David Gemmell - Hawk Queen 1 - Ironhand' s Daughter

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David Gemmell

Ironhand's Daughter

First Book Of The Hawk Queen

PROLOGUE

SUNLIGHT GLINTED ON steel as the knife blade spun through the air to thud home in the chalk-

circled centre of the board. The woman chuckled. 'You lose again, Ballistar,' she said.

'I let you win,' the dwarf told her. 'For I am a creature of legend, and my skills are second to

none.' He smiled as he spoke, but there was sadness in his dark eyes and she reached out to cup

her hand to his bearded cheek. He leaned in to her touch, twisting his head to kiss her palm.

'You are the finest of men,' she said softly, 'and the gods - if gods there be - have not been

kind to you.'

Ballistar did not reply. Glancing up he drank in her beauty, the golden sheen of her skin, the

haunting power of her pale blue-grey eyes. At nineteen Sigarni was the most beautiful woman

Ballistar had ever seen, tall and slender, full-lipped and firm-breasted. Her only flaw was her

close-cropped hair, which shone like silver in the sunlight. It had turned grey in her sixth year,

after her parents were slain. The villagers called it the Night of the Slaughterers, and no one

would speak of it. Pushing himself to his feet he walked to the fence post, climbing the rail to

pull Sigarni's throwing knife from the board. She watched him stretching out his tiny arms, his

stunted fingers unable to curl fully around the hilt of her blade. At last he wrenched it clear,

then turned and jumped to the ground. He was no larger than a child of four, yet his head was huge

and his face heavily bearded. Ballistar returned her blade and she slid it home into the sheath at

her hip. Reaching to her right she lifted a pitcher of cool water and filled two clay goblets,

passing one to the dwarf.

Ballistar gave a wide grin as he took it, then slowly passed his tiny hand across the surface of

the water. She shook her head. 'You should not make those gestures, my friend,' she said

seriously. 'If you were seen by the wrong man, you would be flogged.'

'I've been flogged before. Did I show you my scars?'

'Many times.'

'Then I shall not concern myself with fears of the lash," he said, passing his hand once more over

the drink. 'To the long-dead King over the water,' he said, lifting the goblet to his lips. A

sleek black hound padded into sight. Heavy of shoulder, slim of flanks, she was a hare and rabbit

hound, and her speed was legendary. Highland hunting hounds were bred for strength, stamina and

obedience. But most of all they had to be fast. None was swifter than Sigarni's hound. Ballistar

laid down his empty goblet and called to her. 'Here, Lady!' Her head came up and she loped to him,

pushing her long muzzle into his beard, licking at his cheek. 'Women find me irresistible,' he

said, as he stroked the hound's ears.

'I can see why,' Sigarni told him. 'You have a gentle touch.'

Ballistar stroked Lady's flanks and gazed down into her eyes. One eye was doe-brown, the other

opal-grey. 'She has healed well,' he said, running his finger down the scar on the hound's cheek.

Sigarni nodded, and Ballistar saw the fresh flaring of anger in her eyes. 'Bernt is a fool. I

should never have allowed him to come. Stupid man.'

'That stupid man loves you,' chided Ballistar. 'As do we all, princess.'

'Idiot!' she snapped, but the anger faded from her eyes. 'You know I have no right to such a

title.'

'Not so, Sigarni. You have the blood of Gandarin in your veins.'

'Pah! Half the population have his blood. The man was a rutting ram. Gwalchmai told me about him;

he said Gandarin could have raised an army of his bastard offspring. Even Bernt probably has a

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drop or two of Gandarin's blood.'

'You should forgive him,' advised Ballistar. 'He didn't mean it.' At that moment a red hawk

swooped low over the clearing, coming to rest on a nearby bow perch. For a moment or two it

pranced from foot to foot, then cocked its head and stared at the silver-haired woman. The hound

gave a low growl, but slunk back close to Ballistar. Sigarni pulled on a long black gauntlet of

polished leather and stood, arm outstretched. The hawk launched itself from the fence and flew to

her.

