Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “And who will follow me, Asmidir?” she asked. “Who will follow the whore Sigarni?”

  Ballistar moved between them and gave a low bow. “I will follow you, Sigarni,” he said. “Will you let me be the first?” Dropping to one knee he gazed up at her.

  Sigarni felt her anger drain away. “You are my friend,” she said wearily. “Is that not enough?”

  “No. I believe what he says. The wizard said the same. I know I am not built to be a warrior, or to lead men into battle. I can serve you, though. I can cook, and I can think. I am not a fool, Sigarni, though nature has gifted me the appearance of one. Other men will kneel before you, and you will gather an army from among the clans. And if we are all to die, let it be while fighting a vile enemy. For from now until then, at least we will live with pride.”

  Sigarni stood and took his arms, helping him to his feet. “You shall be the first, Ballistar,” she said. Seizing her hand he kissed it, then stepped back, blushing.

  “I’ll leave you now,” he said. “I’ll prepare breakfast. Planning should never be attempted on an empty stomach.”

  As the dwarf departed Asmidir leaned forward. “His words had great wisdom, Sigarni.”

  She said nothing, but sat silently for a while staring into the flames, seeing again the sword that crushed the life from Abby, and then the terrible ordeal in the dungeon.

  “What kind of army can we raise?” she asked.

  Asmidir smiled. “That is more like it! The Loda number less than two thousand people, of which no more than six hundred could fight, and only then for a short space of time, for the fields would have to be tilled and planted, crops gathered and so on. Realistically we could raise three hundred fighting men. The Pallides number more than six thousand, with approximately two thousand men between the ages of fifteen and sixty. I have no detailed information as yet about the Farlain, but judging by the areas they inhabit, there should be at least four thousand of them. The Wingoras are the smallest clan, but even they could put two hundred fighting men on the field of battle. All in all, perhaps four thousand in total.”

  “Such a total could not be reached,” she said. “You could not assemble all the clan’s fighting men in one place. If the enemy were to avoid a confrontation, or slip by, all the villages and towns would be undefended.”

  Asmidir clapped his hands together. “Good!” he said. “Now you are thinking! Tell me then, what is the most important matter to be studied first?”

  “The enemy leader,” she said without hesitation. Then she faltered, her brow furrowing.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are you in pain again?”

  “No. I am . . . remembering. How strange. It is like looking through a window and seeing myself from afar. And he is with me. Talking. Teaching. He is saying, “Know the enemy general for he is the heart and mind of the foe. The body may be of great power, and almost invincible, but if the heart and mind are not sound he will face defeat.”

  She saw that Asmidir was surprised. “Who is saying this? And when?”

  “The King who was,” she told him, “and he spoke to me while I slept in the cave.”

  “Now you are speaking in riddles.”

  “Not at all, Asmidir, but let us leave it there, as a mystery for you. He also said there were five fundamentals to analyze before war was undertaken: moral influence, weather, terrain, command, and doctrine.”

  Asmidir’s surprise turned to astonishment. His eyes narrowed and he smiled. “Did he also mention the seven elements?”

  “No. He said he would leave that to you.”

  “Are you making mock of me, woman?” he asked, his expression softening.

  She shook her head. “I am speaking the truth.” Rising smoothly she stood before him. “And woman is no way to address a leader,” she said, smiling.

  Asmidir did not return the smile. Instead he moved to his knees before her and bowed his head. “I ask your forgiveness, my lady,” he said, “and I further request that you allow me to be the second man to pledge his loyalty to you.”

  “Now you are mocking me, Asmidir,” she admonished him.

  He glanced up, his face set. “I have never been more serious, Sigarni. I offer you my sword, my experience, and—if necessary—my life. All that I have is yours . . . now and forever.”

  “It shall be so,” she heard herself say.

  At that moment a servant entered. He bowed low. “Soldiers approaching, lord. Some thirty in number. With them rides the man you spoke of, dressed all in green.”

  Asmidir swore softly. “Remain in your room, Sigarni. This situation may become delicate.”

