The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER V

GWALCHMAI WAS SITTING on the porch weeping when Asmidir rode up. As the black man climbed from the saddle and approached the old man, he could smell the fiery spirit on Gwalchmai's breath, and he saw the empty jug lying on its side. 'Where is Sigarni?' he asked.

The old man looked up, blinking. 'Suffering,' he said. 'She is the sword blade going through fire.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Why do we do it?' asked Gwal. 'What is it in our natures? When I was young we raided a Lowland village, stealing cattle. There was a young woman in a field. She had hidden in some bushes. But we found her. We raped her. It seemed good sport, and no harm done.' He shook his head. 'No harm done? Now that the Gift is upon me and I know the truth, I wonder if there will ever be forgiveness. Do you ever wonder that, Asmidir? Do you ever think of the Loabite woman you captured in the high mountains of Kushir? Do you lie awake at night and ask yourself why she slashed her wrists?'

Asmidir straightened as if struck, his dark eyes narrowing. 'You are the Gifted One?'

'Aye. That is my curse, black man. It is only marginally worse than yours.'

The sunlight was fading and Asmidir helped the old man to his feet, guiding him into the cabin where Lady was stretched out by the dying fire. Asmidir eased Gwalchmai into a chair, then sat opposite the man. Lady rose and put her head in Asmidir's lap, seeking a stroke. The black man idly patted her, rubbing his fingers behind her ears, and Lady's tail began to wag. 'I need your help,' Asmidir told Gwalchmai. 'I need to find a man.'

The old man leaned forward and gazed into the dying flames. 'No, you don't,' he said. 'On both counts. But I will help you, Asmidir. Oh yes, I will. First, however, tell me why are we such savages. Tell me that!'

'What do you want from me, Gifted One? The answers to questions we all know? We do what we do because we can. We hunt and kill because we can. That which is in our power belongs to us, to be used as we desire. Whether it be a round of meat, a wild-born stag, an ancient tree, or a beautiful woman. Now what is it you want to hear?'

Gwalchmai gave a long sigh, and rubbed at weary, bloodshot eyes with a gnarled hand. 'As we sit and speak,' he said, 'in the warmth of this cabin, there is a woman in a cell, being beaten, brutalized and raped by five men. She is bleeding, she is hurt. One of the five is a nobleman, but he is filled with a lust for inflicting pain. But the others are all ordinary men. Men like you and me, Asmidir. I can feel their thoughts, taste their emotions. By God, I can also sense their arousal! and I would like to kill them. But am I different? Was I different in that field? Were you different with the Loabite woman?'

'She was part of the spoils of war,' said Asmidir, 'and no, I do not lie awake at night and think of her. She was used. We are all used. She chose to kill herself. Her choice, Gifted One. But I have no time for these games, nor am I concerned about some whore in a prison cell. Do you know the name of the leader who is coming, or not?'

Gwalchmai swung round, his eyes bright and glittering. 'Yes, I know. I have always known. From the night when the Gate was opened, when Taliesen came to me, and brought me the child to raise.'

'And will you tell me?' asked Asmidir, masking his impatience.

'It is not a man.'

'You make no sense, you drunken old fool. What is it then ... a tree? A horse?'

'Are you so stupid that you cannot understand what has been said here?' asked Gwalchmai. 'Where are we, for God's sake? Can you not concentrate that fine mind for a moment?'

Asmidir sat back and took a deep breath. 'Humour me,' he said at last. 'Perhaps my mind is not as fine as you imagine.' But the old man said nothing and Asmidir took a deep breath. 'Very well, I will play this game. Where are we, you asked? We are in the Highlands, in the cabin of Sigarni the Huntress. And we have been talking about a woman in a cell..." He sat bolt upright. 'Sweet Heaven, Sigarni is in the cell?'

'Sigarni is in the cell,' echoed Gwalchmai, tossing a fresh log to the flames.

'Why?'

'The Baron desired her hawk. She refused to sell it. In the argument that followed the hawk tore out the Baron's left eye. Sigarni was dragged away.'

'But she lives. They have not killed her?'

'No, they have not killed her. But they are giving her scars she will carry all her life, and her pain will be visited a thousand times upon their countrymen.'

'What can I do? Tell me!' .

'You can wait here, with me. All your questions will be answered, Asmidir. Every one.'

*

Will Stamper sat in the Blue Duck tavern staring into the tankard. It was the fifth jug of ale he had consumed, and it could not deaden the shame he felt. Relph pushed through the crowd and sat opposite him, a bright smile on his face.

'Looks like I don't owe you that five coppers any more, eh? Told you I'd spear her by midnight.'

'Shut up, for God's sake!'

'What's wrong with you, Will? It were great, weren't it? Nothing like it! And you had your share.'

He chuckled. 'And the captain. Humping like a little bunny. Nice to know the nobles get boils on their arses, isn't it?'

Will lifted the tankard and half drained it. The ale was strong, and he felt his head swimming.

'I've never done that before,' he said. 'Never will again. I'm not going to wait for the summer.

I'm going south tomorrow. I'm finished here. Wish I'd never come.'

'You've got blood on your hand,' said Relph. 'Did she bite you?"

Will jerked and rubbed the dried blood on to his leather leggings. 'No. It's not my blood.' He bit his lip and looked away, but Relph saw the tears spilling to his cheeks.

'What's got into you? Is it the boy? He'll get over the whoop, Will. I'm sure he will. Come on, mate, this isn't like you at all. Here, let me get you another drink.' Relph stood, but Will reached out and took hold of his arm.

'It doesn't bother you, does it? She was screaming. She was cut, bitten, thrashed. It doesn't bother you?'

'It didn't bother you at the time, either. And no, why should it worry me? Worse'll happen to her tomorrow. At least she went out with a good rut, eh? Anyway, the captain told us to. So why not?

God's teeth, Will, she's only a whore. Whores were made for sport.'

Will released his hold and Relph moved back into the crowd. He gazed around him through bleary eyes, listening to the laughter of the revellers, and thought of Betsi; picturing her in that cell. Relph returned with two tankards. 'Here, get that down you, mate. You'll feel better.

There's a dice game back at the barracks at midnight. You fancy a bet?'

'No. I'll get home. Got to get Betsi to pack ready for tomorrow.'

'You're not thinking this through, Will. No one will be taking on mercenaries down south. What will you do?'

'I don't care.'

