The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER IV

AUTUMN WAS NOT far off, but here in the Highlands even the last days of summer were touched by a bitter cold that warned of the terrible winters that lay ahead. Two fires blazed at either end of the long hall, and even the heavy velvet curtains shimmered against the cold fingers of the biting wind that sought out the cracks and gaps in the old window frames.

Asmidir pushed away his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. 'You are a fine cook,' he told the dwarf. Two servants entered, lighting lanterns that hung in iron brackets on the walls, and the hall was filled with a soft glow.

'Can I go now?' asked Ballistar. The little man was sitting at the table, on a chair set upon blocks of wood.

'My dear fellow, of course you can go. But it is already becoming dark and your pony is bedded down for the night in a comfortable stall. I have had a room prepared for you. There is a warm fire there, and a soft bed. Tomorrow one of my servants will cook you a breakfast and saddle your pony. How does that sound?'

'That is wondrous kind,' said Ballistar uneasily, 'but I would like to be on my way.'

'You fear me?' asked Asmidir mildly.

'A little," admitted the dwarf.

'You think me a sorcerer. Yes I know. Sigarni told me. But I am not, Ballistar. I am merely a man.

Oh, I know a few spells. In Kushir all the children of the rich are taught to make fire from air, and some can even shape dancing figures from the flames. I am not one of those. I was a nobleman -

a warrior. Now I am a Highlander, albeit somewhat more dusky than most. And I would be your friend. I do not harm my friends, nor do I lie. Do you believe me?'

'What does it matter whether I believe you or not?' countered the dwarf. 'You will do as you wish.'

'It matters to me,' said Asmidir. 'In Kushir it was considered unacceptable for noblemen to lie.

It was one of the reasons the Outlanders - as you call them - defeated the armies of the Kushir King. The Outlanders kept lying: they signed treaties they had no intention of honouring, made peace, then invaded. They used spies and agents, filling Kushir soldiers with fear and trembling.

An appalling enemy with no sense of honour.'

'But you fought alongside them,' said Ballistar.

'Yes. It is a source of endless regret. Come, sit by the fire and we shall talk.' The black man rose and walked to the fireside, settling his long frame into a deep armchair of burnished leather. A servant appeared and drew back Ballistar's seat, allowing the little man to slide from his cushions to the floor. Asmidir watched as he climbed with difficulty into the opposite armchair, then, waving away the servant, he leaned forward. 'You treat your affliction with great courage, Ballistar. I respect that. Now what shall we speak of?'

'You could tell me why you served the Outlanders,' said the dwarf.

'Swift and to the point,' observed Asmidir, with an easy grin. 'It all came down to politics. My family were accused of treason by the Kushir King. He was hunting us down at the time the Outlanders invaded. My sister and my wife were executed by him, my father blinded and thrown into a dungeon. We have a saying in Kushir - the enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend. So I joined with the Outlanders.'

'And now you regret it?'

'Of course. There is no genuine satisfaction in revenge, Ballistar. All a man unleashes is a beast which will destroy even those he loves. Cities were laid waste, the people slaughtered or sold into slavery. A rich, cultured nation was set back two hundred years. And even when they had won, the slaughter continued. The Outlanders are a barbaric people, with no understanding of the simplest economic realities. The Kushir was rich because of trade and commerce. The lines of trade were severed, and treaties with friendly nations broken. There was a Great Library at Coshantin, the capital; the Outlanders burned it down.' Asmidir sighed and lifted an iron poker, idly stabbing at the burning logs.

'You grew to hate them?'

'Oh yes! Hatred as strong and tall as High Druin. But two men more than any other, the Baron Ranulph and the Earl of Jastey. The King himself is merely a merciless savage, holding power through ruthlessness and manipulation. The Baron and the Earl hold the balance of his power.'

'Why are you telling me this?' asked Ballistar. 'It is not wise.'

Asmidir smiled. 'It is a question of judgement, my friend. Do you trust Sigarni?'

'In what way?'

'Her instincts, her values, her courage ... whatever?'

'She is intelligent and does not suffer fools. What has this to do with anything?'

'She trusts you, Ballistar. Therefore so do I. And as for the risk... well, all life is a risk.

And time is running too short for me to remain conservative in my plans. Sigarni tells me you are a great storyteller, and somewhat of a historian. Tell me of the clans. Where are they from, how did they come here? Who are their heroes and why? What are their noble lines?'

'You are moving too fast for me,' said Ballistar. 'A moment ago we were talking of trust. Before that, revenge. Now you want a story. Tell me first your purpose.'

'A clear thinker ... I like that. Very well. First I shall tell you a story.' Asmidir clapped his hands and a servant came forward bearing a tray on which were two golden goblets filled with fine red wine. Ballistar accepted the first, holding it carefully in both hands. As the servant departed Asmidir sipped his drink, then set the goblet aside. Leaning back, he rested his head on the high back of the chair. 'With Kushir in ruins I went home to my palace. An old man, dressed in a cloak of feathers, was waiting for me there. His face was seamed with wrinkles and lines, his hair and beard so thin they appeared to be fashioned from the memory of wood-smoke. He was sitting on the steps before my door. A servant told me he had arrived an hour before, and refused to be moved; they tried to lay hands upon him, but could not approach him. Knowing him to be a wizard, they withdrew. I approached him and asked what he wanted. He stood and walked towards my home. The door opened for him, though there were no servants close, and he made his way to my study. Once there, he asked me what I felt about the destruction of my land and my part in it. I did not answer him, for my shame was too great. He said nothing for a moment, then he bade me sit and began to talk of history. It was fascinating, Ballistar. It was as if he had witnessed all the events himself. Perhaps he had. I don't know. He spoke of the growth of evil and how, like a plague, it spreads and destroys. It was vital, he said, that there should always be adequate counter-balances against the forces of wickedness.

'Yet he insisted, we had reached a period of history when there was no balance. The Outlanders and their allies were conquering all in their path. And those nations still resisting the advance of the Outlanders were doomed, for there were no great leaders among them. Then he told me of a conquered nation, and a commander yet to come. He said - and I believed him utterly - that here, in the north, I would find a prince of destiny, and from the ashes of Highland dreams would come a dynasty that would light our way forward into a better future. I came here with high hopes, Ballistar, and yet what do I find?