'Ah, my beauty,' said Sigarni, reaching up and ruffling the russet-coloured feathers of the bird's

breast. Taking a strip of rabbit meat

from the pouch at her side, she fed it to the hawk. Swiftly and skilfully she attached two soft

collars to the hawk's legs, then threaded short hunting jesses through brass-rimmed holes in the

collars. Lastly she pulled a soft leather hood from the pouch at her side and smoothly stroked it

into place over the bird's beak and eyes. The hawk sat motionless as the hood settled, and even

turned her neck to allow Sigarni to lean forward and tighten the braces at the rear. The woman

turned her gaze back to the dwarf and smiled. 'I know that Bernt acted from stupidity. And I am

more angry with myself than with him. I told him to loose Lady only if there was a second hare. It

was a simple instruction. But he was incapable even of that. And I will not have fools around me.'

Ballistar said nothing more. There were, he knew, only two creatures in all the world that Sigarni

cared for - the hound, Lady, and the hawk, Abby. Sigarni had been training them both, determined

that they would work together as a team. The training had gone well. Lady would seek out the hares

and scatter them, while Abby swooped down from the trees in a kill that seemed swifter than an

arrow. The danger area came when only a single quarry was sighted. Hawk and bird had raced each

other to make the strike. Abby won both times. On the second occasion when Lady darted in to try

to steal the kill, Abby had lashed out, her beak grazing the hound's flank. Sigarni had grabbed

Lady's collar, dragging her back. In an effort to re-train Lady, Sigarni had allowed the cattle

herder, Bernt, to accompany her on the training hunts. His duty was to keep Lady leashed, and only

release her when more than one hare was sighted. He had failed. Excited by the hunt, Bernt had

loosed the hound at first sight of a single hare. Abby had swooped upon it, and Lady had sped in

to share the prize. The hawk had turned, lashing out with her cruel beak, piercing the hound's

right eye.

'You are hunting today?' asked the dwarf.

'No. Abby is above her killing weight. I let her have the last hare we took yesterday. Today we'll

just walk awhile, up to the High Drain. She likes to fly there.'

'Watch out for the sorcerer!' warned Ballistar.

'There is no need to fear him,' said Sigarni. 'I think he is a good man.'

'He's an Outlander, and his skin has been burned by sorcery. He makes me shudder.'

Sigarni's laughter pealed out. 'Oh, Ballistar, you fool! In his land all people have dark skins;

they are not cursed.'

'He's a wizard! At nights he becomes a giant bird that flies across High Druin. Many have seen it:

a great black raven, twice normal size. And his castle is full of grimoires and spells, and there

are animals there - frozen. You know Marion - she was there! She told us all about a great black

bear that just stands in the hallway, a spell upon it. You keep clear of him, SigarmT

She looked into his dark eyes and saw the reality of his fear. 'I shall be careful,' she said.

'You may rely on it. But I will not walk in fear, Ballistar. Have I not the blood of Gandarin in

my veins?' Sigarni could not quite mask the smile as she spoke.

'You should not mock your friends!' he scolded. 'Magickers are to be avoided - anyone with sense

knows that. And what is he doing here, in our high, lonely places? Eh? Why did he leave his land

of black people and come here? What is he seeking? Or is he perhaps hiding from justice?'

'I shall ask him when next I see him,' she said. 'Come, Lady!' The hound rose warily and paced

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alongside the tall woman. Sigarni knelt and patted her flanks. 'You've learned to respect Abby

now,' she whispered, 'though I fear she will never learn respect for you.' 'Why is that?' asked

Ballistar. Sigarni looked up. 'It is the way of the hawk, my friend. It loves no one, needs no

one, fears no one.'

'Does it not love you, Sigarni?'

'No. That is why she must never be called in vain. Each time she

flies to the fist I feed her. The day I do not, she may decide never to

return. Hawks know no loyalties. They stay because they choose to.

No man - nor woman - can ever own one.'

Without a word of farewell the huntress strode off into the forest.