Relph leaned forward. 'You have to care, Will. You have a family to support, and a sick son. You can't go dragging them out into the countryside. It's not fair on them. Look, I don't know why this has got to you so bad. You stuck a few inches of gristle into a few soft warm places. Now you want to ruin your life and your family's lives. It don't make no sense. You get home and get a good night's sleep. It'll all look differentin the morning.'

Will shook his head. 'What will be different? I'm forty-two years old. I've lived my whole life by an iron set of rules which my dad beat into me. You ever heard me lie, Relph. You ever seen me steal?'

"No, you're a regular saint, mate. They ought to put up statues to you. But what's the point you're making?'

'I just betrayed everything I've lived for. Everything. What we did there was wrong. Worse than that, it was evil.'

'Now you're talking daft. What do you mean evil? She was a slag, and I'll bet she's been jumped before. What pigging difference does it make? She's dead anyway, come morning. You heard the captain, they're going to put out her eyes and hang her in the old cage. Bloody Hell, Will, you think what we done is any worse than that? Come on I'll walk you home. You look all in.'

Relph stood and helped Will to his feet. The big man staggered, then headed for the door.

'I should have stopped it,' mumbled Will. 'Not joined in. Oh God, what will I say to Betsi?'

'Nothing, mate. Nothing at all. You just go home, and you sleep.'

*

The relief guard was called Owen Hunter; the man he replaced told him of the sport he had missed.

Owen was a Lowlander, married to a harridan named Clorrie who made his life a misery. As he sat at the dungeon table in the flickering torchlight, he tried to remember the last time he had enjoyed a woman. It was more than three years - if you didn't count the alley whore.

He had smiled when the guard told him of the afternoon's entertainment, and even managed to say,

'That's life,' when the man pointed out that it should have been Owen's shift, except that the Lowlander had swapped it earlier that day.

But now, as he sat alone, he allowed his bitterness to rise. Of all the women to choose he had married Clorrie: sharp-tongued, mean-spirited Clorrie. Life's a bastard and no mistake, thought OwenNLike the other soldiers, he had heard of the incident when the Baron lost his eye. Even now the surgeons were at work in the upper room of the keep, plugging the wound and feeding the Baron expensive opiates.

There was no sound in the dungeon corridor, save for the occasional hiss from the torches. Owen stood and stretched his legs, remembering the last words of the man he replaced: 'What an arse on her! I tell you, Owen, she was a jump to remember.'

Owen lifted a torch from its bracket and walked past the four empty cells to the locked door.

Pulling open the grille he peered inside. There was no window to the cell and the torchlight did not pierce the gloom. Slipping the bolt, he opened the door. The woman was lying on the floor, her legs spread open. There was blood on her face and thighs, and one of her breasts was bleeding.

Owen moved closer. She was still unconscious. Despite the blood he could see that she was beautiful, her hair gleaming silver and red in the torchlight. His eyes scanned her body. Even the hair of her pubic mound was silver, he noticed. She was slim and tall, her breasts firm. Owen saw that one of her nipples was bleeding, a thin trickle of red still running down to her side.

Kneeling alongside her Owen ran his hand up her thigh, his fingers stroking the silver mound, his index finger slipping inside her.

He made his decision and rose, planting the torch in a wall bracket. Swiftly he stripped off his leather leggings and knelt between the open legs, pushing his hands under her thighs to draw her on to him. Why not, he thought? Everyone else has had their pleasure. Why not me?

Why shouldn't Owen Hunter have a little fun? His last sight was of the woman suddenly rearing up.

His own

hands were locked beneath her thighs, but he saw her right hand stab forward, felt the terrible pain as her first two fingers struck his eyes. Then all was pain and an explosion of light that was unbearable.

Sigarni dragged her fingers from the oozing sockets and groaned. Her ribs hurt, but that was as nothing compared with the pain within. She pushed the body of the guard from her, then rolled to her knees. Nausea rose in her throat and she vomited. Her head was pounding, her body begging her to lie down, to rest, to heal. Instead she forced herself to her feet. The guard began to moan.

Dropping to her knees she pulled his dagger from his belt and plunged it through the nape of his neck. His legs spasmed, one foot striking the narrow cot. Blood filled the man's throat and he began to choke. Dragging the dagger clear she held the point over the centre of his back and threw her weight down upon it. The blade slid between his ribs, skewering the lungs. Now he was still. A pool of urine spread out from beneath him. Sigarni stood again, then sat on the cot looking round the cell, taking in every block and stone, every rat-hole. Her leggings had been thrown into a corner. Retrieving them, she dressed. The cord of the waist had been cut. Dragging the guard's belt clear, she pierced a new buckle hole in the leather and strapped it to her waist.

Everything hurt. Her lips were swollen, her cheek cut and bruised. There was a knife-cut in her right buttock and another on her left thigh. The guard moaned again. Sigarni could not believe the man could still be alive. Taking hold of the jutting knife with both hands she wrenched it clear of his back, then knelt forward to slice the razor-sharp blade across his throat. Blood gushed to the stone floor. Grabbing him by the shoulders she rolled him to his back, slashing the sharp blade again and again across his lower body. At last, exhausted, she stopped, her hands drenched in blood.

'You've got to get out of here,' she told herself. 'You've got to find them.' She had feigned unconsciousness at the end, even when two of them had stood and urinated over her. She had heard the small man, Relph, talking about the Blue Duck tavern. She knew it - it was close to Market Street.

Knife in hand, Sigarni walked from the cell and out into the dungeon corridor. Her legs had no strength, and she fell to her knees and vomited once more. 'Don't be weak,' she scolded herself. 'You are Sigarni the Huntress. You are strong.'

Rising unsteadily, she managed to reach the stairs and started to climb up into the darkness. Halfway up she heard footfalls. Pushing herself back against the wall she waited. Then a man called out from some distance above, 'Hey Owen, I was on my way home when I thought it would be worth a second tilt at the bitch. You fancy a double, eh?'

From out of the darkness he appeared, a looming shape with a protruding belly. Sigarni rammed the blade into that belly, ripping it up towards the heart. He grunted and fell back to the stairs.

'Oh God! Oh God!' he screamed. Sigarni pulled the blade clear and stepped in close.

'You want to ride double with me, Outlander? You want to enjoy Sigarni?'

'Oh, please! Don't kill me!'

'You left teeth marks in my breast, you fat bastard. Now bite on this!' The knife slid between his teeth and Sigarni slammed ithome to the hilt. His fat arms began to flail, but she knelt on his chest and cut his throat. Only when he was still did she mutilate him in the same way she had the first guard. Slowly she climbed the stairs, pushing open the door at the top. The courtyard was moonlit and deserted, save for a sentry sitting under the arch. He was facing out into the town.

