Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  At last the conversation died away and Ironhand broke in. “Best bring your men in for dismissal, old fellow,” he said, “for we have a hankering to be on one of those barges when it pulls away.”

  “Yes, I will,” said Yos-shiel. “Thank you.”

  An hour later the three sat at the stern of a forty-foot barge as the crew poled it steadily upriver. The vessel was fortified by hinged wooden flaps along both rails, which could be raised to offer protection from an assault. Huge rocks had been left at intervals along both sides of the deck, ready to be hurled down on any boat that sought to impede the barge’s progress. Armed men sat at the prow, and all of the barge workers carried long knives.

  “So we find the temple and steal the Crown?” said Ballistar. “It would be best to enter it at night.”

  Sigarni rose, stretched, and walked away down the port side of the vessel. A soldier smiled at her. “Stay with your friends,” he said. “Soon it will be so dark you will not be able to see your hand before your face.”

  She thanked him and returned to the others, seating herself on a coil of rope. The light faded fast, and soon the barge was engulfed in a darkness so complete that Sigarni felt an edge of panic.

  “It’s like being dead,” whispered Ballistar. Sigarni felt his hand brush against her arm; she took hold of it and squeezed his fingers.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Ironhand. “Death is not dark; it is bright and vile.”

  “How can they see to steer?” Ballistar asked.

  “Quiet back there,” came a voice. “We’ll see the city within an hour.”

  There was little sensation of movement within the all-encompassing blackness and Sigarni found herself thinking back to her days with Fell, when they had hunted together and made love before the fire. He had been able to read her moods so well. There were times when she had wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him, stroking his skin. On such occasions he would hug her and kiss her fondly. On other nights, when the fey mood was upon her she would desire to make love with passion and fire. Always he responded. I was good for you too, Fell, she thought. I knew you, your thoughts and your dreams.

  The first kiss had been shared on the slopes of High Druin, on a bright summer’s day. They had raced over the four miles from Goring’s Rock to the White Stream. Fell was faster and stronger, but his staying power could not match Sigarni’s; she had doggedly clung to his trail, always keeping him in sight until the last long rise. Then, as he faltered, she drew on her reserves and passed him.

  At the White Stream he had sunk back to his haunches and fought for breath. Sigarni brought him water in a hastily made cup of bark.

  “You are a wonder, Sigarni,” he said at last, taking her hand and kissing it.

  She sat beside him, looping her arm around his neck. “My poor Fell! Is your pride damaged beyond repair?”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Why would my pride be hurt? I did my best.”

  “I liked it when you kissed my hand,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Then I shall do it again.”

  “I would like it more if you kissed my mouth.”

  He smiled then. “You are very forward for a Highland girl—I shall put it down to Gwalchmai’s poor teaching. I don’t mind losing a race to a woman like you, but it is not meant for you to do the seducing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I sat up through most of the night trying to think of a way to get you to kiss me. It makes a mockery of all my planning.”

  Sigarni lay back on the soft grass. “Not at all. Go ahead. Show me your strategy.”

  He chuckled. “Too late. I think the fox is already in the henhouse.”

  “Even so, I would like to hear it.”

  Rolling to his elbow he lay beside her, looking down. “I wanted to tell you that I have never known anyone like you, and that when I am with you I am happier than at any other time. You are the delight in my life, Sigarni. Now and always.”

  “You’ve won me over with your fine words,” she said. “Now the kiss, if you please.”

  Ballistar’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Your hand is very warm,” he whispered.

  “I was thinking good thoughts,” she told him, keeping her voice low.

  The journey continued, until at last they could see the faint lights of the city ahead. The barge moved on, approaching an arched portcullis gate. The helmsman flashed a signal with his lantern that was answered from above the arch. Then, with a great creaking and groaning, the portcullis rose and the barge passed beneath it.

  Lanterns hung from poles all along the quayside and Sigarni heard Ballistar breathe a sigh of relief. “It was awful,” he said, “like being blind.”

