He shrugged. “He never came back either. But his life does make a wonderful story. The last great King before Gandarin. It is said he killed seven of the men sent to murder him. No mean feat for a wounded man.” Loran laughed. “Maybe they were all stronger and tougher two hundred years ago. That’s what my grandfather told me, anyway. Days when men were men, he used to say. And he assured me that Ironhand was seven feet tall and his battle-axe weighed sixty pounds. I used to sit in my grandfather’s kitchen and listen to the tallest stories, of dragons and witches, and heroes who stood a head and shoulders above other men. Anyone under six feet tall in those days was dubbed a dwarf, he told me. I believed it all. Never was a child more gullible.”
“Perhaps he was right,” said Sigarni. “Maybe they were tougher.”
Loran nodded. “It’s possible, I suppose. But I was a Marshal at last year’s games. The caber toss from Mereth Sharp-eye broke all records, and Mereth is only five inches above six feet tall. If they were all so strong and fast in those days, why do their records show them to be slower and less powerful than we are today?”
They crossed the last hill before Cilfallen and Sigarni paused. “That is my home,” she said, pointing to the cabin by the stream. “You need to follow this road south.”
He bowed and, taking her hand, kissed the palm. “My thanks to you, Sigarni. You are a pleasant companion.”
She nodded. “I fear you spurned the best of me,” she said, and was surprised to find herself able to smile at the memory.
Still holding to her hand he shook his head. “I think no man has ever seen the best of you, woman. Fare thee well!” Loran moved away, but Sigarni called out to him and he turned.
“In the old days,” she said, “the Highland peoples were free, independent, and unbroken. Perhaps that is what makes them seem stronger, more golden, and defiant. Their power did not derive from a hurled caber, but a vanquished enemy. They may not have all been seven feet tall. Maybe they just felt as if they were.”
He paused and considered her words. “I would like to call upon you again,” he said at last. “Would I be welcome at your hearth?”
“Bring bread and salt, Pallides, and we shall see.”
Chapter Two
If Loran was as disappointed in Fat Tovi the Baker he took pains not to show it, for which Tovi himself was more than grateful. The Pallides clansman had bowed upon entering the old stone house, and had observed all the customs and rituals, referring to Tovi as Hunt Lord and bestowing upon him a deference he did not enjoy even among his own people.
Tovi led the clansman to the back room, laid a fire, and asked his wife to bring them food and drink, and to keep the noise from the children to as low an ebb as was possible with seven youngsters ranging from the ages of twelve down to three.
“Your courtesy is most welcome,” said Tovi uncomfortably as the tall young man stood in the center of the room, declining a chair. “But as you will already have noticed, the clan Loda no longer operates under the old rules. We are too close to the Lowlands, and our traditions have suffered the most from the conquest. The title of Hunt Lord is outlawed, and we are ruled by lawyers appointed by the Baron Ranulph. We have become a frightened people, Loran. There are fewer than three thousand of us now, spread all around the flanks of High Druin. Seventeen villages of which my own, Cilfallen, is the largest. There are no fighting men now, saving perhaps Fell and his foresters. And they report to the Baron’s captain of the Watch. I fear, young man, that the old ways are as dead and buried as my comrades on Colden Moor.” Tovi sniffed loudly, and found himself unable to meet the clansman’s steady stare. “So, let us dispense with the formalities. Sit you down and tell me why you have come.”
Loran removed his leaf-green cloak and laid it over the back of a padded chair. Then he sat and stared into the fire for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. “We of the Pallides,” he said at last, “suffered great losses at Colden. But we are far back into the mountains and the old ways have survived better than here. Our young men are still trained to fight, and retain their pride. As you say, you are close to the Lowlands and the armies of the Outlands, and so I make this point without criticism. As to my visit, my Hunt Lord wishes me to tell you that the Gifted Ones of the Pallides have been experiencing dreams of blood. It is their belief that a new war is looming. They have seen blood-wolves upon the Highlands, and heard the cries of the dying. They have seen the Red Moon, and heard the wail of the Bai-sheen. My Hunt Lord wishes to know if your own Gifted Ones have dreamed these things.”