Sigarni stepped into the open air and walked across to the arch.

The sentry was not even aware of dying...

Blood-drenched and weak, Sigarni moved on into the silent town.

*

Abby was dead - killed trying to save her. And I am dead, she thought. They will kill me, for I have not the strength to find them all. Somehow the thought of dying held no fear for her. All that kept her moving on tottering feet was the need for vengence, a need as old as the Highlands themselves. Clan laws were not subtle, precedents were rarely cited, and there were no glib-tongued lawyers to represent the factions. Wrongdoers were punished by those they had wronged, or in the case of murder were hunted down by clan warriors selected by the Hunt Lord. Justice was sudden, harsh and final.

But Sigarni had no family, save old Gwal who had raised her after the Slaughter. There were no men to seek blood revenge.

Only me, she thought. Only Sigarni. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered to the street. Stopping, she picked it up, then fell heavily. 'Damn!' she whispered. Twisting round, she sat for a while with her back against a cool stone wall. The stars were bright, the night cool with the promise of autumn. Some distance away she could hear the sound of revellers, and knew she was close to the Blue Duck tavern. What will you do, she wondered? Walk in, covered in blood, and move from table to table until you see them? What kind of a plan is that? And if you wait past the dawn they will find you anyway, and drag you back to that cell, and who knows what torture. Are you mad, girl? Leave this place. Get back into the Highlands were you can gather your strength.

Two of them are dead, she told herself. One more, at least, is in the tavern.

One more ...

Forcing herself to her feet Sigarni groaned. Blood was trickling down her leg. She licked her lips with a dry tongue and tried to blank out the pain.

Women are made for sport.

The words flashed back into her memory. The short soldier had said them at some point during her ordeal. Laughter had followed his words, then more pain. Suddenly she remembered the little Census Taker and his revulsion and fear as Abby pecked at him. What was it he had said: 'I prefer the hares'? Hares are made for sport, Sigarni had told him.

Everything is made for sport, she realized, in a world ruled by Outlanders.

The rest had given her fresh strength and she walked on.

The Blue Duck tavern was an old building with frayed timbers and white walls. There were four windows on the ground floor, two either side of the old oak door.One of the windows was open and through it she could hear the sounds of the drinkers. Moving to the wall beside it, she glanced in. The place was packed and her keen eyes scanned the faces within. There were none she recognized, but then she could see only a section of the crowd. Dropping to her knees she crawled under the window, then rose and glanced in from the new angle. Two men were walking towards the door. Her heart, and her anger, lifted. Transferring the knife to her left hand, she wiped the sweat from her right, rubbing the palm down her leggings.

The door opened. 'That's it, Will, one foot in front of the other. That's the way to go, son.'

'Shut the bloody door!' said someone inside. Relph pulled shut the door as Will Stamper leaned against the wall.

'Be right with you, mate, but I've got to piss,' said Relph, opening the front of his leggings and urinating against the wall. Sigarni moved silently alongside the drunken Will and sliced the knife back across his throat. The skin flapped open, blood bubbling clear. Then she ran forward and plunged the blade into Relph's back. He reared up and grabbing his hair, she rammed his head against the wall. Falling to his knees Relph struggled to turn. Wrenching the knife clear Sigarni, still holding to his hair, dragged his head back to expose his throat.

'Women are made for sport,' said Sigarni, slashing open his jugular. Relph fell back, his arms and legs thrashing. Sigarni stepped clear and moved to where Will stood leaning against the wall, his blood gushing over the front of his tunic. Slowly he toppled to his knees and looked up at her. There was no hatred in his gaze, and no fear. He tried to speak, but could only mouth two words. Sigarni almost laughed.

Then she leaned back and kicked him in the head and his body fell to the stones.

Only one more now, she thought. The captain.

But where would he be?

Are you insane, woman! came a voice inside her mind. Leave now!

'No!' she said aloud. 'I'il find him.'

'Leave and he 'II find you. I promise you! Stay and you will die and he will live. I promise you that too!'

'Who are you? Where are you?' she asked, spinning round and scanning the shadows.

I am with you, girl, and I want your trust. Leave now. Believe me, you won't like being dead. I know, I've tried it. Now go!'

Confused, Sigarni obeyed, cutting down through an alley towards the North Gate.

The bastards have unhinged my mind, she thought. Now I am hearing ghost voices.

From the citadel keep came the sound of clanging alarm bells.

I'll never get out now, she thought.

'Yes, you will' said the voice. 'Your people need you.'

*

Baron Ranulph Gottasson groaned. The pain had moved beyond pleasure to a burning point of agony that bordered on the exquisite.

Narcotics flowed in his blood, and his waking dreams were vivid. He saw again the fall of the Kushite cities, refugees running panic-stricken from their burning homes, heard again the wailing of the soon-to-die, the piercing screams of city dwellers staring into the brutal faces of the conquering soldiers, feeling the cold bite of their blades into soft, yielding flesh.

Days of blood and glory, marching his men across inhospitable deserts, iron mountains and lush foreign plains.

And then it was over. No one left to conquer.

At first it had not seemed so onerous: the triumphant return to the capital, the cheering crowds choking the streets, the nights of celebration at the palace, the orgies... The Baron groaned again. He felt someone lift his head, and a cold metal goblet was placed against his lips. He swallowed and sank back.

Then had come the day when the organization of the empire was re-shaped. Plessius was made Governor General of Kushir and the east - a bumbling fool of a man with not an ounce of ambition in his fat head. A hardly surprising choice to rule a land three thousand leagues from the capital. The King had chosen wisely; there would be no rebellion from that quarter. Ranulph had let it be known he desired the north. There was nothing here of any worth, save cattle and timber.

The climate was harsh in winter, perversely changeable in what passed for summer. A little coal was being mined, but there were no deposits of gold or silver, nor even iron. The people were poor and defeated.

Ranulph had waited for his appointment, sure in the knowledge that he would be offered anything but the north. The King possessed a mind of astonishing cunning, and would never offer any general the true object of his desires.

Ranulph's mind swam on a sea of delicious pain ...

He had a spy in Jastey's household, and knew well that the Earl desired the west. Seventeen rich cities, scores of mines, seven ports, and a thriving commercial network. Together they created the perfect foundation for an assault on the King. Wealth to buy mercenaries, ships to ferry armies and keep them supplied.

Oh, how Ranulph had laughed when Jastey had been made High Sheriff of the Capital. Despite being a position of great influence, bringing immense wealth, it meant that Jastey was always at court and close to the King.

