that I am a friend, Lord Leofric. I also have information concerning Sigarni and her plans. She is gathering an army, you know.”

  “Under whose leadership?”

  “Her own, of course. She is of the blood royal, and she masterminded the defeat of your forces at Cilfallen. Fine credentials, don’t you think?”

  “How many men does she command now?”

  “Close to two thousand. The Farlain are with her, and the Pallides will soon follow. Unless she is stopped, that is.”

  “We cannot get through until the thaw. All the northern passes are blocked.”

  “You cannot get through but I can. I have already, in a manner of speaking.”

  The servant entered. “My lord, I think you should . . .”

  “Yes, yes, no need for that now. Bring me another tisane, and one for our guest.”

  The man nodded and bowed as Leofric returned his attention to his guest. “I think it is time you declared your interest in this matter,” he said.

  “Of course. I am hunting the witch, Sigarni. My reasons are of no concern to you, but it is important to me that I find her. Surrounded as she is now by loyal clansmen, it might be . . . difficult for me to reach her. You can help me in my quest—as I can help you in yours.”

  “You’re a magicker?”

  The man laughed. “Nothing so dainty, my lord. I am a sorcerer. Some time ago I was paid to . . . remove the problem Sigarni posed. I failed. Three times. I say this without shame, for my opponents were mighty indeed. Happily, they now believe me to be dead, which leaves me free to enjoy the success I have waited for.”

  “Why would they think you dead?”

  “A man was torn to pieces by demons. I made sure he resembled me in every way. You wish to hear more?”

  Leofric shook his head. “Absolutely not. What is it you require of me, in return for your information?”

  “I find that I am short of funds in Citadel town. I am far from my own bankers, and would be grateful for a gratuity that would enable me to rent a house in Citadel. There is much I must do to prepare for my next attempt. Men and materials, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course. Where are you staying at present?”

  “A hostelry nearby, the Blue Duck tavern.”

  “I will have one of my servants bring you money tomorrow morning. I would also appreciate any further information you can supply concerning the plans of the rebels.”

  The man rubbed his fleshy chin. “I will consider that,” he said. “It is a delicate business. You see, I don’t want you to capture or kill Sigarni. That delight is for me. I’ll think on it, and let you know my decision.”

  “The Baron will almost certainly want to see you.”

  “I don’t believe so, Lord Leofric. Tell him you have a spy who brought you this information. That, after all, is the truth. Do not mention me to him. It would displease me.”

  “Who shall my servant ask for tomorrow?” Leofric inquired.

  “Oh, I am sorry, I did not introduce myself. My name is Jakuta Khan.”

  Ballistar’s hatred for winter was deep and perfect, for it was the one season designed to highlight his deformity. His short, stumpy legs could not cope with deep snow and he felt a prisoner in Asmidir’s house. Ballistar longed to be with Sigarni again, planning for the spring and the coming war.

  “You would be useless now,” he said aloud as he perched on the battlements staring out over the winter landscape. “Useless.”

  Scrambling to his feet, he stood. Yet today there was no enjoyment in being so high. It served only to emphasize how tiny he was. Snow began to fall as Ballistar dropped to his belly and lowered himself to the parapet.

  Back inside his upper room, he stoked the fire and sat down on the rug staring into the flames. The chairs were all too tall, and Ari had brought a wooden box to the room so that Ballistar could climb into bed. Why was I born like this? he wondered. What sin could a child be guilty of that a vengeful God would condemn him to a life such as this.

  No one understood his torment. How could they? Even Sigarni had once said, “Perhaps one day you will meet a beautiful dwarf woman and be happy.”

  I don’t want a dwarf woman, he thought. Just because I am deformed, it does not mean I will find deformity attractive in others.

  I want you, Sigarni. I want you to love me, to see me as a man.

  It won’t happen. He remembered the taunts that marked his childhood and adolescence. Bakris Tooth-gone had once caused great merriment with a joke about Ballistar and his inability to find love. “How could he make love to a woman?” Bakris had said. “If they were nose to nose, he’d have his toes in it, toes to toes he’d have his nose in it, and if he ever got there he’d have no one to talk to.”

  Oh, yes, great roars of laughter had greeted the jest. Even Ballistar had chuckled. What other choice was there?

  Ballistar left his room and wandered downstairs and out into the stable yard. The little white pony was in her stall and the dwarf climbed to the rail by her head and stroked her neck. The pony swung her head and nuzzled him. “Do you worry about being a dwarf horse?” he said. “Do you look at the tall mares with envy?” The pony returned to munching the straw in her feed box. It was cold in the stable and Ballistar saw that the pony’s blanket had slipped from her back. Climbing to the floor he retrieved it, and tried to flip it back into place. It was a large blanket, and as he tried to throw it high, it fell back over Ballistar’s head. Three times he tried. On the last it was almost in place, but the pony moved to its right and the blanket fell to the left.

  It was the final humiliation for Ballistar. Tears welled in his dark eyes, and he thought again of the high parapet. On the north side, at the base of the wall, there were sharp rocks. If I were to throw myself from the battlements I would die, he thought. No more pain, no more humiliation . . .

  Ballistar returned to the house and began to climb the stairs.

  The servant-warrior, Ari, moved out of the library and saw him. “Good morning, Ballistar.”

  “Good morning,” mumbled the dwarf, continuing his climb.

  “I was wondering if you could assist me.”

  Ballistar hesitated, and glanced down through the stair rails at the tall black man.

  “Not today,” he said.

  “It is important,” said Ari softly. “I am studying the maps of the Duane Pass, for that is where we believe the first battle will be fought. Do you know it?”

  “I know it.”

  “Good, then you will be of great assistance.” Ari turned away and reentered the library. Ballistar stood for a moment, then slowly climbed down the
stairs and followed the man. Ari was sitting on the floor with maps all around him. A coal fire was burning in the hearth.

  Ballistar slumped down beside the man. “What do you need?” he asked.

  “These woods here,” said Ari, pointing to a green section, “are they thick and dense, or light and open?”

  “Reasonably light. Firs, mostly. You thought to hide men there?”

  “It was a possibility.”

  Ballistar shook his head. “Not possible. But there is a gully just beyond the woods where a force could be concealed. There!” he said, stabbing his index finger on the map. “Now I will leave you.”

  “Ah, but we have just begun,” said Ari with a smile. “Look at this.” He passed Ballistar a sketch and the dwarf took it. Upon it was an outline of Duane Pass and a series of rectangles, some blacked in, others in various colors.

  “What are these?”

  “The classic Outland battle formation—infantry at the center, the heavy black blocks. Two divisions. The blue represents the cavalry, the yellow archers and slingers. The cavalry also may be in two divisions, lightly armored and heavily armored. But this we do not yet know. Where would you place our forces?”

  “I’m not a soldier!” snapped Ballistar.

  “Indeed not, but you are a bright, intelligent man. Skills can be learned. Let me give you an example: Where would cavalry be of limited use?”

  “In a forest,” answered Ballistar, “where the trees and undergrowth would restrict a mounted man.”

  “And what slows down infantry?”

  “Hills, mountains, rivers. Forests again.”

  “There, you see?” Ari told him. “Having established that, then we look for ways to ensure that battles are fought where we desire them—in forests, on hills. So, where in Duane would you position our forces?”

  Ballistar gazed at the map. “There is only one good defensive point. There is a flat-topped hill at the northern end of the pass—but it would be surrounded swiftly.”

  “Yes,” said Ari, “it would. How many people could gather there?”

  “I don’t know. A thousand?”