TOVI CLOSED THE double doors of his oven, removed his apron and wiped the flour from his face with

a clean towel. The day's bread was laid out on wooden trays, stacked six high, and the smell of

the baking filled his nostrils. Even after all these years he still loved that smell. Taking a

sample loaf, he cut through the centre. It was rich and light, with no pockets of air. Behind him

his apprentice, Stalf, breathed a silent sigh of relief. Tovi turned to the boy. 'Not bad,' he

said. Cutting two thick slices, he smeared them with fresh butter and passed one to the boy.

Moving to the rear door, Tovi stepped outside. Above the stone and timber buildings of the village

the dawn sun was clearing the peaks and a fresh breeze was blowing from the north. The bakery

stood at the centre of the village, an old three-storey building that once had been the council

house. In the days when we were allowed a council, thought Tovi sourly. The buildings surrounding

the bakery were sturdily built, and old. Further down the hill were the simpler timber dwellings

of the poorer folk. Tovi stepped out into the road and gazed down the hill to the river. The

villagers were stirring and several women were already kneeling by the water-side, washing clothes

and blankets, beating them against the white rocks at the water's edge. Tovi saw the black-clad

Widow Maffrey making her way to the communal well. He waved and smiled and she nodded as she

passed. The smith, Grame, was lighting his forge. Seeing Tovi, he strolled across. Soot had

smeared the smith's thick white beard.

'Good day to you, Baker,' said Grame.

'And to you. It looks a fine one. Nary a cloud in sight. I see you have the Baron's greys in your

stalls. Fine beasts.'

'Finer than the man who owns them. One of them has a split hoof, and both carry spur scars. No way

to treat good horses. I'll take a

loaf, if you please. One with a crust as black as sin and a centre as white as a nun's soul.'

Tovi shook his head. 'You'll take what I give you, man, and be glad of it, for you'll not taste a

better piece of bread anywhere in the kingdom. Stalf! Fetch a loaf for the smith.'

The boy brought it out, wrapped in muslin. Dipping his huge hand into the pocket of his leather

apron, Grame produced two small copper coins which he dropped into Stalf s outstretched palm. The

boy bowed and backed away. 'It'll be a good summer,' said Grame, tearing off a chunk of bread and

pushing it into his mouth.

'Let us hope so,' said Tovi.

The dwarf Ballistar approached them, labouring up the steep hill. He gave an elaborate bow. 'Good

morning to you,' said Ballistar. 'Am I late for breakfast?'

'Not if you have coin, little man,' said Tovi, eyes narrowing. The dwarf made him feel

uncomfortable, and he found himself growing irritable.

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'No coin,' the dwarf told him affably, 'but I have three hares hanging.'

'Caught by Sigarni, no doubt!' snapped the baker. 'I don't know why she should be so generous with

you.'

'Perhaps she likes me,' answered Ballistar, no trace of anger in his tone.

Tovi called for another loaf which he gave the dwarf. 'Bring me the best hare tonight,' he said.

'Why does he anger you so?' asked Grame, as the dwarf wandered away.

Tovi shrugged. 'He's cursed. He should have been laid aside at birth. What good is he to man or

beast? He cannot hunt, cannot work. If not for Sigarni maybe he would leave the village. He could

join a circus! Such as he could earn an honest living there, capering and the like.'

'You're turning into a sour old man, Tovi.'

'And you are getting fat!'

'Aye, that's the truth. But I still remember the wearing of the Red. That's something I'll take to

the grave, with pride. As will you.'

The baker nodded, and his expression softened. 'Bonny days, Grame. They'll not come again.'

gave them a fight, though, eh?'

Tovi shook his head. 'We showed them how brave men die - that's not the same, my friend.

Outnumbered and outclassed we were -their knights riding through our ranks, cutting and killing,

our sword-blades clanging against their armour and causing no damage. Gods, man, it was slaughter

that day! I wish to Heaven I had never seen it.'

'We were badly led,' whispered Grame. 'Gandarin did not pass his strength to his sons.'

The smith sighed. 'Ah, well, enough dismal talk. This is a new day, fresh and untainted.' Spinning

on his heel, the burly blacksmith strode back to his forge.

