The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER I

TOVI CLOSED THE double doors of his oven, removed his apron and wiped the flour from his face with a clean towel. The day's bread was laid out on wooden trays, stacked six high, and the smell of the baking filled his nostrils. Even after all these years he still loved that smell. Taking a sample loaf, he cut through the centre. It was rich and light, with no pockets of air. Behind him his apprentice, Stalf, breathed a silent sigh of relief. Tovi turned to the boy. 'Not bad,' he said. Cutting two thick slices, he smeared them with fresh butter and passed one to the boy.

Moving to the rear door, Tovi stepped outside. Above the stone and timber buildings of the village the dawn sun was clearing the peaks and a fresh breeze was blowing from the north. The bakery stood at the centre of the village, an old three-storey building that once had been the council house. In the days when we were allowed a council, thought Tovi sourly. The buildings surrounding the bakery were sturdily built, and old. Further down the hill were the simpler timber dwellings of the poorer folk. Tovi stepped out into the road and gazed down the hill to the river. The villagers were stirring and several women were already kneeling by the water-side, washing clothes and blankets, beating them against the white rocks at the water's edge. Tovi saw the black-clad Widow Maffrey making her way to the communal well. He waved and smiled and she nodded as she passed. The smith, Grame, was lighting his forge. Seeing Tovi, he strolled across. Soot had smeared the smith's thick white beard.

'Good day to you, Baker,' said Grame.

'And to you. It looks a fine one. Nary a cloud in sight. I see you have the Baron's greys in your stalls. Fine beasts.'

'Finer than the man who owns them. One of them has a split hoof, and both carry spur scars. No way to treat good horses. I'll take a

loaf, if you please. One with a crust as black as sin and a centre as white as a nun's soul.'

Tovi shook his head. 'You'll take what I give you, man, and be glad of it, for you'll not taste a better piece of bread anywhere in the kingdom. Stalf! Fetch a loaf for the smith.'

The boy brought it out, wrapped in muslin. Dipping his huge hand into the pocket of his leather apron, Grame produced two small copper coins which he dropped into Stalf s outstretched palm. The boy bowed and backed away. 'It'll be a good summer,' said Grame, tearing off a chunk of bread and pushing it into his mouth.

'Let us hope so,' said Tovi.

The dwarf Ballistar approached them, labouring up the steep hill. He gave an elaborate bow. 'Good morning to you,' said Ballistar. 'Am I late for breakfast?'

'Not if you have coin, little man,' said Tovi, eyes narrowing. The dwarf made him feel uncomfortable, and he found himself growing irritable.

'No coin,' the dwarf told him affably, 'but I have three hares hanging.'

'Caught by Sigarni, no doubt!' snapped the baker. 'I don't know why she should be so generous with you.'

'Perhaps she likes me,' answered Ballistar, no trace of anger in his tone.

Tovi called for another loaf which he gave the dwarf. 'Bring me the best hare tonight,' he said.

'Why does he anger you so?' asked Grame, as the dwarf wandered away.

Tovi shrugged. 'He's cursed. He should have been laid aside at birth. What good is he to man or beast? He cannot hunt, cannot work. If not for Sigarni maybe he would leave the village. He could join a circus! Such as he could earn an honest living there, capering and the like.'

'You're turning into a sour old man, Tovi.'

'And you are getting fat!'

'Aye, that's the truth. But I still remember the wearing of the Red. That's something I'll take to the grave, with pride. As will you.'

The baker nodded, and his expression softened. 'Bonny days, Grame. They'll not come again.' gave them a fight, though, eh?'

Tovi shook his head. 'We showed them how brave men die - that's not the same, my friend.

Outnumbered and outclassed we were -their knights riding through our ranks, cutting and killing, our sword-blades clanging against their armour and causing no damage. Gods, man, it was slaughter that day! I wish to Heaven I had never seen it.'

'We were badly led,' whispered Grame. 'Gandarin did not pass his strength to his sons.'

The smith sighed. 'Ah, well, enough dismal talk. This is a new day, fresh and untainted.' Spinning on his heel, the burly blacksmith strode back to his forge.

The boy, Stalf, said nothing as Tovi re-entered the bakery. He could see his master was deep in thought, and he had heard a little of the conversation. It was hard to believe that Fat Tovi had once worn the Red, and had taken part in the Battle of Golden Moor. Stalf had visited the battle site last autumn. A huge plain, dotted with barrows, thirty-four in all. And each barrow held the dead of an entire clan's fighting men.

The wind had howled across Golden Moor and Stalf had been frightened by the power and the haunted wailing of it. His uncle, Mart One-arm, had stood with him, his bony hand on the boy's shoulder.

'This is the place where dreams end, boy. This is the resting place of hope.'

'How many died Uncle?'

'Scores of thousands.'

'But not the King.'

'No, not the King. He fled to a bright land beyond the water. But they found him there, and slew him. There are no Mountain Kings now.'

Uncle Mart walked him on to the moor, coming at last to a high barrow. 'This is where the Loda men stood, shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms, brothers in death.' Lifting the stump of his left arm, he gave a crooked smile. 'Part of me is buried here too, boy. And more than just my arm. My heart lies here, with my brothers, and cousins, and friends.' •

Stalf dragged his mind back to the present. Tovi was standing by the window, his eyes showing the same faraway look he had seen that day on the face of Mart One-arm.