  “Who is the man in green?” she asked.

  “A Seeker, a Finder. His powers are strong, and he will sense your spirit. One of my servants will come to you. Follow where he leads, my lady, and I will come to you when I can.”

  Obrin removed his iron helm and pushed back his chain-mail head and shoulder guard, allowing the mountain breeze to cool his face and blow through his short-cropped hair. Resting the helm on a flat stone beside the stream, he pulled off his riding gauntlets and laid them atop the helm. “A beautiful land,” observed the Finder Kollarin, moving alongside him and splashing water to his face.

  “Like my homeland,” replied the sergeant, scanning the mountains. Obrin said nothing more and moved away to check the horses. They had been picketed a little way upstream and a sentry was standing by them. “Give them a while to cool down, then take them to water,” he told the young man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” snapped Obrin. “I’m not a bloody officer.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Obrin’s foul mood darkened further. It had started already. Word of his temporary promotion had spread fast and the men thought it humorous, but nothing could be farther from the truth. As they were leaving the Citadel barracks Obrin had seen several officers watching him. They were laughing. One of them, Lieutenant Masrick—a potbellied second cousin of the Baron—cracked a joke, his thin voice carrying to the mounted soldiers waiting for Obrin: “Put a pig in silk and it is still a pig, eh, my friends?”

  Obrin pretended not to hear. It was the best policy. His short-lived appointment would soon be forgotten, but the enmity of a man like Masrick could see him humbled—or worse. Obrin pushed thoughts of Masrick from his mind.

  He had camped his men in a hollow beside a stream. From here the campfires could be seen over no great distance, and with a sentry posted on the closest hill, they could have ample warning of any hostile approach. Not that Obrin expected an attempt to rescue the prisoner. However, regulations demanded that in the absence of a fortified camp, the officer in charge observe the proper precautions. The ground was rocky, but sheltered, and two campfires had already been lit. Cooking pots were in place above them and the smell of stew was beginning to fill the air. Obrin walked to the brow of a hill overlooking the campsite and sat down on a rock. From here he could see Kollarin sitting beside the stream, and the other men moving about their chores. The prisoner was seated by a slender elm at the edge of the camp, his hands and feet tied. There was blood on his face, and his left eye was blackened and swollen.

  Obrin felt uncomfortable. He had known Fell for almost four years and he liked the man. A good judge of character, Obrin knew the clansman to be strong, proud, and honest. He was no murderer, of that Obrin was sure. What difference does it make what you think? he asked himself. Who cares? You had a job to do and you did it. That’s all that matters. Fell had said nothing since the capture. Kollarin had led them to a cave, in which Fell was sleeping. They had rushed him and overpowered him. But not before Fell had smashed Bakker’s nose and broken the jaw of the new recruit, Klebb. Obrin grinned at the memory. There was little to like about Bakker, a loud, greasy whoreson with shifty eyes. The flattened nose had improved his looks tenfold!

  Obrin saw Kollarin rise and begin to walk up the hill. He cursed inwardly for the man unnerved him. The sergeant did not care for ma
gickers. Obrin made the Sign of the Protective Horn as the man approached. He did not do it covertly, but allowed Kollarin to see the gesture.

  The man in green smiled and nodded. “I only read minds when I am paid,” he said. “Your secrets are quite safe.”

  “I have no secrets, Finder. I tell no lies. I deceive no one— least of all myself.”

  “Then why make the sign?” asked Kollarin, sitting alongside the soldier.

  “A casual insult,” admitted Obrin, unconcerned over any possible reaction.

  “You do not like me, Sergeant. You believe Fell should have been given the chance to fight like a man, and not be taken in his sleep. You are probably right. I would go farther, though. We are all reared on stories of heroes, great warriors, or poets, or philosophers. We are told that we must aspire to be just like these heroes, for only by so doing can we ensure the survival of civilization. It is very noble. Indeed it is laudable.” Kollarin chuckled. “And then we become men, and we realize that it is all nonsense.”

