Ironhand's Daughter (30 page)

“You shouldn't have brought me,” grumbled Ballistar. “I'm slowing you down.”

“That's true,” grunted Sigarni as they faced yet another deep snowdrift. “But you're such good company!”

Ballistar shifted on her shoulders. “Put me down and we'll see if we can crawl along the top of it. There should be solid ground about thirty feet ahead. Then it is just one more hill to the Falls.”

Sigarni swiveled and tipped the little man from her shoulders. He fell headfirst into the drift, and came up spluttering and spitting snow. “You are heavy for a small man,” she said, laughing.

“And you have the boniest shoulders I ever sat upon,” he told her, brushing snow from his beard. Turning to his stomach, Ballistar began to squirm across the snow. Sigarni followed him, using her arms to force a path. After an hour of effort they reached solid ground and sat for a while, gathering their strength. “I'm freezing to death,” muttered Ballistar. “I hope you left enough firewood in the cave. I'm in no mood to go gathering.”

“Enough for a couple of hours,” she reassured him.

The Falls were still frozen at the center, but at the sides water had begun to trickle through the ice. “The thaw is coming,” said the dwarf.

“I know,” said Sigarni softly.

Inside the cave Sigarni started a fire and they shrugged out of their soaked outer clothing. “So why did you bring me?” asked Ballistar.

“I thought you'd enjoy my company,” she told him.

“That's not very convincing.”

She looked at him, and remembered how out of place he had seemed back at the encampment, how lonely and sad. “I wanted company,” she said, “and I could think of no one else I would rather have with me.”

He blushed and looked away. “I'll accept that,” he said brightly. “Do you remember when we used to play here as children? You, me, Fell, and Bernt built a tree house. It fell apart in the big storm. Fell was climbing and the floor gave way. You remember?”

Sigarni nodded. “Bernt stole the nails from Grame. More nails in that structure than wood.”

“It was fun, wasn't it?”

“Fun? You were always arguing with the others, getting into scrapes and fights.”

“I know,” he said. “I was young then, and not growing like the rest of you. But I look back on those times as the happiest of my life. Do you think the others would?”

“Bernt no longer looks back,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Sigarni. I wasn't thinking.” Reaching out, he took her slender hand in his own, his stubby fingers caressing her wrist. “It wasn't your fault, not really. I think if you had gone he would still have killed himself had you turned him down. It was his life; he chose to take it.”

Sigarni shook her head. “I don't think that is the whole truth. Had I known the outcome beforehand I would have acted differently. But now I think about how I was lying in bed with Asmidir, enjoying myself utterly.” She sighed. “And while I was being pleasured, Bernt was tying a rope around his neck.”

Ballistar looked away and fiddled with the fire, poking small sticks into the flames. “Now I have embarrassed you,” she said.

“Yes, you have,” he told her, reddening. “But we are friends, Sigarni. We always will be. I don't want you to feel there are words you cannot say in my presence. When is the wizard due?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Tomorrow.”

“I wish he'd chosen a more hospitable meeting place.”

“It had to be here,” she said. “He knew what the Pallides would ask of me.”

“Madness!” snapped Ballistar. “Who do they think they are? Here we sit on the verge of war and they play games. Do they believe they can win without us?”

“No, my friend, they don't think that. Their Dreamers have told them that the leader will wear the Crown of Alwen. If that is true, then I must find it. Taliesen will have a plan.”

“I don't like wizards,” said the dwarf.

“I remember you saying that about Asmidir. A black sorcerer, you called him.”

“I still don't like him. Are you still lovers?”

“No!” Her voice was sharper than she intended and Ballistar gazed at her quizzically.

“Did he wrong you?”

She shook her head. “I don't want to talk about it. I want your help before dusk. I want you to come with me to the far side of the pool and break the ice.”

“Why?” he asked, mystified.

“I need to swim.”

“That's ridiculous! The cold will kill you.”

“You can wait for me with a blanket,” she said.

“There's something you are not telling me. What are you looking for?”