But Jastey's handsome face had worn a smile the following day, when Ranulph had been summoned to the palace. The memory brought a fresh spasm of agony. Ranulph had walked down the long aisle in the Chapel of the Blessed Blade, to where the King waited with his courtiers around him, Jastey at his right hand. Ranulph knelt before his sovereign, then gazed up into the dark, reptilian eyes.

'It is reported to me that you desire to govern the north, my good and dear friend,' said the King. 'Your services to the kingdom merit great rewards, and I can think of no greater reward than to bestow upon you that which you most desire. Rise, Baron Ranulph Gottasson, Earl of the North, Governor General of the Highlands.'

To his amazement Ranulph had managed a smile. It did not match the grin on Jastey's face. The west had gone to the King's new favourite, Estelm.

The feast which followed had been bitter hard for the new Baron. The King seated him next to Jastey, and that alone made the food taste of bile and ash."

'My congratulations, Ranulph,' said the Earl. 'I know we do not see eye to eye on many issues, but I would like you to know that I argued most strongly for you to be given the north. I thought it would perhaps ease the animosity between us.'

Ranulph looked into the man's dark eyes and saw the humour glinting there. 'Animosity, cousin?

Surely not. Friendly rivalry would be more apt, I believe?'

'Perhaps,' agreed Jastey. 'However, that should now be behind us. You have your own kingdom, as it were, while I must remain in the capital making laws, sitting in judgement, surrounded by clerics.

Ah, how I envy you!'

Ranulph smiled, and pictured sliding a red-hot dagger into Jastey's belly.

Returning to his town house he had walked into his library and stood gazing at the map stretched out on the far wall. The empire filled it, from ocean to ocean. Ranulph's mouth was dry, his hands trembling with suppressed tension. The skin of his back and buttocks was still tender, but he knew that he needed the release of the whip. Summoning a servant, he ordered him to fetch Koris.

The man's face paled. 'I am sorry, my lord, but Koris packed his belongings and left this morning.'

'Left? What do you mean left?'

The servant swallowed hard. 'He has taken up a new ... appointment... lord.'

The shock hit him like ice upon hot skin. Koris, whom he had trusted above all men, and loved better than any woman. And he knew, without a shred of doubt, where the boy's appointment had taken him.

Jastey!

Dismissing the servant, the Baron moved to the window, opening it wide and breathing in the cold night air.

'I don't want to go north, Ranulph. It's cold there - and there are no amusements.'

'We will not be going north, sweet bay.'

'But isn't that what you want?'

'Be patient and all mil be revealed.'

'You don't trust me!'

'Of course I trust you. Now don't sulk! I hate that.'

And he had explained his plans, talked of his dreams, secure in the knowledge that he was with the one person in all the empire who loved him.

Two nights later, bound, gagged and hooded, Koris had been carried down to the secret room below the town house. Ranulph had his arms tied to posts, his legs chained to the wall. Dismissing the soldiers who had brought him, he pulled the hood clear of the boy's beautiful face.

'Oh, Ranulph, please God, don't hurt me!'

The Baron drew his dagger and pushed the blade into a brazier of hot coals. 'While the blade heats,' he said softly, "we will talk of love and trust.'

Semi-conscious now, the Baron felt the terrible stabs of fire in his eye socket, lancing their way through the opiates in his blood. Koris had been allowed no opiates throughout that long, long night.

*

Kollarin the Finder was comfortably asleep between the two whores when he heard the frenzied hammering at the tavern door below his room. He yawned and stretched, his right arm touching the fleshy shoulder of the plump young woman on his right. She moaned softly and turned over. The slender girl to his left awoke. 'What is happening?' she asked, sleepily.

Kollarin sat up. The room was cold, the fire long dead. 'I don't know, but someone is anxious to get in,' he said. He heard the innkeeper tramping down the stairs, cursing as he moved.

'All right! all right, I'm coming, damn you!'

The sound of bolts being drawn back drifted up to the room and Kollarin heard his name mentioned.

Now it was his turn to curse. Clambering over the slender whore he grabbed his leggings and began to climb into them. Just then the door opened and a soldier entered.

'We need you, Finder,' said Captain Redgaer Kushir-bane. 'There has been an attack on the Citadel cells.'

The fat whore woke with a start and screamed. Kollarin's head was pounding. 'Be quiet, please!' he said, squeezing shut his eyes. 'My head is splitting.'

'Why is he here?' she asked, drawing the blanket over her large breasts. Kollarin smiled at this show of shyness. 'Employment, my pretty,' he said. 'This gentleman has come to offer me coin, with which to pay for your expert services. Now go back to sleep.' Kollarin continued to dress, pulling on a pair of brown leather boots over his green leggings. His shirt was of wool, dyed dark green, and over this he donned a sleeveless leather jerkin lined with fleece.

Moving past the captain, he descended the stairs. Two soldiers were idling there and the innkeeper was standing by, his expression cold.

'I must apologize,' said Kollarin, 'for the ruination of your rest, my friend. It appears there has been an emergency of some kind. I am sure the captain will reimburse you.'

'Fat chance of that,' snapped the innkeeper, walking to the door and holding it open.

Out in the street Redgaer started to explain, but Kollarin cut him short. 'No need for words, captain. Merely take me to the scene.'

They moved swiftly through the town up the short hill to the arched gateway where a corpse lay on the cold stone. Kollarin knelt beside the body, laying his right hand just above the gaping wound in the man's neck. 'This is not where it began,' he said, and rose to walk across the moonlit courtyard to the dungeon stairs. Here was a second corpse. Kollarin paused, laid his hand on the man's head, then walked on.

The soldiers and the captain trooped after him and Kollarin entered the small dungeon. On the floor was the last corpse. Kollarin stood for a moment staring down at the man. He had been castrated, and then the genitalia had been pushed into his open mouth. Kneeling beside him, Kollarin touched his hand to the cold stone floor and closed his eyes. Images poured into his mind. He let them flow for a few seconds, then closed them off. Remaining where he was for a moment more, he gathered his thoughts and rose, turning to face the captain. 'What do you wish to know?' he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

'How many were involved in the attack? Where are they now?'