The boy, Stalf, said nothing as Tovi re-entered the bakery. He could see his master was deep in

thought, and he had heard a little of the conversation. It was hard to believe that Fat Tovi had

once worn the Red, and had taken part in the Battle of Golden Moor. Stalf had visited the battle

site last autumn. A huge plain, dotted with barrows, thirty-four in all. And each barrow held the

dead of an entire clan's fighting men.

The wind had howled across Golden Moor and Stalf had been frightened by the power and the haunted

wailing of it. His uncle, Mart One-arm, had stood with him, his bony hand on the boy's shoulder.

'This is the place where dreams end, boy. This is the resting place of hope.'

'How many died Uncle?'

'Scores of thousands.'

'But not the King.'

'No, not the King. He fled to a bright land beyond the water. But they found him there, and slew

him. There are no Mountain Kings now.'

Uncle Mart walked him on to the moor, coming at last to a high barrow. 'This is where the Loda men

stood, shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms, brothers in death.' Lifting the stump of his left

arm, he gave a crooked smile. 'Part of me is buried here too, boy. And more than just my arm. My

heart lies here, with my brothers, and cousins, and friends.' •

Stalf dragged his mind back to the present. Tovi was standing by the window, his eyes showing the

same faraway look he had seen that day on the face of Mart One-arm.

'Can I take some bread to me mam?' asked Stalf. Tovi nodded.

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Stalf chose two loaves and wrapped them. He had reached the door when Tovi's voice stopped him.

'What do you want to be, lad, when you're grown?'

'A baker, sir. Skilled like you.' Tovi said no more, and the boy hurried from the bakery.

Sigarni loved the mountain lands, the lush valleys nestling between them, and the deep, dark

forests that covered their flanks. But mostly she loved High Druin, the lonely peak which towered

over the high lands, its summit lost in cloud, its shoulders cloaked in snow. There was, in High

Druin, an elemental magnificence that radiated from its sharp, defiant crags, a magic that sang in

the whispering of wind-breath before the winter storms. High Druin spoke to the heart. He said: 'I

am Eternity in stone. I have always been here. I will always be here!'

The huntress let Abby soar into the air and watched her swoop over High Drum's lower flanks. Lady

bounded out over the grass, her sleek black body alert, her one good eye scanning for sign of hare

or rat. Sigarni sat by the Lake of Tears, watching the brightly coloured ducks on the banks of the

small island at the centre of the lake. Abby circled high above them, also watching the birds. The

hawk swooped down, coming to rest in a tree beside the lake. The ducks, suddenly aware of the

hawk, took to the water.

Sigarni watched with interest. Roast duck would make a fine contrast to the hare meat she had

eaten during the last fortnight. 'Here, Lady!' she called. The hound padded alongside and Sigarni

pointed to the ducks. 'Go!' hissed Sigarni. Instantly the dog leapt into the water, paddling

furiously towards the circling flock. Several of the birds took wing, putting flat distance

between them and the hound, keeping low to the water. But one took off into the sky and instantly

Abby launched herself in pursuit.

The duck was rising fast, and Abby hurtled down towards it with talons extended.

At the last possible moment the duck saw the bird of prey - and dived fast. For a heartbeat only

Sigarni thought Abby had her prey, but then the duck hit the water, diving deep, confusing the

hawk. Abby circled and returned to her branch.

The huntress gave a low whistle, summoning Lady back to the bank. The sound of a walking horse

came to Sigarni then, and sherose and turned.

The horse was a tall chestnut, and upon it rode a black man, his cheeks, head and shoulders

covered in a flowing white burnoose. A cloak of blue-dyed wool hung from his broad shoulders and a

curved sword was scabbarded at his waist. He smiled as he saw the mountain woman.

'When hunting duck, it is better for the hawk to take it from below,' he said, swinging down from

his saddle.

'We're still learning,' replied Sigarni affably. 'She is wedded to fur now, but it took time - as

you said it would, Asmidir.'

The tall man sat down at the water's edge. Lady approached him gingerly, and he stroked her head.

'The eye is healing well. Has it affected her hunting?' Sigarni shook her head. 'And the bird?

