Ironhand's Daughter (23 page)

Ari entered, still dressed in his armor 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 northeast toward the deeper lands of the Farlain. They may even split their force and push northwest 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 hotheaded 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 honor 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 headfirst 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 tinderbox 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 leaped to the far wall, dragging down a saber and tossing it to Father who stood silently in the center 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 adult-hood and infancy, she knew they were proud of her.

The door exploded inward 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 leaped 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 leaped for the window, pushing it open, then swung back into the room and sprang toward 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 midfall, 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 topcoat, 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 bloodline. 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.”