  “It was not awful,” said Sigarni wistfully.

  The barge clanked against the stone quay. Ironhand was the first ashore, followed by Sigarni and Ballistar.

  “What now?” asked the warrior.

  “We’ll find some sheltered place to sleep,” Sigarni told him. “Tomorrow we’ll see the King.”

  “For what purpose?” Ballistar asked.

  “I shall ask for the Crown to be returned.”

  “And he will just give it to you?”

  “Of course not, Balli. I shall offer him something in return.”

  “It will need to be a very large gift,” Ironhand pointed out.

  “It will be,” she promised.

  Chapter Twelve

  The city was unlike anything Sigarni had ever seen. Crammed together, the houses reared like cliff faces, dotted with lighted windows. Narrow alleyways filtered off like veins in the flesh of a stone giant. Arched tunnels led deeper into the city, and these boasted oil lamps, hung at regular intervals to guide the traveler. There were signs on every alley, giving names to the streets and the wider avenues that led off from them. Sigarni felt hemmed in and dwarfed by the colossal nature of Zir-vak.

  Ironhand was less impressed. “They have structures in Kushir of far greater beauty,” he said, “and there is evidence at least of planning there. These . . . huge hovels give a man no space to breathe.”

  “It is oppressive,” agreed Ballistar. They wandered on aimlessly for a while until they saw the lights of a tavern. Ironhand headed for it. “Wait!” called Ballistar. “How will we pay?”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Ironhand.

  The tavern was more than half empty, and few diners sat at the rough-built tables. There was a long, timbered drinking area at which several men stood, downing ale. Ironhand moved to the bar and a serving maid approached him. She was extraordinarily fat, her mouth turned down at the corners, her eyes small and seemingly set in several acres of unnecessary flesh; her enormous breasts sagged over the bar.

  “What is there on offer?” asked Ironhand as Sigarni and Ballistar moved alongside.

  “To eat or to drink, or both?” she countered, idly wiping at the counter with a stained rag.

  “Just to drink,” said the silver-bearded giant.

  “We have ale or water, or if you’d rather something hot we have a dry root tisane.”

  “And with what do we pay?”

  “What?”

  “What currency do we need? We are strangers here and have been told that gold is of no use.”

  “You don’t pay,” she said, as if talking to someone retarded. “Everything’s free . . . has been for years. So what will it be?”

  “Ale,” said Ironhand.

  “I’ll have water,” said Sigarni. “Where can we find lodgings for the night?”

  “Wherever you choose. There’s a room upstairs that you’re welcome to. There’s no fire, mind—no wood, you see. But the oil lamps keep the room warm enough. There’s only one bed, but it’s big enough for the two of you,” she said, gesturing toward Ballistar and Sigarni. “As for him . . . well.”

  “I could always share your bed, my pretty,” said Ironhand. “I expect it’s a large one.”

  “The cheek of the man!” said the woman, blushin
g.

  “Those that don’t ask never get,” said Ironhand with a wink. “And you’ve no idea how long it has been since I’ve enjoyed the company of a handsome woman.”

  “Handsome, indeed! I was a fine-looking young woman, I’ll have you know. Men traveled far to court me—and I don’t take kindly to being mocked.”

  “I would never mock you, my lovely. I’ve always preferred my women with a little meat on their bones. You think on it, while you fetch us our drinks. I’m a man of considerable patience.”

  Ironhand turned away and strode to a nearby table, where Ballistar sat alongside him. “Good God, man, how could you make love to that . . . that . . . sow?”

  “She looks mighty good to me, lad. Now there’s your sort of woman,” he added, pointing to another serving maid carrying a tray to the far table. She was slim and dark-haired, no more than seventeen. Ballistar stared at her with undisguised longing. “I’ll call her over,” whispered Ironhand.

  “No!” squealed Ballistar.

  It was too late, for Ironhand waved at the girl. She finished delivering the dishes to a table by the window, then walked over. “My friend, here . . .” began Ironhand.