'There is no leader. There is no army. And in the spring the Outlanders will come here with fire and sword and exterminate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of peaceful farmers, cattle-men and villagers.' Asmidir threw a dry log to the dying blaze. 'I do not believe that the ancient one lied to me ... and I cannot accept that he might have been mistaken. Somewhere in these lands there is a man born to be King. I must find him before midwinter.'

Ballistar drained his wine. It was rich and heavy and he felt his head swimming. 'And you think my stories might help you?' he asked.

'They might provide me with a clue.'

'I don't see how. Legend has it that our ancestors passed through a magic Gateway, but I suspect our history is no different from other migrating peoples. We probably came from a land across the water, originally as raiders. Some of our people then grew to love the mountains, and sent back ships for their families. For centuries the clans warred upon one another, but then another migrating group arrived. They were called the Aenir, ancestors of the Outlanders. There was a great war. After that the clans formed a loose-knit confederacy.'

'But you had kings? From where did they come?'

'The first true King was Sorain, known as Ironhand. He was from the Wingoras, a mighty warrior.

Hundreds of years ago he led the clans against the Three Armies and destroyed them. Even the Lowland clans respected him, for he risked everything to free their towns. He vanished one day, but legend has it he will return when needed.'

Asmidir shook his head. 'I doubt that. Every nation I know of has a hero of myth, pledged to return. None of them do. Did he have heirs?' 'No. He had a child, but the babe disappeared - probably murdered and buried in the woods.'

'So what of the other kings?' enquired Asmidir.

'There was Gandarin, also known as the Crimson - another great warrior and statesman. He died too soon and his sons fought among themselves for the crown. Then the Outlanders invaded and the clans put on their red cloaks of war and were cut down on Golden Moor. That was years ago. The young King fled over the water, but he was murdered there. Anyone known to share the blood of Gandarin was also put to the sword. And the Wearing of the Crimson was banned. No Highlander can have even a scarf of that colour.'

'And there is no one left of his line?'

'As far as I know there is only Sigarni, and she is barren.'

Asmidir rubbed his tired eyes and tried to disguise the dejection he felt. 'He must be somewhere,'

he whispered, 'and he will need me. The ancient one made that clear to me.'

'He could have been wrong,' volunteered Ballistar. 'Even Gwalch is wrong sometimes.'

'Gwalch?'

'The Clan Gifted One. He used to be a warrior, but he was wounded in the head and after that he became a prophet of sorts. People tend to avoid him. His visions are all doom-filled and gloomy.

Maybe that's why he drinks so much!'

Asmidir's spirits lifted. 'Tell me where to find him,' he said.

*

Sigarni was angry with herself. Four times that morning she had flown Abby, and four times the red hawk had missed the kill. Abby was a little overweight, for there had been three days of solid rain and she had not flown, but even so she was acting sluggishly and the tourney was only two weeks away. Sigarni was angry because she didn't know what to do, and was loth to ask Asmidir.

Could Abby be ill? She didn't think so, for the bird was flying beautifully, folding her wings and diving, swooping, turning. Only at the point of the kill did she fail. The pattern with the red hawk was always the same - swoop over the hare, flick her talons, tumbling the prey, then fastening to it. Sigarni would run forward, covering the hare with her glove, then casting a piece of meat some distance from the hawk. The bird would glance at the titbit, then leave the gloved hare to be killed and bagged by Sigarni. But not today.

Sigarni lifted her arm and whistled for Abby. The hawk dived obediently from the high branch and landed on the outstretched fist, her cruel beak fastening to the tiny amount of meat Sigarni held between her fingers.

'What's wrong with you, Abby?' whispered Sigarni, stroking the bird's breast with a long pigeon feather. 'Are you sick?' The golden eyes, bright and impenetrable, looked into her own.

Returning to the cabin, Sigarni did not take Abby to her bow perch but carried her inside and sat her on the high back of a wooden chair. The cabin was cold and Sigarni lit a fire, banking up the logs and adding two large lumps of coal from the sack given to her by Asmidir. From the cupboard she took her scales, hooking them to a broad beam across the centre of the cabin. Fetching Abby, she weighed her. Two pounds seven ounces: five ounces above her perfect killing weight.

'What am I to do with you, beauty?' she asked softly, stroking the bird's^head and neck. 'To keep you obedient I must feed you, yet if you do not fly you get fat and lazy and are useless to me. If I starve you, all your training will disappear and I will be forced to start again as if it never was. Yet you are intelligent. I know this. Is your memory so short? Mmmm? Is that it, Abby?'

Sigarni sighed. Taking the hawk's hood from the pouch at her belt, she stroked it into place. Abby sat quietly, blind now, but trusting. Sigarni sat by the fire, tired and listless.

Lady scratched at the door and Sigarni opened it, allowing the hound to pad inside and stretch her lean black frame in front of the fire. 'I hope you've already eaten,' she told the hound, 'since we've caught nothing today.' Lady's tail beat against the floor and she tilted back her head, looking at Sigarni through one huge, brown eye. 'Yes,' said the woman, 'I don't doubt you have.

You're the best hare hound in the Highlands. You know that, don't you? Faster than the wind - though not as fast as Abby.'

The darkness was growing outside and Sigarni lit a small lamp which she hung over the fireplace.

Stretching out her legs, she removed her wet doeskin boots and her oiled leather troos. The warm air from the fire touched the bare skin of her legs and she shivered with pleasure. 'If only I wasn't hungry,' she said aloud, stripping off her buckskin shirt and tossing it to the floor. The fire crackled and grew, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the cabin.

'I have the bells of Hell clanging in my head,' said Gwalch, walking from the bedroom, clutching his temples.

'Then you shouldn't drink so much, Gwal,' she said, with a smile.

'All right for you but I..." He stopped as he saw her nakedness. 'Jarka's balls, woman! That's not decent!'

'You said you'd be gone, old fool. It would be decent enough were I alone!'

'Ah, well,' he said, with a broad grin, 'I think I might as well make the best of it.' Pulling up a chair, he gazed with honest admiration at her fire-lit form. 'Wonderful creatures, women,' he said. 'If God ever made anything more beautiful He has never shown it to me.'

