The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER VIII

LIKE A GIFT from a merciful god winter came twelve days early, blizzards sweeping across the mountains, heavy snowfalls blocking narrow passes and making treacherous even the best of the roads. Sigarni sat alone on a high ridge, wrapped in a cloak of sheepskin, and stared out over the hills to the south. A mile away she could see three figures making their slow progress through the snow.

The heady days of victory at Cilfallen were weeks behind her now, and all the subsequent news had been bad. Stung by unexpected defeat the Outlanders had reacted savagely, sending three forces deep into the mountains to the east and the west. Three Farlain villages had been attacked, and more than four hundred Highlanders massacred in their homes. In the east a Pallides settlement was razed to the ground, and several Loda hamlets were struck during the same week, bringing the death total to more than five hundred.

Ten days before the slaughter Sigarni had travelled with Fell and Asmidir to the main Farlain town, seeking warriors to join their growing band. The experience had proved a hard lesson. As she sat watching the walkers in the snow, Sigarni steeled herself to recall the day.

More than five hundred people had gathered in the main square as the Hunt Lord, Torgan, waited to greet her. There were no cheers as the trio rode in. Torgan, a tall slender man, with wiry black hair cut short to expose a sharp widow's peak and a bald spot at the crown, was waiting for them.

He was sitting on a high seat in the centre of the square, flanked by six warriors carrying ritual ebony staffs, adorned with silver. Sitting at his feet was a white-bearded old man dressed in a long robe of faded grey.

'What do you seek here, Woman of Loda?' asked Torgan, as Sigarni dismounted. He did not rise from his seat, and his words were spoken scornfully.

'Is this the Farlain Gifted One?' countered Sigarni, pointing at the old man.

'It is. What concern is that of yours?'

Sigarni turned away from him, scanning the faces in the crowd. There was hostility there. 'Have his dreams been made known to the people of the Farlain?' she asked, raising her voice so that the crowd could hear her.

Torgan rose. 'Aye, they have. He told us of a troublesome woman who would bring death and destruction upon the clans: a Loda woman of low morals who by murder would enrage the Outlanders.

And his dreams were true!'

Despite her anger Sigarni stayed calm. 'He is no Gifted One,' she said. 'He is a fraud and a liar.

And I will speak no more of him. Let the Farlain know this: An Outland force raided Cilfallen. We destroyed them. More will come, and they will attack and butcher any in their path, whether they be Loda, Farlain, Pallides or Wingoras. All true Gifted Ones know this. And you will see the truth of my words. I am Sigarni. I am of the Blood of Kings. And I do not lie.'

Torgan laughed. 'Aye, we know who you are, Sigarni. Word of your talent has reached us even here.

You will leave the lands of the Farlain, and think yourself fortunate that we do not bind you and deliver you to the Outlanders for a just execution. Go back to your pitiful band and tell the idiots who follow you that the Farlain are not to be fooled.'

'How can I tell them that,' responded Sigarni, 'when it is obvious that they have been fooled already?' Spinning on her heel she strode to her stallion and stepped into the saddle. 'There are other Gifted Ones,' she told the crowd, 'in other clans. Be wise and seek their guidance. For the days of blood are here and if we do not join together we will be slaughtered separately. A leader has been prophesied - one who will unite the clans against the enemy. I am that leader.'

'No whore will ever lead the Farlain,' shouted the Hunt Lord. 'Begone before we stone you!'

Sigarni touched heels to her stallion and rode from the town.

Now, as she sat in the icy cold beneath a darkening sky, her anger remained, hot and compelling.

Sigarni had been better received among the Pallides, but even here they had promised no warriors to serve under her leadership. Arriving in the Lam Valley, she had been met outside the township by the blond warrior Loran, who had bowed as she dismounted.

'Well met, lady, and welcome,' he said. 'It is good to see you again.' The memory of their meeting by Ironside's Falls seemed as distant as a dream of another life and she found herself gazing at the handsome Pallides as if he was a stranger. 'Your armour fits you well,' he said. 'I am sorry that the shelters we built for the Loda people are so ... so humble. But we did not have much time.'

'They will suffice,' she said. From the tree line a huge man ambled into view and waved at Loran.

Sigarni watched his approach with undisguised amazement. A little over six feet tall, his shoulders seemed impossibly wide, and his neck was easily as big as her thigh. His head was large, and though beardless he had grown his sideburns long and they merged with his hair line to give him a leonine appearance.

'By God!' she whispered. 'Is it real?'

Loran chuckled. 'it is my cousin Mereth. And he's real enough.'

'Is this her?' said Mereth, squinting at Sigarni. His voice was a low rumble like distant thunder.

'Aye, Mereth, this is Sigarni.' He moved his head close to her face. 'Handsome woman,' he said amiably.

'Mereth's vision is weak,' explained Loran. 'It is his only weakness. He's the strongest man I've ever seen.'

'The strongest that ever was,' said Mereth proudly. 'I broke Lennox's record for the caber - and they said that couldn't be done. They said he was a giant. I broke it. Are you the Queen now?'

'This is not the time, Mereth,' said Loran softly, laying his hand on the giant's shoulder.

