Ironhand's Daughter (13 page)

Moving past the captain, he descended the stairs. Two soldiers were idling there and the innkeeper was standing by, his expression cold.

“I must apologize,” said Kollarin, “for the ruination of your rest, my friend. It appears there has been an emergency of some kind. I am sure the captain will reimburse you.”

“Fat chance of that,” snapped the innkeeper, walking to the door and holding it open.

Out in the street Redgaer started to explain, but Kollarin cut him short. “No need for words, Captain. Merely take me to the scene.”

They moved swiftly through the town up the short hill to the arched gateway where a corpse lay on the cold stone. Kollarin knelt beside the body, laying his right hand just above the gaping wound in the man's neck. “This is not where it began,” he said, and rose to walk across the moonlit courtyard to the dungeon stairs. Here was a second corpse. Kollarin paused, laid his hand on the man's head, then walked on.

The soldiers and the captain trooped after him and Kollarin entered the small dungeon. On the floor was the last corpse. Kollarin stood for a moment staring down at the man. He had been castrated, and then the genitalia had been pushed into his open mouth. Kneeling beside him, Kollarin touched his hand to the cold stone floor and closed his eyes. Images poured into his mind. He let them flow for a few seconds, then closed them off. Remaining where he was for a moment more, he gathered his thoughts and rose, turning to face the captain. “What do you wish to know?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“How many were involved in the attack? Where are they now?”

“There was no attack, Captain,” said Kollarin softly. “The raped woman lay where this man is now, pretending to be unconscious. When he too desired a piece of the vile action she stabbed out his eyes—as you can see.” The captain did not look down. “She used her fingers. Then she took his dagger and killed him with it. She was in great pain herself at the time—but then you know that.” Kollarin turned. “She fell to her knees and vomited there, then sat for a moment or two upon the cot.” Moving past the captain, he stepped out into the dungeon corridor. “Still holding the dagger she made for the stairs. The other guard was returning. He said something, but it is unclear to me. She killed him, then made her way up the stairs.” Kollarin followed in her footsteps and found a smear of blood upon the stairwell wall. Touching his fingers to it he closed his eyes once more. The captain and the soldiers were pressing in close. “Ah, yes,” said Kollarin. “Here she paused for a moment. She is thinking of three men, two soldiers . . . and you, Captain. She has decided to seek them out and kill them. But she is weak, and bleeding. She castrates this guard too, but has little energy to spare. She is thinking of a tavern, trying to remember where it is. She has heard the men speak of spending the evening there.”

“The Blue Duck!” said one of the soldiers.

“And that's where she is heading?” asked Redgaer. Kollarin nodded.

“
Was
heading, Captain. This was some while ago.”

Redgaer Kushir-bane pushed past the Finder and ran up the stairs, the soldiers pounding after him. Kollarin followed. The four men ran through the streets, arriving at the Blue Duck tavern in time to see the crowd gathered around the bodies of the two soldiers. Kollarin pushed through and squatted down by the bodies.

“When did this happen?” he heard Redgaer demand.

“Moments ago,” said a voice. “It was a woman. We saw her making off.”

Kollarin touched his hand to the blood on the dead Will Stamper's throat. Then he jerked and almost fell. A voice boomed into his mind.
“Delay them!”
It was not a command, nor yet a plea. Kollarin was surprised, but not shocked. Spirits of the dead had spoken to him before. Yet none had been as powerful as this one. For one fleeting moment he saw a face, hawk-nosed, with deep-set grey eyes and a beard of bright silver. Then the face faded. Kollarin remained where he was for a few seconds more, gathering his thoughts. He was a Hunter, a Finder. His reputation was second to none, and he valued this above all else. Kollarin never failed. He had trailed killers and thieves, robbers and rapists, cattle thieves and assassins. Never before had he been asked to hunt down an innocent woman, brutalized by her captors. Never before had a long-dead spirit interceded on behalf of a victim.

Kollarin rose and stretched his back.

“Where is she heading, man?” demanded Redgaer.

“I can't say,” said the Finder. “Her mind was very confused at this point.”

