Ironhand's Daughter (7 page)

“She's mine. A gift from the sorcerer.”

“He is not a sorcerer!” snapped the servant. “And I wish you would stop saying it.”

“The black man wants me to cook for him. Duck! Sigarni told him about me; he's paid me with this pony.” Ballistar decided not to mention the gold pieces. Fell he liked above all men, and Gwyn Dark-eye had always been kind to him. But Bakris Tooth-gone was not a man Ballistar trusted.

“Are you sure he doesn't want to cook
you
?” asked Gwyn. A slightly smaller man than Fell, and round-shouldered, Gwyn was the finest archer among the Loda.

Ballistar looked down upon him and noticed the man had a bald spot beginning at his crown. “On a day like today the thought does not concern me,” said Ballistar happily. “Today I have seen the world as a tall man.”

“Enjoy it,” sneered Bakris. “Because when you get off that midget horse you'll return to the useless lump you've always been.” The words were harshly spoken, and they cut through Ballistar's good humor. Fell swung angrily on the forester but before he could speak Ballistar cut in.

“Don't worry about it, Fell. He's only angry because I've got a bigger prick than him. I don't know why it should concern him. Everyone else has too!”

Bakris lunged at the dwarf, but Fell caught him by the shoulder of his leather jerkin and dragged him back. “That's enough!” roared Fell. The sudden commotion caused the pony to move forward. Asmidir's servant nudged his gelding alongside and the two riders continued on their way. Ballistar swung in the saddle and looked back at the foresters. When he saw Bakris staring after him he lifted his fist and waggled his little finger.

Asmidir's servant chuckled. “You shouldn't be so swift to make enemies,” he observed.

“I don't care,” said Ballistar.

“And why is it that you Highlanders value so much the size of the male organ? Size is of no relevance, not to the act itself nor to the pleasure derived.”

Ballistar glanced up at the man. Ah, he thought, so you've got a small one too! Aloud he said, “I wouldn't know. I have never had a woman.”

It was midafternoon when they topped the last rise before the castle. Ballistar had never traveled this far before and he halted his pony to stare down at the magnificent building. It was not a castle in the true sense, for it was indefensible, having wide-open gateways with no gates, and no moat surrounding it. It had once been the house of the Hunt Lord of the Grigors, but that clan had been annihilated in the Lowland wars, the few survivors becoming part of the Loda. A three-storied building, with a single tower by the north wall that rose to five stories, it was built of grey granite, and the windows were of colored glass joined by lead strips.

“We are late,” said the servant. “Come!”

Ballistar's heart was pounding and his hands trembled as he flapped the reins against the pony's neck.

Two gold pieces seemed a tiny amount just then.

Chapter Four

Autumn was not far off, but here in the Highlands even the last days of summer were touched by a bitter cold that warned of the terrible winters that lay ahead. Two fires blazed at either end of the long hall, and even the heavy velvet curtains shimmered against the cold fingers of the biting wind that sought out the cracks and gaps in the old window frames.

Asmidir pushed away his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “You are a fine cook,” he told the dwarf. Two servants entered, lighting lanterns that hung in iron brackets on the walls, and the hall was filled with a soft glow.

“Can I go now?” asked Ballistar. The little man was sitting at the table, on a chair set upon blocks of wood.

“My dear fellow, of course you can go. But it is already becoming dark and your pony is bedded down for the night in a comfortable stall. I have had a room prepared for you. There is a warm fire there, and a soft bed. Tomorrow one of my servants will cook you a breakfast and saddle your pony. How does that sound?”

“That is wondrous kind,” said Ballistar uneasily, “but I would like to be on my way.”

“You fear me?” asked Asmidir mildly.

“A little,” admitted the dwarf.

“You think me a sorcerer. Yes, I know. Sigarni told me. But I am not, Ballistar. I am merely a man. Oh, I know a few spells. In Kushir all the children of the rich are taught to make fire from air, and some can even shape dancing figures from the flames. I am not one of those. I was a nobleman— a warrior. Now I am a Highlander, albeit somewhat more dusky than most. And I would be your friend. I do not harm my friends, nor do I lie. Do you believe me?”

“What does it matter whether I believe you or not?” countered the dwarf. “You will do as you wish.”

“It matters to me,” said Asmidir. “In Kushir it was considered unacceptable for noblemen to lie. It was one of the reasons the Outlanders—as you call them—defeated the armies of the Kushir King. The Outlanders kept lying: they signed treaties they had no intention of honoring, made peace, then invaded. They used spies and agents, filling Kushir soldiers with fear and trembling. An appalling enemy with no sense of honor.”

“But you fought alongside them,” said Ballistar.

“Yes. It is a source of endless regret. Come, sit by the fire and we shall talk.” The black man rose and walked to the fireside, settling his long frame into a deep armchair of burnished leather. A servant appeared and drew back Ballistar's seat, allowing the little man to slide from his cushions to the floor. Asmidir watched as he climbed with difficulty into the opposite armchair, then, waving away the servant, he leaned forward. “You treat your affliction with great courage, Ballistar. I respect that. Now what shall we speak of?”

