Ironhand's Daughter (15 page)

“I want no part in them,” she said.

“You have little choice in the matter. And you will feel differently when you wake. In spirit form you are free of much more than merely the flesh. The human body has many weapons. Rage, which increases muscle power; fear, which can hone the mind wonderfully; love, which binds with ties of iron; and hate, which can move mountains. There are many more. But in astral form you are connected only tenuously to these emotions. It was rage and the need for revenge which saved your life, which drove you on to wear the Red. That rage is still there, Sigarni, a fire that needs no kindling, an eternal blaze that will light the road to greatness. But it rests in the flesh, awaiting your return.”

“You were correct, old one. I do not understand all you say. How do I return to my flesh?”

“Not yet. First go from the cave. Walk to the pool.”

She shook her head. “There is a ghost there.”

“Yes,” he said. “Call him.”

Sigarni was on the point of refusing when Taliesen lifted his hand and pointed to the fire. The flames leaped up to form a sheer bright wall some four feet high. Then, at the center, a small spot of colorless light appeared, opening to become a pale glistening circle. It glowed snow-white, then gently became the blue of a summer sky. Sigarni watched spellbound as the blue faded and she found herself staring through the now-transparent circle into her own cabin. She was there, talking with Gwalchmai. The conversation whispered into her mind.

“Who was the ghost?” asked the image of Sigarni.

“Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.” She shivered and
looked away.

“I can't.”

Gwalch chuckled. “There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni.
Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won't you
help me?”

“I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don't
remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time
is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you
by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. Your eyes were blank,
and you were slack-jawed. I had a friend with me; his name
was Taliesen. It was he—and another—who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the
memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We
did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are
strong enough to turn the key. That's what he told me.”

Now the circle shrank to a dot and the flames of the fire returned to normal. “Am I strong enough to turn the key?” she asked Taliesen.

“Go to the pool and find out,” he advised. “Call for him!”

Sigarni stood silently for a moment, then moved past the old man and out into the night. The rain was still hammering down, but she could not feel it nor, strangely, could she hear it. Water tumbled over the falls in spectacular silence, ferocious winds tore silently at the trees and their leaf-laden branches, lightning flared in the sky, but the voice of the accompanying thunder could not be heard.

The huntress moved to the poolside. “I am here!” she called. There was no answer, no stirring upon the water. Merely silence.

“Call to him by name,”
came the voice of Taliesen in her mind.

And she knew, and in knowing wondered how such an obvious realization should have escaped her so long. “Ironhand!” she called. “It is I, Sigarni. Ironhand!”

The waters bubbled and rose like a fountain, the spray forming an arched Gateway lit by an eldritch light. A giant of a man appeared in the Gateway, his silver beard in twin braids, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He wore silver-bright armor and carried a long, leaf-bladed broadsword that glistened as if it had been carved from moonlight. He raised the sword in greeting, and then sheathed it at his side and spoke, his voice rich and resonant. “Come to me, Sigarni,” he said. “Walk with me awhile.”

“You spoke to me in Citadel town,” she said. “You urged me to flee.”

“Yes.”

“And you fought for me when I was a child. You slew the last Hollow-tooth.”

“That also.”

“Why?”

“For love, Sigarni. For a love that will not accept death. Will you walk with me awhile?”

“I will,” she said, tears brimming.

And she stepped forward to walk upon the water.

Chapter Six

Despite the excruciating pain flaring from the empty eye socket, the Baron Ranulph Gottasson enjoyed the awestruck and fearful expressions of the men before him. Idly the fingers of his left hand stroked the carved dragon claws on the arm of the ornate chair. Sharp they were as they gripped the globe of ebony. The men waited silently below the dais. He knew their thoughts and, more importantly, their growing anxiety. They had failed—the woman who had robbed him of his eye was still at large. The Baron leaned back on the high carved chair and stared balefully down at the twenty men before him, his single eye bloodshot but its gaze piercing.

“So,” he said softly, his voice sibilant and chilling, “tell me that you have captured the woman and the renegade.”

The officer before him, a tall man sporting a square-cut beard but no mustache, cleared his throat. His chain-mail leggings were mud-smeared, and his right arm was clumsily bandaged. “We have not caught them yet, my lord. I brought the men back for fresh supplies.”

“You did not catch them,” repeated the Baron, rising from his chair. “One woman and a forester, riding double on a stolen stallion. But you did not catch them.” Slowly he descended the three steps from the dais and halted before the officer. The man dropped his head and mumbled something. “Speak up, Chard. Let us all hear you!”

The officer reddened, but he raised his head and his voice boomed out. “They fooled us. They turned the stallion loose and cut out across the valleys. Then the storm came and it was impossible to read sign. But we followed as best we could, thinking the woman would return to her people. The renegade forester, Fell, shot at us from ambush, wounding two of my men. We gave chase, my lord, but heavily armed riders are useless in the thickets. We left our horses and tried to follow on foot. It was like trying to catch a ghost. I had no archers with me. Three more men were struck by his arrows. Happily their armor saved them from serious injury, though the mercenary, Lava, still has an arrowhead lodged in his shoulder.” Chard fell silent.