“We have only one man with the Gift, Loran. Once a warrior—and a mighty one—he now travels the mountains in a cart drawn by hounds. He is a drunkard and his dreams are not to be relied upon.”
The door opened and Tovi’s wife entered, carrying a wooden tray on which sat two tankards of ale and a plate of bread and beef. Laying it down on the table she took one glance at her husband, smiled wearily, and left without a word. From beyond the open doorway the sound of children playing could be heard, but the noise was cut off once more as the door closed behind her.
“Drunkard or no,” said Loran, “has he dreamed?”
Tovi nodded. “He says a great leader is coming, a warrior of the line of Ironhand. But it is nonsense, Loran. The Outlanders have five thousand men patrolling the Lowlands. Five thousand! If there was the merest hint of rebellion they could treble that number in a matter of weeks. All their wars are won. They have armies sitting idle.”
“That is precisely what troubles my Hunt Lord,” said Loran. “A warrior race with no wars to fight? What can they do? Either they will turn on themselves like mad dogs, or they will find an enemy. What your drunkard says about a great leader is echoed by our own Gifted Ones, and also by the Seer of the Farlain. No one knows this leader’s name, nor his clan. There is a mist shrouding him. Yet we must find him, Lord Tovi. All indications are that the Outlanders will lead an invasion force here in the spring. We have less than seven months to prepare.”
“To prepare?” stormed Tovi. “For what, pray? Fell and his foresters number around sixty men. I could raise perhaps another two hundred, and some of those would either be greybeards or children. Prepare? If they come, we die. It is that simple. The Loda were never the largest of the clans. The Pallides and the Farlain always outnumbered us. Still do. And you have the high passes that can be defended, and the hidden valleys to hide your cattle and goats. What do we have? I was a warrior, boy. I was a captain. I know how to use land in war. If I had ten thousand men I couldn’t protect my own villages. You want to talk of preparation? Talk of pleading with the Baron, of sending an entreaty to the Outland King, of dropping to our bended knees and begging for life. The first I’ll accede to, the second I’ll put my name to, and the third I’ll never do! But they are our only options.”
Loran shook his head. “I don’t believe that to be true. If we can find the leader to unite us, we can formulate a strategy. The people of Loda could leave their homes and draw back into the deeper Highlands. We have the autumn before us and could move food and supplies farther back into the mountains. If you agree, I can arrange for temporary homes to be erected in Pallides lands.”
Tovi shook his head. “There must be another way, Loran. There must be! We cannot fight them with any hope of success. And what could they gain from invading the Highlands? There is no gold here, no plunder. Would you declare war to capture a few cattle herds?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” agreed Loran. “But armies are like swords. They must be kept sharp and in use. The Outlanders will, as I have said, need to find some enemy.”
Tovi sighed and rose from his chair, pausing before the fire and staring into the flames. “I am not the Hunt Lord, man. I am the baker. I don’t have power, and I don’t have resources. I don’t even have the will.”
“Damn you, man!” stormed Loran, rising from his chair. “Have you lost so much? I met a whore on the road with more fire in her belly than you.” Tovi’s face went white and he lunged
forward, his large hands grabbing the front of Loran’s pale green tunic, dragging the younger man from his feet.
“How dare you?” hissed Tovi. “I stood on Colden Moor, my sword dripping Outland blood. I watched my brothers cut down, my land swallowed by the enemy. Where were you when I fought my battles? I’ll tell you—you were sucking on your mother’s tit! I have lost much, boy, but don’t presume to insult me.”
“My apologies, Hunt Lord,” said Loran softly, holding to Tovi’s angry gaze. There was no hint of weakness in the mild manner in which Loran spoke, and Tovi’s eyes narrowed.