'Can I take some bread to me mam?' asked Stalf. Tovi nodded.

Stalf chose two loaves and wrapped them. He had reached the door when Tovi's voice stopped him.

'What do you want to be, lad, when you're grown?'

'A baker, sir. Skilled like you.' Tovi said no more, and the boy hurried from the bakery.

*

Sigarni loved the mountain lands, the lush valleys nestling between them, and the deep, dark forests that covered their flanks. But mostly she loved High Druin, the lonely peak which towered over the high lands, its summit lost in cloud, its shoulders cloaked in snow. There was, in High Druin, an elemental magnificence that radiated from its sharp, defiant crags, a magic that sang in the whispering of wind-breath before the winter storms. High Druin spoke to the heart. He said: 'I am Eternity in stone. I have always been here. I will always be here!'

The huntress let Abby soar into the air and watched her swoop over High Drum's lower flanks. Lady bounded out over the grass, her sleek black body alert, her one good eye scanning for sign of hare or rat. Sigarni sat by the Lake of Tears, watching the brightly coloured ducks on the banks of the small island at the centre of the lake. Abby circled high above them, also watching the birds. The hawk swooped down, coming to rest in a tree beside the lake. The ducks, suddenly aware of the hawk, took to the water.

Sigarni watched with interest. Roast duck would make a fine contrast to the hare meat she had eaten during the last fortnight. 'Here, Lady!' she called. The hound padded alongside and Sigarni pointed to the ducks. 'Go!' hissed Sigarni. Instantly the dog leapt into the water, paddling furiously towards the circling flock. Several of the birds took wing, putting flat distance between them and the hound, keeping low to the water. But one took off into the sky and instantly Abby launched herself in pursuit.

The duck was rising fast, and Abby hurtled down towards it with talons extended.

At the last possible moment the duck saw the bird of prey - and dived fast. For a heartbeat only Sigarni thought Abby had her prey, but then the duck hit the water, diving deep, confusing the hawk. Abby circled and returned to her branch.

The huntress gave a low whistle, summoning Lady back to the bank. The sound of a walking horse came to Sigarni then, and sherose and turned.

The horse was a tall chestnut, and upon it rode a black man, his cheeks, head and shoulders covered in a flowing white burnoose. A cloak of blue-dyed wool hung from his broad shoulders and a curved sword was scabbarded at his waist. He smiled as he saw the mountain woman.

'When hunting duck, it is better for the hawk to take it from below,' he said, swinging down from his saddle.

'We're still learning,' replied Sigarni affably. 'She is wedded to fur now, but it took time - as you said it would, Asmidir.'

The tall man sat down at the water's edge. Lady approached him gingerly, and he stroked her head.

'The eye is healing well. Has it affected her hunting?' Sigarni shook her head. 'And the bird?

Hawks prefer to feed on feather. What is her killing weight?'

'Two pounds two ounces. But she has taken hare at two-four.'

'And what do you feed her?'

'No more than three ounces a day."

The black man nodded. 'Once in a while you should catch her a rat. Nothing better for cleaning a bird's crop than a good rat.'

'Why is that, Asmidir?' asked Sigarni, sitting down beside the man.

'I don't know,' he admitted, with a broad smile. 'My father told me years ago. As you know the hawk swallows its prey - where it can -whole and the carcass is compressed, all the goodness squeezed out of it. It then vomits out the cast, the remnants. There is, I would imagine, something in the rat's pelt or skin that cleans the bird's crop as it exits.' Leaning back on his elbows, he narrowed his eyes and watched the distant hawk.

'How many kills so far?'

'Sixty-eight hares, twenty pigeons and a ferret.'

'You hunt ferret?' asked Asmidir, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

'It was a mistake. The ferret bolted a hare and Abby took the ferret.'

Asmidir chuckled. 'You have done well, Sigarni. I am glad I gave you the hawk.'

'Three times I thought I'd lost her. Always in the forest.'

'You may lose sight of her, child, but she will never lose sight of you. Come back to the castle, and I will prepare you a meal. And you too,' he said, scratching the hound's ears.

'I was told that you were a sorcerer, and that I must beware of you.'

'You should always heed the warnings of dwarves,' he said. 'Or any creature of legend.'

'How did you know it was Ballistar?'

'Because I am a sorcerer, my dear. We are expected to know things like that.'

*

'You always pause at my bear,' said Asmidir, gazing fondly at the silver-haired girl as Sigarni reached out and touched the fur of the beast's belly. It was a huge creature, its paws outstretched, talons bared, mouth open in a silent roar. 'It is wonderful,' she said. 'How is it done?'

'You do not believe it is a spell then?' he asked, smiling.

'No.'

'Well,' he said slowly, rubbing his chin, 'if it is not a spell, then it must be a stuffed bear.

There are craftsmen in my land who work on carcasses, stripping away the inner meat, which can rot, and rebuilding the dead beasts with clay before wrapping them once more in their skins or fur. The results are remarkably lifelike.'

'And this then is a stuffed bear?'

'I did not say that,' he reminded her. 'Come, let us eat.'