  “It is not nonsense!” said Obrin. “We need heroes.”

  “Of course we do,” Kollarin agreed. “The nonsense is that sometimes they are the enemy. What then do we do, Obrin?”

  “I’m not a philosopher. I live by my own rules. I steal from no man, and I commit no evil. God will judge me on that when my time comes.”

  “I am sure that He will judge all of us, my friend. Tell me, what do you think He will think of us when young Fell is brought before him? When his body lies broken and blinded on the Citadel rack and his spirit floats up to paradise?”

  Obrin was growing more uneasy, yet he did not walk away, though he wanted to. “How should I know?”

  “I think you know,” said Kollarin sadly.

  “What do you want me to say?” stormed Obrin. “That he has been treated unjustly? Yes, he has. That he doesn’t deserve to die? No, he doesn’t. None of it matters. The Baron is the law, he gave me my orders and it is my duty to obey them. What of you? You took his money, and agreed to hunt down the clansman. Why did you do it?”

  Kollarin smiled. “I had my reasons, Obrin. Did you hear about what happened to the woman?”

  “It is said they raped her but I find it hard to believe. Will Stamper was not that kind of man. We were friends, I knew him.”

  “He did it,” said Kollarin. “I was in that cell. I read it in the blood. They all did it. And they cut her, and they bit her, and they beat her with fists. And all because she tried to stop the Baron stealing her hawk. Heroic, eh?”

  Obrin said nothing for a moment. The light was failing and the campfires cast a gentle glow over the hollow. “I can’t change the world,” he said sadly. “Fell rescued the woman and I’m glad that he did. Now he has to pay for it, which saddens me. But in my life I’ve seen a lot of good men die, Kollarin. And a lot of evil men prosper. It is the way of things.”

  “You’ll see worse yet,” said Kollarin coldly.

  “Like what?”

  “The invasion in the spring, when the Baron leads an army to annihilate the Highlanders. You’ll see the burning buildings, hear the screams of women and children, watch the crows feast on the bodies of farmers and shepherds.”

  “That’s just a rumor!” snapped Obrin. “And a stupid one at that! There’s no one for the army to fight here.”

  “I am Kollarin the Finder,” said the man in green, rising. “And I do not lie either.”

  Obrin stood and walked down the hill. A soldier offered him a bowl of stew, which he accepted, and for a while he sat with his men, listening to them talk of whores they had known, or lands they had campaigned in. Then he ladled more stew into his bowl and walked to where Fell was tied. The clansman looked up at him, but said nothing.

  Obrin squatted down. “I have some food for you,” he said, lifting the bowl to Fell’s lips. The clansman turned his head away and Obrin laid down the bowl. “I’m sorry, Fell,” he said softly. “I like you, man, and I think you did right. I hope to God the woman gets far away from here.” The clansman’s eyes met his, but no words were spoken by him.

  Returning to the fire, Obrin ordered the cooking pots cleaned and stowed, then set sentries for the night. Kollarin was once more sitting by the stream, his green cloak wrapped about his shoulders.

  Using his saddle for a pillow, Obrin removed his chain-mail shoulder guard and his breastplate, unbuckled his sword and dagger belt, and settled down to sleep. In all his seventeen years of soldiering sleep had always come easily. In the blazing heat of the Kushir plains, in the harsh, bone-biting cold of the Cleatian mountains, at sea in a gale-tossed ship, Obrin could just close his eyes and will his body to rest. It was, he knew, a vital skill for a veteran. In sleep a man regained his strength and rested his soul. In war a soldier’s life depended on his power, speed, and reflexes. There were few second chances for a tired warrior on a battlefield.

  But sleep was slow to come tonight.

  Obrin lay on his back, staring up at the bright stars and the lantern moon.

  He was walking along a narrow trail, beneath an arched tunnel made up of the interlinked branches of colossal trees on both sides of the way. Obrin stopped and glanced back. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, dark and gloomy, pierced occasionally by a shaft of moonlight through a gap in the branches.

