Ironhand's Daughter (37 page)

“Do you wish to shame me again?” he asked, standing tall, his eyes angry.

“No. I want you to be at the meeting tonight. Tomorrow you will command the Farlain wing, under Fell's leadership.”

Torgan stood stock-still, and she could see the anger replaced by wariness. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“I need strong men in positions of authority. You may decline if you choose.”

“No! I accept.”

“Good. The meeting begins at dusk. Is Layelia in the house?”

“Yes,” said Torgan, still stunned. “Shall I fetch her?”

“No. I will find her.” Sigarni rose and left the men to their conversation. As she passed Torgan he called out to her.

“Wait!” Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head. “My sword and my life,” he said.

It was an hour before dusk as Sigarni set out from the Pallides village. The afternoon was clear and bright, the sun dappling the new leaves on the trees. She felt better than she had in days, her mind cleansed of doubt. Whatever the outcome now, she felt that her plan was the best chance for Highland success.

Breaking into a run, she raced up the track, her body reveling in the exertion. As she ran she noticed a mist spreading out from the undergrowth. At first she ignored it, but it thickened suddenly, swirling around her. Sigarni slowed. The trees were indistinct now, mere faint shadows in the grey. Glancing up she saw that the mist was also above her, blocking the sun.

Unafraid, yet with growing concern, she walked on, heading upward. The trail was no longer beneath her feet, but if she continued climbing she would arrive at the encampment. A line of bushes appeared directly before her and she tried to skirt them, moving to the left. The undergrowth was thicker here, the ground flat.

Her irritation grew, but she pushed on.

After a while she came to a gap in the mist, a small hollow inside a ring of oak trees. The mist clung to the outer ring, and rose up over the dip to form a grey dome. There was a man sitting on the grass at the center of the hollow, portly and friendly of face. Looking up, he smiled broadly.

“Welcome, Sigarni. At last we meet in perfect circumstances.”

“I saw you die at the Falls, ripped to pieces,” she said, her hand closing around the hilt of her dagger.

“Happily that was an acolyte of mine. I say happily, though I miss him dreadfully. Happily for me, I should have said.”

“You will not find today so happy,” she told him, drawing the blade and advancing toward him. Her legs felt suddenly heavy, as if she were wading through knee-deep mud. The knife was a terrible weight in her hand . . . it dropped slowly toward her side, then tumbled from her trembling fingers.

“You are quite correct,” he said, “I do not find this a happy experience. You have done well among your barbarian friends, and were you to live, I believe you could cause the Outlanders considerable embarrassment. Sadly you must die—would that it were different.” Pushing himself to his feet, he drew a slender curved blade and advanced toward her. Sigarni fought to move, but could not. The knife came up and he took the neck of her tunic between the pudgy fingers of his left hand and cut away the cloth, exposing her breasts. “I apologize for this apparently unseemly behavior,” he said amiably. “I have no intention of soiling your virtue. It is just that I need to make the correct incision for the removal of your heart.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked him. “What have I ever done to you?”

“As I recall, my dear, you used to hunt hares for sport. What had they ever done to you? We are not dealing here in petty squabbles or feuds. I am a sorcerer and a student of the universe. It is well known among my peers that certain sacrifices are considerably more powerful than others. A man, for example, will provide more power than . . . a hare. But the blood royal! Ah now, that is a priceless commodity.” Taking a small chunk of charcoal from his pocket, he drew a line between her breasts and along the rib line on her left side.

“Ironhand!” she cried.

“Ah,” he said, stepping back, “so he was the mysterious force. Fascinating! Sadly, however, my dear, I have established a mystic wall around this hollow. No spirit can enter here, so save your breath. Your friend will not hear you either, for the mist dampens all sound. Now what I am about to do is remove your heart. There will be no pain. I am not a savage, and your death will be swift.”

“Give me until tomorrow,” she begged him. “Let me save my people first!”

He chuckled. “And you, of course, will give me your word to return?”

“Yes, I will. I swear it.”

“Ah, but you know what you hunters say—a hare in the bag is worth ten in the burrow. Let us merely hope that your officers will perform ably without you. Now, do you have a God you wish to make a final prayer to?”

“Yes,” she said, silently praying for the return of Taliesen.

“Then make it brief, my dear, for I wish to return to Leofric's tent. He has a fine stock of wine which I am looking forward to savoring. This country air does not suit me. I was born to exist within well-stocked cities. Let me know when you are finished, Sigarni. And do not waste your time seeking to contact Taliesen. He has gone back to his own time and is too far away to be of assistance—even could he hear your thoughts, which he cannot. I am afraid, dear lady, you are all alone. There are no creatures of myth or legend to help you now.”