  “For pity’s sake!” snapped Ballistar. He smiled sheepishly at the maid. “I’m . . . er . . . sorry.”

  “What he’s trying to say, my lovely,” continued Ironhand, “is that he is smitten by your beauty. If I were a younger man I’d fight him to the death for you. Now, we are strangers in this city, and have no understanding of the normal practices. It will have to suffice that he finds you astonishingly attractive and would like to spend a little time with you when you are finished with your work. What do you say?”

  The girl smiled and stared hard at Ballistar, who felt he had reddened to his toes.

  “He is a handsome boy,” she said, “and you are an old devil. However, since you’ve already seduced my mother— and that puts me out for the night—I think I will spend a little time with the young man. The rooms upstairs are all numbered. I shall be in room eleven in an hour or so.” Reaching out, she cupped Ballistar’s chin. “Your beard is soft,” she said. “I like that.”

  Her mother appeared, bearing a wooden tray on which was set a pitcher of ale, a jug of water, and three tankards. She set it down carefully and turned to Ironhand. “Don’t you be drinking too much of that,” she said. “It has a habit of turning hard men to softness, if you take my meaning.”

  Ironhand’s laughter bellowed out. Grasping the woman around her ample waist, he drew her into his lap. Then taking the pitcher, he raised it to his lips and began to drink. Ballistar and Sigarni watched in amazement as he downed more than half of it. “By God, that’s better,” he said. Then he rose, lifted the astonished woman into the air, and began to spin and dance.

  “She must weigh a ton,” whispered Ballistar to Sigarni. “How does he do that?”

  Ironhand returned to the table, still carrying the woman. “It’s no good,” he said. “I can wait not a moment longer. I’ll see you both in the morning.” So saying, he carried his conquest from the room.

  For a little while Ballistar and Sigarni sat in silence. At last he spoke. “The woman I’m going to see . . . I don’t . . . what should I . . . ?”

  Sigarni laughed softly. “Do whatever comes naturally. Sit with her and talk for a while. My advice would be to tell her that she is your first, and that you are unskilled.”

  “I couldn’t do that!”

  “She will know anyway. Enjoy yourself, Ballistar. And make sure that she too has fond memories of the meeting. Too many men get carried away by their lust, and forget that their partners need loving too.”

  “How do I . . . ?”

  “This is not a lesson, Balli. Kiss, touch, and explore. Make it last. This is the one experience you will never forget.”

  He grinned. “I can’t believe this. When we get back I’m going to pick up the little wizard and kiss both his wizened cheeks!”

  “He’ll turn you into a spider and tread on you.”

  “Will you be all right alone?”

  Leaning forward, she covered his hand with her own. “I stood in a cave and waited for demons, Balli. I think I’ll probably survive a night in a strange inn, don’t you?”

  They sat and talked for a while, then the young maid came for Ballistar and Sigarni smiled at the look of sudden panic that flashed across his handsome face. “Go,” she said, “enjoy yourself.”

  Alone now, she sipped the water and concentrated on the magical events that had overtaken them in Yur-vale. Three separate bursts of magick: the growth of Ballistar, the sprouting of the bow, and the rebirth of Ironhand. The dwarf had become a man, strong and straight. Why? And why the bow, and not the arrows? She had tried to discuss it with Ballistar, but he had merely shrugged and said, “It was magick. Who cares why?”

  But there must be laws governing magick, she thought. Ironhand had been reborn through a piece of dried bone. But what of the bone tips on her arrows? Why had they not grown into deer? And the leather of her belt or boots—why had these items remained intact?

  Taliesen had warned that this was a world of strong magick, and that it would affect them far more than the inhabitants of Yur-vale. What had he said about his fellow sorcerer? He had eaten pork and it had swelled inside him? Sigarni shuddered. Like the bone of Ironhand, the flesh had reconstituted itself in his belly and he had been ripped to pieces from within by a live and panic-stricken boar.