'There was no attack, captain,' said Kollarin softly. 'The raped woman lay where this man is now, pretending to be unconscious. When he too desired a piece of the vile action she stabbed out his eyes - as you can see.' The captain did not look down. 'She used her fingers. Then she took his dagger and killed him with it. She was in great pain herself at the time - but then you know that.' Kollarin turned. 'She fell to her knees and vomited there, then sat for a moment or two upon the cot.' Moving past the captain he stepped out into the dungeon corridor. 'Still holding the dagger she made for the stairs. The other guard was returning. He said something, but it is unclear to me. She killed him, then made her way up the stairs.' Kollarin followed in her footsteps and found a smear of blood upon the stairwell wall. Touching his ringers to it he closed his eyes once more. The captain and the soldiers were pressing in close. 'Ah yes,' said Kollarin.

'Here she paused for a moment. She is thinking of three men, two soldiers... and you, captain. She has decided to seek them out and kill them. But she is weak, and bleeding. She castrates this guard too, but has little energy to spare. She is thinking of a tavern, trying to remember where it is. She has heard the men speak of spending the evening there.'

'The Blue Duck!' said one of the soldiers.

'And that's where she is heading?' asked Redgaer. Kollarin nodded.

Was heading, captain. This was some while ago.'

Redgaer Kushir-bane pushed past the Finder and ran up the stairs, the soldiers pounding after him.

Kollarin followed. The four men ran through the streets, arriving at the Blue Duck tavern in time to see the crowd gathered around the bodies of the two soldiers. Kollarin pushed through and squatted down by the bodies.

'When did this happen?' he heard Redgaer demand.

'Moments ago,' said a voice. 'It was a woman. We saw her making off.'

Kollarin touched his hand to the blood on the dead Will Stamper's throat. Then he jerked and almost fell. A voice boomed into his mind. 'Delay them!' It was not a command, nor yet a plea.

Kollarin was surprised, but not shocked. Spirits of the dead had spoken to him before. Yet none had been as powerful as this one. For one fleeting moment he saw a face, hawk-nosed, with deep-set grey eyes and a beard of bright silver. Then the face faded. Kollarin remained where he was for a few seconds more, gathering his thoughts. He was a Hunter, a Finder. His reputation was second to none, and he valued this above all else. Kollarin never failed. He had trailed killers and thieves, robbers and rapists, cattle thieves and assassins. Never before had he been asked to hunt down an innocent woman, brutalized by her captors. Never before had a long-dead spirit interceded on behalf of a victim.

Kollarin rose and stretched his back.

'Where is she heading, man?' demanded Redgaer.

'I can't say,' said the Finder. 'Her mind was very confused at this point.'

'Can't say?' sneered Redgaer. 'It's what you are paid for, man.' Kollarin knew just where she was, heading out through the open North Gate, with half a mile to go before the safety of the tree line. He looked at Redgaer and smiled.

'As she lulled these men, captain, she was thinking of you. She was wondering how she could reach you, and draw a sharp knife across your testicles.' Redgaer winced. 'After that she wandered away into that alley there. Perhaps she is still there - waiting.'

'That leads to the North Gate, sir,' said one of the soldiers. 'There is a stable there. We could get horses.'

Redgaer nodded. 'Follow me,' he ordered, and ran off.

Kollarin remained where he was, staring down at the dead Will Stamper. The thoughts of dying men were often strange, almost mundane sometimes. But this man had tried to speak on the point of death. Two words. Kollarin shook his head.

What a time to say, 'I'm sorry.'

*

The more Fell considered his encounter with the old man, the more he believed it was a dream. That being so, he asked himself, why are you sitting here in the cold waiting for dawn to rise over Citadel town? He smiled ruefully and poked the dying camp-fire with a long stick, trying to urge some life into the little blaze. Fell's sheepskin cloak was damp from the recent rain and the fire had not the strength to warm him. It spluttered and spat, fizzled and sank low. He glanced at the sky. Dawn was still an hour away. He was sitting with his back against the shallow depression of a deep boulder, the fire set against a second tall stone.

The forester looked down at the last of the wood he had gathered. It was also damp. To his left Fell could see the twinkling lights of the Cinder-wings. He hoped they would come no closer. Fell had no wish to be visited by the ghosts of painful memories. The Cinders were clustered under an oak branch twisting and moving, their golden wings of light fluttering in the dark. When he was a child Fell had caught one of them, and rushed it home to his parents. In the light of the cabin it had proved to be nothing more than a moth, with wide, beautiful wings and a dark, hairy body. Lying dead in his hand it had seemed so ordinary, yet out in the woods, its wings glowing with bright light, it had been magical beyond imagining.

'You are lucky, boy,' his father told him. 'You are too young to have bad memories. Trust me, as you grow older you will avoid the Cinders.'

How true it was. When Fell was sixteen he had been walking through the night, following the trail of a lame wolf. He saw the flickering of Cinder-wing lights and walked in close to see them fly.

Instantly the vision of Mattick's soon-to-be-drowned face filled his mind, the child reaching out to Fell as the undertow dragged him towards the rapids. Fell couldn't swim, and could only watch helplessly as the child was swept over the rocks, the white water thrashing around him. The face hovered in Fell's mind and he dropped to his knees, tears coursing his cheeks. 'It was not my fault!' he cried aloud, then scrambled back from the glowing insects. After that he gave the Cinder-wings a distant respect.

The rain began again, and the Cinders vanished from sight. Fell shook his head. 'A great fool you are,' he said, aloud, watching the drops of rain settling on the longbow. The bowstring was safe and dry in his belt pouch, his quiver of twelve shafts behind him and under his cloak, but Fell did not like to see his favourite hunting bow at the mercy of the weather. It was a fine bow, made by Kereth the

Wingoran. Horn-tipped, it had a pull of more than ninety pounds. Fell, though not the finest of the Loda bowmen, had not missed a killing shot since purchasing the weapon. An arrow would sing from the string, streaking to its target and sinking deep through skin, flesh and muscle. It was important for a deer to die fast. Ideally the beast would be dead before it knew it, therefore the meat remained tender and succulent; whereas if the creature was frightened, its muscles would tense and harden and the meat would stay that way. Fell's bow supplied choice meat.

'What are you doing here, Fell? Following a dream you don't believe in?' he said aloud. The words of the dream man came back to him. 'In three days outside the mails 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 rain eased once more and, as the moon showed through the break in the clouds, the Cinders glinted back into life. Fell hefted his bow and wiped the drops of water from its six-foot length.

Amazingly the fire flared up, tongues of flame licking at the wood. Fell stretched out his hands and felt the welcome warmth.

'That is better,' said Taliesen. Fell's heart hammered and he jumped like a startled squirrel. The old man had appeared from nowhere, seeming to blink into existence. 'It used to be,' continued the druid, his cloak of feathers shining in the moonlight, 'that I enjoyed forest nights. But some time during the last hundred years or so my blood started to run thin.'

