The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER VII

A SMIDIR HAD NEVER enjoyed great talent as a magicker. Though his powers of concentration were great, and his imagination powerful, he had always lacked what his tutors termed ability of release. Magic, he was told, involved the user surrendering control and merging his mind with the powers hovering beyond what the five senses could experience. For all his talent Asmidir had never been able to fully release. Now he sat in the main hall, a huge leather-bound book open on his lap. The script was in gold, carefully set upon bleached leather; it was an ancient Kushir script and he read it with difficulty.

Closing the book, he stood and moved to the long, oval table. Upon it was a golden dish, set on a stand above three small candles. Asmidir drew his dagger and began to speak. His eyes were closed, his spirit loose within the cage of his powerful body as his breathing deepened. The dagger blade cut into his forearm and blood welled, dripping into the heated dish where it sizzled and steamed.

Asmidir's voice faded away. Opening his eyes, he took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. Not brilliantly, not even expertly. Let it at least be adequate, he thought. Returning the dagger to its sheath he pressed his thumb against the shallow wound on his arm, applying pressure for some minutes. A dark-skinned servant stepped forward with a long linen bandage. Asmidir extended his arm, and the man skilfully applied it.

'Bring the officer here to me, Ari,' he told the servant. 'Also the man in green. You have prepared the refreshment I ordered for the soldiers?'

'Yes, lord. As you commanded.'

The servant took the bowl and departed the room. Asmidir returned to the log fire and settled himself into an armchair. He heard the sounds of hoofbeats on stone, and felt the cold blast of air as the main doors of the castle were pulled open to admit the soldiers.

Rising from his chair, he turned towards the door just as the potbellied Lieutenant Masrick strode into sight with Kollarin the Finder behind him. Masrick's face was discoloured, his lips thickened and split.

'Good day to you,' said Asmidir, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. 'It is good to see you again, Masrick.' The officer responded with a perfunctory handshake. A servant appeared.

'Fetch wine for our guests, Ari.' Masrick removed his iron helm and carelessly dropped it upon the highly polished table.

'The Baron wants to see you," said Masrick. 'You are to return with us to Citadel.'

'I think you mean that the Baron has requested my presence,' said Asmidir coolly.

'No, I said what I meant. He told me to bring you, and that's what I'll do.' Masrick lifted a hand to his smashed lips, probing them. 'I have two prisoners with me. Does this place still boast a dungeon?'

'No,' Asmidir told him. He swung to Kollarin. 'And you must be the Finder,' he said, forcing a smile. 'I take it from the fact that you have prisoners that you have been successful.'

'Yes,' said Kollarin. He moved to the hearth and reached out to touch the leather-bound book on the small table. Idly the man in green flipped open the cover. 'Ah, a Kushir grimoire. A long time since I have seen such a work. The scripting is very fine - resin dusted with gold and then varnished. Exquisite!'

'You read Kushir?' asked Asmidir, holding his expression to one of mild interest, while his heart beat against his ribs like a drum of war.

'I read all known languages,' said Kollarin. 'I do not wish it to sound like a boast, since it is a Talent I have possessed all my life, and not the result of dedicated study.'

The servant, Ari, returned with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Masrick accepted his without a word of thanks. Kollarin smiled at Ari and gave a short bow of the head. 'Not drinking with us, Asmidir?' Masrick asked.

'No.' Turning back to Kollarin, he asked, 'What will you do now that your hunt has been successful?"

'Successful?' queried Kollarin.

'Two prisoners. I understood you were hunting for a man and a woman.'

'We haven't caught the woman yet,' said Masrick, cutting in, 'but we will. We have the forester, Fell. The other prisoner is a renegade. He struck me! Loosened several teeth. By God, he'll pay for it when I get him back to Citadel.'

'It does look sore,' agreed Asmidir. 'Ari, fetch some of the special camomile ointment for this gentleman.' As the servant departed Asmidir seated himself before the fire, trying not to look at Kollarin as the man slowly turned the pages of the grimoire. 'So,' he said to Masrick, 'why does the Baron request my presence so urgently?'

'That's for him to tell you,' muttered Masrick. 'Now where can I lodge these prisoners? Do you have no rooms with locks?'

'Sadly, no. I suggest you bring them in here. Then at least you can watch them until you leave.'

'Until we leave,' corrected Masrick.

Asmidir rose and approached the officer. The black man was at least a foot taller. 'At the moment, my dear Masrick, I am putting aside your bad manners on the grounds that the blow to your face, and the subsequent pain, has made you forget your breeding. Understand, however, that my patience is not limitless. Try to remember that you are an insignificant second cousin to the Baron, whereas I am a friend to the King. Now get out and fetch your prisoners. I wish to speak with the Finder.'

Masrick's mouth dropped open, and his eyes narrowed. Asmidir read the fury there. The black man leaned in close. 'Think carefully before you react, moron. It is considered deeply unlucky to be struck twice in the face on the same day.' Masrick swallowed hard and backed away. Asmidir swung away from him and crossed the room to where Kollarin waited. For a moment only Masrick hesitated, then he marched from the hall.

'You did not need the cloak spell,' said Kollarin softly. 'I refused to hunt the woman.'

'Very wise,' Asmidir told him, keeping his voice low. 'When you return to Citadel town I will see that one hundred silver pieces are delivered to you.'

'Very kind.' Kollarin's green eyes held Asmidir's gaze. 'But I shall not be returning to Citadel.'

'Neither shall I,' said Asmidir, with a wry smile.