'Since your eyes are standing now on reed stalks, I take it that you are a breast man,' she said, with a laugh. 'Now Fell is a legs and hips man. His eyes are naturally drawn to a woman's buttocks. Strange beasts, men. If God ever made anything more ludicrous She's never shown it to me.'

Gwalch leaned back and roared with laughter. 'Blasphemy and indecency in the same breath. By Heavens, Sigarni, there is no one like you. Now, for the sake of an old man's feelings, will you cover yourself?'

'Feel the blood rising, old man?'

'No, and that is depressing. Dress for me, child. There's a good girl.'

Sigarni did not argue, but slipped a buckskin shirt over her head. It was almost as long as a tunic and covered her to her thighs. 'Is that better, Gwal? You weren't so worried when I lived with you, and you bathed me and washed my hair.'

'You were a child and titless. And you were hurt, lass.'

'How do you kill a demon, Gwal?' she asked softly.

He scratched at the white stubble on his chin. 'Is there no food in this house? By God, a man could die of starvation visiting you.'

'There's a little cold stew, and a spare flagon of your honey spirit. It's too fiery for my taste.

You want that, or shall I heat up the stew?'

He gave a wicked grin and winked. 'No lass. Just fetch me a drop of the honeydew.'

'First a bargain.'

'No,' he said, his voice firm. 'I will tell you no more. Not yet. And if that means a dry night, then so be it.'

'When will you tell me?'

'Soon. Trust me.'

'Of all men I trust you most,' she said moving forward to kiss his brow. She fetched him the flagon and watched as he filled a clay cup. The liquid was thin and golden, and touched the throat like a flame. Gwalch drained the cup and leaned back with a sigh.

'Enough of this and a man would live for ever,' he said.

She shook her head. 'You are incorrigible. Do you know the legend of Ironhand?'

'Of course. Went through a Gateway, to return when we need him.'

'And will he return?'

'Yes. When the time is right.' He drank a second cup.

'That's not true, Gwalch. I found his bones.'

'Yes I know. Under several boulders in the pool of the falls. Why did you tell no one?'

Sigarni was surprised, though instantly she knew she should not have been. 'Why do you ask, when you already know the answer?' she countered.

'It is not polite to answer a question with a question, girl. You know that.'

'People need legends,' she told him. 'Who am I to rob them of their power? He was a great man, and it is nice for people to think that he actually managed to kill all the assassins, instead of being done to death by the murdering scum.'

'Oh, but he did kill them all! Seven of them, and him wounded unto death. Killed them, and their war-hounds. Then he sat by the pool, his strength fading. He was found by one of his retainers, a trusted man, loyal and steadfast. Ironhand told him to hide his body where none could find it until the chosen time. You see, he had the Gift. It came on him as he was dying. So the word went out that Ironhand had crossed the Gateway and would one day return. And so it will be.'

Gwalch filled a third cup and half drank it. Leaning forward, he placed the cup on the hearth-stone, then sank back, his breathing deepening.

'When will he come back, Gwalch?' whispered Sigarni.

'He already has once,' answered the old man, his voice slurring.

'On the night of the slaughter. It was he who killed the last demon.' The old man began to snore gently.

*

Fell loved the mountains, the high, lonely passes, the stands of pine and the sloping valleys, the snow-crowned peaks and the vast sweep of this harsh country. He stood now above the snow line on High Druin staring out to the north, the lands of the Pallides and further to the distant shimmering river that separated the Pallides clan from the quiet, grim men of the Farlain, This was a land that demanded much from a man. Farming was not easy here, for the winters were harsh beyond compare, the summers often wet and miserable, drowning the roots of most crops, bar oats which seemed to thrive in the Highlands. Cattle were bred in the valleys, hard, tough long-haired beasts with horns sweeping out, sharp as needles. Those horns needed to be sharp when the wolves came, or the black bears. And despite the long hair and the sturdiness of their powerful bodies, the vicious winters claimed a large percentage of the beasts - trapped in snow-drifts, or killed in falls from the icy ridges and steep rises.

It was no land for the weak of spirit, or the soft of body.

The cool dusk breeze brushed the skin of his face and he rubbed his chin. Soon he would let his close-cropped beard grow long, protecting his face and neck from the bitter bite of the winter winds.

Fell climbed on, traversing a treacherous ridge and climbing down towards the supply cave. He reached it just before nightfall. The flap which covered the narrow opening was rotting and he made a mental note to bring a new spread of canvas on his next visit. It wasn't much of a barrier, but it kept stray animals from using the cave as shelter, and on a cold night it helped to hold in the heat from the fire. The cave was d.eep, but narrow, and a rough-built hearth had been built some ten feet from the back wall below a natural chimney that filtered smoke up through the mountain. As was usual the fire was laid, ready for a traveller, with two flint rocks laid beside it. By the far wall was enough wood to keep a blaze burning for several nights. There was also a store cupboard containing oats and honey, and a small pot of salted beef. Alongside this were a dozen wax candles.

It was one of Fell's favourite places. Here, sitting quietly without interruption, he could think, or dream. Mostly he thought about his role as captain of the foresters; how best to patrol the forests and valleys, to cull the deer herds, and hunt the wolves. Tonight he wanted to dream, to sit idly in the cave and settle his spirit. Swiftly he lit a fire, then removed his cloak and pack and stood his longbow and quiver against the wall. From the pack he pulled a small pot and a sack of oats. When the fire had taken he placed the pot over it and made several trips outside, returning with handfuls of snow which he dropped into the pot. At last when there was enough water he added oats and a pinch of salt, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Fell preferred his porridge with honey, but he had brought none with him and was loth to raid the store. A man could never tell when he would need the provisions in the small store cupboard, and Fell did not want to be stuck on High Druin in the depths of winter, only to remember that on a calm night in late summer he had eaten the honey on a whim.

Instead he cooked his porridge unsweetened, then put it aside to cool.

Sigarni's face came unbidden to his mind and Fell swore softly. 'I must have sons,' he said aloud, surprised how defensive the words sounded.

'A man needs love also,' said a voice.

Fell's heart almost stopped beating. Leaping to his feet, he spun around. There was no one there.

The forester drew his double-edged hunting knife.