'Why can't you walk up to a fire like anyone else?' stormed Fell.

'Because I am not like everyone else. What point is there in possessing enormous talent if no one is given the opportunity to appreciate it? By Heaven, boy, but you scare easily.' Taliesen rubbed a gnarled hand over his wood-smoke whiskers. 'No food this time, eh? Well, I suppose that is a blessing.'

'You didn't touch it last time, so you have no way of knowing!' said Fell. 'You are not real, old man. You are not flesh and blood.' As he spoke Fell suddenly reached out and swept his hand across Taliesen's face. His fingers passed through the wrinkled skin, and he felt nothing but air against his palm.

'Good,' said Taliesen. 'You have intelligence. Yet you are still wrong. I am flesh and blood. But I am not flesh and blood here. I am sitting in my own cave in another place, and another time. The energy needed to open the Gateways for the flesh is immense; there is no need to waste it when an astral projection will serve the same purpose. And since my role is merely to speak with you, my spirit image must suffice.'

'You breed words like lice,' snapped Fell, still rattled. 'And I don't relish having wizards at my fire. So speak you piece and be gone.'

Tish, boy, where are your manners? Elders are to be treated with respect, surely, even in this new and enlightened age? Did your parents teach you nothing? Your father, I recall, was a man of good breeding.'

'For pity's sake, just say what you came to say,' said Fell. 'I am already sick of your lectures.'

Taliesen was silent for a moment. 'Very well,' he said at last, 'but mark the words well. Firstly, when I leave, I want you to string your bow. The time is drawing near when you will have to use it. Secondly, you know the location of the Alwen Falls?'

'Of course, where Ironhand passed over. Every Loda child knows where it is.'

'When the arrows are loosed, and blood is upon the ground, you must take the Cloak Wearer there.

You understand?'

'Understand? No, I understand nothing. Firstly I have no intention of loosing a shaft at anyone or anything, and secondly, who is the Cloak Wearer?'

'Have a little patience, Fell. And if you do not loose a shaft a loved one of yours will die. Take me at my word, boy. And remember the pool. That is vital!'

The old man vanished. The fire died instantly.

Fell sent a whispered curse after the man. Yet even as he spoke he drew the bowstring from his pouch and strung the bow.

The first light of pre-dawn was heralded by bird-song and Fell swung his quiver over his shoulder and walked to the top of the hill overlooking Citadel town.

There was nothing to see, save the grey walls and the rising stone of the Keep beyond the town's rooftops. Gradually the sky lightened and he saw a tiny figure emerge from the north gate and begin to run towards the hills. Fell squinted, but could not - at first - identify the runner.

Then, with a shock, he saw the dawn light glint on her silver hair. She was some three hundred yards on to open ground when the three horsemen rode from the town. The lead rider was a soldier in helm and breastplate, as was the third. But it was the second man, riding a grey stallion, who caught Fell's attention. He was brandishing a sword, and he wore a red cloak! His excitement soared.

Sigarni was running hard, but the horsemen were closing. Why do they have their swords drawn?

thought Fell. And then it came to him in a sickening realization. They are chasing her. They mean to kill her!

The lead horseman was a mere fifty yards behind her when Fell drew a shaft and notched it to the bowstring. It was not an easy shot - a fast-moving horseman, downhill from him, and with the light still poor.

The enormity of what he was about to do filled Fell's mind, yet there was no hesitation. Smoothly he drew back the string until it nestled against his chin, then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Between breaths and utterly motionless, he sighted carefully and loosed the shaft. The arrow sang through the air. For a fraction of a heartbeat Fell thought he had missed, but the shaft slammed home in the lead rider's left eye, catapulting him from the saddle. Running forward, Fell notched a second arrow to the siring; but he shot too swiftly, and the shaft flew past the red-cloaked officer and skimmed across the flank of the third man's horse. The beast reared, sending the soldier tumbling over its haunches in an ungainly somersault.

The red-cloaked officer was almost upon the fleeing woman. Fell saw her glance back once, then turn and leap at the grey horse, waving her arms and shouting loudly. The grey swerved to avoid her, pitching its rider to the left. Sigarni leapt at the man, a silver blade glinting in her right fist. Her left hand caught hold of his cloak, dragging him from the saddle. The knife rose and fell. Blood gouted from a wound in the man's neck and again and again the knife flashed.

Sigarni rose with the dead man's cloak in her hand. Fell watched as she gazed back at the Citadel town. Scores of people were lining the parapets now. Sigarni swirled the crimson cloak around her shoulders, relying the snapped neck cord. Then she raised the dead man's sword and pointed it at the spectators.

The sun finally rose and Sigarni was bathed in its golden light, the iron sword shining like a torch of silver to match her hair. For Fell it was as if time ceased to have meaning, and he knew that this scene would shine for ever in his memory. The cloak wearer was Sigarni. She was the legend. Fell let out a long, slow breath.

Sigarni plunged the sword into the ground, then turned and slowly mounted the grey stallion. The third soldier was sitting on the ground nearby. Sigarni ignored him and urged the horse on towards the trees and the waiting Fell.

He saw the blood upon her shirt and leggings, the bruises and cuts on her face.

But more than this, he saw the crimson cloak around her slender shoulders.

'What now for us all, Sigarni?' he asked, as she came closer. 'What now?'

Her eyes seemed unfocused, and she did not appear to hear him. Her face was losing its colour, the surface of the skin waxy and grey. The horse moved on, plodding into the trees. Fell ran after it, just in time to throw aside his bow and catch hold of Sigarni as she started to fall from the saddle. Pushing her foot clear of the stirrup, Fell levered himself to the stallion's back. With one arm holding the unconscious Sigarni to him, he took up the reins in his left hand and heeled the stallion forward.

The old wizard had urged him to take her to the falls, but if he did so now he would leave a clear trail behind him, the horse's hooves biting deeply into the damp earth.

The pursuit was probably already under way, and with little time to plan Fell urged the horse to greater speed and headed for the deeper forest. He rode for several miles, keeping to the deer trails, always climbing higher into the mountains. Glancing at the sky he saw thick clouds to the north, dark and angry, their tops flattened like an anvil. Fell breathed a prayer of thanks, for such clouds promised hail and thunder and powerful storms. Hauling on the reins he stepped down from the saddle, allowing Sigarni to fall into his arms and across his shoulder. The ground beneath his feet was rocky and firm, leaving no trace of his booted feet. He slapped the stallion firmly on the rump and the horse leapt forward in a run, heading on down the slope towards the valley below. Fell left the trail, forcing his way through deep undergrowth. The ground broke sharply to his right into a muddy slope; it was hard to keep his footing here, especially with the added burden of Sigarni. He moved on carefully, occasionally slithering and sliding, keeping close to the trees that grew on the hillside, using them as barriers to halt any out-of-control slide.