Masrick returned to the hall and two soldiers led in the prisoners, ordering them to sit by the far wall. The officer marched up to Asmidir. 'I fear you were right, Lord Asmidir,' said Masrick.

'The events of the day shortened my temper. I ask your forgiveness for my ... abrupt manner.' The anger was still present in his eyes, but Asmidir merely smiled.

'We will say no more about it, my dear Masrick. Are your men being fed?'

'Yes. Thank you. How soon will you be ready to leave?'

Asmidir did not answer, but strolled across the hall and stood before the prisoners. 'I know you,' he said, addressing Obrin. 'You were in the fist-fighting tourney last winter. You lost in the final -stumbled and went down with an overhand right.'

'You have a good memory for faces,' Obrin told him. 'Now if I'd managed to hit the Cleatian with the same power that I used on goat-face there, I would have won.'

Masrick ran forward and aimed a savage kick which thundered against Obrin's shoulder. 'Be silent, wretch!' he shouted.

'Even kicks like a goat,' sneered Obrin.

Masrick drew his dagger. 'I'll cut your bastard tongue out!' he threatened.

Asmidir laid his hand on the officer's arm. 'Not here my friend,' he said. 'The rugs were expensive, shipped all the way from Kushir.

As Obrin's laughter sounded, Masrick paled, and his hand trembled. But he slammed the dagger back in its scabbard.

The servant returned, carrying a small enamelled pot. As he paused beside Masrick and bowed, the officer looked at the tall servant. 'Well, what do you want?'

Ari held out the pot. 'What is this?' Masrick asked Asmidir.

'A healing ointment. Apply it to the lips and you will see.'

Masrick took the pot and removed the lid. The ointment was cream-coloured. Dabbing a finger to it, he spread some on his injury. 'That is good,' he said. 'Soothing! Where did you obtain it?'

'My servants are a&Al-jiin,' said Asmidir. 'They are very skilled with potions.'

*

Kollarin was only half listening to the exchange, but the words Al-jiin cut through him like a sword of ice. Standing beside the hearth he stiffened, his green eyes flicking to Ari. The man was tall and slender, his skin the colour of age-polished oak; he had a prominent nose, not negroid like Asmidir, but curved and aquiline. In that moment Kollarin wondered how he could ever have been convinced the man was a servant. He glanced at his wine goblet. It was still almost full. How much had he drunk? One mouthful? Two?

Ari turned slowly, his deep dark stare pinning Kollarin. The servant seemed to glide across the room. 'Are you well, lord? asked Ari. 'You are looking pale.'

'I am well at this moment,' said Kollarin. Reaching out with his Talent, he touched the other man's mind... and recoiled as if he had thrust his hand into a fire.

'Perhaps you should sit down, lord,' offered Ari.

'Am I to die here?' pulsed Kollarin.

'If my Lord wills it so,' came the response. 'If you will excuse me,' he said aloud, 'I have duties to attend to.'

'By all means,' said Kollarin. Ari turned and left the hall and once more Kollarin reached out, seeking not the mind of the servant but choosing instead the soldiers who were waiting outside. He pictured the solid cavalryman, Klebb.

Nothing. One by one he sought out the others.

Still nothing. Were their thoughts being shielded, he wondered?

Sitting by the fire he closed his eyes and dropped his spirit to the second level, opening his mind to more general astral emanations. He felt the castle and its great age, and beyond it the forest and the heartbeat of eternity.

From here it was a simple matter to find the third level. Kollarin gasped. Moving through the castle he could see the restless, disembodied shapes of lost spirits, murdered men who did not yet know they had died.

His eyes snapped open.

All dead. Twenty-eight soldiers, drugged and then strangled. All that remained were the two guards in the room, and Masrick himself. Kollarin's mouth was dry and he reached out for his wine. What are you doing, fool? Leaving the goblet where it stood, he rose and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Am I under sentence? he wondered.

Asmidir crossed the hall. 'You seem preoccupied, my boy,' he said.

Kollarin looked up into the black man's face, seeing the power there, and the cruelty. 'YourAl-jiin have completed their work,' he said softly. 'Where does that leave me?'

'Where would you like to be left?' Asmidir asked.

'Alive would be pleasant.'

'What are you two whispering about?' asked Masrick, picking up Kollarin's goblet and draining it.

He belched and then sat down.

'We were talking about life and death, Masrick,' said Asmidir, 'and the slender thread that separates both.'

'Nothing slender about it,' said the officer. 'It is all a question of skill and courage.'

'What about luck?' asked Asmidir. 'Being in the wrong place at the wrong time?'

'A man makes his own luck,' replied Masrick.

'I'm not sure that's true,' said Asmidir. 'But let us put it to the test. Would it be lucky or unlucky were you to find the woman, Sigarni?'

'Lucky, of course,' answered Masrick. 'You know where she is?'

'Indeed I do.' Asmidir clapped his hands twice. A line of warriors filed silently into the room; tall men in black cloaks and helms, all carrying sabres of shining steel. They wore black mail-shirts which extended to their thighs, and black boots reinforced with strips of black steel.

Across their chests each wore a thick leather baldric, complete with three throwing knives in jet-black sheaths. Kollarin moved back against the wall as the warriors fanned out. He recognized the servant Ari, though the man now looked like a prince of legend.

Masrick was also watching them. 'What is the meaning of this?' he asked.

Asmidir chuckled and without turning his head he gave an order. 'Kill the guards,' he said, his voice even, almost regretful.