'You'll have no need of that, boy,' said the voice, this time coming from his left. Fell turned to see, sitting quietly by the fire, the oldest man he had ever seen, his face a maze of fire-lit wrinkles, his skin sagging grotesquely around the chin. He was wearing a tunic and leggings of green plaid, and a cloak that seemed to be fashioned from feathers of every kind, pigeon, hawk, sparrow, raven... Fell flicked a glance at the canvas flap over the doorway. It was still pegged in place.

'How did you get in here?' he asked.

'By another doorway, Fell. Come, sit with me.' The old man stretched out a fleshless arm and gestured to the forester to join him.

'Are you a ghost?'

The old man thought about it. 'An interesting question. I am due to die long before you were born.

So, in one sense, I suppose I am already dead. But no, I am not a spirit. I am flesh and blood, though there is precious little flesh left. I am Taliesen the druid.'

Fell moved to the fire and squatted down opposite the old man. He seemed harmless enough, and was carrying no weapon but, even so, Fell kept his dagger in his hand. 'How is it that you know me?' he asked.

'Your father gave me bread and salt the last time I came here, nineteen years ago, by your reckoning. You were six. You looked at my face and asked me why it no longer fit me.' The old man gave a dry chuckle. 'I do so love the young. Their questions are so deliciously impertinent.'

'I don't remember it.'

'It was the night of the twin moons. I had another man with me; he was tall and recklessly handsome, and he wore a shirt of buckskin emblazoned with a red hawk motif.'

'I do remember,' said Fell, surprised. 'His name was Caswallon and he sat with me and taught me how to whistle through my teeth.'

The old man's face showed a look of exasperation. He shook his head and whispered something that sounded to Fell like a curse. Then he looked up. 'It was a night when two moons appeared in the sky, and the Gateways of time shimmered open causing a minor earthquake and several avalanches.

But you remember it because you learned to whistle. Ah well, such, I fear, is the way of things.

Do you intend to share that porridge?'

'Such was not my intention,' said Fell testily, 'but since you remind me of my manners I am obliged to offer you some.'

'It never does a man harm to be reminded of his manners,' said Taliesen. Fell rose and fetched two wooden bowls from the cupboard. There was only one spoon, which he offered to the old man.

Taliesen ate slowly, then put aside his bowl half finished. 'I see you've lost the art of porridge in this time,' he said. 'Still, it will suffice to put a little energy into this old frame. Now ... to the matter at hand. How is Sigarni?'

'She is well, old man. How do you know her?'

Talisen smiled. 'I don't. Well, not exactly. My friend with the hawk shirt brought her to the people who raised her. He risked much to do so, but then he was an incautious man, and one ruled by an iron morality. Such men are dangerous friends, but they make even more deadly enemies.

Thankfully he was always more of a friend.'

'What do you mean brought her? She lived with her father and mother until...'

'The night of the slaughter... yes, yes, I know. But they were not her parents. Their child died in her cot. Sigarni was a... changeling.

But that is all beside the point. I take it the invasion is not under way yet? No, of course it isn't. I may be getting old, but I still have a certain Talent when it comes to Gateways. It is now six days from the end of summer, yes?'

'Four days, but you make no sense, old man,' said Fell, adding more wood to the fire. 'What invasion?'

'Four days? Mmmmm. Ah well, close enough,' said The old man, looking down at his gnarled hand and tapping his thumb to each of the fingers, as if working on some simple calculation. He stood and wandered to the doorway, pulling back the flap and looking up at the sky, scanning the bright stars. 'Ah yes,' he said, returning to the fire. 'Four days. Quite right. Now, what was your question? The invasion. Mmmm. Where to begin? The descendants of the Aenir, the conquerers of the Lowlands. What do you call them ... Outlanders? Yes, Outlanders. They will come in the spring with fire and sword. I know you suspect this already, young Fell. Still, that is not important at this moment, for we were speaking of Sigarni. Is she strong? Is she wilful and obstinate? Does she have a piercing stare that strikes fear into the hearts of strong men?'

Fell laughed suddenly. 'Yes, all of those.' His smile faded. 'But speak plainly, old man, for I wish to hear more of this invasion you speak of. Why would they invade?'

'Why indeed? What motivates the minds of evil men? Who can truly know, save another evil man. And, testy though I have been throughout my long life, I have never been evil, and therefore cannot answer your questions with any guarantee of accuracy. I can hazard a guess, however.'

'I never knew a man who could talk so long and say so little,' snapped Fell.

'Youth was always impatient,' Taliesen rebuked him mildly. 'There are two main reasons I can think of. One concerns a prophecy being talked of in the south, about a great leader who will rise among the peoples of the highlands. Prophecies of this nature are not usually welcomed by tyrants.

Secondly, and probably more important, is the fact that the Baron Ranulph Gottasson is ambitious.

He has two enemies, one is the King, and the other is the Earljastey. By raising an army in the Highlands he can make himself a power again in the capital - especially with a few victories to brag of.' - 'How can he achieve victories when there is no army to fight him?'

Taliesen smiled and shook his head. 'For that very reason, how can he not?'

'But there is no leader. God's teeth, this is insane!' 'Wrong again, boy. There is a leader. That is why I am here, sitting in this cold, inhospitable cave, with its dull company and worse porridge. There is a leader?

Fell stared at him. 'Me? You think it is me?

'Do I look like an idiot, boy? No, Fell, you are not the leader. You are brave and intelligent, and you will be loyal.' He chuckled. 'Butyou are not gifted to command armies. You have not the talent, nor the will, nor the blood.'

'Thank you for your honesty,' said Fell, feeling both aggrieved and relieved. 'Then who is it?'

'You will see. In three days, outside the walls of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.'

The old man stood and his joints cracked like dry twigs.

Fell rose also. 'If you are some sort of prophet, then you must know the outcome of the invasion. Will my people survive?'

'Some will, some won't. But it is not quite so simple, young man. There is only ever one past, but myriad futures, though sometimes the past can be another man's future. Now there is a riddle to spin your head like a top, eh?' The old man's features softened. 'I'm not trying to baffle you, Fell. But I have knowledge gained over twenty times your lifetime. I cannot impart it to you in the brief moment we have. Let us merely say that I know what should happen, and I know what could happen. I can therefore say with certainty what might happen. But never can I tell you what will happen!'

'Even Gwalch is more sure than that,' put in Fell, 'and he's drunk half the time.'