'I heard the Loda Gifted One named her Queen. I was only asking.'

'The Loda Gifted One is a drunkard. Now look after the lady's horse and I will see you at Fyon's house when you have stabled the mount.'

Mereth smiled. T can fight too,' he told Sigarni. T fear nothing.'

Loran and Sigarni walked on into the town. 'Poor vision is not his only weakness,' she said, when Mereth was out of earshot.

'Do not misjudge him, Sigarni. I admit he is not the most intelligent of men, but he is no simpleton. It just takes him a long time to work through a problem.'

Fyon Sharp-axe entertained her at his home in the Larn Valley. It was a fine old house, built of stone with a roof of carefully carved slate. Fyon, Loran and Mereth sat around the long table and listened intently as Sigarni told them of the events that had led to the battle of Cilfallen. The Hunt Lord, a squat powerfully built warrior with a square-cut black beard, forked with silver, had waited courteously until she finished her tale. As she concluded he raised a wine cup and toasted her. 'You did well, Sigarni,' he said. 'I applaud you for the way you saved the people of your clan. But I do not yet know if you are the leader who was prophesied. Our Gifted Ones say one is coming who will lead us, but they cannot name him. I know we have no choice now, save to battle for our lives. I will not relinquish this battle to you, for despite your victory at Cilfallen you are untried. And you are a woman. It is not a woman's place to lead men into battle. I do not say this slightingly, Sigarni, for I admire your courage. It is merely common sense. Men are ultimately dispensable. If, in a war, all but ten of a clan's warriors are killed, but the women remain, the clan would survive. But if only ten of the clan women were left it would die. Men are made for hunting and battle, women for gathering and childbirth. This is the way of the world. I cannot see Pallides warriors fighting for a woman - even one as spirited as you.'

Sigarni nodded. 'I understand your fears, Fyon,' she said. 'But I would like to hear the thoughts of Loran.'

The blond warrior leaned back in his chair. He glanced at Sigarni. 'I have waited for a leader - as have we all. And I was surprised when I heard that Gwalchmai had named you. We all here know that you are of the blood of Gandarin, and that he was directly descended from Ironhand. And a boy child of yours would have first claim to the throne. Yet there is no boy child, and never have the clans been led by a woman.'

'What of the Witch Queen?' countered Sigarni.

'Aye, I'll grant that,' admitted Loran, 'but she was from beyond the old Gateways, drawn to our aid by sorcery. And she did not stay to rule, but returned to her own land when the war was won.'

'As I shall,' said Sigarni.

'Be that as it may,' continued Loran, 'I cannot as yet make a judgement. I echo the Hunt Lord's praise for your victory at Cilfallen, and I deplore the treatment of you by the Farlain. Even so, I do not believe we should commit ourselves to you at this time. I ask that you do not judge us too harshly.'

Sigarni rose. 'I do not judge you harshly, Loran. You came to Tovi and warned him of invasion.

Because of your arguments he sent enough supplies back into Pallides lands to ensure survival for the people of Loda during the winter. You have given us land, built us homes. For this I am grateful. And I understand your concerns. I did not ask for this role, and would be more than happy to surrender it. But I know now that I am the one prophesied. I know it. What I need to know is what can be done to convince the Pallides. What do you require of me?'

'A good question,' said Fyon, also rising. He rubbed at his silver-forked beard and moved to the fire blazing in the hearth. 'And I wish I had an answer. We need a sign, Sigarni. Until then you must train your own warriors.'

Ten days later Fyon had ridden his horse into the makeshift camp of the Loda, seeking out Sigarni.

'Welcome,' she said, as he ducked into the small log dwelling. It was dark inside, and lit by the flickering fire within a small iron brazier. Fyon seated himself opposite Sigarni and cast a nervous glance at the black man at her side. 'This is Asmidir. He is my general, and a warrior of great skill.' Asmidir held out his hand and Fyon shook it briefly.

'The Outlanders struck several Farlain villages,' said Fyon. 'Hundreds were slaughtered, women and children among them. Torgan led his men on a vengeance strike, but they were surrounded and cut to pieces. Torgan escaped, but he lost more than three hundred warriors. He has blamed you - claims you are a curse upon the people. My scouts tell me the Outlanders are marching towards us. They will be here in less than five days.'

'They will not arrive,' said Sigarni. 'There are blizzards in the wind; they will drive them back.'

'Only until the spring,' said Fyon. 'What then?'

'Let us hope that by then you will have had a sign,' said Sigarni coldly.

High on the mountainside Sigarni wrapped her sheepskin cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

Lady padded across the snow and hunkered down by her side. Sigarni pulled off her fur-lined mittens and stroked the dog's head. 'We'll soon be back in the warm, girl,' she said. At the sound of her voice Lady's tail thumped against the snow.

The three walkers were at the foot of the mountain now and Sigarni could see them clearly. The first was Fell. With him were Gwyn Dark-eye and Bakris Tooth-gone. Slowly the three men climbed the flank of the mountain, reaching the ridge just before dusk. Snow was falling again, thick and fast.

Fell was the first to climb to the ridge. Snow was thick upon his hair and shoulders.

