Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “I would think two thousand,” said Ari. “Which is our entire force.”

  “What would be the point of such an action?” asked Ballistar. “Once surrounded there would be no way to retreat, and even the advantage of occupying a hill would be overcome by an Outland army numbering more than five thousand men.”

  “Yet it remains the only true defensive position,” insisted Ari. “Once the Outlanders are through Duane Pass, they can spread out and attack isolated hamlets and villages. Nothing could stop them.”

  “I don’t know the answer,” Ballistar admitted.

  “Nor I, but we will speak of it again. Tonight at dinner.” He looked directly into Ballistar’s eyes. “Or did you have other plans?”

  Ballistar took a deep breath. “No, no other plans.”

  “That is good. I will see you later.”

  “You really believe I can be of help in this?” asked Ballistar, struggling to his feet.

  “Of course. Take the sketches with you, and think about them.”

  Ballistar smiled. “I will, Ari. Thank you.”

  The black man shrugged and returned to his studies.

  Chapter Eleven

  “By God, she’s some woman,” said Obrin, peeling off his jerkin and sitting by the fire. “They fell just like she said they would. Like skittles! I could scarce believe it, Fell. When I rode up to that Farlain fort my heart was in my mouth. The officer just ordered the gates opened, listened to my report, then turned over command to me and rode out. What a moment! I even told him the best route through the snow, and he rode his men into Grame’s trap.”

  “Grame lost no men in that first encounter, yet more than twenty when the Pallides detachment was ambushed,” said Fell.

  “That’s nothing compared with the two hundred we slew in those engagements,” pointed out Obrin. “But it’s a damn shame the men from the Loda fort escaped. I still don’t know what went wrong there.”

  “They simply got lost,” said Fell, “and missed the trap. No one’s fault.”

  Obrin reached for a pottery jug and pulled the cork. “The Baron’s wine,” he said with a dry chuckle. “There were six jugs in each fort. It’s a good vintage—try some.”

  Fell shook his head. “I think I’ll take a walk,” he said.

  “What’s wrong, Fell?”

  “Nothing. I just need to walk.”

  Obrin replaced the cork and looked hard at the handsome forester. “I’m not the most intuitive of men, Fell. But I’ve been a sergeant for twelve years and I know when something is eating at a man. What is it? Fear? Apprehension?”

  Fell smiled wearily. “Is it so obvious then?”

  “It is to me, but your men must not see it. That is one of the secrets of leadership, Fell. Your confidence becomes their confidence. They feed off you, like wolf cubs suckling at the mother’s teats. If you despair, they despair.”

  Fell chuckled. “I’ve never been compared with a mother wolf before. Pass the jug!” He took several long swallows. “You’re right,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “The wine is good. But I don’t fear the Outlanders, Obrin. I am not afraid to die for my people. What gnaws at me is more personal. I shall make sure that my feelings do not show as strongly in the future.”

  “Sigarni,” said Obrin, lifting the jug.

  “How would you know that?” asked Fell, surprised.

  Obrin grinned. “I listen, Fell. That’s another secret of leadership. You were lovers, but now you are not. Don’t let it concern you. You’re a good-looking lad and there are plenty of women who’d love to warm your bed.”

  Fell shook his head. “That’s not the whole reason for my sadness. You didn’t know her when she was just the huntress. God, man, she was a wonder! Strong and fearless, but more than that she had a love for life and a laugh that was magical. She could make a cold day of drizzle and grey sky suddenly seem beautiful. She was a woman. What is she now? Have you ever seen her laugh? Or even smile at a jest? Sweet Heaven, she’s become a creature of ice, a winter queen.” Fell drank again, long and deeply.

  “There’s not been a great deal to laugh about,” observed Obrin, “but I hear what you say. I once owned a crystal sphere. There was a rose set inside, as if trapped in ice. I’ve always loved roses, and this was one of the most beautiful blooms, rich and velvet red. It would live forever. Yet it had no scent, and would not seed.”

  “That is it,” said Fell. “Exactly that! Like the Crown of Alwen—all men can see it, none can touch it.”