'Some events are set in stone, and a part of destiny,' agreed Taliesen, 'as you will see in three days at Citadel town. Others are more fluid.' He smiled. 'Don't even try to make sense of what I tell you. Just be close to Citadel town. And now I will show you something more memorable than teeth whistling. Watch carefully, Fell, for you will not see its like again.'

So saying, the old man walked towards the wall - and through it. Fell gasped, blinked, then pushed himself upright and ran to the wall.

It was solid rock.

But of the old man there was no sign. For a moment Fell stood there, his broad right hand resting on the rock. Then he turned and glanced back at the fire. It had died down. Adding more wood, he waited until the flames rose and flickered high, then settled down beside the fire. It was pitch-dark and icy cold outside the cave now, but he felt the heat from the blaze and was comfortable.

And as he dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep he heard again the words of the old man.

'Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sunyou mil see the birth of a legend.'

*

Will Stamper moved through the market crowds, scanning for signs of cut-purses or beggars. He had been Corporal of the Watch for two years now, and the burly soldier took his job very seriously.

Beside him the shorter Relph Wittersson munched on an apple.

'More people this year,' said Relph, tossing away the core. A mangy mongrel sniffed at it then moved away.

'Population's growing,' Will told him, stroking a broad finger under the chin strap of his iron helmet. 'All them new houses on East Street are sold now, and they're talking of building to the north. God knows why people want to come to this place.'

'You did,' Relph pointed out. Will nodded and was about to speak when he saw a small grey haired man in a duty brown tunic moving at the edge of the crowd. The man saw him at the same instant and swiftly darted down an alleyway.

'Alyn Shortblade,' said Will. Ill have the old bastard one of these days. What was I saying?"

'Can't remember, something about buildings going up and immigrants coming in,' answered Relph, pausing at a meat stall and helping himself to a salt beef sausage. The stall holder said nothing and looked away. Relph bit into the sausage. 'Not bad,' he said, 'but too much cereal. Shouldn't be allowed. Can't rightly call it a sausage if there's more bread than meat in it.'

The two moved slowly through Market Street, then down Baker's Alley and into the main square, where the tents and marquees were being erected ready for Tournament Day. The sound of hammers on nails filled the square as workmen continued to build the high banked seats for the nobles and their ladies and Will saw the slight, blond Lord Leofric directing operations. Beside him stood the Captain of the Watch. Will cursed softly. Relph tapped Will's arm.

'Let's go back through Market Street,' he advised. Will was about to agree when the Captain saw them. With an imperious flick of his finger he summoned them over. Will took a deep breath. He had no liking for the Captain, and worse, no respect. The man was a career soldier, but he cared nothing for the well being of his men.

Redgaer Kushir-bane, Knight of the Court, son of the Earl of Cordenia, did not wait for the soldiers to reach him. Arms clasped behind his back he strode towards them, his red beard jutting.

'Well?' he asked. 'Caught any cutpurses?'

'Not yet, sir,' said Will, giving the clenched fist salute.

'Hmmm. Nor will you if that stomach keeps spreading, man. I'll have no lard bellies under my command.'

'Yes, sir.' It was futile to offer any form of argument, as Will Stamper had long ago discovered to his cost. Happily for Will the Captain turned his attention to Relph.

'There is no shine to your buckle, man, and your helmet plume looks like it's been used to wipe a horse's arse. That's a five copper fine, and you will report to my adjutant for extra duty.'

'Yes, sir,' said Relph meekly.

'Well, get on with your rounds,' commanded Redgaer spinning on his heel, his red cloak swirling out.

'What a goat-brain,' whispered Relph. 'Yourplume looks like it's been used to wipe a hone's arse,'

he mimicked. 'More likely it was used to brush his tongue after he'd dropped on his knees to kiss the Baron's rear.' Will chuckled, and the two soldiers continued on their way through Tanner Street and back into the market.

'Whoa, look at that!' said Relph, pointing. Will saw the object of his attention and let out a low whistle. A tall woman was moving through the market, her hair shining silver despite her youth, and on her left fist sat a red hawk. 'Look at the legs on that girl, Will. All the way up to the neck. And what an arse, tight, firm. I tell you, I wouldn't crawl across her to get to you!"

'Bit thin for my taste,' said the older man, 'but she walks well, I'll say that. She's a Highlander.'

'How do you know? Just because she's wearing buckskins? Lot of Lowlanders wear buckskins.'

'Look at the way she moves,' said Will. 'Proud, arrogant. Nah ... Highlander. They're all like that. I see she's not wearing a marriage bangle.' As they watched they saw the hawk suddenly bait, wings flapping in panic. The woman calmed it, gently stroking its red head.

'She could stroke me like that,' said Relph. 'A bit lower down, though. Come on, let's talk to her.'

'What for?'

'I go off duty at dusk. You never know your luck.'

'I'll bet that five-copper fine that she's not interested.'

'And I'll bet you I'll spear her by midnight!'

'You arrogant son of a bitch,' said Will, with a smile. 'I'm going to enjoy watching you cut down to size.' The two soldiers angled through the crowd, coming alongside the woman as she stood by the dried fruit stall.

'Good morning miss,' said Will. 'That's a fine bird.'

The woman offered a fleeting smile. 'She hunts well,' was all she said, then she turned away.

'Are you from the Highlands?' asked Relph.

The woman swung back. 'I am. Why do you ask?'

'My friend here had a little bet with me. I said you were mountain bred, he insisted you were a Lowlander. I told him you could always tell a Highland woman.'

'Tell her what?' countered the woman, turning her pale gaze on the soldier.

'No ... I mean, recognize one. It's in the ... er walk. Tell me, are you ... er ... staying on in Citadel tonight? There are some fine places to dine, and I'd be honoured to escort you.'

'No, I am not staying on. Good day to you.' She walked on, but Relph hurried alongside, taking hold of her arm. This made the hawk bait once more.

'You don't know what you're missing, sweet-thing. It's never wise to turn down a good opportunity.'

'Oh, I never do that,' said the woman. 'Goodbye.'

She strode off leaving Relph red-faced. 'Ah,' said Will, 'the sound of five fresh copper coins jingling in my palm. I can almost hear it.'

Relph swore. 'Who does the bitch think she is?'