“Don't be too sure,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, I am sure,” he said. The knife rose and Jakuta Khan leaned forward, then arched back with a cry. He staggered several paces, his hand scrabbling at his back, where a bone-handled knife jutted from his kidneys. Sigarni felt the spell holding her dissipate and fall away. She lunged for her dagger and sprang at the sorcerer, ramming her blade into his fat belly and ripping it up toward his lungs. His scream was high-pitched and pain-filled as he sank to the ground. “Oh, you have wounded me!” he cried.

Ballistar ran forward to stand beside Sigarni and Jakuta Khan looked up at him, his eyes already misting in death. “A dwarf,” he whispered, surprised. “I have been killed by a dwarf!”

He turned his dying eyes upon Sigarni. “It is . . . not over. I sent a . . . demon. He is lost somewhere in time. But one day . . . when you look into his eyes . . . remember me!” And he slumped facedown on the grass.

“Your arrival was most timely,” she said, kneeling beside the dwarf and kissing his bearded cheek.

“Gwalchmai appeared to me. Told me to be here. I was ready to kill myself, but he said I would be needed, that I could help the clans.”

“Oh, Balli, if you had died my heart would have been broken. Come, let us go to the meeting!”

“I suggest you dress yourself first,” he said.

Chapter Thirteen

Fell lay awake, Sigarni's sleeping body pressed closely against him and her head upon his shoulder. Lady lay at Sigarni's left, her black flanks gleaming in the firelight. The coals in the iron brazier were burning low now, and the cabin was bathed in a gentle red glow.

Fell had stood at the back of the meeting hall and watched the faces of her officers as she outlined her battle plans. At first they had been shocked, but they had listened to her arguments, delivered quietly but forcefully, and had offered no objections. Each of the officers had been given a task—save for Fell.

He had returned to the cabin with Sigarni, and their love-making had been tender and joyous. No words spoken throughout, but both experiencing an intensity that led to tears. Fell had never known anything like it; he felt both complete and fulfilled. In all his adult life he had dreamed of moments like this, to be at one with the object of his love.

The night was quiet, and the entire world consisted of nothing more than the four walls he could see and the glowing fire that warmed the cabin. Tomorrow the great battle would begin and, God willing, after that he and Sigarni could begin a new life together. Once the Baron was defeated, they could send emissaries to the Outland King and end a war neither side had truly wanted. Then he and Sigarni could build a home near the Falls.

She moaned in her sleep and he stroked her silver hair. She awoke and smiled sleepily. “You should be asleep,” she said.

“I am too happy for sleep,” he told her. Her hand stroked down his warm belly and arousal flared instantly.

“Then I shall tire you,” she said, sliding her body over his. Her mouth tasted sweet and he smelled the perfume of her hair, felt the warmth of her body.

At last the passion subsided and he sighed. “Are you ready for sleep now?” she whispered into his ear.

“You held them, Sigarni,” he said proudly. “All those warriors and greybeards! They stood and listened and they believed. I believe! It is so hard to think of you now as the huntress who lived alone and sold her furs. It is as if you were always waiting to be a queen. Even Bakris Tooth-gone speaks of you with awe. Where did you send him, by the way?”

“South,” she said.

“Why?”

“To cut their supply lines. God, Fell, I wish this was over. I don't want to be a Battle Queen.”

“We can end it tomorrow,” he said. “Then we'll build a house. You know the flat land to the west of the Falls? I've often thought that it would make a splendid home. A little back from the pool, so that the noise of the Falls would be filtered by the willows. There's good grazing land close by, and I know Grame will loan me some breed cattle.”

“It sounds . . . wonderful,” she told him.

“There's good hunting too.”

At the sound of their voices Lady awoke and pushed herself between them. Sigarni stroked the hound's ears. “It is a fine dream,” said Sigarni. “Now let's get some rest.”

“What do you mean, a dream?” Fell asked.

“The war will not be over with one battle,” she said sadly. “If we win, the Outlanders will see it as a blow to their pride. They will have no alternative but to send another army north.”

“But it makes no sense!”

“War makes no sense, Fell. Let's talk about it all tomorrow.”

“Aye, we'll do that,” he said. “I will be proud to stand beside you.”

“You won't be beside me, Fell. I need you and your men to take up a position away from the battle, on the right. They will break through on the western slope, and head for the encampments. They must be stopped. Destroyed. Hold the right, Fell. Do it for me!”