Hawks prefer to feed on feather. What is her killing weight?'

'Two pounds two ounces. But she has taken hare at two-four.'

'And what do you feed her?'

'No more than three ounces a day."

The black man nodded. 'Once in a while you should catch her a rat. Nothing better for cleaning a

bird's crop than a good rat.'

'Why is that, Asmidir?' asked Sigarni, sitting down beside the man.

'I don't know,' he admitted, with a broad smile. 'My father told me years ago. As you know the

hawk swallows its prey - where it can -whole and the carcass is compressed, all the goodness

squeezed out of it. It then vomits out the cast, the remnants. There is, I would imagine,

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something in the rat's pelt or skin that cleans the bird's crop as it exits.' Leaning back on his

elbows, he narrowed his eyes and watched the distant hawk.

'How many kills so far?'

'Sixty-eight hares, twenty pigeons and a ferret.'

'You hunt ferret?' asked Asmidir, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

'It was a mistake. The ferret bolted a hare and Abby took the ferret.'

Asmidir chuckled. 'You have done well, Sigarni. I am glad I gave you the hawk.'

'Three times I thought I'd lost her. Always in the forest.'

'You may lose sight of her, child, but she will never lose sight of you. Come back to the castle,

and I will prepare you a meal. And you too,' he said, scratching the hound's ears.

'I was told that you were a sorcerer, and that I must beware of you.'

'You should always heed the warnings of dwarves,' he said. 'Or any creature of legend.'

'How did you know it was Ballistar?'

'Because I am a sorcerer, my dear. We are expected to know things like that.'

'You always pause at my bear,' said Asmidir, gazing fondly at the silver-haired girl as Sigarni

reached out and touched the fur of the beast's belly. It was a huge creature, its paws

outstretched, talons bared, mouth open in a silent roar. 'It is wonderful,' she said. 'How is it

done?'

'You do not believe it is a spell then?' he asked, smiling.

'No.'

'Well,' he said slowly, rubbing his chin, 'if it is not a spell, then it must be a stuffed bear.

There are craftsmen in my land who work on carcasses, stripping away the inner meat, which can

rot, and rebuilding the dead beasts with clay before wrapping them once more in their skins or

fur. The results are remarkably lifelike.'

'And this then is a stuffed bear?'

'I did not say that,' he reminded her. 'Come, let us eat.'

Asmidir led her through the hallway and into the main hall. A log fire was burning merrily in the

hearth and two servants were laying platters of meat and bread on the table. Both were tall dark-

skinned men who worked silently, never once looking at their master or his guest. With the table

laid, they silently withdrew.

'Your servants are not friendly,' commented Sigarni.

'They are efficient,' said Asmidir, seating himself at the table and filling a goblet with wine.

'Do they fear you?'

'A little fear is good for a servant.'

'Do they love you?'

'I am not a man easy to love. My servants are content. They are free to leave my service whenever

it pleases them so to do; they are not slaves.' He offered Sigarni some wine, but she refused and

he poured water into a glazed goblet which he passed to her. They ate in silence, then Asmidir

moved to the fireside, beckoning Sigarni to join him.

'Do you have no fear?' the black man asked, as she sat cross-legged before him.

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'Of what?' she countered.

'Of life. Of death. Of me.'

'Why would I fear you?'

'Why would you not? When we met last year I was a stranger in your land. Black and fearsome," he

said, widening his eyes and mimicking a snarl.

She laughed at him. 'You were never fearsome,' she said. 'Dangerous, yes. But never fearsome.'

'There is a difference?'

'Of course,' she told him, cocking her head to one side. 'I like dangerous men.'

He shook his head. 'You are incorrigible, Sigarni. The body of an angel and the mind of a whore.

Usually that is considered a wonderful combination. That is, if you are contemplating the life of

a courtesan, a prostitute or a slut. Is that your ambition?'

Sigarni yawned theatrically. 'I think it is time to go home," she said, rising smoothly.

'Ah, I have offended you,' he said.

'Not at all,' she told him. 'But I expected better of you, Asmidir.'