He was half-way down the slope when he heard the sound of horsemen on the road above. Dropping to his knees behind a screen of bushes, he looked back and saw the soldiers galloping by. There were more than thirty in the group.

With a grunt Fell pushed himself to his feet and struggled on. By his own reckoning he was around four miles due east from the Alwen Falls. But that four miles would become at least six by the route he would be forced to travel, along winding trails, skirting the steeper slopes and the many acres of open grassland.

He was sweating heavily by the end of the first mile, and by the second he felt his legs trembling with the effort of carrying the unconscious woman. Sigarni had made no sound throughout and Fell paused by a stream, lowering her to the ground. Her colour was not good, and her pulse was faint and erratic. Carefully he examined her, opening her torn shirt. There were bloody teeth-marks on her breast, and a range of purple bruises on her rib-cage and shoulders. But no deep wounds. She is in shock, he thought. It is vital to keep her warm; to find somewhere he could nurse her.

Gently he stroked her bruised face. 'You are safe, my love,' he said, softly. 'Hold on for me.'

She did not stir as Fell wrapped the crimson cloak around her, then lifted her to his shoulders.

Almost two hours had passed already since the fight above the town, and there were still four miles to go. Fell took a deep breath and struggled on, trying not to think of his aching muscles, the burning in his calves and thighs.

For three more painful hours Fell carried Sigarni through the forest. In all that time she made no sound.

At last they arrived at the Alwen Falls.

There was no sign of the wizard.

In a shallow cave, a little way back from the pool, Fell built a fire. Removing his own sheepskin cloak he covered Sigarni with it and, holding her hand, talked to her as she slept. 'Well,' he said, squeezing her limp fingers, 'this is a sorry mess and no mistake. We're wolves' heads now, my love. I wish I knew why. Why were they chasing you? Who wounded you? Ah well, I expect you'll tell me in your own good time. Shame about the bow, though. Best I ever had. But I couldn't carry it, hold you and guide the horse at the same time.' Leaning forward, he stroked her brow. 'You are the most beautiful woman, Sigarni. I never saw the like. Was that what caused your pain? Did some Outland noble desire you so badly he felt compelled to take you by force? Was it the red-bearded man whose throat you slashed to red ribbons?' Releasing her hand, he fed wood to the fire and rose, walking to the cave-mouth. What now, he wondered? Where will we go?

He had relatives among the Wingoras and the Farlain, but with a price on his head he would only endanger them by seeking their aid. No, Fell, he told himself, you are a man alone now, friendless and hunted. You have killed an Outlander and they will hunt you to your dying day. A roll of thunder boomed across the sky and lightning forked across the heavens. Fell shivered and watched as the rain hammered down on the surface of the pool, falling in sheets, thick and impenetrable.

Stepping back from the cave-mouth, he returned to the fire and the sleeping Sigarni.

'We will cross the sea, my love,' he said, 'and I'll do what I should have done. We'll marry and build a home in distant mountains.'

'No, you won't,' said Taliesen from the cave-mouth. Fell smiled and swung to see the old man, his feather cloak dripping water, his wispy hair plastered to his skull. In his hands he carried a long staff, wrapped in sacking cloth.

That's a more pleasing entrance,' said the forester. ''Now I believe you are flesh and blood.'

Taliesen removed his cloak and draped it over a rock. Squatting by the fire, he held out his ancient hands to the flames.

'You did well, boy,' he said. 'You have evaded the first hunters. But they will send more, canny men, skilled in tracking. And with them will be a Finder, a seeker of souls, a reader of thoughts.

If you survive this, which is doubtful at best, they will send the night-stalkers, creatures from the pit.'

'No, no,' said Fell, 'seek not to cheer me, old man, with your boundless optimism. I am a grown man, tell it to me straight.'

Taliesen hawked and spat. 'I have no time for your humour. We must protect her, Fell. Her importance cannot be overstated. You must go from here to her cabin. Gather her weapons and some spare clothes; give them to the dwarf. Tell him, and the others there, what has occurred. Then you must find the hunters and lead them deep into the mountains.'

Fell took a deep breath, fighting for calm. It didn't work. 'Find the hunters? Lead them? What say you I just attack the Citadel town single-handed and raze it to the ground? Or perhaps I could borrow your feather cloak and fly south, invading the Outland cities and slaying the King? Are you insane, old man? What do you expect me to do against thirty soldiers?'

'Whatever you can.' The old man looked into Fell's eyes, his expression as cold as ice on flint.

'You are dispensable, Fell,' said Taliesen. 'Your death will matter only to you. You can be replaced. Everything can be replaced, save Sigarni. You understand? You must earn her time, time to recover, time to learn. She is the leader your people have yearned for. Only she has the power to win freedom for the clans.'

'They'll never follow a woman! That much I know.'

Taliesen shook his head. 'They followed the Witch Queen four hundred years ago. They crossed the Gateways and died for her. They stood firm against the enemy, though they were outnumbered and faced slaughter. They will follow her, Fell.'

'The Witch Queen was a sorceress. Sigarni is merely a woman.'

'How blind you are,' said the old man, 'and rich indeed is your male conceit. This woman was dragged to a cell and raped, sodomized and beaten senseless by four men. Like animals they fell upon her ...'

'I don't want to hear this!' roared Fell, half rising.

'But you shall!' stormed the wizard. 'They struck her with their fists, and they bit her. They cut her buttocks with their sharp knives, and forced her to unspeakable acts. Then they left her upon the floor of the cell, to lie on the cold stone floor in a pool of her own vomit and blood. Aye, well might you look shocked, for this was men at play, Fell. She lay there and after an hour or so a new guard came into the cell. He too wanted his piece of her flesh. She killed him, Fell. Then she hunted down the others. One she slew upon the dungeon stair. Two she killed outside a tavern.

And the last? You saw him, in his fine red cloak of wool. Him she tore the throat from. Just a woman? By all the Gods of the Nine Worlds, boy, in her tortured condition she killed six strong men!'

Fell said nothing, and transferred his gaze to the sleeping woman. 'Aye, she's a Highlander,' he said, with pride. 'But even that will not make men follow her.'