The Baron nodded solemnly. “So, what you are saying is that thirty Outland warriors are no match for a woman and a clansman.”

“No, my lord. I am saying . . .”

“Be silent, fool! Did you think, at any time during the four days you have been gone, to send back to Citadel for trackers? Did you not consider hiring the services of the Finder Kollarin? Did you set the renegade's own people to hunt him?”

“His own people . . .”

The Baron half turned away, then swung back his fist, smashing the officer's lips against his teeth. The skin split and blood sprayed out as Chard was hurled backward. He fell heavily, cracking his skull against the base of a statue. Chard gave out one grunting moan, then slid into unconsciousness. “You have all failed me,” said the Baron, “but his was the greatest sin. He will suffer for it. Now you!” he said, pointing to a burly soldier with close-cropped fair hair. “You are Obrin the Southlander, yes?”

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed.

“You have fought barbarians before, I understand. In Kushir, Palol, Umbria, and Cleatia?”

“Yes, my lord. And served also in Pesht under your command. I was there when you stormed the wall, sir, though I was but a common soldier then.”

“And now you are a sergeant-at-arms. Answer me well and you shall assume command of the hunt, and become a captain. Tell us all now what errors were made by the idiot lying at your feet.”

Obrin drew a deep breath and was silent for a moment. The Baron smiled. He knew what was going through the man's mind. No enlisted soldier wished to be made an officer: the pay would not cover the mess bills, and from its meager supply he would have to purchase his own horse and armor and hire a manservant. Obrin's round face paled; then he spoke. “The trail was cold from the moment the storm broke, my lord. We should have headed for Cilfallen and taken hostages. Then the foresters themselves could have hunted down their comrade. I would also have posted a reward for their capture, just in case. There's not much coin in the Highlands. And there's always some bastard who'd sell his mother for a copper or two, if you take my meaning, my lord.” Obrin paused and rubbed his broad chin. “You have already mentioned the Finder, Kollarin, but—I'll be honest with you, my lord—I would not have thought of him, sir, and if it please you, I don't want Captain Chard's command. I'm no nobleman. And I wouldn't fit in. I don't have the brains for it. But I am a good sergeant, sir.”

The Baron ignored the soldier and climbed to the dais to return to his seat. His eye socket was throbbing and tongues of fire were lancing up into his skull. Yet he kept his expression even and showed no trace of the pain he was feeling. “Find Kollarin and take him with you when you have your supplies. Take fifty men. Split them into two sections. One will ride to Cilfallen and post a reward of one hundred guineas; this group will also take four hostages and return them to Citadel. The second group, led by you, Obrin, will include Kollarin. You will start your search at the woman's cabin. And before you leave you will take the former Captain Chard to the whipping post, where you will apply fifty lashes to his naked back. With every lash I want you to consider this: Fail, and one of your men will be lashing you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Obrin miserably.

The Baron waved his hand, dismissing the men. “Not you, Leofric,” he said as the slender blond-haired cleric was about to leave. “Shut the door and come to me in my study.” Leaving the dais the Baron strode across the hall and through a small side door, leading to a flight of steps that took him up to the parapet study. A goblet had been placed on the desk, filled with dark, noxious liquid. The Baron hated medicines of any kind, and pain-masking opiates in particular. But the injury was now interfering with his thought processes and he drained the foul brew and sat with his back to the open window.

Leofric knocked twice, then entered the study. “I am sorry, cousin, for your pain and your disappointment,” he said uneasily.

“The pain is nothing, but I am not disappointed, boy,” the Baron told him, motioning the younger man to a seat opposite him. “Far from it. The Highlands need to be purged, and the excuse has now fluttered in on the wings of a dead hawk. A woman rebel was arrested after attacking the King's Emissary. Highlanders raided the dungeons to release her. Then they attacked the King's soldiers. When word reaches the south the King will send another five thousand men to serve under me, and we will march from Citadel to the sea and wipe out the clans once and for all.”

“I don't understand,” said Leofric. “How are the clans a danger to the empire? They have no military organization, indeed no army, and there is no insurrection.”

The Baron smiled. “Then we cannot lose, can we, Leofric? And at the end I will have an army as large as Jastey's. The King grows old and soft. You think Jastey has no plans to seize the crown for himself? Of course he has. And I can do nothing to stop him while I am stuck away here in this god-forsaken wilderness. However, a war against the clans, well, that has great merit. In the south they still fear these northerners, and old men recall with dread how the shrieking savages erupted from the mountains bringing fire and death to the Lowlands. You will see, Leofric. As soon as news reaches the south of this latest outrage, the price of land south of the border will plummet. The weakhearted will sell up and move and panic will sweep through the immediate Lowland towns.”

“That I do understand,” said Leofric, “but what if the Highlanders do hunt down this . . . Fell . . . and the woman? What if they surrender them to us to save the hostages?”

The Baron shook his head. “It won't happen. I know these barbarians; they're all too proud. I'll hang the hostages as soon as they reach Citadel, and leave their bodies on the north wall for all to see. And if that doesn't force at least a show of resistance, I'll burn Cilfallen and a few of their towns.”