Kollarin watched as if in a dream. Two of the black-garbed warriors drew throwing knives from their sheaths and slowly turned. One of the guards, a man with a bruised and swollen nose, frantically tried to draw his sword; a knife-hilt appeared in his throat and he sank back against the wall. The second guard turned to run; a black knife slashed through the air taking him in the back of the neck and he fell forward, his face striking the edge of the table; the blow dislodged his helm which rolled across the table-top. The two dark-skinned warriors retrieved their blades and returned to stand in line with their comrades.

Masrick's face was ashen. Kollarin almost felt pity for the man. 'Ari,' said Asmidir softly, 'is our guest ready to join us?'

'Yes, Lord.' Ari departed the hall and a terrible silence followed. Masrick was sweating now and Kollarin saw that the little man's hands were trembling. Despite his armour he looked nothing like a soldier.

'I... I... don't want to die, Asmidir,' he whimpered, tears spilling to his cheeks. The black man ignored him. 'Please don't kill me!' The hall door opened and Ari returned. Behind him came another warrior and Kollarin's breath caught in his throat. She was tall and slender, her hair silver-white like the chain-mail tunic she wore. Thigh-length and split at the sides, the links gleamed like jewels. Her long legs were encased in glistening black leggings, delicately reinforced by more silver chain-links around the upper legs, and a crimson cloak hung from her shoulders. Kollarin had never seen a more beautiful woman. As she entered all the warriors, including Asmidir, bowed deeply. Kollarin followed their lead.

Masrick tried to stand, pushing his arms against the sides of the chair, but his legs would not move. He slumped back, then a convulsion jerked his body in several spasms. Asmidir leaned over him. 'Your hunt was successful, Masrick. You are in the presence of Sigarni. Die happy!'

Spittle frothed at Masrick's lips and his eyes bulged. Then he was still, the open eyes staring unfocused at the man before him. The silver-armoured woman approached the chair and stared down at the dead man. 'Did he die of fright?' she asked Asmidir.

'No. He smeared poison upon his lips.'

The woman looked at Kollarin, who bowed once more. 'Why does this one live?'

'In truth I am not sure,' said Asmidir. 'He refused to hunt you, and I do not know why. He is the Finder, Kollarin. Do you wish him slain?'

Kollarin waited, his green eyes watching the woman's face. 'Why did you refuse?' she asked him.

'That is not easy to answer, lady,' he told her, surprised that his voice remained steady. 'A man appeared to me and asked me to spare you.'

'Describe him.'

'The face was powerful, deep-set blue eyes. His hair was silver-white, like yours, and he wore his beard in two braids.'

She nodded, then swung to Asmidir. 'Let him live,' she said.

*

The black man was about to speak, yet held his silence. Stepping back, he allowed Sigarni to dominate the centre of the room. Her armour he had brought with him from Kushir, intended as a gift for the warrior king the seer had spoken of. Asmidir had always pictured it upon the muscular form of a young man. Yet now, as he gazed upon her martial beauty, he could scarce believe he had not purchased it with Sigarni in mind. Everything about her was regal, and he wondered how he had failed to notice it before.

HisAl-jiin had cut the two prisoners free and both men were now standing and staring at the warrior woman. Fell bowed his head. Sigarni's eyes were fixed on the Outlander in the uniform of a soldier. Her hand closed around the hilt of her dagger, the blade whispering from its scabbard as she moved towards the man with deceptive grace. Only Fell recognized her intent. 'No, Sigarni,' he said, stepping in front of the soldier. 'This man saved me from torture at the risk of his own life.'

'No Outlander will live,' she said softly, almost without anger. 'Stand aside, Fell.'

'I claim the Cormaach on this man,' he said. Asmidir was puzzled, and he watched Sigarni's reaction carefully. She stood silently for a moment, then gave a cold smile.

'You would do this for an enemy?' she asked.

'I do. I sat with my arms bound and a glowing red-hot knife was before my eyes. Obrin stopped the officer, and struck him into the bargain. They were taking him back for torture and death. It would seem poor gratitude indeed if I stood by while he was casually slain. I ask for his life, Sigarni.'

'Stand aside, Fell, I would speak with this man.' Fell hesitated, for the dagger was still in her hand. For a moment only he failed to move, then he stepped back. Asmidir watched the soldier, Obrin. There was no sign of fear in the man.

'Are you aware,' asked Sigarni, 'of what has been said here? Do you understand the meaning of Cormaach}'

'I know nothing of your barbarian ways, madam,' said Obrin. 'I'm just a soldier, see. Untutored, you might say. So why don't you tell me?'

Asmidir could see Sigarni fighting for calm as she gazed upon this man in the hated uniform of those who had so brutally assaulted her. She'll kill him, he thought. She'll step in close and at his first wrong word ram the knife into his throat.

'He has offered to adopt you - to make you his son. How old are you?'

'Thirty-seven, by my own reckoning. I might be out by a year or two.'

'So, your new father is some fifteen years younger than you. You wish to be adopted, Outlander?'

'Is there a choice?' he asked.

'There are always choices," she said, moving in close. 'You saved Fell, therefore I am in your debt. You may leave here and make your way wherever you choose. I would like to kill you, Outlander. I would like to see the blood gush from your neck. But my word is iron. Leave now and no one will harm you.'

'What's the other alternative?'

'You are not man enough for it!' she snapped. 'Leave before my patience is exhausted.'