Sigarni stretched out her hand to the fire. The cave was glowing now in the firelight, and the sounds of winter outside only served to make it seem more cozy within. “I am going to find a small bone,” she said. “A talisman if you like, a good-luck charm.”

“Whose bones?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Ironhand.”

Ballistar's jaw dropped. “You found his bones? He didn't pass over the Gateway?”

“No. He died here fighting his enemies.”

“How will a bone help you?”

“Enough questions, Balli. Come on, we're warm enough now.”

Together they left the cave and trudged across the snow-covered ice of the pool. Sigarni found the boulder under which the bones lay, and she and Ballistar began to chip away at the surrounding ice with their knives. It was slow work and Ballistar lost his patience. Climbing to the top of the jutting boulder he jumped to the ice, landing hard. Four times more he did so, then on the fifth a large crack appeared. “Almost there,” he said. Suddenly the ice gave and he fell through into the dark water beneath. Sigarni dived across the ice, her hand snaking out to grab his collar just as he was about to sink. With a great effort she hauled him back.

“You'd better get back to the cave,” she said.

“No, no, I'm all right,” he said, shivering. “Can you reach the bones from here?”

“I don't know. I'll have to be fast.” Slipping out of her clothes, she slithered into the water.

“Be careful, there's an undertow,” warned Ballistar.

The cold chilled her to the bone, and all was darkness. Holding to the boulder, she released some air and dived deeper. Her hand touched the bottom and she scrabbled around, but could feel nothing but stones. Something sharp cut the palm of her hand. The sudden shock caused her to breathe out and, her lungs aching, she rose toward the surface. Her head thumped against ice.

She had missed the opening.

Holding down panic she rolled to her back, pushing her face toward the ice. There was always a tiny gap between ice and water, and she breathed in deeply. The cold was bitter now and she could not feel her fingers.

You stupid woman! she thought. To come so far and die so stupidly.

A faint glow surrounded her. “Why do you never call for me, child?” asked Ironhand. “Dive to the bottom and collect what you came for, then follow me to the surface.”

Filling her lungs with air she rolled and dived, kicking out against the ice to propel herself down. In the glow she saw Ironhand sitting on the pool floor; beside him was a human head but she did not recognize the face. On the other side of the ghostly giant lay his bones. Swiftly she grabbed a finger bone and rose toward the surface.

As she broke clear Ballistar took hold of her arm and dragged her onto the ice.

“I was worried near to death,” complained the dwarf. Sigarni could not speak; she had begun to shake uncontrollably. “And look, you've cut your hand,” he said, pointing to the trickle of blood on her palm.

Ballistar took up her clothes and led her back to the cave, where she sat wrapped in a blanket, her face and hands blue. “I hope that bone was worth it,” he said.

“It . . . was,” she told him. “He . . . is . . . here.”

“Who is?”

“Ironhand.”

“Ironhand?” he repeated. “In the cave? With us?” Ballistar gazed around fearfully. “I don't see him.”

Sigarni shrugged off the blanket and moved a little way from the fire. “Come and rub my skin,” she said. Ballistar put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage the flesh.

“So now we are dealing with wizards
and
ghosts,” he said.

“Lower. On my back,” she ordered.

Ballistar knelt behind her and rubbed gently at the cold skin. “You should sit closer to the fire.”

“No. It would do more harm than good. When I am a little warmer . . . That is nice. Now my arms.”

He sat beside her, kneading her flesh, encouraging the blood to flow. He tried not to stare at her breasts, but failed. Sigarni did not seem to notice. Of course she doesn't, he thought. I am not a man to her.

“I am going to sleep now, Balli. Watch over me, and keep the fire going.”

Holding fast to the bone, she lay down by the fire. Ballistar covered her with two blankets. As she closed her eyes, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“What was that for?” she asked sleepily.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” she whispered. And slept.

The fire burned low and Ballistar added the last of the wood. Sigarni's flesh was still cool and the dwarf wandered out into the cold of the night to gather deadwood. The carcasses of the demons still lay where Sigarni had slain them, but they were not rotting; it was too cold for that. They'll smell bad come spring, thought Ballistar as he wandered beneath the trees, kicking at the snow and seeking fuel.