'We will see,' said Taliesen. 'Now go to her cabin before the hunters reach it. Send the dwarf with weapons and clothes.'

'You will stay with her?'

'Indeed I will.'

Fell rose and swung his quiver over his shoulder, then gazed down at the unconscious Sigarni. 'I will keep her warm,' said Taliesen. 'Oh, and I retrieved your bow.' Lifting what Fell had believed to be a staff covered in sacking, Taliesen passed the weapon to the surprised forester.

'You even kept it dry. My thanks to you, wizard. I feel a whole man again.'

Taliesen ignored him and turned to the sleeping Sigarni, taking her long, slim hand into his own.

Swirling his cloak around his shoulders, Fell stepped out into the rain-drenched night.

*

Sigarni stood silently by the grey cave wall and listened as Fell and the old man spoke. She could hear their words, see their faces, and even -though she knew not how - feel their emotions. Fell was frightened and yet trying to maintain an air of male confidence. The old man -Taliesen? - was tired, yet filled with a barely suppressed excitement. And lying by the fire, looking so sad and used, she could see herself, wrapped in the rapist's red cloak, her face bruised and swollen. I am dying, she thought. My spirit has left my body and now only the Void awaits. There was no panic in her, no fear, only a sadness built of dreams never to be realized.

Fell took his bow from the old man and walked from the cave. Sigarni tried to call out to him but he did not hear her. No one could hear her, save maybe the dead.

But she was wrong. As soon as Fell walked out into the rain the old man looked up at her, his button-bright eyes focusing on her face. 'Well, now we can talk,' he said. 'How are you feeling?'

Sigarni was both surprised and confused. The old man was holding the hand of her body, yet looking directly into the eyes of her spirit. It was disconcerting.

'I feel... nothing,' she said. 'Is this what death is like?'

He gave a dry chuckle, like the whispering of the wind across dead leaves. 'You are talking to a man who has fought back death for many centuries. I do not even wish to speculate on what death is like. Do you remember the waking of your spirit?'

'Yes, someone called me, but when I opened my eyes he was not here. How is this happening, old one?'

'I fear the answer may be too complicated for an untutored Highlander to understand. Essentially your body has been so brutalized that your mind has reeled from thoughts of it. You have entered a dream state which has freed your . .. soul, if you will. Now you feel no pain, no shame, no guilt.

And while we talk your body is healing. I have, through my skill, increased the speed of the process. Even so, when you do return to the prison of flesh you will feel - shall we say - considerable discomfort.'

'Do I know you?' asked Sigarni.

'Do you think that you do?' he countered.

'I can remember being held close to your chest. You have a small mole under the chin; I know this.

And in looking at you I can see another man, enormously tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a buckskin shirt with a red wing-spread hawk silhouette upon the breast.'

Taliesen nodded. 'Childhood memories. Yes, you know me, child. The other man was Caswallon. One day, if God is kind, you will meet him again.'

'You both saved me from the demons - out there by the pool. Gwalchmai told me. Who are you, Taliesen? Why have you helped me?'

'I am merely a man - a great man, mind! And my reasons for helping you are utterly selfish. But now is not the time to speak of things past. The days of magick and power are upon us, Sigarni, the days of blood and death are coming.'

'I want no part in them,' she said.

'You have little choice in the matter. And you will feel differently when you wake. In spirit form you are free of much more than merely the flesh. The human body has many weapons. Rage, which increases muscle power; fear, which can hone the mind wonderfully; love, which binds with ties of iron; and hate, which can move mountains. There are many more. But in astral form you are connected only tenuously to these emotions. It was rage and the need for revenge which saved your life, which drove you on to wear the Red. That rage is still there, Sigarni, a fire that needs no kindling, an eternal blaze that will light the road to greatness. But it rests in the flesh, awaiting your return.'

'You were correct, old one. I do not understand all you say. How do I return to my flesh?'

'Not yet. First go from the cave. Walk to the pool.'

She shook her head. 'There is a ghost there.'

'Yes,' he said. 'Call him.'

Sigarni was on the point of refusing when Taliesen lifted his hand and pointed to the fire. The flames leapt up to form a sheer bright wall some four feet high. Then, at the centre, a small spot of colourless light appeared, opening to become a pale glistening circle. It glowed snow-white, then gently became the blue of a summer sky. Sigarni watched spellbound as the blue faded and she found herself staring through the now transparent circle into her own cabin. She was there, talking with Gwalchmai. The conversation whispered into her mind.

'Who was the ghost?' asked the image of Sigarni.

'Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.'She shivered and looked away.

'I can't.'

Gwalch chuckled. 'There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni. Nothing.'

'Oh, come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won't you help me?'

'I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don't remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. Your eyes were blank, and you were slack-jawed. I had a friend with me; his name was Taliesen. It was he-and another- who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are strong enough to turn the key. That's what he told me.'

Now the circle shrank to a dot and the flames of the fire returned to normal. 'Am I strong enough to turn the key?' she asked Taliesen.

'Go to the pool and find out,' he advised. 'Call for him!'

Sigarni stood silently for a moment, then moved past the old man and out into the night. The rain was still hammering down, but she could not feel it nor, strangely, could she hear it. Water tumbled over the falls in spectacular silence, ferocious winds tore silently at the trees and their leaf-laden branches, lightning flared in the sky, but the voice of the accompanying thunder could not be heard.

The huntress moved to the poolside. 'I am here!' she called. There was no answer, no stirring upon the water. Merely silence.

'Call to him by name,' came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.

And she knew, and in knowing wondered how such an obvious realization should have escaped her so long. 'Ironhand!' she called. 'It is I, Sigarni. Ironhand!'

The waters bubbled and rose like a fountain, the spray forming an arched Gateway lit by an eldritch light. A giant of a man appeared in the Gateway, his silver beard in twin braids, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore silver-bright armour and carried a long, leaf-bladed broadsword that glistened as if it had been carved from moonlight. He raised the sword in greeting, and then sheathed it at his side and spoke, his voice rich and resonant. 'Come to me, Sigarni,' he said. 'Walk with me awhile.'

'You spoke to me in Citadel town,' she said. 'You urged me to flee.'

'Yes.'

'And you fought for me when I was a child. You slew the last Hollow-tooth.'

'That also.'

'Why?'

'For love, Sigarni. For a love that will not accept death. Will you walk with me awhile?'

'I will,' she said, tears brimming.

And she stepped forward to walk upon the water.