'What did you learn?' asked Sigarni.

'They have put a price of one thousand guineas upon your head, lady. And they are expecting another three thousand men by spring.'

'Did you see Cilfallen?'

Fell sighed. 'There is nothing there. Not one stone upon another. As if it never was.'

'Come back to the settlement,' she said. 'You can tell me all.'

'There's one piece of news I'd like to spit out now,' he said, brushing the snow from his hair.

'There was an arrival in Citadel - a wizard from the south. His name is Jakuta Khan. There are many stories about him, so we were told. He conjures demons.'

Sigarni could see the fear in their eyes, and she hoped they could not see the same fear in hers.

'I do not fear him,' she heard herself say.

'He came to our fire last night,' said Gwyn. 'Just appeared out of nowhere, and seemed to stand within the flames. Tell her, Fell.'

'He said for us to tell you he was coming for you. He said you were lucky that night by the Falls, but that this time he would not fail. You would remember him, he said, for the last time you saw him he had your father's heart in his hand. Then he vanished.'

Sigarni staggered back and swung away from the men. Her mouth was dry, her heart beating wildly.

Panic welled in her breast, and she felt herself adrift on a current of fear. Her legs were weak and she reached out to grip the trunk of a tree.

The demons were coming again!

*

For Tovi Long-arm the onset of winter was a nightmare. The people of the Loda were spread now across two valleys, in five encampments. Food was a problem for almost three thousand refugees.

Four of the Loda herds had been driven north after the attack on Cilfallen and three had been slaughtered to supply meat for the clan, leaving only breeding stock for the spring. But meat alone was not enough. There was a shortage of vegetables and dried fruit, and dysentery had spread among the old and infirm. Lung infections had begun to show among the old and the very young, and eleven greybeards had died so far in the first month of snow. Worse was to come, for soon the milk cows would go dry and then hunger would border on famine. Blizzards had closed many of the trails and communication was becoming difficult, even between camps. The structures erected by the Pallides were sound enough, but they were spartan and draughty, smoke-filled and dark.

Complaints were growing, and morale was low. Added to this there was resentment about the Outlander Obrin and his training methods. Day after day he would order the young men to engage in punishing routines, running, lifting, working in groups. It was not the Highland way, and Tovi had tried to impress this on the Outlander.

To no avail...

It was dawn when Tovi roused himself from his blankets. Beside him his wife groaned in her sleep.

It was cold in the cabin and Tovi placed his own blanket over hers. The children were still asleep. Tovi moved to the fire, which had died down to a few smouldering ashes. With a stick he pushed the last few glowing embers together, then blew them into life, adding kindling until the flames licked up. Pulling on his boots and overshirt he tried to open the door of the cabin, but snow had piled up against the door in the night and Tovi had to squeeze through a narrow gap to emerge into the dawn light. Using his hands, he scooped the snow away from the door and then pushed it shut.

Grame was already awake when Tovi called at his small hut. The smith, wrapped in a long sheepskin coat and holding a long-handled felling axe, stepped out to join him. 'The sky's clear,' said Grame, 'and it feels milder.'

'The worst is yet to come,' said Tovi.

'I know that!' snapped Grame. 'God, Tovi, must you stay so gloomy?'

Tovi reddened at the rebuke and glared at the white-bearded smith. 'Give me one good reason to be optimistic and I shall. I will even dance a jig for you! We have nearly three thousand people living in squalor, and what are we waiting for? To face famine or slaughter in the spring. Am I wrong?'

'I do not know if you are wrong, Tovi. That's the truth of it. But you could be. Concentrate on that. We now have five hundred fighting men, hard men, fuelled by anger and the need for revenge.

By spring we could have thousands. Then we will see. Why do you need to show such despair? It does no good.'

'I am not skilled at hiding my feelings, Grame,' admitted Tovi. 'I am getting old and I have no fire in my belly. They killed my son, destroyed my village. Now I feel as if I am waiting for the rest of my family to be put to the sword. I find it hard to stomach.'

Grame nodded. 'You are not so old, Tovi. And as for your stomach — well, you look better than you have in years. Felling trees and building cabins has been good for you. Come the spring, that claymore will have no more weight than a goose feather. Then you'll find the fire.'

Tovi forced a smile and scanned the camp. To the south the new community hall was almost half built, the ground levelled, the log walls already around five feet high. Eighty feet long and thirty wide, the structure when finished would allow many people of the encampment to gather together in the evenings. This, Tovi knew, would encourage a greater camaraderie and help lift morale. 'How long now?' he asked pointing at the structure.

'Five days. We'll be felling trees on the north slope today. If there's no fresh snow for a while we might finish in three.'

All around them people were emerging from the huts. Tovi saw the Outlander Obrin. The man was dressed now in borrowed leggings and a leather tunic; he strolled to a tree and urinated against the trunk. 'I don't like the man,' said Tovi.

'Aye, he's iron hard,' Grame agreed.

'It is not that. There is an arrogance about him that slips under my skin like a barbed thorn.

Look at the way he walks... as if he is a king and all around him are serfs and vassals.'