“Can't say?” sneered Redgaer. “It's what you are paid for, man.” Kollarin knew just where she was, heading out through the open north gate, with half a mile to go before the safety of the tree line. He looked at Redgaer and smiled.

“As she killed these men, Captain, she was thinking of you. She was wondering how she could reach you, and draw a sharp knife across your testicles.” Redgaer winced. “After that she wandered away into that alley there. Perhaps she is still there—waiting.”

“That leads to the north gate, sir,” said one of the soldiers. “There is a stable there. We could get horses.”

Redgaer nodded. “Follow me,” he ordered, and ran off.

Kollarin remained where he was, staring down at the dead Will Stamper. The thoughts of dying men were often strange, almost mundane sometimes. But this man had tried to speak on the point of death. Two words. Kollarin shook his head.

What a time to say
“I'm sorry.”

The more Fell considered his
encounter
with the old man, the more he believed it was a dream. That being so, he asked himself, why are you sitting here in the cold waiting for dawn to rise over Citadel town? He smiled ruefully and poked the dying campfire with a long stick, trying to urge some life into the little blaze. Fell's sheepskin cloak was damp from the recent rain and the fire had not the strength to warm him. It spluttered and spat, fizzled and sank low. He glanced at the sky. Dawn was still an hour away. He was sitting with his back against the shallow depression of a deep boulder, the fire set against a second tall stone. The forester looked down at the last of the wood he had gathered. It was also damp. To his left Fell could see the twinkling lights of the
Cinder-wings
. He hoped they would come no closer. Fell had no wish to be visited by the ghosts of painful memories. The
Cinders
were clustered under an oak branch twisting and moving, their golden wings of light fluttering in the dark. When he was a child Fell had caught one of them, and rushed it home to his parents. In the light of the cabin it had proved to be nothing more than a moth, with wide, beautiful wings and a dark, hairy body. Lying dead in his hand it had seemed so ordinary, yet out in the woods, its wings glowing with bright light, it had been magical beyond imagining.

“You are lucky, boy,” his father told him. “You are too young to have bad memories. Trust me, as you grow older you will avoid the
Cinders
.”

How true it was. When Fell was sixteen he had been walking through the night, following the trail of a lame wolf. He saw the flickering of
Cinder-wing
lights and walked in close to see them fly. Instantly the vision of Mattick's soon-to-be-drowned face filled his mind, the child reaching out to Fell as the undertow dragged him toward the rapids. Fell couldn't swim, and could only watch helplessly as the child was swept over the rocks, the white water thrashing around him. The face hovered in Fell's mind and he dropped to his knees, tears coursing his cheeks. “It was not my fault!” he cried aloud, then scrambled back from the glowing insects. After that he gave the
Cinder-wings
a distant respect.

The rain began again, and the
Cinders
vanished from sight. Fell shook his head. “A great fool you are,” he said aloud, watching the drops of rain settling on the longbow. The bowstring was safe and dry in his belt pouch, his quiver of twelve shafts behind him and under his cloak, but Fell did not like to see his favorite hunting bow at the mercy of the weather. It was a fine bow, made by Kereth the Wingoran. Horn-tipped, it had a pull of more than ninety pounds. Fell, though not the finest of the Loda bowmen, had not missed a killing shot since purchasing the weapon. An arrow would sing from the string, streaking to its target and sinking deep through skin, flesh, and muscle. It was important for a deer to die fast. Ideally the beast would be dead before it knew it, therefore the meat remained tender and succulent; whereas if the creature was frightened, its muscles would tense and harden and the meat would stay that way. Fell's bow supplied choice meat.

“What are you doing here, Fell? Following a dream you don't believe in?” he said aloud. The words of the dream man came back to him.
“In three days outside the walls of
Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be
worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the
light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.”

The rain eased once more, and as the moon showed through the break in the clouds, the
Cinders
glinted back into life. Fell hefted his bow and wiped the drops of water from its six-foot length. Amazingly the fire flared up, tongues of flame licking at the wood. Fell stretched out his hands and felt the welcome warmth.