  Obrin walked on. There were no night sounds, no owl calls, no rustling of wind in the leaves. All was silence, save for his soft footfalls on the soft earth. Ahead was a brilliant shaft of moonlight, a beautiful column of light that shone upon a crossroads. Obrin approached it, and saw a warrior sitting on a rock by the wayside. The man was huge, his long white hair gleaming in the moonlight. He wore his beard in two white braids that hung to his silver breastplate. A double-handed claymore was plunged into the earth before him, its hilt a glistening silver, while a huge crimson stone was set into the pommel.

  “It is a fine weapon,” said Obrin.

  The man stood. He towered over Obrin by a good South-land foot. “It has served me well,” he said, his voice rich and deep. Obrin looked up into his pale, deep-set eyes. They were the color of a winter storm cloud, grey and cold. Yet Obrin felt no fear.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  The tall warrior extended his arm, sweeping it across the three paths that began in the pillar of light. “We are at the crossroads,” said the warrior. Obrin’s attention was caught by the man’s single gauntlet of red iron. It was splendidly crafted, seemingly as supple as leather.

  “Who are you?” he asked

  “A man who once traveled,” answered the warrior. “Many paths, many roads, many trails. I walked the mountains, Obrin, and I rode the Lowlands. Many paths, some crooked, some straight. All were hard.”

  “The warrior’s paths,” said Obrin. “Aye, I know them. No hearth, no home, no kin. Only the Way of Iron.” Weariness settled upon him and he sat down.

  The warrior seated himself beside the Southlander. “And which path do you walk now?” asked the stranger.

  “I go where I am sent. What else can a soldier do? Seventeen years I have served the Baron. I have watched friends die, and my boots have collected the dust of many nations. Now I have an aching shoulder and a knee that does not like to march. In three years I can claim my hectare of land. Maybe I will—if I can still remember how to farm. What of you? Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere I haven’t been,” answered the man. “I too wanted to farm, and to breed cattle. But I was called upon to right a wrong. It was a small matter. A nobleman and his friends were hunting, and they rode through a field and trampled a child playing there. Her legs were broken badly and the family had no coin to pay for a Wycca man to heal her. I went to the nobleman and asked for justice.”

  Obrin sighed. “I could finish that story for you, man. There’s no justice for the poor. Never was, never will be. Did he laugh in your face?”

  The giant shook his head. “He had me flogged for my impudence.”

  “What happened to the girl?
”

  “She lived. I went back to the nobleman and this time he paid.”

  “What brought about his change of heart?”

  “There was no change of heart. I left his head on a spike, and I burned his home to the ground. It was a grand fire, which burned bright and lit the sky for many a mile. It also lit men’s hearts, and that fire burned for thirty years.”

  “By God, did they not hunt you?”

  “Aye. And then I hunted them.”

  “And you were victorious?”

  “Always.” The warrior chuckled. “Until the last day.”

  “What happened then?”

  Idly the warrior drew his sword from the earth and examined the glistening blade. The ruby shone like fresh blood, the blade gleaming like captured moonlight. “The war was over. Victory was won. The land was at peace, and free. I thought my enemies were all dead. A dreadful mistake for a warrior. I was riding across my lands, gazing upon High Druin, watching the storm clouds gather there. They surprised me. My horse was killed, but not before the gallant beast got me to the edge of the forest. They came at me in a pack: men I had fought alongside, even promoted. Not friends, you understand, but comrades-in-arms. My heart was wounded each time I killed one of them. The wounds to my body were as nothing to my grief.”

  “Why did they turn on you?”

  The warrior shrugged, then thrust the sword once more into the earth. “I was a king, Obrin. And I was arrogant and sure. I treated some of them with disdain. Others I ignored. There were always ten men queuing for every favor I could grant. And I made mistakes. Once I had freed them from the tyranny of the oppressor I became a tyrant in their eyes. Who knows, maybe they were right. I do not judge them.”

  “How did you survive alone against so many?”

  “I did not.”