Asmidir led her through the hallway and into the main hall. A log fire was burning merrily in the hearth and two servants were laying platters of meat and bread on the table. Both were tall dark-skinned men who worked silently, never once looking at their master or his guest. With the table laid, they silently withdrew.

'Your servants are not friendly,' commented Sigarni.

'They are efficient,' said Asmidir, seating himself at the table and filling a goblet with wine.

'Do they fear you?'

'A little fear is good for a servant.'

'Do they love you?'

'I am not a man easy to love. My servants are content. They are free to leave my service whenever it pleases them so to do; they are not slaves.' He offered Sigarni some wine, but she refused and he poured water into a glazed goblet which he passed to her. They ate in silence, then Asmidir moved to the fireside, beckoning Sigarni to join him.

'Do you have no fear?' the black man asked, as she sat cross-legged before him.

'Of what?' she countered.

'Of life. Of death. Of me.'

'Why would I fear you?'

'Why would you not? When we met last year I was a stranger in your land. Black and fearsome," he said, widening his eyes and mimicking a snarl.

She laughed at him. 'You were never fearsome,' she said. 'Dangerous, yes. But never fearsome.'

'There is a difference?'

'Of course,' she told him, cocking her head to one side. 'I like dangerous men.'

He shook his head. 'You are incorrigible, Sigarni. The body of an angel and the mind of a whore.

Usually that is considered a wonderful combination. That is, if you are contemplating the life of a courtesan, a prostitute or a slut. Is that your ambition?'

Sigarni yawned theatrically. 'I think it is time to go home," she said, rising smoothly.

'Ah, I have offended you,' he said.

'Not at all,' she told him. 'But I expected better of you, Asmidir.'

'You should expect better of yourself, Sigarni. There are dark days looming. A leader is coming - a leader of noble blood. You will probably be called upon in those days to aid him. For you also boast the blood of Gandarin. Men will follow an angel or a saint, they will follow a despot and a villain. But they will follow a whore only to the bedchamber.'

Her face flushed with anger. 'I'll take sermons from a priest - not from a man who was happy to cavort with me throughout the spring and summer, and now seeks to belittle me. I am not some milkmaid or tavern wench. I am Sigarni of the Mountains. What I do is my affair. I used you for pleasure, I admit it freely. You are a fine lover; you have strength and finesse. And you used me.

That made it a balanced transaction, and neither of us was sullied by it. How dare you attempt to shame me?'

'Why would you see it as shame?' he countered. 'I am talking of perceptions - the perceptions of men. You think I look down upon you? I do not. I adore you. For your body andyour mind. Further, I am probably - as much as I am capable of it - a little in love with you. But this is not why I spoke in the way I did.'

'I don't care,' she told him. 'Goodbye.'

Sigarni strode from the room and out past the great bear. A servant pushed open the double doors and she walked down the steps into the courtyard. Lady came bounding towards her. Another servant, a slim dark-eyed young man, was waiting at the foot of the steps with Abby hooded upon his wrist.

Sigarni pulled on her hawking glove.

'You were waiting for me?' she asked the young man. He nodded. 'Why? I am usually here for hours.'

'The master said today would be a short visit,' he explained.

Sigarni untied the braces and slid the hood clear of Abby's eyes. The hawk looked around, them jumped to Sigarni's fist. When the huntress lifted her arm and called out 'Hai!', the hawk took off, heading south.

Sigarni flicked her fingers and Lady moved close to her side, awaiting instructions. 'What is your name?' she asked the servant, noting the sleekness of his skin and the taut muscles beneath his blue silk shirt. He shook his head and moved away from her.

Annoyed, the huntress walked from the old castle, crossing the rickety drawbridge and heading off into the woods. Her mood was dark and angry as she went. The mind of a whore, indeed. Her thoughts turned to Fell the Forester. Now there was a man who understood pleasure. She doubted if there was a single woman within a day's walk who hadn't succumbed to his advances. Did they call him a whore? No. It was 'Good old Fell, what a character, what a man!' Idiotic!

Asmidir's words rankled. She had thought him different, more ... intelligent? Yes. Instead he proved to be like most men, caught between a need for fornication and a love of sermonizing.

Abby soared above her, and Lady ran to the side of the trail, seeking out hares. Sigarni pushed thoughts of the black man from her mind and walked on in the dusk, coming at last to the final hillside and gazing down on her cabin. A light was showing at the window and this annoyed her, for she wished to be alone this evening. If it was that fool, Bernt, she would give him the sharp side of her tongue.

Walking into the yard, she whistled for Abby. The hawk came in low, then spread her wings and settled on Sigarni's glove. Feeding her a strip of meat she removed the hunting jesses; then carrying her to the bow perch, she attached the mews ties, and turned towards the cabin.

Lady moved to the side of the building, lying down beside the door with her head on her paws.

Sigarni pushed open the door.

Fell was sitting by the fire, eyes closed, his long legs stretched out before the blaze. It angered her that she could feel a sense of rising excitement at his presence. He looked just the same as on that last day, his long black hair sleek and glowing with health, swept back from his brow and held in place by a leather headband, his beard close-trimmed and as soft as fur. Sigarni took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

'What do you want here, Goat-brain?' she snapped.

Then she saw the blood.