“That is better,” said Taliesen. Fell's heart hammered and he jumped like a startled squirrel. The old man had appeared from nowhere, seeming to blink into existence. “It used to be,” continued the druid, his cloak of feathers shining in the moonlight, “that I enjoyed forest nights. But sometime during the last hundred years or so my blood started to run thin.”

“Why can't you walk up to a fire like anyone else?” stormed Fell.

“Because I am not like everyone else. What point is there in possessing enormous talent if no one is given the opportunity to appreciate it? By Heaven, boy, but you scare easily.” Taliesen rubbed a gnarled hand over his wood-smoke whiskers. “No food this time, eh? Well, I suppose that is a blessing.”

“You didn't touch it last time, so you have no way of knowing!” said Fell. “You are not real, old man. You are not flesh and blood.” As he spoke Fell suddenly reached out and swept his hand across Taliesen's face. His fingers passed through the wrinkled skin, and he felt nothing but air against his palm.

“Good,” said Taliesen. “You have intelligence. Yet you are still wrong. I
am
flesh and blood. But I am not flesh and blood
here
. I am sitting in my own cave in another place, and another time. The energy needed to open the Gateways for the flesh is immense; there is no need to waste it when an astral projection will serve the same purpose. And since my role is merely to speak with you, my spirit image must suffice.”

“You breed words like lice,” snapped Fell, still rattled. “And I don't relish having wizards at my fire. So speak your piece and be gone.”

“Tish, boy, where are your manners? Elders are to be treated with respect, surely, even in this new and enlightened age? Did your parents teach you nothing? Your father, I recall, was a man of good breeding.”

“For pity's sake, just say what you came to say,” said Fell. “I am already sick of your lectures.”

Taliesen was silent for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but mark the words well. Firstly, when I leave, I want you to string your bow. The time is drawing near when you will have to use it. Secondly, you know the location of the Alwen Falls?”

“Of course, where Ironhand passed over. Every Loda child knows where it is.”

“When the arrows are loosed, and blood is upon the ground, you must take the Cloak Wearer there. You understand?”

“Understand? No, I understand nothing. Firstly, I have no intention of loosing a shaft at anyone or anything, and secondly, who is the Cloak Wearer?”

“Have a little patience, Fell. And if you do not loose a shaft a loved one of yours will die. Take me at my word, boy. And remember the pool. That is vital!”

The old man vanished. The fire died instantly.

Fell sent a whispered curse after the man. Yet even as he spoke he drew the bowstring from his pouch and strung the bow.

The first light of predawn was heralded by birdsong and Fell swung his quiver over his shoulder and walked to the top of the hill overlooking Citadel town.

There was nothing to see, save the grey walls and the rising stone of the Keep beyond the town's rooftops. Gradually the sky lightened and he saw a tiny figure emerge from the north gate and begin to run toward the hills. Fell squinted, but could not—at first—identify the runner.

Then, with a shock, he saw the dawn light glint on her silver hair. She was some three hundred yards onto open ground when the three horsemen rode from the town. The lead rider was a soldier in helm and breastplate, as was the third. But it was the second man, riding a grey stallion, who caught Fell's attention. He was brandishing a sword, and he wore a red cloak! His excitement soared.

Sigarni was running hard, but the horsemen were closing. Why do they have their swords drawn? thought Fell. And then it came to him in a sickening realization. They are chasing her. They mean to kill her!

The lead horseman was a mere fifty yards behind her when Fell drew a shaft and notched it to the bowstring. It was not an easy shot—a fast-moving horseman, downhill from him, and with the light still poor.

The enormity of what he was about to do filled Fell's mind, yet there was no hesitation. Smoothly he drew back the string until it nestled against his chin, then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Between breaths and utterly motionless, he sighted carefully and loosed the shaft. The arrow sang through the air. For a fraction of a heartbeat Fell thought he had missed, but the shaft slammed home in the lead rider's left eye, catapulting him from the saddle. Running forward, Fell notched a second arrow to the string; but he shot too swiftly, and the shaft flew past the red-cloaked officer and skimmed across the flank of the third man's horse. The beast reared, sending the soldier tumbling over its haunches in an ungainly somersault.