'Become a clansman, is that it? A rebel against the Baron, and the King?' Obrin laughed, the sound rich and merry. 'So that's what he meant, is it? This is the cross-roads.' He swung to Fell.

'Adopted me, did you, boy? Well, by God, you could have done worse. I'll walk your road - even though we all know where it will lead. So what do I do, lady? To whom do I pledge my sword?'

Sigarni was too surprised to answer, and Asmidir stepped forward swiftly. He spoke in Kushir and the twelve Al-jiin all dropped to their knees around the silver-armoured woman. 'You are in the presence,' he told Obrin, 'of the Lady Sigarni, War Chief of the clans. It is to her you pledge your loyalty.'

Obrin dropped to one knee before her, then lifted his hand to guide her dagger to his throat. With the point resting against his skin he spoke. 'This day I am become your carle, lady. I will live for you, and when the day comes I will die for you. This is the promise of Obrin, son of Engist, and sworn before God.'

Sigarni was silent, then looked to Fell, who still stood. As their eyes met, the tall forester dropped to his knees, 'My life is yours, Sigarni,' he said, 'now and for ever.'

Sigarni nodded, then approached Asmidir. 'We need to speak,' she said, and walked from the room.

Asmidir followed her.

Obrin and Fell rose together. 'Thank you lad,' said the soldier. 'You'll not regret it.'

'I believe that,' Fell told him. 'But will you? How will you feel when your countrymen face you sword to sword? It is no small matter.'

Obrin shook his head. 'Put your mind at rest, Fell. To you we are all Outlanders, yet we come from many parts of the realm. My people were mountain folk, conquered a hundred years ago. And I am the only one from my tribe at Citadel. Even that, though, misses the point. There are some things a man must fight for. That, I believe, is what Kollarin was trying to tell me. Is that not so?' he asked the man in green.

'Indeed it was,' said Kollarin, crossing the room and stepping over the corpses of the soldiers.

'I always wondered what it would be like to be a hero.'

Behind them the twelve silent Al-jiin gathered up the bodies and left the hall.

*

Sigarni felt gripped by a sense of unreality as she climbed the carpeted steps to the upper balcony, and the room where An had shown her the armour. Beside her Asmidir said nothing as they walked. The room was small, fifteen feet by twenty, with one large window looking out over High Druin. Sigarni had donned the silver chain-mail top coat, the armoured leggings and the boots, but the sword, breastplate and helm remained. The breastplate had been sculpted to resemble the athletic chest and belly of a young warrior, while the helm was too large for the silver-haired woman.

Sigarni walked to the window, pushing it open to allow the cool, yet gentle autumn breeze to whisper into the room. Abby was dead, and this she found almost as hurtful as the abuse she had endured. But more than this Sigarni felt a weight of sorrow for the life she would never know again, the quiet solitude of her mountain cabin, the morning hunt, and the silent nights. Grame had warned her of the Baron, and she wished now that she had heeded him. A few pennies lost and her life would have remained free. Now she was embarked on a course that could lead only to death and ruin for the people of the mountains. What are we, she thought? And the picture came to her mind of a mighty stag at bay in the Highlands, with the wolves closing in. We can run and live for a little longer, or we can fight and be dragged down.

Clouds were gathering above High Druin like a crown of grey above the white snow-capped peaks.

'Speak your thoughts, my lady,' said Asmidir.

'You don't need to give me pretty tides here,' she told him, still staring from the window. 'There is no one to hear them.'

'It has begun, Sigarni,' he said sofdy. 'It is time to make plans.'

'I know. What do you suggest?'

He shook his head. 'I will offer my advice in a moment,' he told her. 'First I would like to hear your views.'

Anger almost swamped her, but she fought it back. 'You are the warrior and the strategist - or so you tell me. What would you have me say, Asmidir?'

'Do not misunderstand me, Sigarni. This is not a game we are playing. You are the one the seer spoke of. Unless the gods are capricious - and perhaps they are - then you must have some special skill. If we are to form an army, if we are to defy the most brilliant military nation of the world, it will be because of you - you understand? At the moment you are full of bitterness and righteous rage. You must conquer that, you must reach inside yourself and find the Battle Queen.

Without her we are lost even before we begin.'

Sigarni turned from the window and moved to a high-backed chair. 'I don't know what to say or where to begin,' she said.'If there is a skill it is lost to me. I do not believe I am given to panic, Asmidir, but when I try to think of the way ahead my heart beats faster and I find myself short of breath. I look inside, but there is nothing there save regret and remembered pain.'

Asmidir seated himself before her. He reached out, but she instinctively drew back her hand; his face showed his hurt. 'Let us examine then the immediate priorities,' he said. 'My men have been scouting the valleys and passes south of here. The Baron has ordered campaign fortifications built. These are vital for an invading army. Stores and supplies will be left at these forts so that when the invasion force moves in they will have bases from which to sally forth into the mountains. The first is being constructed no more than ten miles from here, in the Dunach Valley.

It could be argued that our first task should be to halt their work, to harry them. For that we will need men. We have already discussed where to find warriors. You must seek the aid of the Pallides Hunt Lord, Fyon Sharp-axe.'

Sigarni rose and returned to the window. Sunlight shone brilliantly through gaps in the distant storm-clouds, and the muted sound of far-off thunder rippled across the land. She shivered. 'No,' she said, at last. 'The fortifications must wait. If I were Fyon Sharp-axe I would not turn over my men to an untried woman from another clan. Send Fell to me.'

'What are you planning?' he asked.