  Obrin smiled. “I’ve often heard Highlanders talk of the lost Crown. Is it a myth?”

  Fell shook his head. “I saw it when I was ten. It appears once every twenty-five years, at the center of the pool at Ironhand’s Falls. It’s beautiful, man. It is more a helmet than a crown, and the silver shines like captured moonlight. There are silver wings, flat against the helm like those of a hawk when it dives, and a golden band around the brow inscribed with ancient runes. It has a nasal guard—like an Outland helm—and this is also silver, as are the cheek guards. I was there with my father. It was the winter before he went down with the plague, my last winter with him. He took me to the Falls and we stood there with the gathered clans. I could not see at first, and he lifted me to his shoulders. A man cursed behind us, but then the Crown appeared. It shimmered for maybe ten, twelve heartbeats. Then it was gone. Man, what a night!”

  “Sounds like a conjuring trick to me,” said Obrin. “I’ve seen magickers make birds of gold that fly high into the air and explode in showers of colored sparks.”

  “It was no trick,” said Fell without a hint of anger. “Alwen was Ironhand’s uncle. He had no children, and he hated Ironhand. When he was dying he ordered one of his wizards to hide the Crown where Ironhand would never find it, thus condemning his nephew to a reign fraught with civil war and insurrection. Without it, Ironhand was a king with no credentials. You understand?”

  “It makes no sense to me,” said Obrin. “He had right of blood. Why did he need a piece of metal?”

  “The Crown had magical properties. Only a true king could wear it. It was not made by Alwen’s order, it was far older. Once, when a usurper killed the King and placed the Crown on his head, his skin turned black and fire erupted from his eyes. He melted away like snow in the sunshine.”

  “Hmmm,” muttered Obrin, unconvinced. “ ’Tis a pretty tale. My tribe has many such, the Spear of Goldark, the Sword of Kal-thyn. Maybe one day I’ll see this Crown. But you were talking of Sigarni. If you loved her, and she you, why did it end?”

  “I was a fool. I wanted sons, Obrin. It’s important in the Highlands. I had a need to watch my boys grow, to teach them of forestry and hunting, to instill in them a love of the land. Sigarni is barren—like your rose in crystal. I walked away from her. But not an hour has passed since then that her face does not shine in my memories. Even when I lay with my wife, Gwen, all I could see was Sigarni. It was the worst mistake of my life.” Fell drained the last of the wine and lay back on the floor of the hut. “I’d just like to see her laugh once more . . . to be the way she was.” He closed his eyes.

  Obrin sat quietly as Fell’s breathing deepened.

  You’re wrong, Fell, he thought. I know what war is, and I know the pain and terror that is coming. Given a choice I’d keep Sigarni the way she is, the Ice Queen, the coldhearted warrior woman whose strategies have already seen three enemy forts overcome, and several tons of supplies brought into the encampments.

  Obrin pulled on his jerkin and stepped out into the night.

  Sigarni was tired. The morning had been a long one, discussing supplies with Tovi, organizing patrols with Grame and Fell, then poring over the battle plans drawn up by Asmidir and Ari, listening to Obrin’s tales of woe concerning training.

  “We’ve not the time to train them properly,” said the stocky Outlander. “I’ve got them responding to the hunting horn for attack and retreat and re-form. But that is it! Your army will be like a spear, Siga
rni. One throw is all you get.”

  She felt as if her mind could take not one more ounce of pressure, and had walked with Lady to a hilltop to look upon the ageless beauty of High Druin, hoping to steal a fragment of its eternal peace.

  Two of Asmidir’s Al-jiin walked twenty paces behind her, never speaking but always present. At first their ceaseless vigilance had been a source of irritation, but now she found their silent presence reassuring. A stand of trees grew across the hilltop, and these gave some shelter from the wind as Sigarni stared out over the winter landscape at the brooding magnificence of High Druin, its sharp peaks spearing the clouds. Down on the slopes leading to the valley she could see Loda children tobogganing, and hear the squeals of their laughter. The sounds were shrill, and echoed in the mountains.

