Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “I think the letter from Yos-shiel will answer that,” she told him.

  “You know of that—and yet you come here? Was that wise, witch?”

  She shrugged. “The wisdom of any course can only be judged by the outcome. I offer you the sun for a piece of metal. You make whatever choice seems fitting.”

  “What do you think, Pasan?” asked the King.

  The young guardsman gave a derisory laugh. “I think they are spies, Father. Let me interrogate them.”

  “Yet another numbskull,” said Ironhand to Sigarni, in the same tone of voice. “You think they are all victims of inbreeding?” The guardsman’s sword snaked from its scabbard. “Put it away, boy,” said Ironhand, “before I take it away from you and swat your backside.” The guardsman took a deep breath and dropped into a fighting position with sword extended.

  “That’s enough!” said the King. “Put up your blade, Pasan!”

  “You heard what he said, Father!”

  “Aye, I did,” answered the King wearily. “So let us not be too swift to prove his point.”

  “I think a little proof would not go amiss,” put in Sigarni to the King. “Do you have a garden here?”

  “Nothing grows in Zir-vak,” he said. “But, yes, there was a garden. I do not go there now, for the sight of it saddens me.”

  “Take me there,” she said, “and I will show you something to lift your heart.”

  The King stood and moved to the window, where the siege towers were inching ever closer. He swung back to the woman. “Very well, I will humor you. But know this, if there is no miracle I shall not be best pleased—and the charge of sorcery will be laid against you.”

  “If there is no miracle,” said the woman, “then the charge will be hard to prove.”

  For the first time the King smiled. “Let us go to the garden,” he said.

  The garden was more than two hundred feet long, and had been designed around a series of winding white-paved pathways. There were three fountains, none of them in use, and the flowerbeds were covered with thick grey ash. Scores of dead trees lined the marble walls at the outer edges of the garden, and the area was devoid of any life.

  Sigarni felt a moment of fear as she surveyed the landscape. What if her reasoning was flawed?

  “I’m looking forward to this,” said Ironhand with a wink.

  “Well,” said the King, “we are here, and you promised a miracle.” He was standing with his arms folded, his son beside him with hand on sword. The six guards stood nervously by.

  Sigarni approached the King. “May I borrow your dagger, my lord?” she asked.

  “What nonsense is this?” stormed the young man at his side.

  Sigarni frowned, then raised her arm before him. “Make a shallow cut, here,” she said, pointing to her forearm.

  Pasan-Yol drew his dagger, and drew the blade slowly across her skin. Blood welled, and Sigarni walked to a line of dead bushes, kneeling down before the first and holding her arm above the dry branches. Slowly drops of blood dripped to the wood.

  Nothing happened. Sigarni stayed where she was, and glanced at Ironhand, who was watching her intently. She had explained her theory to him, and he had listened thoughtfully.

  “Well, where is this miracle?” asked the King, his tone hardening.

  Ironhand stepped forward and knelt beside Sigarni. “Touch the bush,” he whispered.

  Lowering her arm, her fingers brushed against the wood and she felt her hand grow hot. The blood upon the branches disappeared into the grey wood, which began to swell and grow. Buds appeared, pushing out into new red growth, stretching up toward the iron sky, then darkened to green and finally to brown. Three blooms appeared, opening to roses the color of Sigarni’s blood.

  She stood and turned toward the King, ready to present her arguments.

  Just then a beam of sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the garden. In its bright light the King looked older, more weary, his face lined, dark rings beneath his eyes. “How have you done this?” he whispered, moving to the rose and kneeling before it to smell the blooms.

  “The war must end,” she said. “That is all that keeps the sun at bay.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “This is a magical land, Majesty, where the war and the devastation feed the dark side of the magic. Every act of hate, of malice, of bloodlust, only serves to fuel the fires beneath the mountains. You are destroying this world with your fighting. Think back to the days before, when the sun shone. The Feast of Athling. There was a three-day truce between the armies; when the fighting stopped the sun shone. It was the same when your father was buried: a day of truce. And before the war Yur-vale was a paradise. Can you not see it? In some way the feelings of the people are magnified by the land itself. All this hatred and violence is reflected by the land which, like the people here, is turning on itself.”