*

There were wolves all around him, fangs bared, ready to rip and tear. A powerful beast leapt at him. Fell caught it by the throat, then spun on his heel hurling the creature into the pack. His limbs felt leaden, as if he were wading through water. The wolves blurred, shifting like smoke, becoming tall, fierce-eyed warriors holding knives of sharpened bronze. They moved in on him, smoothly, slowly. Fell's arms were paralyzed and he felt the first knife sink into his shoulder like a tongue of fire.. .

He opened his eyes. Sigarni was kneeling beside him with a needle in her hand, and he felt the flap of flesh on his shoulder drawn tight by the thread. Fell swore softly. 'Lie still,' she said and Fell obeyed her. His stomach felt uneasy. Snapping the thread with her teeth, she sat back.

'Looks like a sword cut.'

'Long knife,' he told her, taking a deep shuddering breath. He said no more for a while, resting his neck against the thick, cushioned hide of the chair's head-rest. Focusing his gaze on the far timbered wall he ran his eyes over the weapons hanging there - the long-handled broadsword with its leaf-shaped blade and hilt of leather, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows, the daggers and dirks and lastly the helm, with its crown and cheek-guards of black iron and the nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Not a speck of rust or tarnish showed on them.

'You keep your father' s weapons in good condition,' he said.

'That's what Gwal taught me,' she told him. 'Who gave you the wound?'

'We didn't exchange names. There were two of them. Robbed a pilgrim on the Low Trail. I tracked them to Mas Gryff.'

'Where are they now?'

'Oh, they're still there. I returned the money to the pilgrim and made a report to the Watch.' His face darkened. 'Bastards! You could almost feel their disappointment.' He shook his head. 'It won't be much longer, you know. They'll look for any excuse.'

'You've lost a lot of blood,' she said. 'I'll make some broth.'

He watched her move away, his eyes lingered on the sway of her hips. 'You're a beautiful woman, Sigarni. Never saw the like!'

'Look on and weep for all you've lost,' she said, before disappearing into the back room.

'Amen to that,' he whispered. Resting his head once more, he remembered the last parting two years before, Sigarni standing straight and tall and proud ... always so proud. Fell had walked across the glens to Cilfallen and paid bride-price for Gwendolyn. Sweet Gwen. In no way did she match the silver-haired woman he had left, save in one. Gwen could bear children, and a man needed sons. Ten months later Gwen was dead, the victim of a breech birth that killed both her and the infant.

Fell had buried them both in the Loda resting place on the western slope of High Druin.

Sigarni returned to his side. 'Flex the muscles of your arm,' she ordered.

He did so and winced. 'It's damned sore.'

'Good. I like to think of you in pain.'

'I buried my son, woman. I know what pain is. And I'd not wish it on a friend.'

'Neither would I,' she said. 'But you are no friend.'

'Your mood is foul,' he admonished her. 'Had a falling-out with your black man, have you?'

'Have you been spying on me Fell?' It irritated him that she did not deny the association.

'It is my work, Sigarni. I patrol the forest and I have seen you enter the castle, and I have seen you leave. How could you rut with such as he?'

She laughed then, and his anger rose. 'Asmidir is a better man than you, Fell. In everyway.' He wanted to strike her, to slap the smile from her face. But the growing nausea finally swamped him and with a groan he pushed himself from the chair, staggered to the door, and just made it to open ground before falling to earth and vomiting. Cold sweat shone upon his face in the moonlight, and he felt weak as a day-old calf as he struggled to rise. Sigarni appeared alongside him, taking his arm and looping it over her shoulder. 'Let's get you to bed,' she said, not unkindly.

Fell leaned in to her. The scent of her filled his nostrils. 'I loved you,' he said, as she half-carried him up the four steps to the doorway.

'You left me,' she said.

When he woke it was daylight, the rising sun shining through the open window. The sky was clear and Fell saw the hawk silhouetted briefly against the blue. With a groan he sat up. His shoulder was burning, and his ribs were badly bruised from the fight with the two Outland robbers.

Rising from the bed he moved to the window. Sigarni was standing in the sunlight, the hawk on her glove, the black hound lying at her feet. Fell's mouth was dry, and all his long-suppressed emotions surged to the surface. Of all the women he had known - and there had been many - he had loved only one. And in that moment he knew, with a sickening certainty, that it would always be thus. Oh, he would marry again, and he would have sons, but his heart would remain with this enigmatic mountain woman until the daggers of time stopped its beat.

Though still weak from loss of blood, Fell knew he could stay no longer in sight of Sigarni.

Gathering his cloak of black leather he pulled on his boots, took up his longbow and quiver and walked from the rear of the cabin, heading back on the long trail to Cilfallen. There was a maid there, of marriageable age, whose father had set a bride price Fell could afford.

*

'I hate this place,' said the Baron Ranulph Gottasson, leaning on the wide parapet and staring out over the distant mountains. Asmidir said nothing. It was cold up here on the Citadel's high walls, the wind hissing down from the north, cutting through the warmest clothes. But the Baron seemed not to notice the inclemency of the weather. He was dressed in a simple shirt of black silk and a sleeveless jerkin of the finest black leather. He wore no adornments, no silver enhancements to his black leather leggings, no chains or ornate discs attached to his knee-length boots. As Asmidir stood shivering on the battlements, the Baron turned his pale hooded eyes on the black man. 'Not like Kushir, eh? Too cold, too bleak. Ever wish you were back home?'