“You did that on purpose, Pallides. You think to fire my blood through anger.” Tovi released the younger man, then nodded. “And you were right.” Clumsily he tried to brush the creases from Loran’s tunic. “Damn it all, you are right. Live under the yoke long enough and you start to feel like an ox.” He laughed suddenly, the sound harsh. “I do not know how gifted are your Gifted Ones, Loran, but we will lose nothing by at least sending supplies back into the high country. And tonight I will call a meeting of the Elders to discuss the rest of your proposal. You are welcome to stay here the night and meet them.”
“No,” the younger man told him. “I want to see the drunkard you spoke of.”
“It is a long walk and it will soon be dusk.”
“Then I’d best finish this meal and be on my way.” Loran tore a chunk from the bread and bit off the crust as Tovi returned to his seat.
“You mentioned a whore? We have only one whore in Cilfallen, and she rarely leaves her house.”
“A young silver-haired woman. She offered herself to me without even asking a price.”
Tovi suddenly chuckled. “You should consider yourself most fortunate that you did not call her a whore to her face.”
“How do you know I did not?”
“The last man who called her such a name had his jaw broken in three places. It took two men to pull Sigarni away from him; she was about to cut his tongue out.” The smile faded. “She is the last of the true bloodline of Gandarin. Any son of hers would be the undisputed heir to the crown. And it will never happen.”
“She is barren?”
“Aye. She was due to wed Fell, the Forest Captain. Old Gwalch, our Gifted One, proclaimed her infertile. She is no whore, Loran. True she has enjoyed many lovers, but she picks only men she likes, and there is no price to pay. She is a woman of fire and iron, that one, and well liked here.”
“You are saying I should feel flattered?”
“Did you not?” countered the baker, a twinkle in his eye.
“She is very beautiful. I watched her make a dive into Ironhand’s pool and it took the breath away. I have always spurned those I thought to be whores. Now I am beginning to regret my decision.”
“You may never get another chance, boy.”
“We will see.”
The sandy-haired young man sat with his head in his hands, his eyes bleary with drink. Before him was a half-empty tankard. Ballistar climbed to the bench seat and then perched his small body at the edge of the table. “Getting drunk won’t solve anything, Bernt,” he said.
“She doesn’t want to see me,” said Bernt. “She says she will never see me again.” He looked across at the dwarf. “I didn’t mean to do it, Balli. I got excited. I wouldn’t have hurt Lady, not for all the world. I just wasn’t thinking. I was watching Sigarni. She looked so beautiful in the morning sunlight. So beautiful.” The young man drained the tankard and belched. Ballistar looked at him—the square face, the deep-set blue eyes, the powerful neck and broad shoulders— and knew envy. All that height wasted on a dullard like Bernt. Ballister felt guilty at the thought, for he liked the young man. True, Bernt was not bright, yet he had a warmth and a compassion lacking in other, more intelligent men. In truth he was a sensitive soul.
“I think,” said the dwarf, “that you should just lie low for a while. Lady is almost healed and she is hunting well. Wait for a little while, then go out and see Sigarni again. I expect she’ll relent. You were always good for her.”
“Was. That’s the word, isn’t it? Was. I could never talk to her, you know. Didn’t understand much of what she said. It all flew over my head. I didn’t care, Balli. I was just happy to be with her. To . . . love her. I think all she needed from me was my body.” He laughed nervously and looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the two other drinkers in the tavern were sitting by the fire, talking in low tones. “That’s what she told me,” he continued. “ ‘Bernt,’ she said, ‘this is your only skill.’ She said I took away all her tension. She was wrong, though, Balli. It’s not my only skill. I was there for her. She couldn’t see that. I don’t know what I’m going to do!”
“There are other women,” said Ballistar softly. “You are a good young man, strong, honest. You have a great deal to offer.”
“I don’t want anyone else, Balli. I don’t. All my waking moments are filled with thoughts of her. And when I sleep I dream of her. I never asked for anything, you know. I never . . . made demands. She didn’t ever let me sleep in the bed, you know . . . afterward. I always had to go home. It didn’t matter what the weather was like. Once I even went home in a blizzard. Got lost, almost died. Almost died . . .” His voice faded away, and he bit his lip. “She didn’t care, not really. I always thought that I would, sort of, grow on her. That she would realize I was . . . important. But I’m not important, am I? I’m just a cattle herder.”