'We will discuss it later,' she told him. Asmidir smiled and rose, bowing deeply. After he had gone Sigarni drew the sword from its silver scabbard. It was a sabre, thirty inches long, the blade highly polished and razor-sharp, the hilt bound with strips of dark grey speckled skin, reinforced by silver wire. It was surprisingly light in her hand, and perfectly balanced. She swung the sword to the left. It sliced through the air, creating a low hissing sound. Hearing Fell approach she moved to the chair, laying the naked blade upon the table before her. The forester entered and bowed clumsily.

'A surprising turn of events,' she said. He grinned and nodded. His face was bruised and swollen, but as he smiled she saw again the handsome clansman she had loved. Motioning him to a seat she looked away, gathering her thoughts. 'How many of the foresters could you gather to us?' she asked.

'Not many,' he said. 'Perhaps six of the fifty. You have to understand, Sigarni, that they are men of family. They know a war against the Outlanders can end only one way. Most would therefore do anything to avoid such a war. Even after the murders.'

'What murders?'

Fell told her of the taking of hostages, and his decision to give himself up to the authorities.

'But they did not wait the promised four days. By the following morning all four were hanging from the walls of Citadel. I believe Tovi and Grame would join us, and perhaps half of the men of Cilfallen. What are you planning?'

'I want you to go from here. Now. Find the six men, and any others you trust. We will meet at my cabin in four days. Is that enough time for you?'

'Barely. But I will be there.'

'Go now,' she ordered him. 'And send the Outlander to me.'

*

Gwalchmai lifted his jug from the dog-cart and stared out over the hills towards Citadel town. The two hounds, Shamol and Cabris, were asleep in the sunshine. Gwalch pulled the cork from the jug and sat beside Tovi. The baker was silent, lost hi thought. The sun was bright in a clear sky, the mountains shining in splendour, but Tovi was oblivious to the beauty and Gwalchmai felt for him. 'Your son was a fine boy,' said Gwalch, lifting the jug to his lips and taking three long swallows.

'You didn't know him,' said Tovi, tonelessly.

'I know you. And I can see him in your mind. You were proud of him - and rightly so.'

'None of that matters now, does it? His mother weeps all the time, and his brothers and sisters walk silently around the house. What manner of men are these, Gwalch, who could hang an innocent boy? Are they monsters? Demon-driven?'

The old man shook his head. 'All it takes is a monster in charge, Tovi. Like a pinch of poison in a jug of wine. Suddenly the wine is deadly. You want a drink?'

'No, I need to keep my eyes sharp for when the devils come. You know, I can't even hate them, Gwal. I feel nothing. Is that my age, do you think? Have I lost something during these years in the bakery?'

'We've all lost something, my friend. Maybe we'll find it again.' Gwalch lifted the jug to his lips - then paused. He pointed to the south. 'There! What do you see? My old eyes have dimmed.'

Tovi squinted. 'Flashes of sunlight upon metal. The enemy are coming. It will take them at least an hour to cross the valley floor.'

'How many?'

'They are too far away to count accurately. Go back to Cilfallen and tell them the Outlanders are coming.'

'What about you?' asked Gwalch, pushing himself to his feet. Behind him the grey hounds rose also.

'I'll wait awhile and count them. Then I'll join you.' Gwalch climbed into the cart, still nursing his jug. He flicked the reins and the two war-hounds lurched into the traces. Tovi watched as the little cart trundled out of view, then he stood and stretched. His thoughts flicked to the Pallides man, Loran, and his warnings concerning the Outlanders. He had hoped the clansman was wrong, but now he knew otherwise. A few weeks ago the world had been a calm and pleasant place, filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the laughter and noise of his children. Now the days of blood had dawned again.

Stooping, he picked up the old claymore and stood facing the south, his hands upon the hilt, the blade resting on the earth. It was a fine weapon, and had served him well all those years ago. Yet holding it now gave him no pleasure, no surging sense of pride. All he could feel was sorrow.

The line of riders came down the long hill into the valley. Now he could count them. One hundred and fifty men and five officers. Too large a group to have come for hostages. No, he told himself, this is a killing raid. One hundred and fifty-five soldiers for a village of forty-seven men, thirty-eight women and fifty-one children! As he thought of the little ones a spark of anger burned through his grief, flaming to life in his breast. His huge hands curled around the claymore, the blade flashing up. Once he could have taken three, maybe four enemy soldiers. Today he would find out how much he had lost.

Turning his back upon the distant enemy, Tovi laid the claymore blade on his shoulder and strode down the long road to home. He was high above Cilfallen and from here the buildings seemed tiny set against the green hills and the mighty mountains. Newer dwellings of stone alongside the older timbered houses, and ancient log cabins with roofs of turf, all clustered together in a friendly harmony of wood and stone. Aye, thought Tovi, that is the mark of Cilfallen. The village is friendly and welcoming. There were no walls, for up to now the people had lived without fear.

Cilfallen was indefensible. Tovi sighed, and paused for one last look at the village he had known all his life.

Never will you look the same to me again, he knew. For now I can see the lack of walls and parapets. I see hills from which cavalry can charge into our square. I see buildings with no strong doors, or bowmen's windows. There is no moat. Only the stream, and the white rocks upon which the women and children beat the clothes to wash them.

Tovi walked on, aware also of his own weakness, the large belly fed with too much fresh bread and country butter, and a right arm already tired from holding the claymore.

'I'll find the strength,' he said, aloud.

*

Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps.