  Reaching for the water goblet, she winced as the cold metal edge pushed at the still-healing cut on her palm.

  And instantly she had the answer. On the night before the journey she had held Ironhand’s bone. On the journey itself through the Gateway she had gripped Ballistar’s hand.

  My blood touched them. The bow also—but not the arrows!

  Sigarni rose from her seat and walked upstairs to her room. The bed was deep and soft, but she did not sleep for several hours. When she awoke Ironhand was sitting beside the bed.

  “I hope your dreams were good ones,” he said.

  “I had none that I can recall,” she told him. “You?”

  “I didn’t sleep a wink,” he said with a grin. “But I could eat a horse.”

  “That would not be advisable. The horse would eat you.”

  He looked at her quizzically and she explained about Taliesen’s warning. “Well, then, we had better find the Crown and head back to the Highlands. I want to taste a good steak again, and smell the pines.”

  “First we must find the palace, or wherever it is that the King resides.”

  “You think he will just give you a national treasure?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The King stared from the window of his eighth-floor study and watched as the enemy siege engines slowly approached the city’s north wall. There were seven of them, each around eighty feet high, clad in sheets of hammered iron and impervious to flame arrows. When they reached the walls, which they would within the hour, the fighting would be hard. Close to the wall the towers would lower their drawbridges, and fighting men would pour out onto the ramparts.

  His guards would meet them, blade to blade, hacking and slaying, buying time for the engineers to hurl firebombs through the apertures. The iron cladding outside would offer no protection to the scores of men waiting on the siege tower stairs.

  You are coming to your doom, he told himself. He glanced to his left, where his ceremonial armor was laid out on a bench of oak. You are getting too old to fight, he thought. And what will happen to Zir-vak when you fall in battle? Neither of his sons had yet reached one hundred—and even if they had, he thought with regret, they could not shoulder the responsibilities of command. Perhaps I have been too easy on them.

  Stepping back from the window he moved to his desk, lifting a bronze-rimmed oval mirror. The face that peered back at him was grey with fatigue, the eyes dull. Dropping the mirror, he picked up the letter that had arrived the previous evening from the merchant Yos-shiel. Three str
angers had come to the city, intent on stealing the Paradise Helm. They would find a fine surprise waiting for them!

  A servant entered the room and bowed deeply. “Majesty, there is a woman who wishes to see you.”

  “Tell her I have no time today. Let her make her entreaty to Pasan-Yol!”

  “With respect, Majesty, I feel you may wish to speak with the woman. She says she wishes to see you in connection with the Paradise Helm—and she matches the description you gave to the soldiers.”

  The King turned. “Is she alone?”

  “No, her companions are with her, Majesty—a white-haired giant and a young man.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “They gave their weapons to the Royal Sentries.”

  Intrigued, the King moved to his desk. “Show them in— and fetch Pasan-Yol.”

  Bowing once more, the servant departed.

  As Yos-shiel had reported, the woman was very beautiful, and moved with a grace that stirred the King’s blood. “I understand you claim to be from another land,” he said. “Where might that be?”

  “I could not say where in relation to Yur-vale,” she told him, her voice deep, almost husky. “We were sent through a magical Gateway.”

  The King picked up the letter. “So Yos-shiel tells me. I must say I find it hard to believe. Could it be that you are spies, sent by the enemy?”

  A squad of guards moved in behind the newcomers. “You wish them arrested, Majesty?” asked Pasan-Yol.

  “Not yet,” the King told the young guardsman. “They interest me. So tell me, woman, why you are here.”

  “To bring back the sun,” she said. The silence in the room grew as the listeners took in her words.

  “You are a witch?” asked the King.

  “I am.”

  “Sorcery has long been considered a crime here, punishable by death.”

  The woman smiled. “Whereas stupidity has obviously not. Do you wish to see the sun shine over Yur-vale?”

  The King leaned back in his chair. “Let us suppose— merely for the sake of argument—that you could achieve this . . . this miracle. What do you desire in return?”