'You should expect better of yourself, Sigarni. There are dark days looming. A leader is coming -

a leader of noble blood. You will probably be called upon in those days to aid him. For you also

boast the blood of Gandarin. Men will follow an angel or a saint, they will follow a despot and a

villain. But they will follow a whore only to the bedchamber.'

Her face flushed with anger. 'I'll take sermons from a priest - not from a man who was happy to

cavort with me throughout the spring and summer, and now seeks to belittle me. I am not some

milkmaid or tavern wench. I am Sigarni of the Mountains. What I do is my affair. I used you for

pleasure, I admit it freely. You are a fine lover; you have strength and finesse. And you used me.

That made it a balanced transaction, and neither of us was sullied by it. How dare you attempt to

shame me?'

'Why would you see it as shame?' he countered. 'I am talking of perceptions - the perceptions of

men. You think I look down upon you? I do not. I adore you. For your body andyour mind. Further, I

am probably - as much as I am capable of it - a little in love with you. But this is not why I

spoke in the way I did.'

'I don't care,' she told him. 'Goodbye.'

Sigarni strode from the room and out past the great bear. A servant pushed open the double doors

and she walked down the steps into the courtyard. Lady came bounding towards her. Another servant,

a slim dark-eyed young man, was waiting at the foot of the steps with Abby hooded upon his wrist.

Sigarni pulled on her hawking glove.

'You were waiting for me?' she asked the young man. He nodded. 'Why? I am usually here for hours.'

'The master said today would be a short visit,' he explained.

Sigarni untied the braces and slid the hood clear of Abby's eyes. The hawk looked around, them

jumped to Sigarni's fist. When the huntress lifted her arm and called out 'Hai!', the hawk took

off, heading south.

Sigarni flicked her fingers and Lady moved close to her side, awaiting instructions. 'What is your

name?' she asked the servant, noting the sleekness of his skin and the taut muscles beneath his

blue silk shirt. He shook his head and moved away from her.

Annoyed, the huntress walked from the old castle, crossing the rickety drawbridge and heading off

into the woods. Her mood was dark and angry as she went. The mind of a whore, indeed. Her thoughts

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turned to Fell the Forester. Now there was a man who understood pleasure. She doubted if there was

a single woman within a day's walk who hadn't succumbed to his advances. Did they call him a

whore? No. It was 'Good old Fell, what a character, what a man!' Idiotic!

Asmidir's words rankled. She had thought him different, more ... intelligent? Yes. Instead he

proved to be like most men, caught between a need for fornication and a love of sermonizing.

Abby soared above her, and Lady ran to the side of the trail, seeking out hares. Sigarni pushed

thoughts of the black man from her mind and walked on in the dusk, coming at last to the final

hillside and gazing down on her cabin. A light was showing at the window and this annoyed her, for

she wished to be alone this evening. If it was that fool, Bernt, she would give him the sharp side

of her tongue.

Walking into the yard, she whistled for Abby. The hawk came in low, then spread her wings and

settled on Sigarni's glove. Feeding her a strip of meat she removed the hunting jesses; then

carrying her to the bow perch, she attached the mews ties, and turned towards the cabin.

Lady moved to the side of the building, lying down beside the door with her head on her paws.

Sigarni pushed open the door.

Fell was sitting by the fire, eyes closed, his long legs stretched out before the blaze. It

angered her that she could feel a sense of rising excitement at his presence. He looked just the

same as on that last day, his long black hair sleek and glowing with health, swept back from his

brow and held in place by a leather headband, his beard close-trimmed and as soft as fur. Sigarni

took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

'What do you want here, Goat-brain?' she snapped.

Then she saw the blood.

There were wolves all around him, fangs bared, ready to rip and tear. A powerful beast leapt at

him. Fell caught it by the throat, then spun on his heel hurling the creature into the pack. His

limbs felt leaden, as if he were wading through water. The wolves blurred, shifting like smoke,

becoming tall, fierce-eyed warriors holding knives of sharpened bronze. They moved in on him,

smoothly, slowly. Fell's arms were paralyzed and he felt the first knife sink into his shoulder

like a tongue of fire.. .