The weight of his chain-mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron's orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.

A mixture of honey and wine had been applied to his blood-drenched back. Three of the deeper cuts had needed stiches, twenty-two in all. Yet here he was, within a fortnight, sitting his saddle and leading his men.

He did not question the Baron's change of heart, and had accepted the commission with a burbled speech of gratitude that the Baron had cut short. 'Do not fail me again, Chard,' he had warned.

'How many men will you need?'

'Three hundred, sir.'

The Baron had laughed at him. 'For a village? why not take a thousand?'

'There are nearly two hundred of them, sir!'

The Baron had lifted a sheet of paper. 'One hundred and fifty, approximately. Fifty of them are children under the age of twelve. Around forty are women. The remainder are men. Farmers, cattle-herders - not a good sword among them. Take one hundred and fifty men. No prisoners, Chard. Hang all the bodies so they can be clearly seen. Burn the buildings.'

'Yes, sir. When you say no prisoners ... you mean the men?'

'Kill them all. I have chosen the men you will have with you. They are mercenaries, scum mostly.

They'll have no problem with the task. When they're finished let them loot. They will also - most certainly -keep some of the younger women alive for a while. Let them have their enjoyment, it's good for morale.' The Baron's cold eyes fixed on Chard. 'You have a problem with this?'

Chard wished he had the courage to tell the man just how much a problem he had with butchery.

Instead he had swallowed hard and mumbled, 'No, sir.'

'How is your back?'

'Healing, sir.'

'You won't fail me again, will you, Chard?'

'No, sir.'

The sun was high and sweat trickled down on to the whip wounds. Chard groaned. An officer rode alongside as they reached the valley floor.

'Beyond that line of hills, isn't it?' the man asked and Chard turned his head. The officer was thin-faced, with protruding eyes, his face marred by the scars of smallpox. Several white-headed pimples showed around his nostrils and a boil was beginning on the nape of his neck. 'Many women there?' asked the officer, as Chard ignored the first question.

'Set the men in a skirmish line,' Chard ordered.

'What for? It's only a pigging village. There's no fighting men likely to ambush us.'

'Give the order,' said Chard.

'Whatever you say,' answered the officer, with a thinly disguised sneer. Twisting in the saddle, he called out to the men, 'Every second man left skirmish. All others to the right!' He swung back to Chard. 'You have orders for the attack?'

'How many ways are there to attack a helpless village?'

'Depends if they know they're going to be attacked. If they don't, you just ride in and get the head man to call all the people together. When they're all in one place you slaughter 'em. If they do know, then they'll all be locked in their houses, or running for the woods. Lots of different ways, on foot, in a charge. It's up to you.'

'Attacked many villages, have you?'

'Too many to count. It's good practice. I'll tell you, you can learn a lot about your men by the way they conduct themselves in a situation like this. Not everyone can do it, you know. We had a young lad once, fearless and damn good with a sword or lance. But this sort of mission, useless.

Blubbed like a baby . .. ran around witlessly. Know what happened? Some young kid ran at him and slashed his throat open with a scythe. It was a damn shame. That boy had potential, you know?'

'Send a scout up to the high ground. He'll see the village from there.'

The officer wheeled his horse and rode to the left. A young mercenary kicked his horse into a run and Chard watched him climb the hill and rein in at the top. The soldier waved them on.

Chard led the men up the hill. The officer came alongside and the two men stared down at the cluster of buildings. A narrow stream cut across the south of Cilfallen, and there were two small bridges. Chard examined the line of water; the horses could cross it with ease. Beyond the stream was a low retaining wall, around two feet high and some thirty feet in length. Beyond that were the homes he had been sent to destroy. As he watched a young woman walked from one of the buildings; she was carrying a wicker basket full of clothes, and she knelt at the stream and began to wash them. Chard sighed, then he spoke. 'Send fifty men around the village to the north to cut them off from the hills. The rest of us will attack from the south."

The officer gave out his orders and two troops filed off to the north-east. Then he leaned across his saddle. 'Listen, Chard, I'd advise you to wait here. From what I hear your back's in a mess, so you won't be able to fight. And I guess you won't want any . .. pleasures. So leave it to me and my men. You agree?'

Chard longed to agree. Instead he shook his head. 'I will ride in with the attack,' he said. 'When it is over I will leave you to your ... pleasures.'

'Only trying to be helpful,' said the officer, with a wide grin.

They waited until the fifty horsemen had reached their position to the north of the village, then Chard drew his sword. 'Give the order,' he told the officer.

'No prisoners!' shouted the man. 'And all the looting to be left until the job is done! Forward!'

Chard wondered briefly if God would ever forgive him for this day, then touched spurs to his mount. The beast leapt forward. The soldiers around him drew their weapons and charged. The men were lighter armoured than he, wearing leather breastplates and no helms, and the mercenaries soon outpaced him, forming three attacking lines.

Chard was some fifteen lengths behind the last man when the first line of mercenaries reached the stream. The woman there dropped her washing and, lifting her heavy skirts, ran back towards the buildings. The raucous cries of the mercenaries filled the air and then the horses galloped into the water, sending up glittering fountains that caught the sunlight and shone like diamonds.

The first line had reached the middle of the stream when disaster struck. Horses whinnied in fear and pain as they fell headlong, tipping their riders over their necks. For a moment only Chard was stunned.

Tripwire! staked beneath the water line. My God, they were ready for us!

