David Gemmell - The Ironhand's Daughter

Below the corpse was a hawking glove, lovingly made and decorated with fine white beads. Urine from the corpse had dripped upon it, staining the hide.

THF OXEN FOUND pulling the wide wagon too difficult over the narrow deer trails to Gwalch's cabin, so Tovi was forced to take the long route, down into the valley and up over the rocky roads once used by the Lowland miners when there was still a plentiful supply of coal to be found on the open hillsides. The baker had set off just after dawn. He always enjoyed these quarterly trips into Citadel town. Gwalch was an amusing, if irritating, companion, but the money they shared from their partnership helped Tovi to maintain a pleasant and comfortable lifestyle. Gwalch made honey mead of the finest quality, and much of it was shipped to the south at vastly inflated prices.

One of the oxen slipped on the rocky shale. 'Ho there, Flaxen! Concentrate now, girl!' shouted Tovi. The wagon lurched on, the empty barrels in the back clunking against one another. Tovi took a deep sniff of the mountain air, blowing cool over High Druin. At the top of the rise he halted the oxen, allowing them a breather before attempting the last climb into the forest. Tovi applied the brake, then swung to stare out over the landscape. Many years before he had marched with the Loda men down this long road. They were singing, he recalled; they had met the Pallides warriors down there by the fork in the stream. Seven thousand men—even before the Farlain warriors had joined them.

All dead now. Well ... most of them anyway. Gwalch had been there. Fifty years old and straight as a long staff. The King had been mounted on a fine Southern horse, his bonnet adorned with a long eagle feather. Every inch a warrior he looked. But he had no real heart for it. Tovi hawked and spat, remembering the moment when the King fled the field leaving them to stand and die.

'Blood doesn't always run true,' he said softly. 'Heroes sire cowards, and cowards can sire kings.'

The air was crisp, the wind beginning to bite as Tovi wrapped his cloak across his chest. Didn't feel the wind back then, he thought. I did a week later, though, as I fled from the hunters, crawling through the bracken, wading the streams, hiding in shallow caves, starving and cold. God's bones, I felt it then!

High above him two eagles were flying the thermals, safe from the thoughts and arrows of men. Tovi released the brake and flicked the reins over the backs of the oxen. 'On now, my lads!' he called.

'It's an easier trip down for a while.'

Within the hour he arrived at Gwalch's cabin. The old man was sitting outside in the sunshine with a cup of mead in his hands. There were three horsemen close by, two grim-faced soldiers still sitting their saddles, and a cleric who was standing before the old man, arguing and gesticulating. The soldiers looked bored and cold, Tovi thought. The cleric was a man he recognized: Andolph the Census Taker, a small, fat individual with ginger hair and a face as white as Tovi's baking flour.

'It is not acceptable!' Tovi heard the cleric shout. 'And you could be in serious trouble. I don't know why I try to deal fairly with you Highlanders. You are a constant nuisance.'

Tovi halted the wagon and climbed down. 'Might I be of service, Census Taker?' he enquired.

Andolph stepped back from the grinning Gwalch. 'I take it you know this man?'

'Indeed I do. He is an old friend. What is the problem?'

Andolph sighed theatrically. 'As you know, the new law states that all men must have surnames that give them individuality. It is no longer enough to be Dirk, son of Dirk. Gods, man, there are hundreds of those. It is not difficult, surely, therefore to find a name that would suffice. But not this old fool. Oh no! I am trying to be reasonable, Baker, and he will not have it. Look at this!' The little man stepped forward and thrust a long sheet of paper towards Tovi. The baker took it, read what was written there, and laughed aloud.

'Well, it is a name,' he offered.

'I can't put this forward to the Roll Makers. Can't you see that? They will accuse the old man of making a mockery of the law. And I will be summoned to answer for it. I came here in good faith; I like a jest as well as the next man, and it did make me laugh when first I saw it. But it cannot be allowed to stand. You see that, don't you?'

Tovi nodded. There was no malice in the little man and, as far as was possible with an Outlander, Tovi quite liked him. It was a thankless task frying to take a census in the Highlands, especially since the object was to find new tax-payers. 'I'll speak to him,' he said, handing back the paper and walking over to where Gwalch sat. The old man was staring at one of the soldiers, and the man was growing uncomfortable.

'Come on, Gwalch,' said Tovi soothingly, 'it is time for the fun to stop. What name will you choose?'

'What's wrong with Hare-turd?' countered Gwalch.

'I'll tell you what's wrong with it - it'll be carved on your tombstone. And you'll not be surprised when future generations fail to appreciate what a fine man you were. Now stop this nonsense.'

Gwalch sniffed loudly, then drained his mead. 'You choose!' he told Tovi, staring at the soldier.

The Baker turned to the Census Taker. 'When young he was known as Fear-not. Will that do?' Andolph nodded. From a leather bag he took a quill and a small bottle of ink. Resting the paper against his saddle, he made the change and called Gwalch to sign it. The old man gave a low curse, but he strolled to the horse and signed with his new name.

Andolph waved the paper in the air to dry the ink. 'My thanks to you, Tovi Baker, and goodbye to you... Gwalchmai Fear-not. I hope we will not meet again.'

'You and I won't,' said Gwalch, with a grin. 'And a word of advice, Andolph Census Taker: Trust not in dark-eyed women. Especially those who dance.'

Andolph blinked nervously, then climbed ponderously into his saddle. The three horsemen rode away, but the soldier Gwalch had been staring at swung round to look back. Gwalch waved at him. 'That is the man who will kill me,' said Gwalch, his smile fading. 'He and five others will come here. Do you think I could have changed the future if I had stabbed him today?'

Tovi shivered. 'Are we ready to load?' he asked.

'Aye. It's a good batch, but I'll not be needing the new barrels. This is our last trip, Tovi.

Make the best of it.'

'What is the point of having the Gift if all it brings is gloom and doom?' stormed Tovi. 'And another thing, I do not believe that life is mapped out so simply. Men shape the future, and nothing is written in stone. You understand?'

'I don't argue with that, Tovi. Not at all. Sometimes I have dreamt of moments to come, and they have failed to arrive. Not often, mind, but sometimes. Like the young cattle-herder who loved Sigarni. Until yesterday I always saw him leaving the mountains to find employment in the Lowlands. Last night, though, I saw a different ending. And it has come to pass.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Bernt, the broad-shouldered young man who works for Grame the Smith...'

'I know him ... what about him?'

'Hanged himself from a tree. Late last night. Dreamt it sitting in my chair.'

'Hell's teeth! And it has happened? You are sure?'

The old man nodded. 'What I am trying to say is that futures can be changed sometimes. Not often.

He shouldn't be dead, but something happened, one small thing, and suddenly life was over for Bernt.'

'What happened?'

'A woman broke a promise,' said Gwalch. 'Now let's have a swift drink before loading. It'll help keep the cold at bay.'

'No!' said Tovi. 'I want to be at the market before mid-morning.' Gwalch swore and moved away to the barrel store, and together the two men loaded twelve casks of honey mead alongside the empty barrels Tovi had brought with him. 'Why don't you let me leave the empties here?' asked the baker.