He opened his eyes. Sigarni was kneeling beside him with a needle in her hand, and he felt the

flap of flesh on his shoulder drawn tight by the thread. Fell swore softly. 'Lie still,' she said

and Fell obeyed her. His stomach felt uneasy. Snapping the thread with her teeth, she sat back.

'Looks like a sword cut.'

'Long knife,' he told her, taking a deep shuddering breath. He said no more for a while, resting

his neck against the thick, cushioned hide of the chair's head-rest. Focusing his gaze on the far

timbered wall he ran his eyes over the weapons hanging there - the long-handled broadsword with

its leaf-shaped blade and hilt of leather, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows,

the daggers and dirks and lastly the helm, with its crown and cheek-guards of black iron and the

nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Not a speck of rust or tarnish showed on them.

'You keep your father' s weapons in good condition,' he said.

'That's what Gwal taught me,' she told him. 'Who gave you the wound?'

'We didn't exchange names. There were two of them. Robbed a pilgrim on the Low Trail. I tracked

them to Mas Gryff.'

'Where are they now?'

'Oh, they're still there. I returned the money to the pilgrim and made a report to the Watch.' His

face darkened. 'Bastards! You could almost feel their disappointment.' He shook his head. 'It

won't be much longer, you know. They'll look for any excuse.'

'You've lost a lot of blood,' she said. 'I'll make some broth.'

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He watched her move away, his eyes lingered on the sway of her hips. 'You're a beautiful woman,

Sigarni. Never saw the like!'

'Look on and weep for all you've lost,' she said, before disappearing into the back room.

'Amen to that,' he whispered. Resting his head once more, he remembered the last parting two years

before, Sigarni standing straight and tall and proud ... always so proud. Fell had walked across

the glens to Cilfallen and paid bride-price for Gwendolyn. Sweet Gwen. In no way did she match the

silver-haired woman he had left, save in one. Gwen could bear children, and a man needed sons. Ten

months later Gwen was dead, the victim of a breech birth that killed both her and the infant.

Fell had buried them both in the Loda resting place on the western slope of High Druin.

Sigarni returned to his side. 'Flex the muscles of your arm,' she ordered.

He did so and winced. 'It's damned sore.'

'Good. I like to think of you in pain.'

'I buried my son, woman. I know what pain is. And I'd not wish it on a friend.'

'Neither would I,' she said. 'But you are no friend.'

'Your mood is foul,' he admonished her. 'Had a falling-out with your black man, have you?'

'Have you been spying on me Fell?' It irritated him that she did not deny the association.

'It is my work, Sigarni. I patrol the forest and I have seen you enter the castle, and I have seen

you leave. How could you rut with such as he?'

She laughed then, and his anger rose. 'Asmidir is a better man than you, Fell. In everyway.' He

wanted to strike her, to slap the smile from her face. But the growing nausea finally swamped him

and with a groan he pushed himself from the chair, staggered to the door, and just made it to open

ground before falling to earth and vomiting. Cold sweat shone upon his face in the moonlight, and

he felt weak as a

day-old calf as he struggled to rise. Sigarni appeared alongside him, taking his arm and looping

it over her shoulder. 'Let's get you to bed,' she said, not unkindly.

Fell leaned in to her. The scent of her filled his nostrils. 'I loved you,' he said, as she half-

carried him up the four steps to the doorway.

'You left me,' she said.

When he woke it was daylight, the rising sun shining through the open window. The sky was clear

and Fell saw the hawk silhouetted briefly against the blue. With a groan he sat up. His shoulder

was burning, and his ribs were badly bruised from the fight with the two Outland robbers.

Rising from the bed he moved to the window. Sigarni was standing in the sunlight, the hawk on her

glove, the black hound lying at her feet. Fell's mouth was dry, and all his long-suppressed

emotions surged to the surface. Of all the women he had known - and there had been many - he had

loved only one. And in that moment he knew, with a sickening certainty, that it would always be

thus. Oh, he would marry again, and he would have sons, but his heart would remain with this

enigmatic mountain woman until the daggers of time stopped its beat.