'Sometimes,' Asmidir admitted.

'So do I. What is there here for a man like me? Where is the glory?'

'The kingdom is at peace, my lord,' said Asmidir softly. 'Thanks mainly to your good self and the Earl of Jastey.'

The Baron's lips thinned, the hooded eyes narrowing. 'Don't speak his name in my presence! I never met a man so gifted with luck. All his victories were hollow. Tell me what he has ever done to match my conquest of Ligia? Twenty-five thousand warriors against my two legions. Yet we crushed them, and took their capital. What can he offer against that? The Siege of Catium. Pah!'

'Indeed, sir,' said Asmidir smoothly, 'your deeds will echo through the pages of history. Now I am sure you have more important matters to attend to, so how may I be of service to you?'

The Baron turned and beckoned Asmidir to follow him into a small study. The black man stared longingly at the cold and empty fireplace. Does the man not feel the cold, he wondered? The Baron seated himself at a desk of oak. 'I want the red hawk,' he said. 'There is a tourney in two months and the red hawk could win it for me. Name a price.'

'Would that I could sir. But I sold the hawk last autumn.'

The Baron swore. 'Who to? I'll buy it back.'

'I wouldn't know where to find the man, sir,' Asmidir lied smoothly. 'He came to my castle last year. He was a traveller, I believe, perhaps a pilgrim. But if I see him again I shall direct him to you.'

The Baron swore again, then lashed his fist against the desk-top.

'All right, that will be all,' he said at last.

Asmidir bowed and left the study. Descending the spiral staircase he moved down into the belly of the fortress, emerging into the long hall where the feast was in progress. Red-liveried servants were carrying platters of food and drink and more than two score of knights and their ladies were seated at the three main tables. Fires were blazing merrily at both ends of the hall and minstrels sat in the high gallery, their soft music drowned by the chatter of the guests.

Asmidir was not hungry. Swiftly he walked from the hall, and down the long stairs to the lower chambers and the double-doored exit. His thoughts were sombre as he recalled the Baron's words.

Asmidir remembered the conquest of Ligia, the battles and the massacres, the rapes and the mutilations, the torture and the destruction. A rich, independent nation brought to its knees, humiliated and beggared, its libraries burned, its holy places desecrated. Oh yes, Ranulph, history will long remember your bloody name! Asmidir shivered.

Revenge, so the proverb claimed, is a dish best served cold. Is that true, he wondered? Will there be any satisfaction in bringing the man down?

Wrapping his cloak more tightly about his broad shoulders, Asmidir left the fortress building and moved across the courtyard. A young man hailed him and he turned and smiled at the newcomer - a tall young man, slender and brown-eyed, his long blond hair drawn back from his brow and tied in a tight pony-tail. He was carrying an armful of rolled maps. 'Good afternoon, Leofric. You are missing the feast.'

'Yes, I know," said the other dolefully. 'But the Baron wants to study these maps. It doesn't pay to keep him waiting.'

'They look old.'

'They are. They were commissioned some two hundred years ago by the Highland King, Gandarin the First. Fine work, most of them. Beautifully crafted. The map-makers also had some method of judging the height of mountains. Did you know that High Druin is nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-two feet high? Do you think it could be true, or did someone just invent the figure?'

Asmidir shrugged. 'It sounds too precise to be an invention. Still, I am glad you are enjoying your work."

'I enjoy the detail,' said Leofric, chuckling. 'Not many do. It pleases me to know how many lances we have, and the state of our horses. I like working on projects like this. Did you know there are four hundred and twelve wagons employed around the Five Towns?' The young man laughed. 'Yes, I know, it is a little boring for most people. But you try to go on a campaign without wagons and the war is over before it begins.'

Asmidir chatted with the young man for several minutes, then bade him farewell and walked swiftly to the stable. The hostler bowed as he entered, then saddled the chestnut gelding. Asmidir gave the man a small silver coin.

'Thank you, sir,' he said, pocketing the coin with a swiftness that dazzled the eye.

Asmidir rode from the stable, through the portcullis gate and out into the wide streets of the town. He felt the eyes of the people upon him as he passed through the marketplace, and heard some children calling out names. A troop of soldiers marched past him and he pulled up his horse. The men were mercenaries; they looked weary, as if they had marched many miles. Leofric planning the logistics of war, more mercenaries arriving every day .. . The beast is not far off, thought Asmidir.

Passing through the north gate, Asmidir let the horse break into a run as it reached open ground.

He rode thus for a mile, then slowed the beast. The chestnut was powerful, a horse bred for stamina, and he was not even breathing hard when Asmidir reined him in. The black man patted the gelding's neck.

'The dreams of men are born in blood,' he said softly.

*

Fell was sitting by the roadside, catching his breath, when the small two-wheeled cart moved into sight. Two huge grey wolfhounds were harnessed to it, and a silver-haired man sat at the front with a long stick in his hands. Seeing the forester, the old man tapped his stick lightly on the flanks of the hounds. 'Hold up there, Shamol. Hold up, Cabris. Good day to you, woodsman!'