Grame chuckled. 'You are seeing too much. Fell walks like that. Sigarni too.'

'Aye, but they're Highlanders.'

Grame's chuckle became a full-blooded laugh as he clapped his hand on Tovi's shoulder. 'Listen to yourself! Is that not arrogance? Anyway Obrin is a Highlander - Fell's son.'

'Pah! Put a wolf in a kilt and it is still a wolf!'

Grame shook his head. 'You are not good company today, Hunt Lord,' he said. Tovi watched him stride away through the snow.

He's right, thought Tovi, with a stab of guilt. I am the Hunt Lord and I should be lifting the hearts of my people. He sighed and trudged off towards Obrin. The warrior had removed his shirt and was kneeling and rubbing snow over his upper body. As Tovi came closer he saw the web of scars on Obrin's chest and upper arms. The man looked up at him, his eyes cold.

'Good morning, Hunt Lord.'

'And to you, Obrin. How is the training progressing?'

Obrin rose and pulled on his shirt and tunic. 'Six of the groups are proving adequate. No more than that. The others ...' he shrugged. 'If they don't want to learn, then I cannot force them.'

'You don't need to teach a Highlander to fight,' said Tovi. Obrin gave a rare smile but it did not soften his face. If anything, Tovi realized, it made him look more deadly.

'That is true, Hunt Lord. They know how to fight, and they know how to die. What they don't comprehend is that war is not about fighting and dying. It is about winning. And no army can win without discipline. A general must know that when he - or in our case she - gives an order it will be obeyed without question. We don't have that here. What we have is five hundred arrogant warriors who, upon seeing the enemy, will brandish their claymores and rush down to die. Just like the Farlain.'

Tovi's first response was one of anger, but he swallowed it down. What would this Outlander understand of Highland pride, of the warrior's code? Fighting involved honour and couage. These Outlanders treated it as a trade. Even so, he knew that the man was speaking honestly. Worse, he was not wrong. 'Try to understand, Obrin,' he said, softly. 'Here each man is an individual. Wars between clans always come down to man against man. There was never any question of tactics. Even when we fought... your people ... we did not learn. We charged. We died. You are dealing with a people who have fought this way for generations. I don't even know whether the older warriors can absorb these new ideas. So be patient. Try to find some way to appeal to the younger men. Convince them.'

'I have already told them what is real,' said Obrin stubbornly. 'And if that wasn't enough they have the example of the Farlain.'

'We are a proud people, Obrin. We can be led to the borders of Hell itself, but we cannot be driven. Can you understand that?"

'I'll think on it,' said the Outlander. 'But I never was an officer, and I'm no leader. All I know is what I've learned through seventeen years of bloody war. But I'll think on it.'

A young woman approached them, a heavy woollen shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders. 'By your leave, Hunt Lord,' she said, with a curtsey. 'My grandfather is sick and cannot rise from his bed. Can you come?'

'Aye, lass,' said Tovi wearily.

*

Obrin watched the Hunt Lord trudge off through the snow, saw the weariness in the man. He wears defeat like a cloak, thought the warrior. The former Outlander wandered away from the camp, climbing high on to the mountainside to the meeting cave. Three men were already present, and they had lit a fire. Their conversation faded away as Obrin entered. He walked slowly to the far side of the fire and sat, glancing down at the two bundles he had left there earlier; they were untouched. Obrin waited in silence until others arrived, some singly, some in pairs, others in small groups until twenty-five were assembled. Obrin rose and looked at their faces. Many of them were scarce more than children. They waited, sullen and wary.

'No work today,' said Obrin, breaking the silence. 'Today we talk. Now I am not a great talker -

and even less of a teacher. But at this moment I am all that you have. So open your ears and listen.'

'Why should we listen?' asked a young man in the front row. He was no more, Obrin guessed, than around fourteen years of age. 'You tell us to carry rocks, we carry rocks. You tell us to run and we run. I do not need to hear the words of an Outland traitor. Just give us your orders and we shall obey them.'

'Then I order you to listen,' said Obrin, without trace of anger. His eyes raked the group. 'Your friendship means nothing to me,' he told them. 'It is worth less than a sparrow's droppings. We are not here for friendship. What I am trying to do is give you a chance - a tiny chance - to defend your loved ones against a powerful enemy. Oh, I know you are prepared to die. The Farlain have shown us all how well a Highlander can give up his life. But you don't win by dying.

You win by causing your enemy to die. Is that so hard to understand? The Hunt Lord says a Highlander cannot be driven. Is he incapable also of learning? If not, how did he acquire the skills to build homes, weave cloth, make bows and swords? What is so different about war? It is a game of skill and daring, of move and counter-move. The Outlanders - as you call them - are masters of war.'

'Masters of slaughter more like!' came a voice from the middle rows.

'Aye, and slaughter,' agreed Obrin. 'But in a battle they hold together. It is called discipline.

It is nothing to do with honour, or glory. Yet all victories are based upon it.' Obrin walked to the first of the bundles and flipped back the blanket covering it. Stooping he lifted a dozen sticks, each no thicker than his thumb and no longer than his forearm. Tossing them one by one to the nearest clansmen, he said, 'Break them!'

