David Gemmell - The Ironhand's Daughter

'You might change your mind - or the dream may change.'

'This dream won't change, my friend. There'll be no market for our mead come springtime. You know that; you've spoken to the Pallides man.'

'What did you tell him?' asked Tovi as the two men clambered to the driving seat of the wagon.

'Nothing he didn't already know," answered Gwalch. 'The Pallides Gifted Ones are quite correct.'

'And that was all?'

Gwalch shook his head. 'There is a leader coming. But I wouldn't tell him who, or when. It is not the right time. He impressed me, though. Sharp as a stone of flint, and hard too. He could have been a force one day. But he won't survive. You will, though, Tovi. You're going to be a man again.'

'I am already a man, Gwalchmai Hare-turd. And don't you forget it.'

In the pale moonlight the friendly willow took on a new identity, its long, wispy branches trailing the steel-coloured water like skeletal fingers. Even the sound of the falls was muted and strange, like the whispers of angry demons. The undergrowth rustled as the creatures of the night moved abroad on furtive paws, and Sigarni sat motionless by the waterside, watching the fragmented moon ripple on the surface.

She felt both numb and angry by turn; numbed by the death of the simple herder, and angry at the way the dwarf had treated her. Sigarni had spent three days in the mountains trapping fox and beaver, and had returned tired, wet and hungry to find Ballistar sitting by- her door. Her spirits had lifted instantly; the little man was always good company, and his cooking was a treat to be enjoyed. Greeting him with a smile, Sigarni had dumped her furs on the wooden board and then returned Abby to her bow perch. Returning to the house, she saw that Ballistar had moved away from the door. He was standing stock-still, staring at her, his face set and serious, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. Sigarni saw that he was carrying a hawking glove of pale tan, beautifully decorated with white and blue beads.

'A present for me?" she asked. He nodded and tossed her the glove. It was well made of turned hide brushed to a sheen, the stiches small and tight, the beads forming a series of blue swirls over a white letter §. 'It's beautiful,' she said gaily. 'Why so glum? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

Slipping it on, she found it fitted perfectly.

'I never saw a crow peck out a man's eye before,' he said. 'It's curious how easily the orb comes away. Still, Bernt didn't mind. Even though he was in his best clothes. He didn't mind at all.

Scarce noticed it.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Nothing of importance, Sigarni. So, how was Bernt when you saw him?'

'I didn't see him,' she snapped. 'I had other things to do. Now what is wrong with you? Are you drunk?'

The dwarf shook his head. 'No, I'm not drunk - but I will be in a while. I shall probably drink too much at the wake. I do that, you know. Funerals always upset me.' He pointed at the glove she wore. 'He made that for you. I suppose you could call it a love gift. He made it and he put on his best tunic. He wanted you to see him at his very best. But you didn't bother to go. So he waited until the dawn and then hanged himself from a tall tree in the oak grove. So, Sigarni, that's one fool you won't have to suffer again.'

She stood very still, then slowly peeled off the glove. 'It was on the ground below him,' said Ballistar, 'so you'll have to excuse the stains.'

Sigarni hurled the glove to the ground. 'Are you blaming me for his suicide?' she asked him.

'You, princess? No, not at all,' he told her, his voice rich with sarcasm. 'He just wanted to see you one last time. He asked me to tell you how important it was to him. And I did. But nothing is important to him any more.'

'Have you said all you want to say?' she asked, her voice soft but her eyes angry.

He did not reply, he merely turned and walked away.

Sigarni sat in the doorway for some time, trying to make some sense of the events. Ballistar obviously held her responsible for Bernt's death, but why? All she had done was rut with him for a while. Did that make her the guardian of his soul? I didn't ask him to fall in love with me, she thought. I didn't even work at it.

You could have gone to him as you promised, said the voice of her heart.

Sorrow touched her then and she stood and wandered away from the house, heading for the sanctuary of the waterfall pool. This was where she always came when events left her saddened or angry. It was here she had been found on that awful night when her parents were slain: she was just sitting by the willow, her eyes vacant, her blonde hair turned white as snow. Sigarni remembered nothing of that night, save that the pool was the one safe place in a world of uncertainty.

Only tonight there was no sanctuary. A man was dead, a good man, a kind man. That he was stupid counted for nothing now. She remembered his smile, the softness of his touch and his desperation to make her happy.

'It could never be you, Bernt,' she said aloud. 'You were not the man for me. I've yet to meet him, but I'll know him when I do.' Tears formed in her eyes, misting her vision. 'I'm sorry that you are dead,' she said. 'Truly I am. And I'm sorry that I didn't come to you. I thought you wanted to beg me back, and I didn't want that.'

Movement on the surface of the pool caught her eye. A mist was moving on the water, swirling and rising. It formed the figure of a man, blurred and indistinct. A slight breeze touched it, sending it moving towards her, and Sigarni scrambled to her feet and backed away.

'Do not run,' whispered a man's voice inside her mind.

But she did, turning and sprinting up over the rocks and away on to the old deer trail.

Sigarni did not stop until she had reached her cabin, and even then she barred the door and built a roaring fire. Focusing her gaze on the timbered wall, she scanned the weapons hanging there: the leaf-bladed broadsword, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows, the daggers and dirks and the helm, with its crown and cheek-guards of black iron and the nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Moving to them she lifted down a long dagger, and sat honing its blade with a whetstone.

It was an hour before she stopped trembling.

Gwalchmai's mouth was dry, and his tongue felt as if he had spent the night chewing badger fur.

The morning sunlight hurt his eyes, and the bouncing of the dog-cart caused his stomach to heave.

He broke wind noisily, which eased the pressure on his belly. He always used to enjoy getting drunk in the morning, but during the last few years it had begun to seem like a chore. The great grey wolfhounds, Shamol and Cabris, paused in their pulling and the cart stopped. Shamol was looking to the left of the trail, his head still, dark eyes alert. Cabris squatted down, seemingly bored. 'No hares today, boys!' said Gwalch, flicking the reins. Reluctantly Shamol launched himself into the traces. Caught unawares, Cabris did not rise in time and almost went under the little cart. Angry, the hound took a nip at Shamol's flank. The two dogs began to snarl, their fur bristling.

'Quiet!' bellowed Gwalch. 'Hell's dungeons, I haven't had a headache like this since the axe broke my skull. So keep it down and behave yourselves.' Both hounds looked at him, then felt the light touch of the reins on their backs. Obediently they started to pull. Reaching behind him, Gwalch lifted a jug of honey mead and took a swallow.

Sigarni's cabin was in sight now, and he could see the black bitch, Lady, sitting hi the dust before it. So could Shamol and Cabris and with a lunge they broke into a run. Gwalch was caught between the desire to save his bones and the need to protect his jug. He clung on grimly. The cart survived the race down the hill, and once on level ground Gwalch began to hope that the worst was over. But then Lady ran at the hounds, swerving at the last moment to race away into the meadow.