Fell smiled. 'By Heaven, Gwalch, you look ridiculous sitting in that contraption.'

'Whisht, boy, at my age I don't give a care to how I look,' said the old man. 'What matters is that I can travel as far as I like, without troubling my old bones.' Leaning forward, he peered at the forester. 'You look greyer than a winter sky, boy. Are you ailing?'

'Wounded. And I've shed some blood. I'll be fine. Just need a rest, is all.'

'Heading for Cilfallen?'

'Aye.'

'Then climb aboard, young man. My hounds can pull two as well as one. Good exercise for them.

We'll stop off at my cabin for a dram. That's what you need, take my word for it: a little of the water of life. And I promise not to tell your fortune.'

'You always tell my fortune - and it never makes good listening. But, just this once, I'll take you up on your offer. I'll ride that idiotic wagon. But I'll pray to all the gods I know that no one sees me on it. I'd never live it down.'

The old man chuckled and moved to his right, making room for the forester. Fell laid his long bow and quiver in the back and stepped aboard. 'Home now, hounds!' said Gwalch. The dogs lurched into the traces and the little cart jerked forward. Fell laughed aloud. 'I thought nothing would amuse me today,' he said.

'You shouldn't have gone to her, boy,' said Gwalch.

'No fortunes, you said!' the forester snapped.

'Pah! That's not telling your fortune; that's a comment on moments past. And you can put the black man from your mind, as well. He'll not win her. She belongs to the land, Fell. In some ways she is the land. Sigarni the Hawk Queen, the hope of the Highlands.' The old man shook his head, and then laughed, as if at some private jest. Fell clung to the side of the cart as it rattled and jolted, the wheels dropping into ruts in the trail, half tipping the vehicle.

'By Heaven, Gwalch, it is a most uncomfortable ride,' complained the forester.

'You think this is uncomfortable?' retorted the old man. 'Wait till we get to the top of my hill.

The hounds always break into a run for home. By Shemak's balls, boy, it'll turn your hair grey!'

The hounds toiled up the hill, pausing only briefly at the summit to catch their breaths. Then they moved on, rounding a last bend in the trail. Below them Gwalch's timber cabin came into sight and both dogs barked and began to run.

The cart bounced and lurched as the dogs gathered speed, faster and faster down the steep slope.

Fell could feel his heart pounding and his knuckles were white as he gripped the side rail. Ahead of them was a towering oak, the trunk directly in their path. 'The tree!' shouted Fell.

'I know!' answered Gwalch. 'Best to jump!'

'Jump?' echoed Fell, swinging to see the old man following his own advice. At the last moment the dogs swerved towards the cabin. The cart tipped suddenly and Fell was hurled head-first from it, missing the oak by inches. He hit the ground hard, with the wind blasted from his lungs.

Fell forced himself to his knees just as Gwalch came ambling over. 'Great fun, isn't it?' said the old man, stooping to take Fell by the arm and pull him to his feet.

Fell looked into Gwalch's twinkling brown eyes. 'You are insane, Gwalch! You always were.'

'Life is to be lived, boy. Without danger there is no life. Come and have a dram. We'll talk, you and I, of life and love, of dreams and glory. I'll tell you tales to fire your blood.'

Fell found his longbow and quiver, gathered the fallen arrows and followed the old man inside. It was a simple one-roomed dwelling with a bed in one corner, a stone-built hearth in the north wall, and a rough-hewn table and two bench seats in the centre. Three rugs, two of ox-skin, one of bear, covered the dirt floor, and the walls were decorated with various weapons - two longbows, horn-tipped, several swords and a double-edged claymore. A mail shirt was hanging on a hook beside the fire, its rings still gleaming, not a speck of rust upon it. On a shelf sat a helm of black iron, embossed with brass and copper. A battle-axe was hanging over the fireplace, double-headed and gleaming.

'Ready for war, eh, old man?' asked Fell as he sat down at the table. Gwalch smiled, and filled a clay cup with amber liquid from a jug.

'Always ready - though no longer up to it,' said the old man sadly. 'And that is a crying shame, for there's a war coming.'

'There's no war!' said Fell irritably. 'There's no excuse for one. The Highlands are peaceful. We pay our taxes. We keep the roads safe.'

Gwalch filled a second cup and drained it in a single swallow. 'Those Outland bastards don't need an excuse, Fell. And I can smell blood in the air. But that's for another day, and it is a little way off, so I won't let it spoil our drinking. So tell me, how did she look?'

'I don't want to talk about her.'

'Ah, but you do. She's filling your mind. Women are like that, bless them! I knew a girl once -

Maev, her name was. As bright and perfect a woman as ever walked the green hills. And hips! Oh, the sway of them! She moved in with a cattle-breeder from Gilcross. Eleven babies - and all survived to manhood. Now that-was a woman!'

'You should have married her yourself,' said Fell.

'I did,' said Gwalch. 'Two years we were together. Great years. All but wore me out, she did. But then I had my skull caved in during the Battle at Iron Bridge, and after that the Talent was on me. Couldn't look at a man or woman without knowing what was going on in their minds. Oh, Fell, you've no idea how irksome it is.' Gwalch sat down and filled his cup for a third time. 'To be lying on top of a beautiful woman, feeling her warmth and the soft silkiness of her; to be aflame with passion and to know she's thinking of a sick cow with a dropping milk yield!' the old man laughed.