  “I told you she was a spy!” roared Pasan-Yol. “This is all a trick to lull us.”

  From some distance away came a series of dull, booming sounds, and the faint clash of steel upon steel. The sunlight faded away.

  “The siege towers have reached the walls,” said the King. “I must go now. But I will give your words serious consideration and we will meet again this afternoon. In the meantime I will ask one of my servants to show you the palace museum. There are many wonders there—including the Helm you seek.”

  Sigarni and Ballistar bowed. Ironhand merely inclined his head.

  “Your tall friend does not care for the formalities. Does he not know it is wise always to pay respects to a king?”

  “He does, my lord,” said Sigarni. “But he is a king himself, and is unused to bowing before others.”

  The King chuckled. “A monarch should have better dress sense,” he said, pointing to Ironhand’s ill-fitting red shirt. “And you, young lady, should have that wound dressed— unless of course you plan to revive my entire garden.” He swung to the young man. “You cut too deeply, Pasan. See that the surgeon is sent for, and that our guests are looked after.”

  “But, Father . . .”

  “Just do it, Pasan. I have no time for further debate.” The King strolled away, followed by four of the guards.

  Pasan glared at Sigarni. “You may have fooled him with your witchery, but not me. You are an enemy—and enemies are to be destroyed. And look at your rose,” he said triumphantly. “It is already dying.”

  “Aye,” she agreed sadly. “With every death upon the walls. With every mouthful of corpse meat. With every word of hate.”

  Summoning Ballistar and Ironhand, Sigarni walked back toward the palace.

  Her arm bandaged, the blood still seeping through, Sigarni sat with Ironhand and Ballistar in the main hall of the Palace Museum. There were statues lining the walls, paintings hung in alcoves, but pride of place went to the Crown of Alwen, which sat upon a slim column of gold within a crystal case. The Helm shimmered in the lamplight and Ironhand gazed upon it with undisguised admiration. “Had I retained the Crown,” he said softly, “there would have been no civil war. Elarine and I could have enjoyed a peaceful reign and you, Sigarni, would have known great joy.”

  “I have known great joy,” she said. “Gwalchmai was a fine foster father, and I have lived a free life in the Highlands.”

  “Even so, I wish it had been different.”

  “It is never wise to long for days past,” she told him. “They cannot come again. What will you do when we get back? Will you announce yourself and lead the army? You are much more suited to the task than I.”

  “I think not,” said the giant. “You are the new Battle Queen. Let it be so. I will advise—and take an hour or two to smite the enemy,” he added with a grin.

  “If we get back,” pointed out Ballistar. “There is no certainty. What if you are wrong about this war, Sigarni? What if the sun does not shine again?”

  “I am not wrong,” she said. “I sensed it from the moment the bow sprouted leaves. This is a land in torme
nt. Everything here is unnatural. When the war ends, so will the upheavals of nature—I am convinced of it.”

  “I think you are correct,” said Ironhand, “but the fact remains that for the war to end, both sides must agree on terms. After fighting for this long, such a decision will be hard. There is something else too, daughter. If there is no peace, and the King refuses to give you the Crown, what then?”

  “We will leave without it—and fight the Outlanders without the aid of the Pallides.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Ballistar. “Do you think they would allow us a cooking pot? We still have some oats.”

  “You could ask,” said Sigarni, gesturing toward the silent guards at the door. But the request was refused, and the trio moved around the museum, studying the various artifacts.

  Toward dusk several servants entered, filling the oil lamps and lighting more. Huge velvet curtains were drawn across the high, arched windows.

  At last the King returned. He was wearing armor now, and looked even more weary than he had in the morning. “Their siege engines were destroyed,” he said, “but the death toll was very high. I have asked for a truce, and will meet with their King outside the walls in an hour. I want you with me when I speak with him.”