'I told you, she's a Highlander. As far as she is concerned you are an occupying enemy soldier.

And if she doesn't hate you - which she probably does - she despises you. Now let's move on, and you can figure out how to pay me.'

'How'd she get a hawk?' said Relph. 'I mean, a woman with a hawk. It's not proper. Maybe she stole it!'

'You can put that thought from your mind now, son,' said Will sternly. 'Just because a woman doesn't want to sleep with you, it doesn't mean you can just lock her up. I'll not have that kind of wrong-doing in my cells. Put it from your mind, and concentrate on the crowd. It'll be more than a five-copper fine if there's a purse cut while we're on duty. More like five lashes!'

'Yes,' said Relph. 'Plenty more sheep in the field anyway.' He laughed suddenly. 'Did you hear that Gryen picked up a dose of the clap from the whorehouse in North Street? His dick is covered in weeping sores. He's in a Hell of a state. They put bloody leeches on it! Can you imagine that?

Must be pretty small leeches, eh?'

'Serves him right,' said Will. He stopped outside the apothecary shop and stepped inside.

'What we looking for?' asked Relph.

'My youngest has the whooping-cough. Betsi asked me to pick up some herb syrup.'

'Always ailing, that boy, ever since the fever,' said Relph. 'You figure him to die?'

Will sighed. 'We lost two already, Relph. One in the plague back in Angosta, and the second when I was campaigning in Kushir. Yellow fever struck him down. I don't know whether the boy will survive or not. But he's a fighter, like his dad, so he's got an even chance.'

'You were lucky with Betsi,' said Relph, as Will waited for the apothecary to fill a small blue bottle with syrup. 'She's a good woman. Cooks up a fine stew, and your place is always so clean.

I'd bet you could eat off the floor and not pick up a scrap of dust. Good woman.'

'The best,' agreed Will. 'I think when summer comes I'll try to relocate down south. Her folks is back there and she misses them. Might do that.'

'There's a rumour we'll be campaigning in spring. You heard it?'

'There's always rumours, son. I don't worry about them. One of the reasons I came here was for the quiet. Betsi was always worried that I'd be killed in a battle. 'Ain't no battles here, so who are we going to campaign against?'

'The Captain was saying that the Highland clans were getting ready for war, attacking merchants and travellers.'

Will shook his head. 'It's not true. There was one attack, but the Foresters caught the men and killed them. They weren't Highlanders. No, I'm looking forward to summer, son. I'll take the family south.'

The apothecary handed over the bottle and Will gave him two copper coins.

Outside Relph tapped him on the arm. 'How come you pay? I don't. Bastard townies can afford to look after us. After all, we look after them.'

'I always pay my way,' said Will. 'It's an old habit.'

*

Grame the Smith delivered the Baron's grey stallions and left the Citadel. It had been no surprise when the Baron failed to pay for the work, and Grame had been expecting nothing more. He wandered through the town, and considered buying a meal at the Blue Duck tavern. Roast pork with crackling was a speciality there. Grame tapped his ample stomach. 'You're getting old and fat,' he told himself. There was a time when he'd been considered one of the handsomest men in Cilfallen, and he had grown used to the eyes of women lingering on him as he passed. They didn't linger much now.

His hair had long since departed his skull, and sprouted unattractively from his shoulders and back. He'd lost three front teeth and had his lips crushed at Golden Moor, the teeth smashed from his head by an iron club wielded by an Outland soldier. God, that hurt, he remembered. It was a kind of double pain. As he fell he knew his good looks were gone for ever.

Now he sported the bushiest white beard, with a long, drooping moustache to cover the mouth.

He reluctantly passed the Blue Duck and continued along Market Street, catching sight of Sigarni talking to two soldiers. The first was a tall man, middle-aged,with the look of the warrior about him. The second was smaller; this one took hold of Sigarni's arm, but she spoke to him and moved away. Grame saw the man's face turn crimson. The smith chuckled, and made his way to where Sigarni was standing before a knick-knack stall. She was examining a brass tail-bell.

'Good day to you,' said Grame. Sigarni gave him a friendly smile, but he saw her cast her eyes back towards where the two soldiers were standing.

'I'm thinking of buying Abby a bell,' she said. 'All the other hawks here have them.'

'For what purpose?' asked the smith, 'apart from the fact that all the others have them?'

Sigarni thought about it for a moment, then grinned. 'I don't know, Grame,' she admitted. 'But they are pretty, don't you think?'

Grame took the bell from her fingers and looked at it closely. They're well made,' he said, 'and they'd be silent in flight. Falconers use them to locate their birds. You can hear them when they land in a tree. Do you have trouble with Abby? Do you lose her?'

'Never.'

'Then you don't need a bell. What brings you to Citadel?"

'There is a hawking tourney, with a money prize of two gold guineas. I think Abby could win it.'

Grame scratched at his thick white beard. 'Maybe. It will depend on how they structure the contest. If obedience is marked highly you would have a good chance. But speed? The goshawk is lighter and faster than Abby.'

'You surprise me, Grame. I didn't know you understood falconry.'

'Had a gos myself once. Beautiful creature .. . but wilful. Lost her in the year before Golden. I take it you're trying to get Abby used to crowds before the tourney?'

'Yes,' answered Sigarni, stroking Abby's sleek head. 'They don't seem to bother her. She's baited a few times, but I think she'll perform well. I'll bring her again tomorrow.'

'Is there an entrance fee to this tournament?'

'Yes. One silver penny. I paid it this morning.' Sigarni's expression changed. 'The cleric had to get permission from the Captain of the Tourney to allow me to enter. He wasn't sure if women were permitted to take part.'

Grame chuckled. 'Well, it is unusual, girl. They don't understand that Highland women are ... shall we say different.'

'From what?' she countered.

'From their own timid females,' said Grame. 'Their women have no rights. When they marry, all their fortunes become the property of their husbands. They can be beaten, humiliated and cast aside, with no recourse to the law.'

'That is awful. Why do the women stand for it?'

Grame shrugged. 'Habit? God only knows. Their fathers choose their husbands, their husbands dominate their lives. It's a world ruled by men. So, the Captain of the Tourney allowed your entry? He must be an enlightened man.'

'He was fascinated by Abby. I could tell. He asked me where I got her, and how many kills she had.