  Will they still be laughing in a few weeks? she wondered. Taliesen had disappeared again, gone to whatever secret place wizards inhabit, and his last words to her echoed constantly in her memory: “The Pallides will ask for a sign.”

  “They already have,” she had told him.

  “No, no, listen to me! They will ask for something specific. When they do, agree to it. Don’t hesitate. I will be back when I have prepared the way. Will you trust me?”

  “You have given me no reason to distrust you. But what if they ask me to supply the moon on a silver salver?”

  “Say that you will,” he said with a dry laugh. He threw his tattered cloak of feathers around his scrawny frame, and his smile faded. “They will not ask that, but it will seem as difficult. Remember my words, Sigarni. I will be back before the first snowdrops of spring. We will meet by Ironhand’s Falls in twelve days.”

  Lady brushed against her leg and whined. Sigarni knelt and stroked her long ears. “I have neglected you, my lovely,” she said. “I am sorry.” Lady’s long nose pushed against Sigarni’s cheek and she felt the hound’s warm tongue on her face. “You are so forgiving.” She patted Lady’s dark flank.

  “She wishes solitude,” she heard one of her guards say. Sigarni turned to see a tall, dark-haired woman standing with the two men.

  “Let her through,” she called. The woman gave the black men a wide berth and walked up the hillside. She was thin of face, with a prominent nose, but her large brown eyes gave her face a semblance of beauty. “You wish to speak with me?” said Sigarni.

  “I do. I am Layelia, the wife of Torgan.”

  “There is no place for him among my officers,” said Sigarni sternly. “He is a fool.”

  “That is a trait shared by most men I have met,” said Layelia. “But then war is a foolish game.”

  “Have you come to plead for him?”

  “No. He will regain his honor—or he will not. That is for him. I came to speak with you. I have questions.”

  Sigarni removed her cloak and spread it over the snow. “Come, sit with me. Why not more questions? That is my life now. Endless questions, each with a hundred answers.”

  “You look tired,” said Layelia. “You should rest more.”

  “I will when there is time. Now ask your questions.”

  The dark-haired woman was silent for a moment, staring deeply into Sigarni’s pale blue eyes. “What if we win?” she asked, at last.

  Sigarni laughed. “If we lose we die. That is all I know. My God, I certainly have no time to think of the aftermath of a victory that is by no means certain.”

  “I think you should,” said Layelia softly. “If you don’t, then you are just like a man, never seeing beyond the end of your nose.”

  Sigarni sighed. “You are correct, I am tired. So let us assume the hare is bagged, and move on to the cooking. What do you want?”

  Layelia chuckled. “I have heard a lot about you, Sigarni. You have lived a life many women—myself included— would envy. But I don’t envy you now, trying to adjust to a world of men. I ask about victory for a simple, selfish reason. I have children, and I want those children to grow in the Highland way, with their father beside them, learning about cattle and crops, family, clan and honor. The Outlanders threaten our way of life—not just by their invasion, but by our resistance. Tell me this, if you beat the Baron, what then? Is it over?”

  “No,” admitted Sigarni. “They will send another army.”

  “And how will you combat them?”

  “In whatever way I can,” said Sigarni guardedly.

  “You will be forced to attack the Lowland cities, sack their treasuries, and hire mercenaries.”

  Sigarni smiled grimly. “Perhaps.”

  “And if you defeat the next army, will that end the war?”

  “I don’t know,” snapped Sigarni, “but I doubt it. Where is this leading?”

  “It seems to me,” said Layelia sadly, “that win or lose our way of life is finished. The war will go on and on. The more you win, the farther away you will take our men—perhaps all the way to the Outland capital. What then, when the outlying armies of their empire gather? Will you be fighting in Kushir in ten years?”

  “If I am, it will not be from choice,” Sigarni told her. “I hear you, Layelia, and I understand what you are saying. If there is a way I can avoid what you fear, then I will. You have my word on that.”

  The dark-haired woman smiled, and laid her hand on Sigarni’s arm. “I believe you. You know, I have always thought the world would be a better place with women as leaders. We wouldn’t fight stupid wars over worthless pieces of land; we would talk to one another, and reach compromises that would suit both factions. I know that you have to be a war leader, Sigarni, but I ask that you be a woman leader, and not just a pretend man in armor.”