Fell shook his head, and smiled. 'Is that true?'

'As true as I'm sitting here. I said to her one day, "Do you love me, woman?" she looked me in the eye and she said, "Of course I do." And do you know, she was thinking of the cattle-breeder she'd met at the Summer Games. And into her mind came the memory of a roll in the hay with him.'

'You must have thought of killing her," said Fell, embarrassed by the confession.

'Nah! Never was much of a lover. Roll on, roll off. She deserved a litde happiness. I've seen her now and again. He's long dead, of course, but she goes on. Rich, now. A widow of property.'

'Are all the weapons yours?' asked Fell, changing the subject.

'Aye, and all been used. I fought for the old King, when we almost won, and I fought alongside the young fool who walked us on to Golden Moor and extermination. Still don't know how I battled clear of that one. I was already nigh on fifty. I won't be so lucky in the next one — though we'll have a better leader.'

'Who?'

The old man touched his nose. 'Now's not the time, Fell. And if I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Anyway I'd sooner talk about women. So tell me about Sigarni. You know you want to. Or shall I tell you what you're thinking?'

'No!' said Fell sharply. 'Fill another cup and I'll talk - though only the gods know why. It doesn't help.' Accepting the drink he swallowed deeply, feeling the fiery liquid burn his throat.

'Son of a whore, Gwalch! Is this made of rat's piss?'

'Only a touch,' said the old man. 'Just for colour. Now go on.'

'Why her? That's the question I ask myself. I've had more than my fair share of beautiful women.

Why is it only she can fire my blood? Why?

'Because she's special.' Gwalch rose from the table and moved to the hearth. A fire had been expertly laid and he ignited his tinder-box, holding it below the cast-iron fire-dog until flames began to lick at the dry twigs at the base. Kneeling, he blew on the tongues of flame until the thicker pieces caught. Then he stood. 'Women like her are rare, born for greatness. They're not made to be wives, old before their time, with dry breasts drooping like hanged men. She's starlight where other women are candle flames. You understand? You should feel privileged for having bedded her. She has the gift, Fell. The gift of eternity. You know what that means?'

'I don't know what any of this means,' admitted the forester.

'It means she'll live for ever. In a thousand years men will speak her name.'

Fell lifted his cup and stared into the amber liquid. 'Drinking this rots the brain, old man.'

'Aye, maybe it does. But I know what I know, Fell. I know you'll live for her. And I know you'll die for her. Hold the right, Fell. Do it for me! And they'll fall on you with their swords of fire, and their lances of pain, and their arrows of farewell. Will you hold, Fell, when she asks you?' Gwalch leaned forward and laid his head on his arms. 'Will you hold, Fell?'

'You're drunk, my friend. You're talking gibberish.'

Gwalch looked up, his eyes bleary. 'I wish I was young again, Fell. I'd stand alongside you. By God, I'd even take that arrow for you!'

Fell rose unsteadily, then helped Gwalch to his feet, carefully steered the old man to the bed and laid him down. Returning to the fire, he stretched himself out on the bearskin rug and slept.

*

It was the closest Sigarni could come to flight. She stood naked on the high rock beside the falls and edged forward, her toes curling over the weather-beaten edge. Sixty feet below the waters of the pool churned as the falls thundered into it. The sun was strong on her back, the sky as blue as gem-stone. Sigarni raised her arms and launched her body forward. Straight as an arrow she dived, arms flung back for balance, and watched the pool roar up to meet her. Bringing her arms forward at the last moment she struck the water cleanly, making barely a splash. Down, down she sank until her hands touched the stone at the base of the pool spinning, she used her feet to propel her body upwards. Once more on the surface she swam with lazy grace to the south of the pool, where Lady anxiously waited. Hauling herself clear of the water, she sat on a flat rock and shook the water from her hair. The sound of the falls was muted here, and the sunlight was streaming through the long leaves of a willow, dappling the water with flecks of gold. It would be easy to believe the legends on a day like today, she thought. It seems perfectly natural that a king should have chosen this place to leave the world of men, and journey into the lands of heaven. She could almost see him wading out, then turning, his great sword in his bloodstained hand, the baying of the hounds and the guttural cries of the killers ringing in his ears. Then, as the warriors moved in for the kill, the flash of light and the opening Gateway.

All nonsense. The greatest King of the Highlands had been slain here. Sorain Ironhand, known also as Fingersteel. Last spring, during one of her dives, Sigarni's hands had touched a bone at the bottom of the pool. Bringing it to the surface she found it to be a shoulder-blade. For an hour or more she scoured the bottom of the pool. Then she found him, or rather what was left of his skeleton, held to the pool floor by heavy rocks. The right hand was missing, but there were rust-discoloured screw holes in the bones of the wrist, and the last red remnants of his iron hand close by.

No Gateway to Heaven - well, not for his body anyway. Just a lonely death, slain by lesser men.

Such is the fate of kings, she thought.

A light breeze touched her body and she shivered. 'Are you still here, Ironhand?' she asked aloud.

'Does your spirit haunt this place?'