The first man chuckled and glanced down at the thin length of wood. 'Why?' he asked.

'Just do it.'

The sound of snapping wood echoed in the cave, followed by laughter as someone said, 'The great warrior has certainly taught us to master stick splitting.'

'Easy, was it not?' said Obrin amiably. 'No trouble. A child could do it. And that,'my fine clansmen, is how the Outlanders will deal with you. It is not a question of bravery, or honour.

You fight as individuals, single sticks. Now, this is how the Outlanders fight.' Taking up the second bundle which was also composed of a dozen sticks, but tightly bound with twine, he tossed it to the jester. 'Come then,' said Obrin, 'show me how you have mastered stick-splitting. Break them!'

The man stood and held the bundle at both ends. Suddenly he bent his knee and brought the sticks down hard across his thigh. Several sticks gave, but the bundle remained intact. Angrily he hurled the sticks on the fire. 'What does it prove?' he snarled. 'But give me a claymore and I'll show you what I can do!'

'Sit down lad,' said Obrin. 'I do not doubt your courage. The lesson is a simple one to absorb.

What you saw was two bundles. Each bundle had twelve sticks. One could be broken, the other could not. It is the same with armies. When the clans fought at Golden Moor they fought in the only way they knew, shoulder to shoulder, claymores swinging. They were brought down by archers and slingers, lancers and pikemen, heavy cavalry and armoured swordsmen. They were beaten decisively, but not routed. They stood their ground and died like men. By God, what a waste of courage! Did any here see the Farlain dead?'

Several men spoke up. Obrin nodded and waved them to silence. 'What you saw was easy to read. The Outlanders were in the valley. The Farlain attacked from the high ground, sweeping down on them, their claymores bright in the morning sun. The Outlanders formed a tight shield wall, their spears extending. The Farlain ran upon the spears, trying to beat a path through. Then the cavalry came from the right, from their hiding places in a wood. Archers appeared on the left sending volley after volley into the Highland ranks. How long did the battle last? Not an hour. Not even half that. According to Fell it was probably over in a few short minutes. The Outlanders carried their dead away in a single wagon - ten ... fifteen... twenty bodies at the most. The Farlain lost hundreds. Are the clans too stupid to learn from their errors?' They were listening now, intently, their eyes locked to Obrin's face. 'We all know the animals of the forest, and their ways. When faced with wolves, a stag will run. The wolves lope after him, slowly robbing him of strength. At last he turns at bay, and • they come at him from all sides. If he is strong his horns will kill some, then he dies. You are like the stag. The Outlanders are the wolves; only they are worse than wolves. They have the horns of the stag, the stamina and cunning of the wolf pack, the claws of the bear, and the fangs of the lion. To defeat them, we must emulate them.'

'How do we do this?' asked the boy who made the earlier jest.

'Your question is a good beginning,' Obrin told him. 'Understanding is the first key. All war is based on deception. When you are weak, you make the enemy think you are strong; when you are strong, make him think you are weak. When you are far away, make him believe you are near, and when you are near, lead him to think you are far away. The Outlanders did this to the Farlain.

Their scouts must have told them the clansmen were near, so they hid their cavalry and archers.

The Farlain saw the infantry occupying a weak position and attacked. In doing so, they walked into the iron jaws of the monster. We will not follow their example. We will fight on our own terms, choosing our own ground. If necessary, we will fight and run. We will make them the stag, and we shall be the wolves.

'To fight like this takes great discipline and enormous strength of heart, but it is the only way to win. Go now and talk amongst yourselves. Choose a unit leader from among you; he will be your officer. Pass the word to the other twenty-five groups. Tell them to appoint one man to represent them. Then I want all officers to report to me here at dawn tomorrow.'

As the men stood to leave Obrin lifted his hand. 'One more point, my lads. I am from a Highland people far to the south. We are called the Arekki. I am the only man of my clan within three hundred miles. I am Obrin, and I do not lie, cheat or steal. Not once in my life have I betrayed a friend or comrade, nor have I ever fled from an enemy. The next man to call me a traitor to my face will die on my sword. Go now!'

*

Sleeting hail beat against the windows as Asmidir sat at his desk with quill pen in hand, poring over maps of the Highlands. Two lanterns were glowing close by, casting gentle light on the sheets of paper littering the desk top. Asmidir stared hard at the lines on the ancient parchment, trying to picture the pass of Duane. Sheer to the east, mildly sloping to the west, it opened out into two box canyons and a long, narrow plain. Dipping his pen into the ink jar he sketched the pass, adding notations concerning distance and height.

Ari entered, still dressed in his armour of silver and black. He bowed. 'Shall I bring your food here, lord?' he asked.

'I'm not hungry. Sit you down.' The tall warrior pulled up a chair and sat. Leaning forward, Ari's dark eyes scanned the lines of the new map Asmidir was creating.

'Duane Pass,' he said. 'A good battle site - if the defenders number more than two thousand. Five hundred could not hold the ridges and would be flanked to the west. Cavalry would encircle them, then no escape would be possible.'

'Aye, it is a problem. We need more men. I'd give half of all I own to see Kalia here with her regiment.'

