Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  “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 sabers of shining steel. They wore black mail-shirts that 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 tabletop. 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 armor 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-armored 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 center of the room. Her armor 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.

  His Al-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 toward 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 crossroads.” 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-armored 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 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 forever.”

  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 Ari had shown her the armor. 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 topcoat, the armored 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 snowcapped peaks.

  “Speak your thoughts, my lady,” said Asmidir.

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

  “It has begun, Sigarni,” he said softly. “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 saber, 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 toward 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 in thought. The sun was bright in a clear sky, the mountains shining in splendor, 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.