“You could tell me why you served the Outlanders,” said the dwarf.

“Swift and to the point,” observed Asmidir with an easy grin. “It all came down to politics. My family was accused of treason by the Kushir King. He was hunting us down at the time the Outlanders invaded. My sister and my wife were executed by him, my father blinded and thrown into a dungeon. We have a saying in Kushir—
the enemy of my enemy
must therefore be my friend
. So I joined with the Outlanders.”

“And now you regret it?”

“Of course. There is no genuine satisfaction in revenge, Ballistar. All a man unleashes is a beast which will destroy even those he loves. Cities were laid waste, the people slaughtered or sold into slavery. A rich, cultured nation was set back two hundred years. And even when they had won, the slaughter continued. The Outlanders are a barbaric people, with no understanding of the simplest economic realities. The Kushir was rich because of trade and commerce. The lines of trade were severed, and treaties with friendly nations broken. There was a Great Library at Coshantin, the capital; the Outlanders burned it down.” Asmidir sighed and lifted an iron poker, idly stabbing at the burning logs.

“You grew to hate them?”

“Oh, yes! Hatred as strong and tall as High Druin. But two men more than any other, the Baron Ranulph and the Earl of Jastey. The King himself is merely a merciless savage, holding power through ruthlessness and manipulation. The Baron and the Earl hold the balance of his power.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Ballistar. “It is not wise.”

Asmidir smiled. “It is a question of judgment, my friend. Do you trust Sigarni?”

“In what way?”

“Her instincts, her values, her courage . . . whatever?”

“She is intelligent and does not suffer fools. What has this to do with anything?”

“She
trusts
you, Ballistar. Therefore so do I. And as for the risk . . . well, all life is a risk. And time is running too short for me to remain conservative in my plans. Sigarni tells me you are a great storyteller, and somewhat of a historian. Tell me of the clans. Where are they from, how did they come here? Who are their heroes and why? What are their noble lines?”

“You are moving too fast for me,” said Ballistar. “A moment ago we were talking of trust. Before that, revenge. Now you want a story. Tell me first your purpose.”

“A clear thinker . . . I like that. Very well. First I shall tell you a story.” Asmidir clapped his hands and a servant came forward bearing a tray on which were two golden goblets filled with fine red wine. Ballistar accepted the first, holding it carefully in both hands. As the servant departed Asmidir sipped his drink, then set the goblet aside. Leaning back, he rested his head on the high back of the chair. “With Kushir in ruins I went home to my palace. An old man, dressed in a cloak of feathers, was waiting for me there. His face was seamed with wrinkles and lines, his hair and beard so thin they appeared to be fashioned from the memory of wood smoke. He was sitting on the steps before my door. A servant told me he had arrived an hour before, and refused to be moved; they tried to lay hands upon him, but could not approach him. Knowing him to be a wizard, they withdrew. I approached him and asked what he wanted. He stood and walked toward my home. The door opened for him, though there were no servants close, and he made his way to my study. Once there, he asked me what I felt about the destruction of my land and my part in it. I did not answer him, for my shame was too great. He said nothing for a moment, then he bade me sit and began to talk of history. It was fascinating, Ballistar. It was as if he had witnessed all the events himself. Perhaps he had. I don't know. He spoke of the growth of evil and how, like a plague, it spreads and destroys. It was vital, he said, that there should always be adequate counterbalances against the forces of wickedness.

“Yet he insisted, we had reached a period of history when there was no balance. The Outlanders and their allies were conquering all in their path. And those nations still resisting the advance of the Outlanders were doomed, for there were no great leaders among them. Then he told me of a conquered nation, and a commander yet to come. He said—and I believed him utterly—that here, in the north, I would find a prince of destiny, and from the ashes of Highland dreams would come a dynasty that would light our way forward into a better future. I came here with high hopes, Ballistar, and yet what do I find?

“There is no leader. There is no army. And in the spring the Outlanders will come here with fire and sword and exterminate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of peaceful farmers, cattlemen, and villagers.” Asmidir threw a dry log to the dying blaze. “I do not believe that the ancient one lied to me . . . and I cannot accept that he might have been mistaken. Somewhere in these lands there is a man born to be king. I must find him before midwinter.”

Ballistar drained his wine. It was rich and heavy and he felt his head swimming. “And you think my stories might help you?” he asked.

“They might provide me with a clue.”

“I don't see how. Legend has it that our ancestors passed through a magic Gateway, but I suspect our history is no different from other migrating peoples. We probably came from a land across the water, originally as raiders. Some of our people then grew to love the mountains, and sent back ships for their families. For centuries the clans warred upon one another, but then another migrating group arrived. They were called the Aenir, ancestors of the Outlanders. There was a great war. After that the clans formed a loose-knit confederacy.”