Ari gave a rare smile. 'Kalia and Sigarni? Panther and hawk. It would be ... interesting.'

'She is three thousand miles away - if she still lives. But you are right, it would be fascinating to see them together. Now, you know these maps as well as I. Where will the first attack come?'

Ari sifted through the sheets. 'They will bring an army to the first invasion fort. From there I would think they would swing north-east towards the deeper lands of the Farlain. They may even split then-force and push north-west into Pallides territory. I think you are right to choose Duane; it is three miles south of their first fort.'

Asmidir leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. 'Duane is a natural battle site. The enemy trapped below with only one means of escape, the defenders with their backs to the mountains, able to slip away at the first sign of impending defeat. As you say, however, we need at least two thousand.

Where else?'

Ari shuffled through the maps. 'With five hundred? Nowhere.'

'Precisely my thoughts. And the Baron is no fool, he will know our approximate number. Son of a whore!' Lifting a detailed sketch of an Outland fort, he passed it to Ari. 'What if we took it before they arrived? They'd have no supplies. How long could we hold them?'

'Four or five days. But they have three supply forts, not one. They will merely send a force around us. And then there would be no escape for the defenders. No prospect of victory either.'

Asmidir pushed himself to his feet and wandered to the window. The snow was falling thick and fast, piling against the base of the leaded panes. 'My head is spinning,' he said. 'Tell me something good. Anything.'

Ari chuckled. 'Our enemy is the Baron. He is hot-headed and reckless. Better yet, he is impatient and will not give us respect in the first battle. That is an advantage.'

'That is true,' agreed Asmidir. 'But it is not enough to give him a bloody nose. The first battle must be decisive.'

'And that means Duane Pass,' said Ari.

'Which the Baron will also be aware of.' Asmidir shook his head and laughed. 'Are we being fools, Ari? Have we waited this long merely to stand and die on a foreign mountain?'

'Perhaps,' agreed the warrior. 'Yet a man has to die somewhere.'

'I'm not ready to die yet. I swore an oath to make the Outlanders pay for the rape of Kushir. I must honour it — or my spirit will walk forever through the Valley of Desolation and Despair.'

'I also swore that oath, lord,' said Ari. 'We all did. Now our hopes rest with the silver woman.'

Asmidir returned to the table and stared into the dark eyes of the man opposite. 'What do you think of her, Ari? Could she truly be the One?'

The warrior shrugged. 'I do not know the answer to the second question. As to the first - I admire her. That is all I can say.'

'It does not bother you that this Chosen One is a woman?'

'Kalia is a woman - and she has fought in many wars. And Sigarni's battle plan at Cilfallen was inspired. Fraught with peril - but inspired.'

Asmidir gathered up the maps and sketches. 'I must be heading back to the mountains tomorrow. I need to see her.'

'It will take around four days now,' said Ari. 'The snows have blocked many passes. Perhaps you should wait for more clement weather.'

'These mountains do not know the meaning of clement weather,' said Asmidir, with a wry smile.

'Even in summer the wind can chill a man to the bone.'

'It is a hard land,' agreed Ari, 'and it breeds hard men. That is another advantage.'

Another warrior entered and bowed. 'There is a man to see you, lord,' he said. 'He came out of the snow.'

'Do we know him?' Asmidir asked.

'I have not seen him before, lord. He is very old, and wears a cloak of feathers.'

'Bring him in.'

The warrior stepped aside and Taliesen entered. He did not pause or bow but strode straight to the table. Snow had gathered on his feathered cloak and his eyebrows and eyelids were tinged with ice.

'She is gone,' he said. 'The demons are coming - and she has gone!'

*

The blizzard came suddenly, fierce winds slashing across the mountains, sending up flurries of ground snow to mix with biting sleet. Sigarni was on open ground with the temperature dropping fast. Shielding her eyes with a gloved hand, she looked for shelter. Nothing could be seen. To be caught outside was to die, she knew, for already the sleet was penetrating her leggings and soaking into the sheepskin coat she wore; her fur-lined hood was white with ice and her face was burning with pain.

There was no panic in her, and in the distance she saw a huge fir tree, part buried in the snow.

Striking out for it she waded through a thick drift, half climbing and half crawling until she reached the lee side of the tree. The branches of such a fir would spread in a radius of at least ten feet from the trunk, she knew, and that meant there was likely to be a natural cave below the buried branches. Lying on her belly, Sigarni began to dig with her hands and arms pushing aside the freezing snow, burrowing down beneath the boughs. Her pack snagged against a branch, and snow cascaded down on her. Digging deeper, she squeezed herself under the bough. Suddenly the snow beneath her gave way and she slid head first into the natural pocket below. The snow cave was around seven feet deep and eight feet across, the fir branches above forming the roof. Out of the biting wind, Sigarni shivered with pleasure. From the side pocket of her pack she took a small tinder-box and the stub of a thick candle. Striking the flint, she ignited the dried bark scrapings, gently blowing them to life, before holding the candle wick over the tiny flames. With the candle lit, she set it on the ground beside her and leaned back against the trunk of the fir.