  “You are very forthright, Layelia. A shame you were not so forthright with Torgan.”

  “I did my best,” said the other with a wry smile, “but he was not gifted with a good brain. He is, however, a fine partner in bed, so I will not complain too much.”

  Sigarni’s laughter rang out. “I’m glad he is good at something.”

  “He is also a good father,” said Layelia. “The children adore him, and he plays with them constantly.”

  “I am sorry,” said Sigarni. “I have obviously not seen the best of him. Have you been married long?”

  “Fourteen years come summer.” She smiled. “He hasn’t changed much in those years, save to lose some of his hair. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it, the sun gleaming on High Druin?”

  “Yes,” Sigarni agreed.

  Layelia rose. “I have taken too much of your time. I will leave you to your thoughts.”

  Sigarni stood. “Thank you, Layelia. I feel refreshed, though I don’t know why.”

  “You’ve spent too long in the company of men,” said Layelia. “Perhaps we should talk again?”

  “I would enjoy that.”

  Layelia stepped forward and embraced the silver-haired warrior woman, kissing her on both cheeks. Sigarni felt hot tears spill to her face. Abruptly she pulled clear and turned back toward High Druin.

  “You shouldn’t have brought me,” grumbled Ballistar. “I’m slowing you down.”

  “That’s true,” grunted Sigarni as they faced yet another deep snowdrift. “But you’re such good company!”

  Ballistar shifted on her shoulders. “Put me down and we’ll see if we can crawl along the top of it. There should be solid ground about thirty feet ahead. Then it is just one more hill to the Falls.”

  Sigarni swiveled and tipped the little man from her shoulders. He fell headfirst into the drift, and came up spluttering and spitting snow. “You are heavy for a small man,” she said, laughing.

  “And you have the boniest shoulders I ever sat upon,” he told her, brushing snow from his beard. Turning to his stomach, Ballistar began to squirm across the snow. Sigarni followed him, using her arms to force a path. After an hour of effort they reached solid ground and sat for a while, gathering their strength. “I’m freezing to death,” muttered Ballistar. “I hope you left enough firewood in the cave. I’m in no mood to go gathering.”

  �
��Enough for a couple of hours,” she reassured him.

  The Falls were still frozen at the center, but at the sides water had begun to trickle through the ice. “The thaw is coming,” said the dwarf.

  “I know,” said Sigarni softly.

  Inside the cave Sigarni started a fire and they shrugged out of their soaked outer clothing. “So why did you bring me?” asked Ballistar.

  “I thought you’d enjoy my company,” she told him.

  “That’s not very convincing.”

  She looked at him, and remembered how out of place he had seemed back at the encampment, how lonely and sad. “I wanted company,” she said, “and I could think of no one else I would rather have with me.”

  He blushed and looked away. “I’ll accept that,” he said brightly. “Do you remember when we used to play here as children? You, me, Fell, and Bernt built a tree house. It fell apart in the big storm. Fell was climbing and the floor gave way. You remember?”

  Sigarni nodded. “Bernt stole the nails from Grame. More nails in that structure than wood.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Fun? You were always arguing with the others, getting into scrapes and fights.”

  “I know,” he said. “I was young then, and not growing like the rest of you. But I look back on those times as the happiest of my life. Do you think the others would?”

  “Bernt no longer looks back,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Sigarni. I wasn’t thinking.” Reaching out, he took her slender hand in his own, his stubby fingers caressing her wrist. “It wasn’t your fault, not really. I think if you had gone he would still have killed himself had you turned him down. It was his life; he chose to take it.”

  Sigarni shook her head. “I don’t think that is the whole truth. Had I known the outcome beforehand I would have acted differently. But now I think about how I was lying in bed with Asmidir, enjoying myself utterly.” She sighed. “And while I was being pleasured, Bernt was tying a rope around his neck.”

  Ballistar looked away and fiddled with the fire, poking small sticks into the flames. “Now I have embarrassed you,” she said.