“But you had kings? From where did they come?”

“The first true King was Sorain, known as Ironhand. He was from the Wingoras, a mighty warrior. Hundreds of years ago he led the clans against the Three Armies and destroyed them. Even the Lowland clans respected him, for he risked everything to free their towns. He vanished one day, but legend has it he will return when needed.”

Asmidir shook his head. “I doubt that. Every nation I know of has a hero of myth, pledged to return. None of them do. Did he have heirs?”

“No. He had a child, but the babe disappeared—probably murdered and buried in the woods.”

“So what of the other kings?” inquired Asmidir.

“There was Gandarin, also known as the Crimson—another great warrior and statesman. He died too soon and his sons fought among themselves for the crown. Then the Outlanders invaded and the clans put on their red cloaks of war and were cut down on Colden Moor. That was years ago. The young King fled over the water, but he was murdered there. Anyone known to share the blood of Gandarin was also put to the sword. And the wearing of the Crimson was banned. No Highlander can have even a scarf of that color.”

“And there is no one left of his line?”

“As far as I know there is only Sigarni, and she is barren.”

Asmidir rubbed his tired eyes and tried to disguise the dejection he felt. “He must be somewhere,” he whispered, “and he will need me. The ancient one made that clear to me.”

“He could have been wrong,” volunteered Ballistar. “Even Gwalch is wrong sometimes.”

“Gwalch?”

“The Clan Gifted One. He used to be a warrior, but he was wounded in the head and after that he became a prophet of sorts. People tend to avoid him. His visions are all doomfilled and gloomy. Maybe that's why he drinks so much!”

Asmidir's spirits lifted. “Tell me where to find him,” he said.

Sigarni was angry with herself. Four times that morning she had flown Abby, and four times the red hawk had missed the kill. Abby was a little overweight, for there had been three days of solid rain and she had not flown, but even so she was acting sluggishly and the tourney was only two weeks away. Sigarni was angry because she didn't know what to do, and was loath to ask Asmidir. Could Abby be ill? She didn't think so, for the bird was flying beautifully, folding her wings and diving, swooping, turning. Only at the point of the kill did she fail. The pattern with the red hawk was always the same—swoop over the hare, flick her talons, tumbling the prey, then fastening to it. Sigarni would run forward, covering the hare with her glove, then casting a piece of meat some distance from the hawk. The bird would glance at the tidbit, then leave the gloved hare to be killed and bagged by Sigarni. But not today.

Sigarni lifted her arm and whistled for Abby. The hawk dived obediently from the high branch and landed on the outstretched fist, her cruel beak fastening to the tiny amount of meat Sigarni held between her fingers.

“What's wrong with you, Abby?” whispered Sigarni, stroking the bird's breast with a long pigeon feather. “Are you sick?” The golden eyes, bright and impenetrable, looked into her own.

Returning to the cabin, Sigarni did not take Abby to her bow perch but carried her inside and set her on the high back of a wooden chair. The cabin was cold and Sigarni lit a fire, banking up the logs and adding two large lumps of coal from the sack given to her by Asmidir. From the cupboard she took her scales, hooking them to a broad beam across the center of the cabin. Fetching Abby, she weighed her. Two pounds seven ounces: five ounces above her perfect killing weight.

“What am I to do with you, beauty?” she asked softly, stroking the bird's head and neck. “To keep you obedient I must feed you, yet if you do not fly you get fat and lazy and are useless to me. If I starve you, all your training will disappear and I will be forced to start again as if it never was. Yet you are intelligent. I know this. Is your memory so short? Mmmm? Is that it, Abby?” Sigarni sighed. Taking the hawk's hood from the pouch at her belt, she stroked it into place. Abby sat quietly, blind now, but trusting. Sigarni sat by the fire, tired and listless.

Lady scratched at the door and Sigarni opened it, allowing the hound to pad inside and stretch her lean black frame in front of the fire. “I hope you've already eaten,” she told the hound, “since we've caught nothing today.” Lady's tail beat against the floor and she tilted back her head, looking at Sigarni through one huge, brown eye. “Yes,” said the woman, “I don't doubt you have. You're the best hare hound in the Highlands. You know that, don't you? Faster than the wind—though not as fast as Abby.”

The darkness was growing outside and Sigarni lit a small lamp that she hung over the fireplace. Stretching out her legs, she removed her wet doeskin boots and her oiled leather trews. The warm air from the fire touched the bare skin of her legs and she shivered with pleasure. “If only I wasn't hungry,” she said aloud, stripping off her buckskin shirt and tossing it to the floor. The fire crackled and grew, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the cabin.

“I have the bells of Hell clanging in my head,” said Gwalch, walking from the bedroom, clutching his temples.

“Then you shouldn't drink so much, Gwal,” she said with a smile.

“All right for you but I . . .” He stopped as he saw her nakedness. “Jarka's balls, woman! That's not decent!”