She was cold, and she stared lovingly at the flickering candle flame. The heat from it would gather in the snow cave - not enough to melt the snow overhead but more than ample to prevent death from cold. Above her she could hear the ferocity of the blizzard raking across the mountains, talons of icy sleet ripping at the land.

Here I am safe, she thought. She closed her eyes. Safe? Only from the blizzard.

She had seen the fear in Fell's eyes as he promised to stand beside her against the wizard and his demons, but more than this she had remembered the awful events of her childhood ...

They had been enjoying a supper by the fire - when all the lanterns went out, as if struck by a fierce wind. Only there was no wind - only a terrible cold that swept across the room, drowning the heat of the fire under an invisible wave. Mother had not screamed, or shown any sign of panic, though the fear was there on her careworn features. She had leapt to the far wall, dragging down a sabre and tossing it to Father who stood silently in the centre of the room staring at the door.

He looked so strong then, with his full red beard glistening in the cold firelight.

'Get under the table, girl,' he told the six-year-old Sigarni. But she had scrambled to be beside her mother, who had drawn two hunting knives from their sheaths. Sigarni tugged her mother's skirt.

'I want a knife,' she said. Her mother forced a smile and looked at her father. Little Sigarni didn't understand the look then, but now viewing it from the distance between adulthood and infancy, she knew they were proud of her.

The door exploded inwards and a tall man stood there, dressed in crimson. Sigarni remembered his face; it was long and lantern-jawed, the eyes deep-set and small, the mouth full-lipped. He was carrying no weapon.

'Ah,' he said, 'everyone ready to die, I see. Let it be so!' In that moment a huge tear appeared in her mother's side, blood gushing from the wound. Father leapt forward, but staggered and shouted in pain as blood welled from talon marks on his neck. Something brushed Sigarni's dress and she saw the tear across her shoulder.

Father swung his claymore. It struck something invisible, black blood appearing in the air.

Screaming his battle-cry, he swung on his heel and sent the sword out in a second whistling arc.

It thudded into another unseen assailant - and stuck there. Blood gushed from Father's mouth and Sigarni saw his chest rip open, his heart explode from the cavity and fly across the room into the outstretched hands of the man in red. Sigarni's mother hurled one of her knives at the man, but it flew by him. Turning she leapt for the window, pushing it open, then swung back into the room and sprang towards Sigarni, grabbing her by her dress and lifting her from her feet. Spinning, she hurled the terrified child through the window.

Sigarni hit hard and rolled, then came upright and looked back at the cabin. Her mother shouted:

'Run!'

Then her head toppled slowly from her shoulders ...

And Sigarni had run, slipping and sliding down muddy slopes, panic-stricken and lost, until at last she came to the pool by the Falls...

Jerking her mind back to the present, she peeled off her gloves and extended her hands to the candle-flame. Fell would be angry that she had left him behind, but he could not fight the demons.

The forester would fare no better than her parents. No. If she had to die it would be alone.

No, she decided, not alone. I will find a way to kill some of them at least.

She sat for more than an hour, listening to the storm. Finally it swept by and the silence of the night fell on the mountains. Lifting the candle she blew it out, returning it to her pocket. Then slowly she climbed from the ice cave, and continued on her way to the pool by the Falls.

The journey was not an easy one. Many natural landmarks were hidden under drifts, the very shape of the land subtly altered by wind-sculpted snow. Above her the clouds cleared, the stars shining bright. The temperature plummeted. Sigarni pushed on, careful to move with the minimum of effort, anxious not to waste energy or to become too hot within her winter clothing. Sweat could be deadly, for it formed a sheet of freezing ice on the skin.

It was close to midnight when Sigarni struggled over the last rise. Below her the Falls were silent, frozen in mid-fall, and the pool was a field of snow over thick ice. Sigarni clambered down to the cave where Taliesen had nursed her. There was still some firewood stacked against the far wall. Releasing her pack, she built a blaze. The skin of her face prickled painfully as the heat touched her, and her fingers were thick and clumsy as she added fuel to the fire.

Removing her top-coat, she opened the pack and lifted clear the contents, setting them out in neat rows.

When to begin? Tomorrow? Tonight? Fear made her consider tackling the tasks now - immediately, but she was a Highlander and well understood the perils of fatigue in blizzard conditions.

No. Tonight she would rest, gathering her strength. Tomorrow the work could begin.

*

Ballistar awoke when he heard one of the warriors walk along the corridor outside and knock quietly at Kollarin's door. The dwarf sat up. He could hear voices, but the words were muffled by the wall. Curious, he scrambled from the bed and ambled to the door. Outside the former servant, Ari, was talking to Kollarin. The Outlander was bare-chested, his dark hair hanging loose. 'The Lord needs you -now,' said Ari.

'In the middle of the night?' queried Kollarin. 'Can it not wait?'

'Now,' repeated Ari. 'It is a matter of great urgency.'

'Does he want me also?' asked Ballistar.

Ari glanced down at the dwarf. 'He did not say so - but I think your counsel would be most welcome. He will meet you in the Long Hall.'