  “Gladly, sire,” said Sigarni.

  More than fifty lanterns had been set on poles outside the main gates, and a score of chairs were set out in two lines of ten, facing one another. The night was pitch-black, the lanterns barely giving out sufficient light to see more than a few paces. “Fetch more,” ordered the King, and two officers moved away into the blackness. The King, now dressed in a simple tunic of blue, sat down, with Sigarni on his left and Pasan-Yol on his right.

  Twenty more lanterns were set out.

  They waited for some time, and then saw a slow-moving column of men walking from the enemy camp, their King in the lead, wearing silver armor embossed with gold. He had no helm and Sigarni saw that his lean face showed the same edge of weariness as that of the man beside her.

  He did not look at the waiting party, but strode directly to a chair opposite the King of Zir-vak and sat down.

  “Well, Nashan,” he said at last, as his twenty-man escort fanned out behind him, “for what purpose do you call this meeting?”

  The King told him of Sigarni’s arrival, and of the miracle in the rose garden. The enemy leader was less than impressed.

  “Today you destroyed a few siege towers, but they proved their worth, did they not? You were hard-pressed to stop them. I have now ordered fifty to be built, then Zir-vak will fall. You think me a fool, cousin? You seek to stave off defeat with this nonsense?”

  “It is all nonsense, Reva. We fight a war our grandfathers began. And for what? For the honor of our Houses. Where is the honor in what we do?”

  “I will find honor,” stormed Reva, “when I have your head impaled on a lance over the gates of Zir-vak.”

  “Then you may have it,” said the King. “You may take it now. If that will end the war and bring the sun back to our lands, I will die gladly. Is that all you desire?”

  “The surrender of all your forces, and the opening of the gates,” demanded Reva.

  “The gates are already open,” pointed out the King. “And we will fight no more.”

  “No!” screamed Pasan-Yol. “You cannot betray us all.”

  “It is not betrayal, Pasan, it is a new beginning.”

  The young man lurched to his feet, a dagger in his hand. Before anyone could stop him he had rammed the blade into his father’s breast. The King groaned and fell against Sigarni. Ironhand, standing behind the King, reached over and grabbed Pasan-Yol by the throat, dragging him away. Ballistar threw himself at the young man, wrenching the knife from his grasp.

  Sigarni lowered the dying King to the ground. “Reva!” he called.

  The enemy King knelt by his side. “I spoke the truth, cousin. This war is killing the land and it must end. Not just for you and I, and our Houses, but for the land itself. You now have my head, and my city. Let the hatred pass away with my death.”

  For a moment Reva said nothing, then he sighed. “It will be as you say, Nashan. I too have a need to see the sun.” Pulling off his gauntlet, Reva took Nashan’s hand.

  A man cried out and pointed upward. A full moon had appeared in the night sky, and the glimmering of distant stars could be clearly seen. “It begins,” whispered Nashan.

  And he died.

  Sigarni closed the King’s eyes and stood. “A sad end to a fine man,” she said, turning and walking away. Ironhand released Pasan-Yol, who stood staring at the moon and stars. Then he ran to his father’s body, hurling himself across it and sobbing.

  Sigarni, Ballistar, and Ironhand returned to the museum. Ironhand thundered his fist against the crystal case, which exploded into fragments. Reaching inside, he drew out the Crown and passed it to Sigarni.

  “It is time to go,” she said, opening her pack and stowing the Crown inside.

  Vast numbers of people thronged the streets, staring up at the sky as the trio made their slow way down to the river. There were several boats moored there and Sigarni chose a small craft, with two oars. Loosing it from its moorings, they climbed aboard, and set out on the journey downstream.

  Sigarni sat staring back at the receding city. Ballistar put his arm around her shoulder. “Why so sad, Sigarni? You saved them.”

  “I liked him,” she said. “He was a good man.”

  “But there is something else, I think?” he probed.

  She nodded. “We stopped one war, and now we have the means to pursue another. Is our land any different from this one? How does High Druin feel about the slaughter that is coming?”