“Oh, God!” he whispered, his stomach knotting.

“What is it?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“Nothing,” he assured her. “It is all right, just a little cramp in my leg. You are right, Sigarni. We should sleep now. Come, put your head on my shoulder.”

Sigarni sat up and pushed Lady away. “Back to your blanket, you hussy!” she said. “He is mine alone!”

Settling down beside him with her arm across his chest, she fell asleep almost immediately. But for Fell there would be no rest that night. He remembered the night at Gwalchmai's cabin, and the drunken words of the Dreamer.

“But I know what I know, Fell. I know you'll live for her.
And I know you'll die for her. ‘Hold the right, Fell. Do it for
me!' she'll say. And they'll fall on you with their swords of
fire, and their lances of pain, and their arrows of farewell.
Will you hold, Fell, when she asks you?”
Gwalch looked up, his eyes bleary.
“I wish I was young again, Fell. I'd stand
alongside you. By God, I'd even take that arrow for you.”

No house by the Falls. No golden future in the sunshine on the mountains. This one night is all there is, he realized. He felt the panic in the pit of his belly, and in the palpitations of his heart. Fell so wanted to wake Sigarni again, to tell her of Gwalchmai's prophecy. Yet he did not.

Instead he held her to him and listened to her soft breathing.

“Will you hold, Fell?”

Aye, he thought, I will hold.

The loss of a group of his scouts was not entirely unexpected, and the Baron had dispatched four more men to scout the Duane Pass. Only one returned—and he had an arrow wound high on the right shoulder.

“Well?” asked the Baron.

The man's face was grey, and he was in great pain. “As you predicted, lord, they have taken up a position on the flat hill. A wall of shields. I estimate there are almost three thousand warriors there.”

“Their full force?” The Baron laughed and turned to his officers. “See what happens when a woman leads? What fools they are!” Swinging again to the wounded scout, he asked, “What of the western slope?”

“Around a hundred men hidden in the trees. I got pretty close before they saw me.”

“To the east?”

“I saw no one, sir.”

“Good. Go and get that wound seen to.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Baron gathered his officers around him. “You have all studied the maps, and you will realize that their position is a strong one. We must first encircle the hill; that will stretch us thin in places, but it is too high for them to make a swift sally down upon us.” He fixed his attention on a tall, lean cavalryman. “Chaldis, you will take half the cavalry and a thousand foot. Kill the defenders on the western slope and attack their encampment and the surrounding Pallides villages.”

“Yes, my lord,” Chaldis responded.

“Where is Cheops?” asked the Baron.

“Here, my lord,” answered a short, stocky figure in a uniform of brown leather, pushing forward from the back.

“You will take your archers to the eastern slope and pepper them. I will initiate attacks from the western side. Be wary, Cheops. I would sooner your arrows fell a little short than sailed over the defenders and struck our own men. Nothing so demoralizes a fighting man as to fear death from the shafts of his own archers.”

“You can rely on us, my lord.”

“Leofric, you will command the cavalry wing. Skirt the hill and continue sporadic raids from the north side. Use only the heaviest armored lancers. The enemy will have good bowmen on that hilltop. Do not push too far. Hit hard, then break away. It will be the infantry who apply the hammer blow.”

“Understood, my lord.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Baron with a rare smile. “A magnificent opportunity lies ahead of us. In the south there is a great panic concerning these rebel Highlanders, and when we have defeated them the King will make sure you are rewarded for your efforts. But remember this, though they are barbarians and scum they still know how to fight. I want the woman alive; I will send her in chains to the capital. As to the rest, slaughter them to a man. God is with us, gentlemen. Now let us be about our duties.”

The Baron strode to his tent and ducked below the flap. Once inside he turned his attention to the Highlander, sitting flanked by two guards. The man was of medium height, with greasy dark hair and a wide mouth. He did not look the Baron in the eye.

“Your information was correct,” said the Baron. “The bitch has fortified the hilltop.”

“As I told you, my lord,” said Bakris Tooth-gone, starting to rise from his chair. But a soldier pressed his hand on Bakris's shoulder, easing him back into the seat.

“Treachery always fascinates me,” said the Baron, flicking his fingers and pointing to a jug of wine. A servant filled a goblet and passed it to his lord; the Baron sipped it. “Why would one of Sigarni's captains betray her?”

“It's a lost cause, my lord,” said Bakris bitterly. “They're all going to die. And I want to live. What's wrong with that? In this life a man must look out for himself. I've never had nothing. Now by your leave, I'll have some gold and some land.”

