David Gemmell - The Ironhand's Daughter

The dwarf scrambled down from the chair, and gathered up the plates. 'Leave them,' said Sigarni.

'Be off with you, Ballistar. I have a need to be alone.'

'Don't be too hard on Bernt,' said Ballistar, from the doorway.

'I'll treat him like an injured puppy,' she promised.

After the dwarf had gone Sigarni cleaned the plates and built up the fire. She did not relish seeing the young cattle-herder, for she was determined never to renew their relationship. It was not that he was a poor lover, nor even that he was dull. In the early days, last autumn, she had enjoyed his quiet company. However, during the spring he had become like a weight around her neck, following her everywhere, declaring his love, sitting and staring at her, begging for love like a dog begs for scraps. She shuddered. Why could he not enjoy what they had? Why did he need more than she was prepared to give? Idiot!

Pouring herself a goblet of honey mead from a flagon that Gwalch had given her, she moved to the doorway and sat down beside Lady. The hound looked up, but did not move. Idly Sigarni stroked the soft fur behind the beast's ears. Lady lay still, enjoying the sensation for several minutes, then her head came up and she stared intently towards the tree line. 'What is it girl?' whispered Sigarni.

As horse and rider emerged from the trees, Sigarni swore softly. It was Asmidir. He was dressed now in clothes of black and riding a tall black gelding. His burnoose of black silk was held in place by a dark band of leather, with an opal set at the centre. The horse advanced into the yard.

Abby spread her wings and let out a screech on her bow perch. Lady merely stood, alert and waiting.

'Come to see your whore?' asked Sigarni as the black man rode up. He smiled amiably, then dismounted. Draping the reins over the gelding's head, he climbed the three steps to the porch.

'You are too prickly, Sigarni. I need to speak with you. Shall we go inside? Your northern weather plays havoc with my equatorial bones.'

'I'm not sure you are welcome,' she told him, rising to stand before him in the doorway.

'Ah, but I am, for friends are rare in life, and not to be idly tossed aside. Also I can see from your eyes that you are pleased to see me, and I sense in you a tension only sex will resolve. Am I at fault in any of these observations?'

'Not so far,' she agreed, stepping aside and ushering him into the room. Once inside he stopped and sniffed.

'You have been having a feast,' he said, nostrils flaring. 'The aroma makes my mouth water. Duck, was it?!

'Yes. Ballistar cooked it for me. Now he is a true sorcerer when it comes to food. You should employ him.'

'I'll think on it,' he said, removing his cloak and laying it over the back of the chair. Sitting down by the fire he sat for a moment in silence staring into the flames. Sigarni sat on his lap, leaning to kiss his cheek.

'I'm glad you came,' she said. Reaching up, he ran his fingers through her silver hair and drew her close. Pushing one arm under her thighs, he stood and carried her through to the back bedroom.

For more than an hour they made love but, skilled as he was, Sigarni could feel a different tension within him. After her second orgasm she stopped him, pushing him gently to his back. 'What is wrong, my friend?' she asked him, rising up on her elbow and stroking the sleek dark skin of his chest. He closed his eyes.

'Everything,' he said. He reached for her, but she resisted him.

'Tell me,' she commanded.

'I would have thought,' he said, forcing a smile, 'that you would have the good grace to let me achieve my own climax before entering into a dialogue.'

She chuckled and bit his ear. 'Then be quick!' she told him, 'for I have other matters to attend to.'

'Your wish shall be obeyed, mistress!' he said, rolling over and pinning her shoulders.

Sigarni felt loose-limbed and wonderfully relaxed as she sat by the fire and sipped her mead.

Relaxed in the chair, Asmidir sat naked, save for his cloak, which he had wrapped about his shoulders against the draught from the warped wood of the door.

'Now tell me,' she said.

'There is a war coming,' he told her.

'Where?'

'Here, Sigarni. I was at the Citadel a few days ago. I saw the mercenaries arriving, and I know the Baron is studying maps of all the lands around High Druin. It is my belief that he intends to bring an army into the mountains.'

'That cannot be,' she said. 'There is no one to fight him.'

'That is largely immaterial. He hates his position here, and probably sees a Highland War as his best chance of being recalled south in triumph. It does not matter that he will face a rabble of poorly armed villagers. Who will know? He has his own historian. His army will be able to pillage and plunder the Highlands, and he will gather to himself a force to make him a power in the land. He may even be looking ahead and planning a civil war. It doesn't matter what his motives are.'

'And how does this concern you, Asmidir? You are not of this land, and you are a friend to the Outland king.'

'I served him, but he has no friends. The King is a hard, ruthless man, much like the Baron. No, for me it is ... personal.' He smiled thinly. 'I came here because of a prophecy. It has not been fulfilled. Now I am lost.'

'What prophecy?'

He shrugged. 'It does not matter, does it? Even shamen can make mistakes, it seems. But I have grown to love this harsh, cold land with a fierceness that surprises me. It is as strong as my hatred for the Baron and all he represents.' He sighed and turned his head towards the fire. 'Why is it that wickedness always seems to triumph? Is it just that evil men freed from the constraints of basic morality are stronger than we?'

'It is probably just a question of timing,' she said and his head jerked round.

'Timing?'

'We have had two Kings of legend here, Gandarin and Ironhand. Both were good men, but they were also strong and fearless. Their enemies were scattered, and they ruled wisely and well. But this is the time of the Outland Kings, and not a good time for the peoples of the Highlands. Our time will come again. There will be a leader.'

'Now is the time,' he said. 'Where is the man? That was the prophecy that brought me here. A great leader will rise, wearing the crown of Alwen. But I have travelled far, Sigarni, and heard no word of such a man.'

"What will you do when you find him?'

He chuckled. 'My skill is strategy. I am a student of war. I will teach him how to fight the Outlanders.'

'Highland men do not need to be taught how to fight.'

He shook his head. 'There you are wrong, Sigarni. Your whole history has been built on manly courage: assembling a host to sweep down on an enemy host, man against man, claymore crashing against claymore. But war is about more than battles. It is about logistics, supplies, communication, discipline. An army has to feed, commanders need to gather reports and intelligence and pass these on to generals. Apart from this there are other considerations - morale, motivation, belief. The Outlanders, as you call them, understand these things.'

'You are altogether too tense,' she told him, leaning forward and running her hand softly down the inside of his thigh. 'Come back to bed, and I will repay you for the pleasure you gave me.'

'What of these other matters you had to attend to?' he asked.

For a moment only she thought of Bernt, then brushed him from her mind. 'Nothing of importance,' she assured him.

At noon the following day Ballistar found Bernt hanging from the branch of a spreading oak. The young cattle-herder was dressed in his best tunic and leggings, though they were soiled now, for he had defecated in death. The boy's eyes were wide open and bulging, and his tongue was protruding from his mouth. When Ballistar arrived at the oak grove a crow was sitting on Bernt's shoulder, pecking at his right eye.