Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “The Blue Duck!” said one of the soldiers.

  “And that’s where she is heading?” asked Redgaer. Kollarin nodded.

  “Was heading, Captain. This was some while ago.”

  Redgaer Kushir-bane pushed past the Finder and ran up the stairs, the soldiers pounding after him. Kollarin followed. The four men ran through the streets, arriving at the Blue Duck tavern in time to see the crowd gathered around the bodies of the two soldiers. Kollarin pushed through and squatted down by the bodies.

  “When did this happen?” he heard Redgaer demand.

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

  Kollarin touched his hand to the blood on the dead Will Stamper’s throat. Then he jerked and almost fell. A voice boomed into his mind. “Delay them!” It was not a command, nor yet a plea. Kollarin was surprised, but not shocked. Spirits of the dead had spoken to him before. Yet none had been as powerful as this one. For one fleeting moment he saw a face, hawk-nosed, with deep-set grey eyes and a beard of bright silver. Then the face faded. Kollarin remained where he was for a few seconds more, gathering his thoughts. He was a Hunter, a Finder. His reputation was second to none, and he valued this above all else. Kollarin never failed. He had trailed killers and thieves, robbers and rapists, cattle thieves and assassins. Never before had he been asked to hunt down an innocent woman, brutalized by her captors. Never before had a long-dead spirit interceded on behalf of a victim.

  Kollarin rose and stretched his back.

  “Where is she heading, man?” demanded Redgaer.

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

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

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

  “That leads to the north gate, sir,” said one of the soldiers. “There is a stable there. We could get horses.”

  Redgaer nodded. “Follow me,” he ordered, and ran off.

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

  What a time to say “I’m sorry.”

  The more Fell considered his encounter with the old man, the more he believed it was a dream. That being so, he asked himself, why are you sitting here in the cold waiting for dawn to rise over Citadel town? He smiled ruefully and poked the dying campfire with a long stick, trying to urge some life into the little blaze. Fell’s sheepskin cloak was damp from the recent rain and the fire had not the strength to warm him. It spluttered and spat, fizzled and sank low. He glanced at the sky. Dawn was still an hour away. He was sitting with his back against the shallow depression of a deep boulder, the fire set against a second tall stone. The forester looked down at the last of the wood he had gathered. It was also damp. To his left Fell could see the twinkling lights of the Cinder-wings. He hoped they would come no closer. Fell had no wish to be visited by the ghosts of painful memories. The Cinders were clustered under an oak branch twisting and moving, their golden wings of light fluttering in the dark. When he was a child Fell had caught one of them, and rushed it home to his parents. In the light of the cabin it had proved to be nothing more than a moth, with wide, beautiful wings and a dark, hairy body. Lying dead in his hand it had seemed so ordinary, yet out in the woods, its wings glowing with bright light, it had been magical beyond imagining.

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

  How true it was. When Fell was sixteen he had been walking through the night, following the trail of a lame wolf. He saw the flickering of Cinder-wing lights and walked in close to see them fly. Instantly the vision of Mattick’s soon-to-be-drowned face filled his mind, the child reaching out to Fell as the undertow dragged him toward the rapids. Fell couldn’t swim, and could only watch helplessly as the child was swept over the rocks, the white water thrashing around him. The face hovered in Fell’s mind and he dropped to his knees, tears coursing his cheeks. “It was not my fault!” he cried aloud, then scrambled back from the glowing insects. After that he gave the Cinder-wings a distant respect.

  The rain began again, and the Cinders vanished from sight. Fell shook his head. “A great fool you are,” he said aloud, watching the drops of rain settling on the longbow. The bowstring was safe and dry in his belt pouch, his quiver of twelve shafts behind him and under his cloak, but Fell did not like to see his favorite hunting bow at the mercy of the weather. It was a fine bow, made by Kereth the Wingoran. Horn-tipped, it had a pull of more than ninety pounds. Fell, though not the finest of the Loda bowmen, had not missed a killing shot since purchasing the weapon. An arrow would sing from the string, streaking to its target and sinking deep through skin, flesh, and muscle. It was important for a deer to die fast. Ideally the beast would be dead before it knew it, therefore the meat remained tender and succulent; whereas if the creature was frightened, its muscles would tense and harden and the meat would stay that way. Fell’s bow supplied choice meat.

  “What are you doing here, Fell? Following a dream you don’t believe in?” he said aloud. The words of the dream man came back to him. “In three days outside the walls of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”

  The rain eased once more, and as the moon showed through the break in the clouds, the Cinders glinted back into life. Fell hefted his bow and wiped the drops of water from its six-foot length. Amazingly the fire flared up, tongues of flame licking at the wood. Fell stretched out his hands and felt the welcome warmth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “For pity’s sake, ju
st say what you came to say,” said Fell. “I am already sick of your lectures.”

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

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

  “When the arrows are loosed, and blood is upon the ground, you must take the Cloak Wearer there. You understand?”

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

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

  The old man vanished. The fire died instantly.

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

  The first light of predawn was heralded by birdsong and Fell swung his quiver over his shoulder and walked to the top of the hill overlooking Citadel town.

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

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

  Sigarni was running hard, but the horsemen were closing. Why do they have their swords drawn? thought Fell. And then it came to him in a sickening realization. They are chasing her. They mean to kill her!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He was sweating heavily by the end of the first mile, and by the second he felt his legs trembling with the effort of carrying the unconscious woman. Sigarni had made no sound throughout and Fell paused by a stream, lowering her to the ground. Her color was not good, and her pulse was faint and erratic. Carefully he examined her, opening her torn shirt. There were bloody teeth marks on her breast, and a range of purple bruises on her rib cage and shoulders. But no deep wounds. She is in shock, he thought. It is vital to keep her warm; to find somewhere he could nurse her. Gently he stroked her bruised face. “You are safe, my love,” he said softly. “Hold on for me.” She did not stir as Fell wrapped the crimson cloak around her, then lifted her to his shoulders. Almost two hours had passed already since the fight above the town, and there were still four miles to go. Fell took a deep breath and struggled on, trying not to think of his aching muscles, the burning in his calves and thighs.

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

  At last they arrived at Alwen Falls.

  There was no sign of the wizard.

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

  What now? he wondered. Where will we go?

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

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

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

  “That’s a more pleasing entrance,” said the forester. “ Now I believe you are flesh and blood.” Taliesen removed his cloak and draped it over a rock. Squatting by the fire, he held out his ancient hands to the flames.