The Ironhand's Daughter

PROLOGUE

SUNLIGHT GLINTED ON steel as the knife blade spun through the air to thud home in the chalk-circled centre of the board. The woman chuckled. 'You lose again, Ballistar,' she said.

'I let you win,' the dwarf told her. 'For I am a creature of legend, and my skills are second to none.' He smiled as he spoke, but there was sadness in his dark eyes and she reached out to cup her hand to his bearded cheek. He leaned in to her touch, twisting his head to kiss her palm.

'You are the finest of men,' she said softly, 'and the gods - if gods there be - have not been kind to you.'

Ballistar did not reply. Glancing up he drank in her beauty, the golden sheen of her skin, the haunting power of her pale blue-grey eyes. At nineteen Sigarni was the most beautiful woman Ballistar had ever seen, tall and slender, full-lipped and firm-breasted. Her only flaw was her close-cropped hair, which shone like silver in the sunlight. It had turned grey in her sixth year, after her parents were slain. The villagers called it the Night of the Slaughterers, and no one would speak of it. Pushing himself to his feet he walked to the fence post, climbing the rail to pull Sigarni's throwing knife from the board. She watched him stretching out his tiny arms, his stunted fingers unable to curl fully around the hilt of her blade. At last he wrenched it clear, then turned and jumped to the ground. He was no larger than a child of four, yet his head was huge and his face heavily bearded. Ballistar returned her blade and she slid it home into the sheath at her hip. Reaching to her right she lifted a pitcher of cool water and filled two clay goblets, passing one to the dwarf.

Ballistar gave a wide grin as he took it, then slowly passed his tiny hand across the surface of the water. She shook her head. 'You should not make those gestures, my friend,' she said seriously. 'If you were seen by the wrong man, you would be flogged.'

'I've been flogged before. Did I show you my scars?'

'Many times.'

'Then I shall not concern myself with fears of the lash," he said, passing his hand once more over the drink. 'To the long-dead King over the water,' he said, lifting the goblet to his lips. A sleek black hound padded into sight. Heavy of shoulder, slim of flanks, she was a hare and rabbit hound, and her speed was legendary. Highland hunting hounds were bred for strength, stamina and obedience. But most of all they had to be fast. None was swifter than Sigarni's hound. Ballistar laid down his empty goblet and called to her. 'Here, Lady!' Her head came up and she loped to him, pushing her long muzzle into his beard, licking at his cheek. 'Women find me irresistible,' he said, as he stroked the hound's ears.

'I can see why,' Sigarni told him. 'You have a gentle touch.'

Ballistar stroked Lady's flanks and gazed down into her eyes. One eye was doe-brown, the other opal-grey. 'She has healed well,' he said, running his finger down the scar on the hound's cheek.

Sigarni nodded, and Ballistar saw the fresh flaring of anger in her eyes. 'Bernt is a fool. I should never have allowed him to come. Stupid man.'

'That stupid man loves you,' chided Ballistar. 'As do we all, princess.'

'Idiot!' she snapped, but the anger faded from her eyes. 'You know I have no right to such a title.'

'Not so, Sigarni. You have the blood of Gandarin in your veins.'

'Pah! Half the population have his blood. The man was a rutting ram. Gwalchmai told me about him; he said Gandarin could have raised an army of his bastard offspring. Even Bernt probably has a drop or two of Gandarin's blood.'

'You should forgive him,' advised Ballistar. 'He didn't mean it.' At that moment a red hawk swooped low over the clearing, coming to rest on a nearby bow perch. For a moment or two it pranced from foot to foot, then cocked its head and stared at the silver-haired woman. The hound gave a low growl, but slunk back close to Ballistar. Sigarni pulled on a long black gauntlet of polished leather and stood, arm outstretched. The hawk launched itself from the fence and flew to her.

'Ah, my beauty,' said Sigarni, reaching up and ruffling the russet-coloured feathers of the bird's breast. Taking a strip of rabbit meat

from the pouch at her side, she fed it to the hawk. Swiftly and skilfully she attached two soft collars to the hawk's legs, then threaded short hunting jesses through brass-rimmed holes in the collars. Lastly she pulled a soft leather hood from the pouch at her side and smoothly stroked it into place over the bird's beak and eyes. The hawk sat motionless as the hood settled, and even turned her neck to allow Sigarni to lean forward and tighten the braces at the rear. The woman turned her gaze back to the dwarf and smiled. 'I know that Bernt acted from stupidity. And I am more angry with myself than with him. I told him to loose Lady only if there was a second hare. It was a simple instruction. But he was incapable even of that. And I will not have fools around me.'

Ballistar said nothing more. There were, he knew, only two creatures in all the world that Sigarni cared for - the hound, Lady, and the hawk, Abby. Sigarni had been training them both, determined that they would work together as a team. The training had gone well. Lady would seek out the hares and scatter them, while Abby swooped down from the trees in a kill that seemed swifter than an arrow. The danger area came when only a single quarry was sighted. Hawk and bird had raced each other to make the strike. Abby won both times. On the second occasion when Lady darted in to try to steal the kill, Abby had lashed out, her beak grazing the hound's flank. Sigarni had grabbed Lady's collar, dragging her back. In an effort to re-train Lady, Sigarni had allowed the cattle herder, Bernt, to accompany her on the training hunts. His duty was to keep Lady leashed, and only release her when more than one hare was sighted. He had failed. Excited by the hunt, Bernt had loosed the hound at first sight of a single hare. Abby had swooped upon it, and Lady had sped in to share the prize. The hawk had turned, lashing out with her cruel beak, piercing the hound's right eye.

'You are hunting today?' asked the dwarf.

'No. Abby is above her killing weight. I let her have the last hare we took yesterday. Today we'll just walk awhile, up to the High Drain. She likes to fly there.'

'Watch out for the sorcerer!' warned Ballistar.

'There is no need to fear him,' said Sigarni. 'I think he is a good man.'

'He's an Outlander, and his skin has been burned by sorcery. He makes me shudder.'

Sigarni's laughter pealed out. 'Oh, Ballistar, you fool! In his land all people have dark skins; they are not cursed.'

'He's a wizard! At nights he becomes a giant bird that flies across High Druin. Many have seen it: a great black raven, twice normal size. And his castle is full of grimoires and spells, and there are animals there - frozen. You know Marion - she was there! She told us all about a great black bear that just stands in the hallway, a spell upon it. You keep clear of him, SigarmT

She looked into his dark eyes and saw the reality of his fear. 'I shall be careful,' she said.

'You may rely on it. But I will not walk in fear, Ballistar. Have I not the blood of Gandarin in my veins?' Sigarni could not quite mask the smile as she spoke.

'You should not mock your friends!' he scolded. 'Magickers are to be avoided - anyone with sense knows that. And what is he doing here, in our high, lonely places? Eh? Why did he leave his land of black people and come here? What is he seeking? Or is he perhaps hiding from justice?'

'I shall ask him when next I see him,' she said. 'Come, Lady!' The hound rose warily and paced alongside the tall woman. Sigarni knelt and patted her flanks. 'You've learned to respect Abby now,' she whispered, 'though I fear she will never learn respect for you.' 'Why is that?' asked Ballistar. Sigarni looked up. 'It is the way of the hawk, my friend. It loves no one, needs no one, fears no one.'

'Does it not love you, Sigarni?'

'No. That is why she must never be called in vain. Each time she flies to the fist I feed her. The day I do not, she may decide never to return. Hawks know no loyalties. They stay because they choose to.

No man - nor woman - can ever own one.'

Without a word of farewell the huntress strode off into the forest.