That sort of thing. He said the Baron would be interested in her.'

Grame said nothing for a moment. Then, 'I'm not sure I like the sound of that, Sigarni.'

'Why?'

'You don't come to the Citadel much, do you?-No, of course you don't. You sell your skins to the tanner and the furrier, and you buy your supplies - what... three times a year?'

'Four times. What does that matter?'

'The Baron is a keen falconer. He will certainly be interested in Abby. He may want her for his own.'

'Well, he can't have her,' she said.

Grame smiled, but there was no humour in the expression. 'The Baron will have anything he desires.

He is the Lord here. My advice is to forget the tourney and take Abby back into the mountains.'

'I paid my silver penny!'

Grame reached into his pouch and produced a coin. 'I'll pay that-aye and gladly.'

'I don't want your money, Grame - though I thank you for the offer. You think he would steal her from me?' Grame nodded. 'But how could he do this. By what right?'

'Conquest. You are a clan-woman. You have no rights, save those he allows.'

Sigarni's face darkened. 'By God, that is wrong!'

'I don't doubt that by God it is wrong. But it is not God who makes the laws here; it is the Baron. I have some business here, but I will be ready to leave by dusk. My wagon is by the north wall, behind the armourer's shop. I'd be pleased to have the company, if you'd like a ride back to Cilfallen.'

'Yes, I would,' said Sigarni. 'I'll meet you there at dusk.'

*

Grame's words both irritated and upset Sigarni. She had wanted to compete, to show Abby's skills to a wider audience, to revel in their approbation. And she wanted to show that a woman could train a hawk as well as any man. Yet Grame was no fool. If he said she was in danger of losing Abby then she had to listen, and act accordingly. It was unfair, but then life was unfair. If not, then she would have loved Bernt, and he would still be alive.

Sigarni strolled through the crowds and on to Falcon Field, passing the rows of hutches containing the hares to be used in the falcon displays, snared over the past few days, the little beasts would be freed individually to dart and run across the field, seeking escape from the silent killers sent to despatch them. Abby's golden eyes focused on the cowering creatures. 'Not for you, pretty one,' said Sigarni. 'Not this time. No applause for my beautiful Abby.'

The cleric was still sitting at his desk on the outer edge of the field, and several falconers were waiting to sign their names, or make their marks on the broad ledger. A cadger had been set close by, hooded falcons sitting on the many perches. All were goshawks. Abby bridled and baited as she saw them, her wings flaring out. 'Hush, now,' whispered Sigarni. 'Best behaviour from you, sweet one.' Behind the cleric she saw the two soldiers who had spoken to her earlier. The big one was no problem, but the shorter man had mean eyes. Beyond them stood the Captain of the Tourney.

She could not remember his name, save that it began with Red, which matched his beard and his complexion.

Taking her place behind the men, she waited her turn. One of the falconers looked closely at Abby.

'Fine creature,' he said. 'Never thought to see another. Kushir bird, ain't she?'

'Yes.'

'Good killers. Not as fast as my own bird, but she'll come to call a damn sight faster.' Reaching out, he stroked Abby's chest with a broad forefinger. To Sigarni's annoyance Abby allowed this treatment, even seemed to enjoy it.

'Next!' called the cleric. He wa.s ginger-haired and Sigarni remembered him riding with an escort through Cilfallen, taking the census. What was his name? Andred? No ... Andolph.

The falconer signed his name, paid his silver, and moved away to the cadger to collect his bird.

Sigarni stepped forward and Andolph glanced up. 'Oh, 'tis you. You've already signed.'

'And now I wish to unsign. I cannot take part after all.'

'I see,' said Andolph, laying down his quill. 'I am afraid there are no allowances made for withdrawals. I take it you are seeking your money back?'

'Yes. Why pay for something I cannot do?"

'Why indeed? However, the rules are quite specific. If a falcon becomes ill, or the falconer fails to appear, then his entry fee is forfeit. You see it is the entry fee that creates the ultimate prize.'

'I only signed an hour ago,' she said, smiling sweetly. 'Can you not make an exception for a poor mountain girl?'

Andolph blushed. 'Well... as you say, it was only an hour since.' Reaching into the box at his left hand, he removed a silver penny and handed it to her. Abby baited once more and the little man dropped the coin in Sigarni's palm and snatched his hand away. 'I really don't like them,' he confided. 'I prefer the hares.'

'Hares were created for sport,' said Sigarni.

Four riders came galloping across the field, their horses' hooves drumming on the hard-packed clay. Abby fluffed up her feathers, but Sigarni held tightly to the flying jesses. The lead horseman, a man dressed all in black, dismounted from the grey stallion, tossing the reins to a second horseman. Sigami stood silently, for all the men were now waiting, stiff-backed. Even the little cleric had risen from his seat. This then, she knew, must be the Baron. Inwardly Sigarni cursed herself for bothering about the entry fee, for the man was staring intently at Abby. He was a tall man, with sleek black hair drawn back tightly over his brow and tied in a short pony-tail at the nape of his neck. He sported a thin, trident beard that gleamed as if oiled, and his eyes were large and wood-ash grey, hooded, and bulging from their sockets. His lips were thin, the mouth cruel, thought Sigarni.

'Where did you get the bird?' he asked, the voice so low that it was a moment before Sigarni realized he had spoken.

'A gift from a friend,' she answered him. The other riders dismounted and gathered in close.

Sigarni felt hemmed in, but she stood her ground.

'In return for some sexual favour, I don't doubt,' said the Baron, his tone bored. 'Ah well, I expect you are here to sell the creature. I'll give you ten guineas for it - assuming you haven't ruined it.'

'She is not ruined, my lord, and she is not for sale,' said Sigarni. 'I trained her myself, and was planning to enter the tourney with her.'

The Baron appeared not to notice she had spoken. Turning to the man behind him, he called out,

'Ten guineas, if you please, Leofric. I'll reimburse you later. And remind me to speak to the black man next time he visits the town.'

'Yes, my lord,' said the blond rider, fishing in his purse for coins.

Sigarni stepped back. 'She is not for sale,' she said, her voice louder than she intended. This time the Baron turned and for the first time looked into her eyes.

'You are a Highlander, aren't you?' he announced.

'I am.'