“Gold and land,” echoed the Baron. “I have sworn to see every Highlander slain and you are a Highlander. Why should I not kill you?”

Bakris grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. “You won't get them all in this one battle, lord. I know all the hiding places. I was a forester; I can lead your soldiers to where they run to. And I'll serve you well, lord.”

“I think you will,” the Baron agreed.

Three servants set about dressing the Baron in his black armor, buckling his breastplate, hooking the gorget into place, attaching his greaves and hinged knee protectors. Accoutred for war, he strode to his black stallion and was helped into the saddle.

Touching heels to the stallion's flanks, he rode to the front of the battle line and lifted his arm.

The army moved on toward the mouth of the Duane Pass.

To the Baron's surprise there were no flights of arrows from the rearing cliff faces on either side, nor any sign of defenders on the gentle slopes to left and right. Ahead the sun glimmered on the shield wall of the defenders, as they ringed the flat-topped hill half a mile distant.

A long time ago the Outlanders themselves had employed the shield-ring defense. It was strong against cavalry, but weak against a concerted attack from infantry, with support from archers. Bowmen could send volley after volley of arrows over the shields, cutting away at the heart of the defenders.

The Baron rode on. Now he could see the tightly packed clansmen, and just make out the silver-armored figure standing in the front line.

I should be grateful to you, he thought, for you have made my glory all the greater. Swinging in the saddle, he glanced back at his fighting men. If the losses were too light the victory would appear shallow, too high and he would be deemed an incompetent. Around three hundred dead would be perfect, he thought.

Leofric rode past him on the right, leading the cavalry in columns of three. On the left, Chaldis led his fifteen hundred men up the western slope to the enemy's right. “That's good, Chaldis,” shouted the Baron admiringly. “Let them see where you are heading; it will give them time to think about the fate of their wives and sons. Fire some buildings as soon as you can. I want them to see the smoke!”

“Aye, my lord,” the captain replied.

The Baron rode on, leading his infantry to the foot of the hill but remaining out of bowshot. Custom demanded that he give the enemy the opportunity to surrender, but today was not a time to consider custom. Good God, they might accept!

Glancing to his right, he saw Cheops and his fifteen hundred lightly armored archers toiling up the slope. Each man carried thirty shafts. Four thousand five hundred sharp missiles to rain down upon the unprotected defenders!

The Baron ordered the encirclement of the hill and the three thousand remaining infantrymen, holding tightly to their formations, spread out to obey.

There was no movement from the defenders, and no sound. No harsh, boastful challenges, no jeering. It was unusual. The Baron could see the woman, Sigarni, moving among the men. The helm she wore was truly magnificent and would make a fine trophy.

Dark storm clouds obscured the sun, and a rumble of distant thunder could be heard from the north. “The Gods of War are preparing for the feast!” he shouted. “Let us not disappoint them.”

Fell waited behind the cover of the trees, Torgan beside him. They could not yet see the lancers, but they could hear the thundering of their hooves on the hard-packed earth of the hill. Fell glanced to his right, and saw the Highlanders notching arrows to their bows. To his left the swordsmen waited, their two-handed claymores held ready. Five hundred fighting men, ready to defend their homes, their families, and their clans.

The first of the lancers breasted the hill: tall men on high horses, their breastplates shining like silver in the sunlight, their long lances glittering. Each man carried a figure-of-eight shield on his left arm. They were still traveling in a column of fours, but as they reached open ground they spread out. The officer drew rein, shading his eyes to study the tree line.

Fifty Highlanders moved out onto open ground and loosed their longbows. Some of the shafts struck home, and several men and half a dozen horses fell, but most were blocked by the shields of the lancers. Leveling their lances, the riders charged.

“Now?” whispered Torgan.

“No,” Fell told him. “Wait until they are closer.”

The fifty exposed Highland bowmen continued to loose shaft after shaft at the oncoming riders. Horses tumbled under the deadly volleys, but the lancers rode on. The distance closed between them, until no more than thirty paces separated the two groups.

“Now!” said Fell. Torgan lifted his hunting horn to his lips and blew two short blasts. Another hundred bowmen ran from the trees to stand beside their comrades. Hundreds of shafts tore into the lancers; the charging line faltered as the missiles slashed home into unprotected horseflesh. Horses reared and fell, bringing down following riders. Amid the sudden confusion the Highland swordsmen charged from cover, screaming their battle cries. The lancers panicked, though many tried to swing to meet this unexpected attack. Horses reared, throwing their riders, then the Highlanders were among the lancers, dragging riders from their saddles and hacking them to death upon the ground.