The riders of the second line dragged on their reins, but they collided with their downed comrades in a confused mass. Chard pulled up his mount. Experienced in battle, he knew that the tripwire was only the beginning. Swiftly he scanned the buildings. There was no sign of a defensive force .. .

And then they were there!

Rising up from behind the low retaining wall, a score of bowmen sent volley after volley of shafts into the milling men. Wounded mercenaries began to scream and run, but long shafts slashed into them, slicing through their pitiful armour.

'Dismount!' shouted Chard. 'Attack on foot!'

Scum though they were, the mercenaries were not afraid to fight. Leaping from their horses they rushed the bowmen, who stood their ground some thirty feet beyond the stream. More than twenty mercenaries went down, but Chard was confident that once hand-to-hand fighting began they would be swept aside by weight of numbers.

Urging his horse to the edge of the stream, he shouted encouragement to his men.

From behind the buildings came a surging mass of fighting men, armed with claymores, scythes, spears and hammers - and women carrying knives and hatchets. They smote the mercenaries' left flank. Chard saw the baker, Fat Tovi, slash his claymore through the shoulder and chest of a mercenary, and then the white-bearded smith, Grame, grabbed the pox-marked officer by the throat, braining him with his forge hammer.

The mercenaries broke and ran. But there was no escape.

Chard wheeled his horse and galloped along the stream, crossing a small bridge, then riding for the second group. All fifty were waiting as ordered in skirmish formation some twenty yards below the tree line. With these men he could yet turn the battle.

His pain was forgotten as he urged his stallion up the hill.

As Chard came closer he watched with horror as a dozen men pitched from their saddles with arrows jutting from their backs. Horses reared, spilling their riders.

A line of mounted bowmen rode from the trees, shooting as they came: grim, dark men, clothed in black and silver. As they neared the stunned mercenaries they threw aside their bows, drawing shining silver sabres. There were no more than twenty soldiers left. A few of them tried to fight, the others fled.

Chard, his force in ruins, his fragile reputation gone for ever, shouted his defiance and galloped towards the attackers. From their centre, on a jet-black horse, came a red-cloaked rider in silver armour. Chard raised his sword, slamming his spurs into the weary stallion's flanks. The horse leapt forward.

The silver rider swung her horse at the last second and the two beasts collided. Chard was flung from the saddle as his stallion went down. The silver rider sprang from her mount and ran in just as he was trying to rise. Despairingly he swung his broadsword at her legs. She jumped nimbly and, as she landed, lashed her sabre across his face. The blade struck his temple, biting deep and dislodging his helm.

Chard fell, rolled and struggled to rise. The sabre smashed down upon his skull, glancing from the chain-mail headguard. The blow stunned him and he sagged to his back. The sabre lanced into his throat. Chard felt pain only briefly, for the sword plunged through his neck and into the cold earth beneath him.

All was quiet now, and he felt a curious sense of relief. No dead children, no raped and murdered women. Perhaps God would forgive him after all.

Perhaps...

*

Sigarni stepped back from the corpse and heard Asmidir order his men into the village to check on casualties. She was breathing heavily, yet her limbs felt light. Asmidir came alongside her. 'How are you feeling?' As he spoke, his hand came down on her shoulder.

'Don't touch me!' she hissed, pulling away and turning to face him. She saw the shock and the dismay, but it was nothing to the roaring panic his contact aroused within her. 'Stay away from me!' she said.

'Sigarni.' His voice was soft, his eyes troubled. 'You are in no danger from me. The battle is over, and I believe we have won. Calm yourself before the others see you.'

The roaring receded and she began to tremble. 'God, what is happening to me?' she said, dropping her sabre and sitting down on the grass.

He moved to sit opposite her. 'I think we should blame it on the reaction to the battle, though we both know that is not the truth,' he said sadly. 'However, let us put that aside for now and enjoy the moment of victory. You risked it all, Sigarni. And I am proud of you. As I told you, I did not believe in the wisdom of this course. It was, in my view, too early for a confrontation. But you proved me wrong. Now perhaps you will explain why you were so confident.'

She smiled and felt some of the tension ease from her. 'It was not confidence. You told me I must have special skills. Whether or not that is true only time will tell. But I knew I could gather no support without a victory. Who would follow me? An untried woman in a world of beaten men.'

'But why here in Cilfallen? How did you know they would come here? There are scores of hamlets and villages throughout the Highlands.'

'Indeed there are, and we won't be able to protect them all. But Cilfallen was my village, and from here they took the hostages. It is also on largely open land. No major walls, no defences.

Added to this, it is the closest main settlement to Citadel.'

'And why did you believe there would be an attack?'

'I questioned Obrin concerning Outland tactics. He believed they would send between one hundred and two hundred men.'

Asmidir smiled. 'We could have lost it all, my lady. We gambled everything on a single throw of the dice. That is not to be recommended for every occasion, I assure you.'

Sigarni rose, then extended her hand to pull Asmidir to his feet. He looked up and met her eyes, and she knew he could see there her fear at the prospect of his touch. Slowly he reached out and clasped her wrist, rising smoothly and disengaging his grasp. 'That took courage, did it not?' he said.

She nodded. 'I am sorry, Asmidir. You are a dear friend, and will always be so. But they took something from me and I cannot get it back.'

He shook his head. 'I fear they took nothing. They gave you something ... something vile, like a poison that eats into your heart. I am your friend, Sigarni. More than that, I love you. I would die for you. But you alone must find a way to defeat the monsters tormenting you.'

'What do you mean defeat them? I killed them!'