Minutes later, as Ballistar and Kollarin entered the hall, they saw Taliesen and the black man sitting by the fire. Ballistar cursed under his breath. He tugged the hem of Kollarin's green tunic. 'Sorcerer,' he whispered. As the two men approached the fire, Asmidir beckoned them to sit.

'Sigarni has left the encampment,' he said. 'It is imperative that we find her swiftly.'

'Why would she go?' asked Ballistar. Asmidir switched his gaze to Taliesen and the old man took a deep breath.

'How much do you know of her childhood?' he asked.

'Everything.'

'Then you will recall how her ... parents were killed.'

Ballistar felt his heartbeat quicken, and his mouth was suddenly dry. 'They were killed by ... by demons.'

'By demons, yes. Summoned by an enchanter who calls himself Jakuta Khan. There is much that I cannot tell you, but you should know this: Jakuta has returned. Twice already he has tried to capture Sigarni. Once as a babe. I thwarted him then, with the help of Caswallon. Then he found where we had hidden her and came again, killing her guardians. I thought he was finished then, but somehow he survived. We must find her.'

'Why does he want to kill her? Is he hired by the Baron?' asked Kollarin.

'No. This goes back a very long way. As I said, I cannot tell you everything. But the heart of the matter is Sigarni's blood, or more accurately her blood line. She is of the blood of kings. Those who understand the mystic arts will know why that is important to Jakuta.'

Kollarin nodded. Ballistar looked from one to the other. 'Well, I don't know,' he said. 'Why?'

'Power,' Kollarin told him. 'It is believed that the soul of a king carries great power. To sacrifice such a man would bestow enormous power on the one who carried out the deed. It is said that the Demon Lord, Salaimun, conquered the world after killing three kings. I don't know whether there be truth in such tales.'

'Some truth,' said Taliesen. 'Salaimun made pacts with the Lords of the pits. He fed them blood and souls in return for power. Jakuta made a similar pact. But he has failed - twice.'

'As far as I understand it,' said Asmidir, 'if you fail then your own soul is consumed. Is that not one of the dangers of necromancy?'

'It should be,' agreed Taliesen. 'I can only surmise that Jakuta used a familiar through which to cast his spells of summoning.'

'A familiar?' echoed Ballistar.

'A conduit,' Kollarin told him. 'The sorcerer uses an apprentice, who is placed in a trance. The spell is then spoken through the apprentice. If it fails, the demons take the soul of the conduit... the familiar.'

'Enough of this!' stormed Taliesen. 'We are not here to educate the dwarf. Can you find her, Kollarin?'

Kollarin shook his head. 'Not from here. I must go to where she last slept, then I will pick up her spirit trail.'

'It will take three days in the snow,' said Asmidir. The black man swung to the sorcerer.

'However, it did not take you three days, Taliesen. Do you know another path?'

'Aye, but none of you could walk it," he said despondently.

'Why do you need to be in the hut Kollarin?' asked Ballistar. 'Could you not merely track her by using a piece of her clothing?'

'I am not a bloodhound, you idiot! I don't follow the trail with my snout to the snow!'

'Then how do you hone your talent?' asked Asmidir.

'It is hard to explain. But for me a person leaves an essence of themselves in any building. It fades over a period of weeks, but once I hook to it I can follow it anywhere.'

'And where is such an ... essence . .. most strongly felt?'

'In a bed, or a favourite chair. Sometimes attached to a family member, or a close friend."

'By going to the hut, could you gain a sense of her ultimate destination?'

'No,' admitted Kollarin. 'I would follow the trail.'

'Damn!' said Asmidir. 'It brings us no closer. What of you, Taliesen? You are a sorcerer. You claim to be able to see the future. How then do you not know her whereabouts?'

'Pah!' said the old man. 'You think in straight lines. You talk of a future. There are thousands upon thousands. New futures begin with every heartbeat. Aye, in all of them Sigarni is the Chosen One. In some of them she even succeeds for a while. In most of them she dies, young and unfulfilled. I am seeking the one future among so many. I do not know where she is; I don't know why she has run away. Perhaps in this future she lacks courage.'

'Nonsense,' said Ballistar, reddening. 'She would not flee. If she knew the demons were coming she would try to think of a way of fighting them. I know her - better than any of you. She has gone to choose her ground.'

'Where would that be?' asked Asmidir. 'That is the question. And why did she not come to us to aid her?'

'Her father was a great fighter,' said Ballistar, 'but he was torn to pieces. She would not take her friends into such peril. Who among us could fight demons?'

'I could, but I wasn't here,' said Taliesen. 'My people are fighting a war in another time. They needed me.'

'There was no one she could turn to,' said the dwarf. 'Therefore she will fight alone."

'Wait!' said Taliesen, his eyes brightening. 'There is one she would turn to. I know where she is!'

'Where?' Asmidir asked.

'The cave by the pool. She has an ally there. I must go!' Taliesen rose.

Ballistar lifted his hand. 'A moment, please,' said the dwarf. 'Do you know what Sigarni took with her when she left?'

'Knives, balls of twine, some food, a bow, arrows. What does it matter?' asked the sorcerer.

'It matters more than you think,' said Ballistar. 'You had better let me come with you.'