“Over there,” said a voice. “Beneath the oaks.”

Ballister leaped, turned, and fell over. Standing beside him was a glowing figure in ancient armor, his white beard braided into forks. He wore a long, double-handed broadsword in a scabbard of embossed silver—and the hand resting on it was made of red iron. “By Heaven, you are skittish,” said the ghost. “Are you going to fetch the wood or not?”

“Yes, lord,” answered Ballistar.

“I'm not your lord, dwarf. I am merely a spirit. Now fetch the wood before she freezes to death.”

Ballistar nodded, and dug around in the snow beneath the oaks, gathering deadwood, then returning to the cave. The glowing figure stayed by him, watching his efforts. “It cannot be easy to live in such a body,” he said.

“A choice would be pleasant,” muttered Ballistar.

“You've a handsome face, lad. Be thankful for small gifts.”

“All my gifts are small—bar one. And I'll never get to use that,” answered Ballistar, kneeling by the fire and placing two long sticks upon it.

The ghost assumed a sitting position by the fire. “You can never be sure,” he said. “I had two dwarfs at my court and they were always in demand. Once I had to adjudicate in a very delicate matter, where a knight cited one of my dwarfs as his wife's secret lover. He wanted the dwarf hanged and his wife burned at the stake.”

“What did you do? Did you kill them?”

“Do I look like a barbarian? I told the knight that he would be laughed out of the kingdom if he sought a public trial. The wife was sent back to her family in disgrace. I had the dwarf castrated. However, that is not the point. Never lose faith, little man.”

“Well, thank you for your advice,” snapped Ballistar. “However, I have not yet met a woman who would wish to have me clamber all over her.” He told the spirit of Bakris's jest and Ironhand laughed.

“Nose to nose . . . yes, that's very good. How did you respond?”

“I laughed with them—though it broke my heart.”

“Aye, it's the best way.” He leaned forward, peering at Sigarni. “Is she warming up?” he asked.

Ballistar moved alongside the sleeping woman and touched the flesh of her arm. “A little. She was seeking your bones. Damn near died for it.”

“I know, I was there. Willful child.” The ghost smiled. “She can't help it, it is in her blood. I was willful myself. How is the war progressing?”

“I would have thought you'd know more about that than a mere dwarf,” said Ballistar. “Can spirits not fly around the world?”

“I don't know any spirits,” said Ironhand. “But
I
cannot. I'm trapped here, where I died. Well, until now. Wherever Sigarni goes, I shall go too.”

“That's a comforting thought. I think you'll cause a certain amount of panic back at the encampment.”

Ironhand shook his head. “No one will see me, boy—not even you. I only showed myself to you since Sigarni was foolish enough to tell you about me. So, what is happening?”

Ballistar told the King of the Pallides' request that Sigarni should find the lost Crown. “We are waiting for Taliesen,” he concluded. “He'll show us where it is.”

“Oh, I know where it is,” said Ironhand. “That won't be the problem. Getting there and out again alive is the issue.”

“Where is it?”

“In a dying world of sorcery, a dark malevolent place. Even the air is poisonous with magick. No true man can live there for more than a few months. He would sicken and die. One of my wizards tracked it down and passed through a Gateway to retrieve it; we never saw him again. A second followed him; he came back broken and diseased, not all our medicines and charms could heal him. But while he lived he told us of the world, its beasts, and its wars. I decided then to send no more of my people in search of the Crown.”

“But Sigarni
must
go there,” said Ballistar. “Without the Crown the Pallides will not accept her leadership. They might believe you, though. You could appear to Fyon Sharp-axe and tell him Sigarni is the chosen one.”

The ghost shook his head. “It might work, but then Sigarni would rule only through a long-dead king. No, Ballistar, she must win the right for herself. When my wizard returned he told me the Crown was in a temple, at the center of a city at war. He saw it, was even allowed to touch it. I think he believed that to do so would heal him of his afflictions in that world. It didn't.”