'There are no noble houses in the Highlands, merely a motley group of inbred savages scraping a living from the mountain-sides. The law is simple, woman. A yeoman may raise a goshawk. That is the only bird of prey allowed to those not of noble blood. The bird you hold is not a goshawk; therefore you cannot own the bird. Am I speaking too fast for you? Now take the money and hand the bird to my falconer.'

Sigarni knew that she should obey. It mattered not that it was unfair. Grame was right, the Baron was the law and to deny him would be futile. Yet something flickered deep within her, like the birth of a fire.

'I am of the blood of Gandarin the King,' she said, 'and the hawk is mine." Mine to keep, mine to free!' So saying, her arm swept up and she released the jesses. Surprised by the sudden movement Abby spread her wings and sailed into the air. Not even a glimmer of anger showed on the Baron's face. For several heartbeats no one moved, and all watched the hawk gliding up on the thermals.

Then, without speed, almost casually, the Baron's black-gloved fist cracked against the side of Sigarni's face. Half stunned, she staggered back. The Baron moved in. Sigarni lashed out with her foot, aiming for his groin, but her aim was out and she kicked him in the thigh. 'Hold her!' said the Baron. She found her arms pinned and recognized the soldiers who had first spoken to her in the market square. The Baron hit her in the stomach, and she doubled forward. His voice echoed through her pain; it was not a raised voice, nor did it contain a hint of emotion. 'Stupid woman,' he said. 'Now you have forfeited your right to the ten guineas. Any more stupidity and you will face the lash. You understand me? Call the bird!'

Sigarni looked up into the hooded eyes. Her mouth tasted of blood. 'Call him yourself,' she said, then spat full in his face. Blood and saliva dripped to his cheek. Taking a black handkerchief from the pocket of his tunic, he slowly wiped the offending drops from his face. 'You see,' he said to the gathered men, 'with what we are dealing? A people who have no understanding of law, or good manners. They are barbarians, without culture, without breeding.' His hand lashed out in a backward strike that cannoned his knuckles against Sigarni's right cheek. 'Call the bird!' he ordered. 'And if you spit at me again I will have your tongue cut out!'

Sigarni remained silent. The Baron turned to his falconer, a short, wide-shouldered Lowlander.

'Can you call it in?' he asked.

Ill do my best, my lord,' he answered, moving out on to the open ground with hawking glove aloft.

He gave a long, thin whistle. High above, Abby banked and folded her wings into a stoop to dive like an arrow. Some sixty feet from the ground her wings spread again and she levelled out. 'She's coming in, sir!' shouted the falconer.

The Baron turned back to Sigarni. 'Ten lashes for you, I think, and a night in the cells. Perhaps you will learn from the experience, though I doubt it. You Highlanders never were given to learning from your mistakes. It is what makes you what you are." Casually he struck her again, left and right, his arm rising and falling with a sickening lack of speed. Sigarni tried to roll her head with the blows, but the soldiers were holding hard to her arms.

And then it happened. No one watching quite understood why. Some blamed confusion in the mind of the hawk, others maintained the woman was a witch, the hawk her familiar. But Abby swept down, past the falconer's outstretched glove and straight towards Sigarni, talons extended for the landing. At that moment the Baron's fist came up to strike the woman again.

'The hawk, my lord!' shouted the falconer.

The Baron turned, arm still raised. Abby's razor-sharp talons tore into his face, hooking into the left eyebrow, raking down through the socket and tearing out his eye. He screamed as he fell back, the hawk still clinging to his face, her talons embedded in his left cheek. Abby's wings thrashed madly as she tried to free herself. The Baron's hands came up, grabbing the wings and ripping the bird clear. Blood gushed from the face wound. Staggering now he threw the bird to the ground, and Sigarni watched in horror as one of the riders drew a sword and hacked it through Abby's neck. The wings fluttered against the clay. Men gathered round the Baron, who had fallen to his knees, pressing the palm of his black glove against the now empty eye-socket.

The three riders who had arrived with him half carried him from the field.

The Captain of the Tourney moved in front of Sigarni. 'You'll suffer for that, bitch!' he told her. 'The Baron will have your eyes put out with hot coals, your hands and feet hacked off, and then you'll be hung outside the walls in an open cage for the crows to feast on you! But first you'll answer to me!'

Sigarni said nothing as she was dragged away by the soldiers. A crowd had gathered on the edge of the field, but she did not look at them. Holding her head high she stared impassively at the keep ahead, and the double doors of the outer wall. Abby was dead. Had she given her to the Baron, she would still be alive. She saw again the fluttering wings, and the iron sword cleaving down. Tears fell to her cheeks, the salt burning the cut under her eye.

The men marched her through the Citadel entrance and then turned left, cutting across the courtyard to a narrow door and a staircase leading down into the dark. Sigarni pulled back as the men tried to force her through. The soldier whose advances she had spurned struck her over the ear with his elbow. 'Git down there!" he hissed. She was propelled forward. The stairwell was dark, the stairs slippery. The soldier twisted her arm behind her back, the other man releasing his hold on her and moving ahead. For a short while they descended in total darkness, then the faint glow of a burning torch lit the bottom of the stairs and they emerged into a dungeon corridor. Two men were sitting at a table, playing dice. Both stood as the Captain strode into sight.

'Open a cell!' he ordered. The men hurried to obey.

Sigarni was still in a daze as they dragged her into the cell. It was large and grey, one wall wet with damp, and it stank of rats' droppings. There was a small cot in one corner, and there were rusted chains hanging from the walls.

'How do you like this, bitch?' sneered the red-bearded captain, moving in front of her. Sigarni did not reply. His hand reached out, cupping her breast and squeezing hard. She winced, then brought up her knee, hammering it into his groin. He groaned and fell back. The soldier to her right, the short man, punched her in the side of the head, and she was hurled across the cot.

'Strip her,' ordered the captain, 'and we'll see how much pleasure the whore can supply.'

Through her pain Sigarni heard the words, and the strength of panic surged through her. Launching herself from the cot she dived at the first soldier, but she was still groggy and he caught her by the hair. Hands grabbed at her body and she felt her leather leggings being dragged clear.

Torchlight glittered from the captain's dagger.

'I'm going to put my mark on you, woman. And I'll hear you beg and scream before this night is over.'