Though still weak from loss of blood, Fell knew he could stay no longer in sight of Sigarni.

Gathering his cloak of black leather he pulled on his boots, took up his longbow and quiver and

walked from the rear of the cabin, heading back on the long trail to Cilfallen. There was a maid

there, of marriageable age, whose father had set a bride price Fell could afford.

'I hate this place,' said the Baron Ranulph Gottasson, leaning on the wide parapet and staring out

over the distant mountains. Asmidir said nothing. It was cold up here on the Citadel's high walls,

the wind hissing down from the north, cutting through the warmest clothes. But the Baron seemed

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not to notice the inclemency of the weather. He was dressed in a simple shirt of black silk and a

sleeveless jerkin of the finest black leather. He wore no adornments, no silver enhancements to

his black leather leggings, no chains or ornate discs attached to his knee-length boots. As

Asmidir stood shivering on the battlements, the Baron turned his pale hooded eyes on the black

man. 'Not like Kushir, eh? Too cold, too bleak. Ever wish you were back home?'

'Sometimes,' Asmidir admitted.

'So do I. What is there here for a man like me? Where is the glory?'

'The kingdom is at peace, my lord,' said Asmidir softly. 'Thanks mainly to your good self and the

Earl of Jastey.'

The Baron's lips thinned, the hooded eyes narrowing. 'Don't speak his name in my presence! I never

met a man so gifted with luck. All his victories were hollow. Tell me what he has ever done to

match my conquest of Ligia? Twenty-five thousand warriors against my two legions. Yet we crushed

them, and took their capital. What can he offer against that? The Siege of Catium. Pah!'

'Indeed, sir,' said Asmidir smoothly, 'your deeds will echo through the pages of history. Now I am

sure you have more important matters to attend to, so how may I be of service to you?'

The Baron turned and beckoned Asmidir to follow him into a small study. The black man stared

longingly at the cold and empty fireplace. Does the man not feel the cold, he wondered? The Baron

seated himself at a desk of oak. 'I want the red hawk,' he said. 'There is a tourney in two months

and the red hawk could win it for me. Name a price.'

'Would that I could sir. But I sold the hawk last autumn.'

The Baron swore. 'Who to? I'll buy it back.'

'I wouldn't know where to find the man, sir,' Asmidir lied smoothly. 'He came to my castle last

year. He was a traveller, I believe, perhaps a pilgrim. But if I see him again I shall direct him

to you.'

The Baron swore again, then lashed his fist against the desk-top.

'All right, that will be all,' he said at last.

Asmidir bowed and left the study. Descending the spiral staircase he moved down into the belly of

the fortress, emerging into the long hall where the feast was in progress. Red-liveried servants

were carrying platters of food and drink and more than two score of knights and their ladies were

seated at the three main tables. Fires were blazing merrily at both ends of the hall and minstrels

sat in the high gallery, their soft music drowned by the chatter of the guests.

Asmidir was not hungry. Swiftly he walked from the hall, and down the long stairs to the lower

chambers and the double-doored exit. His thoughts were sombre as he recalled the Baron's words.

Asmidir remembered the conquest of Ligia, the battles and the massacres, the rapes and the

mutilations, the torture and the destruction. A rich, independent nation brought to its knees,

humiliated and beggared, its

libraries burned, its holy places desecrated. Oh yes, Ranulph, history will long remember your

bloody name! Asmidir shivered.

Revenge, so the proverb claimed, is a dish best served cold. Is that true, he wondered? Will there

be any satisfaction in bringing the man down?

Wrapping his cloak more tightly about his broad shoulders, Asmidir left the fortress building and

moved across the courtyard. A young man hailed him and he turned and smiled at the newcomer - a

tall young man, slender and brown-eyed, his long blond hair drawn back from his brow and tied in a

tight pony-tail. He was carrying an armful of rolled maps. 'Good afternoon, Leofric. You are

missing the feast.'

'Yes, I know," said the other dolefully. 'But the Baron wants to study these maps. It doesn't pay

to keep him waiting.'

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