  “Our fight is not about honor, or a stolen wife,” said Ballistar. “We fight for survival against a pitiless enemy. There is a difference.”

  “Is there? My hatred is all used up, Balli. When they raped me, I wanted to see every Outlander slain. That is not what I desire anymore.”

  Later the following day, in bright sunlight, the three stood at the circle of stones. Sigarni unwound the bandage on her forearm and used it to press her blood against each of the six stones. Then the three of them stood at the center, holding hands and waiting.

  “I’m anticipating that steak with great pleasure,” said Ironhand.

  “And I can’t wait to see their faces when they see what I have become,” said Ballistar happily.

  Light grew around them and Sigarni felt dizziness swamp her. Then Taliesen appeared before her, and a cold winter breeze touched her face.

  “Did you get it?” the wizard asked.

  Sigarni did not answer. In her right hand lay the tiny bone fragment of Ironhand, while clinging to her left was Ballistar the Dwarf, tears flowing from his eyes as he stood, dressed in her outsize leggings.

  Like all Highlanders, Gwalchmai loved the spring. Life in the mountains was always harsh, and people lived with the constant knowledge that death waited like a monster beyond the firelight. Winter fell upon the mountains like a mythical beast, robbing the land of crops, of food, sucking the heat from the soil and from the bones of Man.

  But spring, with her promise of sunshine and plenty, was a season to be loved. The burst of color that appeared on the hillsides as the first flowers pushed their way through the cold earth, the singing of birds in the trees, the fragrant blossom on bush and branch—all these things spoke of life.

  The ache in Gwalchmai’s back had faded away in the morning sunlight, as he sat in the old chair on the porch of his cabin. I almost feel young again, he thought happily. A faint touch of regret whispered across his mind, and he opened the parchment he had held folded in his hand. It had been so long since he had written anything that the words seemed spidery and overlarge, like a child’s. Still, it was legible.

  Time for the last of the mead, he thought. Leaning to his right, he lifted the jug and removed the stopper. Tipping it, he filled his mouth with the sweet liquor and rolled it over his tongue. H
e had hidden the mead the year Sigarni was brought to him, which had been a vintage year. Gwalchmai smiled at the memory. Taliesen had walked into the clearing, leading the child by the hand. In that moment Gwalchmai had seen the vision of his death. That night, as the child slept, he had taken two jugs and hidden them in the loft, ready for this day.

  This day . . .

  The old man pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. The joints creaked and cracked like tinder twigs. Drawing in a deep breath, he swirled the last of the liquor in the jug. Less than half a cup left, he realized. Shall I save it until they come? He thought about it for a moment—then drained the jug. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he sank back to the chair.

  The sound of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed ground made him start and panic flickered within his breast. He had waited so long for this moment—and now he was afraid, fearful of the long journey into the dark. His mouth was dry, and he regretted the last swallow of mead.

  “Calm yourself, old fool,” he said aloud. Rising, he strolled out into the wide yard and waited for the horsemen.

  There were six scouts, clad in iron helms and baked leather breastplates. They saw him and drew their weapons, fanning out around him in a semicircle. “Good morning, my brave boys!” said Gwalchmai.

  The riders edged their horses closer, while scanning the surrounding trees. “I am alone, boys. I have been waiting for you. I have a message here that you may read,” he added, waving the scrap of parchment.

  “Who are you, old man?” asked a rider, heeling his horse forward.

  Gwalchmai chuckled. “I am the reader of souls, the speaker of truths, the voice of the slain to come. They found the body, you know, back in your village. Upon your return they intend to hang you. But do not let it concern you—you will not return.”

  The man blanched, his jaw hanging slack.

  “What’s he talking about?” demanded another rider. “What body?”

  Gwalchmai swung to the speaker. “Ah, Bello, what a delight to see you again! And you, Jeraime,” he added, smiling up at a third rider. “Neither of you like each other, and yet, together you will stand back-to-back at the last, and you will die together, and take the long walk into Hell side by side. Is that a comforting thought? I hope not!”