The dwarf shifted uneasily. “As I said, Bernt, you should give her a little time. I know she likes you.”
“Has she spoken of me?” asked the young man, his eyes eager, his ears hungry for words of encouragement.
Ballistar looked away. “I can tell, that’s all. She’s still angry, but underneath . . . just give it time.”
“She didn’t say anything, did she, Balli? Except maybe that I was a fool.”
“She’s still angry. Go home. Get something to eat.”
The young man smiled suddenly. “Will you do something for me, Balli? Will you?”
“Of course,” answered the dwarf.
“Will you go to her and ask her to meet me at the old oak grove tonight, an hour after dark?”
“She won’t come—you know that! And she doesn’t keep clock candles, she has no use for them.”
“Well, soon after dusk then. But will you ask her? Tell her that it is so important to me. Even if she only comes to say good-bye. Will you tell her that? Will you? Tell her I have never asked for anything save this one time.”
“I’ll go to her, Bernt. But you are only building up more pain for yourself.”
“Thank you, Balli. I’ll take your advice now. I’ll go home and eat.”
The young man levered himself up, staggered, grinned inanely, and lurched from the tavern. Ballistar clambered down from the table and followed him.
It was a long walk on tiny legs to Sigarni’s cabin, more than two hours. And it was such a waste, thought Ballistar.
The afternoon was warm, but a gentle breeze was blowing over High Druin as the dwarf ambled on. He walked for an hour, then sat for a while on a hillside resting his tired legs. In the distance he could see a walker heading off toward the higher hills. The man wore a leaf-green cloak and carried a long staff; Ballistar squinted, but could not recognize him. He was heading toward Gwalch’s cabin. Ballistar chuckled. He wouldn’t be walking that straight when he left!
Rising once more, he set off down the slope and along the deer trails to Sigarni’s cabin. He found her sitting by the front door, cutting new flying jesses from strips of leather. Lady was nowhere to be seen, but Abby was sitting on her bow perch. She flapped her wings and pranced as she saw Ballistar. The dwarf gave a low bow to the bird. “It is good to see you as well, Abby.”
“Just in time,” said Sigarni. “You can make some herb tea. Somehow I never make it taste as good as yours.”
“My pleasure, princess.”
Ballistar climbed the steps and entered the
cabin. An old iron kettle was hissing steam over the fire. Taking a cloth to protect his hands, he lifted it clear. In the back room he found the packs of dried herbs he and Sigarni had gathered in the spring. Mixing them by eye, he added hot water and cut a large portion of crystallized honey, which he dropped into the mixture. He stirred the tea with a long wooden spoon and sat quietly while it brewed. How to tackle Sigarni? How to convince the silver-haired huntress to meet the boy?
After several minutes he filled two large pottery cups with tea and carried them out into the afternoon sunlight. Sigarni took the first and sipped it. “How do you make it taste like this?” she asked.
“Talent,” he assured her. “Now, are you going to ask me why I have walked all this way?”
“I assume it was because you felt in need of my company.”
“Under normal circumstances that would be true, princess. But not today. I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask it—and I’ll consider it,” she said.
“I was hoping for a little more than that,” he admitted.
“Just ask,” she said, a little coldly.
“I saw Bernt today . . .”
“The answer is no,” she said flatly.
“You don’t know the question yet.”
“I can hazard a guess. He wants me to take him back.”
“No! Well . . . yes. But that is not the favor. He asks if you will meet him after dusk at the old oak grove. Even if it is only to say good-bye. He said it was vital to him.”
“I have already said good-bye.” Returning her attention to the leather jesses, she said nothing more.
Ballistar sighed. “He also said that he had never asked you for anything—save this once.”
She looked up and he braced himself for her anger. But her words were spoken coldly, and without emotion. “I owe him nothing. I owe you nothing. I owe no one. You understand? I did not ask him to love me, nor to follow me like a dog. He was an adequate lover, no more than that. And now he is part of my past. He has no place in the present. Is that clear?”