“And what task would you have me perform, my lord?” asked Leofric.

“There will be no major invasion of the Highlands until spring. We want time for the fear to grow back home. I intend to attack with six thousand fighting men and five hundred engineers. You must put your mind to the question of how we feed and supply this army all the way to the sea. Also, I want you to study the maps and locate three sites for our fixed camps and fortifications. You know what is required: The forts should be situated close to the lands of the Pallides and the Farlain. Choose open ground, yet close enough to the woods for the men to be able to gather timber for the walls. Questions?”

“Yes, my lord, the fortifications. I am well aware of the standard design used for the construction of temporary fortifications during punitive raids into hostile territory. But these are rough constructions, not intended for more than a few nights. Will they suffice?”

The Baron considered the question. The Highland winters were notoriously savage, and the forts would need to be manned throughout the long, bitter months until the invasion. More important than this, however, was the likelihood of Highlanders attacking the outposts. There would be no way to reinforce them once the snow blocked the passes.

“You misunderstood my use of the word
standard
,” said the Baron smoothly. “This is not a punitive raid, but should be considered as a full invasion. The forts therefore will have regulation defenses, earth barriers at least ten feet high, topped with timber walls to another fifteen feet. Weighted portcullis gates will also be constructed. You are familiar with the design?”

“Of course, my lord. It was devised by Driada during the Cleatian Wars in the last century, but was possibly based on an earlier . . .”

“I did not ask for a history lesson, Leofric. You will take two hundred engineers and three hundred infantrymen into the Highlands. Then you will oversee the building of these forts and within them storehouses for supplies. Make sure the storehouses are watertight. I want no rotting meat nor mildewed cereal when I arrive with the army.”

Leofric stood and bowed. “I thank you for your trust in me, cousin. I will not fail you.”

Sigarni opened her eyes and saw the flickering flame shadows on the cave ceiling. She watched them for a moment, then felt the onrush of pain from her wounded body. A voice spoke from her left. “She is awake. Pour some broth for her.” Sigarni rolled her head toward the sound, focusing her eyes upon a wizened old man with deep-set pale eyes.

“Taliesen?” she whispered.

“Aye, lass, Taliesen. How are you feeling?”

“Hurt. What happened to me?”

“You don't remember the attack in Citadel dungeons?”

She closed her eyes. “Of course I do—but that was years ago. I meant why am I injured
now
?” Taliesen leaned forward and helped her to sit up. Pain lanced through Sigarni's right side and she groaned.

“One of your ribs is cracked. It will heal soon,” said Taliesen. Another figure moved into sight, child-small, yet bearded. Sitting at her right, Ballistar handed her a wooden bowl and spoon. The broth was thick and salty and Sigarni became acutely aware of her hunger. She ate in silence. When she had finished Ballistar took back the bowl. Sigarni felt her strength returning, but still she was confused.

“Why did you mention the . . . attack on me?” she asked Taliesen.

“Because it happened three days ago,” he said slowly. “You have been spirit-wandering in a place where there is no time.”

“I remember,” she said. “He took me by the hand.”

“Who took her?” asked Ballistar. Taliesen waved him to silence.

“Yes, you walked with him,” said the wizard, taking Sigarni's hand. She wrenched it back, her eyes blazing.

“Do not touch me! No man will ever touch me again!” The violence in her voice was startling, surprising Ballistar who dropped the empty bowl. It rolled across the cave floor, coming to rest against the far wall.

Taliesen seemed unmoved by the rebuff. “I am sorry, my dear, that was remiss of me. Did you learn much in your time with him?”

“It is hazy now,” she said sleepily. “But he said he would teach me . . . would always . . . be with me.” Sigarni stretched out again and closed her eyes. Taliesen covered her with a blanket of wool.

“What was she talking about?” asked Ballistar. “When did she go walking? And who with?”

Taliesen rose and walked to the fire. “Time to gather more wood,” he said.

“Who did she walk with?” repeated Ballistar.

“It's not for you to know, dwarf. Now go and fetch some wood. The black man will be here soon, and then you'll understand a little more of what is happening here.”

“I'm not your servant!” snapped Ballistar. “I don't have to jump through hoops because you say so!”

“No,” agreed Taliesen, “you don't. But I am trying to keep her warm, and I am a little too old to relish walking around a forest and stooping to collect dead wood. You, on the other hand, do not have far to stoop.”

“I'll do it for her,” said the dwarf. “But know this, Taliesen, I do not like you. Not one bit.”

“How wise of you,” Taliesen told him.

Ballistar stomped from the cave and out into the afternoon sunlight. Fallen wood was plentiful, following the storm, and he spent an idle hour gathering armfuls of fuel and carrying them back to the cave. Taliesen spent the hour sitting silently beside the sleeping Sigarni. Bored now, Ballistar returned to the poolside and stared out over the water. It was smooth and motionless here, and the reflections of the trees on the opposite shore could be seen growing upside-down in the pool. Ballistar moved to the edge and knelt, leaning out over the water. His own face looked back at him, the deep-set brown eyes gazing into his.