'You misunderstand me,' he said gently. 'They may be dead, but you hold them to you. They exist in every thought you have; you see their faces on all men — even your friends. I cannot advise you, for I have no ... no perception of what you have been through. But you are now a fortress, barred against those who love you. Yet you have the enemy trapped within also. I think you will have to find a way to raise the portcullis and allow your friends in.'

'Nonsense,' she retorted. 'There is no portcullis.' Before he could speak again, she swung away and walked to her horse. 'Let's get to the village,' she said.

The two of them rode in silence.

The narrow lanes of Cilfallen were strewn with Outland corpses. Sigarni gazed on them dispassionately and guided her horse to the south of the town. The bodies of the mercenaries - stripped of all weapons - were slowly being carted across the bridge to an open field. Fell was sitting on the retaining wall surrounded by several of his foresters; they rose when they saw Sigarni. She dismounted and approached them. 'You did well," she said. 'Did you suffer any losses?'

'Three men wounded, none seriously. Four of the villagers were killed. Eleven others sustained wounds, most of them minor.' She turned towards the waiting foresters, recognizing them all. Three of them had been casual lovers. The men stood silently, their expressions guarded.

'You have now seen how the Outlanders keep the peace. Know this: In the spring they will come with an army. Their mission will be to annihilate all clansmen, and their families, and their children.

I intend to fight them - just like today. I will drench the Highlands in their blood. Today we are few, but that will change. Those who wish to serve me should make their wishes known to Fell.

Those who do not should make plans to leave the mountains. There are only two sides now: Outland and Highland. Those not with me will be deemed traitors, and I will hunt them down also. That is all.'

Spinning on her heel, she walked back to where Asmidir waited with the horses. 'I need to see Tovi,' she said. They found him at the bakery, with the ovens heating. He had discarded his sword and was kneading a batch of dough.

'One last time,' he said, with an embarrassed smile. 'I don't know why I wanted to.' He gazed around the long room with its racks of empty shelves. 'This place has been my life.'

'Now you have another life,' she said sternly. 'You were a warrior, Tovi; you understood discipline. You and Grame and Fell will train the Loda men. We will fall back into the forest and there I shall leave you. You will gather fighting men, organize stores for the winter, and put out scouts to watch for any further incursions into our territory. You understand this?'

'We can't win, Sigarni. I understand that.'

'We just did!'

'Aye,' he said, wiping the dough from his hands and moving to stand before her. 'We defeated a band of ill-led mercenaries. We tricked them and trapped them. What happens when the Baron marches with his regular soldiers? I watched your man Obrin fight today. He was deadly. What happens when there are thousands like him against us?'

Sigarni stepped in close, her eyes cold, her voice hard as a blade. 'Has all your courage gone, fat man? Has it melted into the blubber around your belly? I am Sigarni. I am of the Blood. And I wear the Crimson. I do not promise victory. I promise war and death. Now you have two choices. The first is to take your family and run, leave the Highlands. The second is to drop to your knee and pledge yourself to serve me until the day you die. Make that choice now, Hunt LordP

At the use of his title Tovi stiffened, and Sigarni saw the anger in his eyes. 'You have fought one battle, Sigarni. I have fought many. I know what war is, and I know what it achieves. It is no more than a pestilence. It is a terrible thing - it consumes and destroys, birthing hatreds that last for generations. But I am the Hunt Lord, and I will not leave my people in this desperate hour.'

'Then kneel,' she said, her voice flat and unrelenting.

Tovi stepped forward and dropped to one knee. 'My sword and my life,' he said, solemnly.

'Let it be so,' she told him.

Sigarni left him there and walked from the bakery. Grame was sitting by his forge with a bloody bandage around his upper arm. Gwalchmai was with him. The smith grinned as he saw her. Gwalchmai belched, stood, staggered and sat down.

'He's drunk,' said Grame.

'He always is,' said Sigarni. 'Will you serve me, Grame?'

The smith scratched his thick white beard. 'You've changed, lass. You always had iron in you, but I'd guess it has been run through the fire and moulded into something sharp and deadly. Aye, I'll serve you. What would you have me do?'

'Make the pledge.'

'I gave that pledge once already, and the King ran away and left me and others to rot.'

'I will not run, Grame. Make the pledge.'

He stood and looked into her eyes. Bending his knee, he took a deep breath. 'My sword and my life,' he said.

'Let it be so.'

'Where do I begin?' he asked, rising.

'See Tovi. He will tell you what I require in the coming weeks. For now, gather all weapons and supplies and lead our people deep into Pallides territory. We will speak again when the evacuation is complete. Any man who comes to you, Grame, and wishes to serve, make him speak the pledge. From now on we are Highlanders again. Nothing and no one will ever steal our pride. You understand?'

'Hail to thee, Battle Queen!' shouted Gwalchmai, lifting his jug in salute.

The words chilled Sigarni. 'Be silent, old fool! This is no place for your drunken ramblings.'

'He may be drunk,' said Grame, 'but he is not wrong. Only the sovereign can call for the pledge.

And only to a sovereign would I make it. You are the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Nothing can change that.'

Sigarni said nothing. Fell and his foresters came into sight, along with scores of villagers, forming a great semi-circle around the forge. All had heard Gwalchmai's drunken salute, and Sigarni saw both confusion and apprehension on the faces of the people around her.

She walked slowly to her horse and stepped into the saddle. There was no noise now, and she felt their eyes upon her as she rode slowly towards the hills.