'Only when the moon is full,' came a voice. Sigarni sprang to her feet and turned to see a tall man standing by the willow. He was leaning on a staff of oak, and smiling. Lady had ignored him and was still lying by the poolside, head on her paws. Sigarni reached down to where her clothes lay and drew her dagger from its sheath. 'Oh, you'll not need that, lady. I am no despoiler of women. I am merely a traveller who stopped for a drink of cool mountain water. My name is Loran.'

Leaning his staff against the tree he moved past her and knelt at the water's edge, pausing to stroke Lady's flanks before he drank.

'She doesn't... usually ... like strangers,' said Sigarni lamely.

'I have a way with animals.' He glanced up at her and gave a boyish grin. 'Perhaps you would feel more comfortable dressed.' He was a handsome man, slender and beardless, his hair corn-yellow, his eyes dark blue.

Sigarni decided that she liked his smile. 'Perhaps you would feel more comfortable undressed,' she said, her composure returning.

'Are you Loda people always so forward?' he asked her amiably.

Returning the knife to its sheath, she sat down. Lady stood and padded to her side. 'What clan are you?' she asked.

Tallides,' he told her.

'Are all Pallides men so bashful?'

He laughed, the sound rich and merry. 'No. But we're a gentle folk who need to be treated with care and patience. How far is it to Cilfallen?' He stood and moved to a fallen tree, brushing away the loose dirt before seating himself.

Sigarni reached for her leggings and climbed into them. 'Half a day,' she told him, 'due south.'

Her upper body was still damp and the white woollen shirt clung to her breasts. Belting on her dagger, she sat down once more. 'Why would a Pallides man be this far south?' she enquired.

'I am seeking Tovi Long-arm. I have a message from the Hunt Lord. Do you have a name, woman?"

'Yes.'

'Might I enquire what it is?'

'Sigarni.'

'Are you angry with me, Sigarni?' the words were softly spoken. She looked into his eyes and saw no hint of humour there. Yes, I am angry, she thought. Asmidir called me a whore, Fell left without a word of thanks or goodbye, and now this stranger had spurned her body. Of course I'm bloody angry!

'No,' she lied. He leaned back and stretched his arm along the tree trunk. Sigarni swept the dagger from the sheath, flipped the blade, then sent the weapon slashing through the air. It slammed into the trunk no more than two inches from his hand. Loran glanced down to see that the blade had cut cleanly through the head of a viper, the rest of its body was thrashing in its death throes. He drew back his hand.

'You are an impressive woman, Sigarni,' he said, reaching out and pulling clear the weapon. With one stroke he decapitated the snake, then cleaned the blade on the grass before returning it hilt first to the silver-haired huntress.

'I'll walk with you a-ways,' she said. 'I wouldn't want a Pallides man to get lost in the forest.'

'Impressive and blessed with kindness.'

Together they walked from the falls and up the main trail. The trees were thicker here, the leaves already beginning to turn to the burnished gold of autumn. 'Do you usually talk to ghosts?' asked Loran, as they walked.

'Ghosts?' she queried.

'Ironhand. You were talking to him when I arrived? Was that the magic pool where he crossed over?'

'Yes.'

'Do you believe the legend?'

'Why should I not?' she countered. 'No-one ever found a body, did they?'

He shrugged. 'He never came back either. But his life does make a wonderful story. The last great King before Gandarin. It is said he killed seven of the men sent to murder him. No mean feat for a wounded man.' Loran laughed. 'Maybe they were all stronger and tougher two hundred years ago.

That's what my grandfather told me, anyway. Days when men were men, he used to say. And he assured me that Ironhand was seven feet tall and his battle-axe weighed sixty pounds. I used to sit in my grandfather's kitchen and listen to the tallest stories, of dragons and witches, and heroes who stood a head and shoulders above other men. Anyone under six feet tall in those days was dubbed a dwarf, he told me. I believed it all. Never was a more gullible child.'

'Perhaps he was right,' said Sigarni. 'Maybe they were tougher.'

Loran nodded. 'It's possible, I suppose. But I was a Marshal at last year's games. The caber toss from Mereth Sharp-eye broke all records, and Mereth is only five inches above six feet tall. If they were all so strong and fast in those days, why do their records show them to be slower and less powerful than we are today?'

They crossed the last hill before Cilfallen and Sigarni paused. 'That is my home,' she said, pointing to the cabin by the stream. 'You need to follow this road south.'

He bowed and, taking her hand, kissed the palm. 'My thanks to you, Sigarni. You are a pleasant companion.'

She nodded. 'I fear you spurned the best of me,' she said, and was surprised to find herself able to smile at the memory.

Still holding to her hand he shook his head. 'I think no man has ever seen the best of you, woman.

Fare thee well!' Loran moved away, but Sigarni called out to him and he turned.

'In the old days,' she said, 'the Highland peoples were free, independent and unbroken. Perhaps that is what makes them seem stronger, more golden and defiant. Their power did not derive from a hurled caber, but a vanquished enemy. They may not have all been seven feet tall. Maybe they felt as if they were.'

He paused and considered her words. 'I would like to call upon you again,' he said, at last.

'Would I be welcome at your hearth?'

'Bring bread and salt, Pallides, and we shall see.'