“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-colored 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 S. “It’s beautiful,” she said gaily. “Why so glum? Did you think I wouldn’t like it?” Slipping it on, she found it fit 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 anymore.”
“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 blond 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 toward 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 onto 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 in 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. Shamol and Cabris tried to follow her, the cart tipped, and Gwalch flew through the air, still clutching his jug to his scrawny chest. Twisting, he struck the ground on his back, honey mead slurping from the jug to drench his green woolen tunic. Slowly he sat up, then took a long drink. The hounds were now sitting quietly by the upturned cart, watching him gravely. Leaving the jug on the boardwalk, he stood and walked to where the cart lay. Righting it he moved to the dogs, untying the reins. Shamol nuzzled his hand, but Cabris took off immediately toward the woods in search of Lady. Shamol ambled after him.
Gwalch recovered his jug and went into the house. He found Sigarni sitting at the ta
ble, a dagger before her. Her hair was unwashed, her face drawn, her eyes tired. Gwalch gathered two clay cups and filled them both with mead, pushing one toward her. She shook her head. “Drink it, girl,” he said, sitting opposite her. “It’ll do you no harm.”
“Read my mind,” she commanded.
“No. You’ll remember when you are ready.”
“Damn you, Gwalch! You’re quick to tell everyone’s fortune but mine. What happened that night when my parents were butchered? Tell me!”
“You know what happened. Your . . . father and his wife were killed. You survived. What else is there to know?”
“Why did my hair turn white? Why were the bodies buried so swiftly? I didn’t even see them.”
“Tell me about last night.”
“Why should I? You already know. Bernt’s ghost came to me at the pool.”
“No,” he said, “that wasn’t Bernt. Poor, sad Bernt is gone from the world. The spirit who spoke to you was from another time. Why did you run?”
“I was . . . frightened.” Her pale eyes locked to his, daring him to criticize her.
Gwalch smiled. “Not easy to admit, is it? Not when you are Sigarni the Huntress, the woman who needs no one. Did you know this is my birthday? Seventy-eight years ago today I made my first cry. Killed my first man fourteen years later, a cattle raider. Tracked him for three days. He took my father’s prize bull. It’s been a long life, Sigarni. Long and irritatingly eventful.” Pouring the last of the mead, he drained it in a single swallow, then gazed longingly at the empty jug.
“Who was the ghost?” she asked.
“Go and ask him, woman. Call for him.” She shivered and looked away.
“I can’t.”
Gwalch chuckled. “There is nothing you cannot do, Sigarni. Nothing.”
Reaching across the table she took his hand, stroking it tenderly. “Oh, come on, Gwalch, are we not friends? Why won’t you help me?”
“I am helping you. I am giving you good advice. You don’t remember the night of the Slaughter. You will, when the time is right. I helped take the memory from you when I found you by the pool. Madness had come upon you, girl. You were sitting in a puddle of your own urine. Your eyes were blank, and you were slack-jawed. I had a friend with me; his name was Taliesen. It was he—and another—who slew the Slaughterers. Taliesen told me we were going to lock away the memory and bring you back to the world of the living. We did exactly that. The door will open one day, when you are strong enough to turn the key. That’s what he told me.”
“So,” she said, snatching back her hand, “your only advice is for me to return to the pool and face the ghost? Yes?”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Well, I won’t do it.”
“That is your choice, Sigarni. And perhaps it is the right one. Time will show. Are you angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Too angry to fetch me the flagon of honey mead you have in the kitchen?”
Sigarni smiled then, and fetched the flagon. “You are an old reprobate, and I don’t know why you’ve lived so long. I think maybe you are just too stubborn to die.” Leaning forward, she proffered the flagon, but as he reached for it she drew it back. “One question you must answer. The Slaughterers were not human, were they?” He licked his lips, but his eyes remained fixed on the flagon. “Were they?” she persisted.
“No,” he admitted. “They were birthed in the Dark, Hollow-tooths sent to kill you.”
“Why me?”
“You said one question,” he reminded her, “but I’ll answer it. They came for you because of who you are. And that is all I will say now. But I promise you we will speak again soon.”
She handed him the flagon and sat down.
“I cannot go to the pool, Gwal. I cannot.”
Gwalchmai did not answer her. The mead was beginning to work its magic, and his mind swam.
The Baron Ranulph Gottasson ran a bony finger down the line on the map. “And this represents what?” he asked the young blond man shivering before him. Leofric rubbed his cold hands together, thankful that he had had the common sense to wear a woolen undershirt below his tunic, and two pairs of thick socks. His fleece-lined gloves were in his pocket, and he wished he had the nerve to wear them. The Baron’s study at the top of the Citadel was always cold, though a fire was permanently laid, as if to mock the Baron’s servants. “Are you listening, boy?” snarled the Baron.
Leofric leaned over the table and felt the cold breeze from the open window flicker against his back. “That is the river Dranuin, sir. It starts on the northern flank of High Druin and meanders through the forest into the sea. That is in Pallides lands.”
The Baron glanced up and smiled. The boy’s face was blue-tinged. “Cold, Leofric?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A soldier learns to put aside thoughts of discomfort. Now tell me about the Pallides.”
I’m not a soldier, thought Leofric, I am a cleric. And there is a difference between the discomfort endured through necessity and the active enjoyment of it. But these thoughts he kept to himself. “The largest of the clans, the Pallides number some six thousand people. It used to be more, but the Great War devastated them. In the main they are cattle breeders, though there are some farms which grow oats and barley. In the far north there are two main fishing fleets. The Pallides are spread over some two hundred square miles and live in sixteen villages, the largest being Caswallir, named after a warrior of old who, legend claims, brought the Witch Queen to their aid in the Aenir Wars.”
“I don’t care about legends. Just facts. How many people in Caswallir?”
“Around eleven hundred, sir, but it does depend on the time of the year. They have their Games in the autumn and there could be as many as five thousand people attending every day for ten days. Of course, these are not all Pallides. Loda, Farlain, and even some Wingoras will attend—though the Wingoras are all but finished now. Our census shows only around one hundred and forty remain in the remote Highlands.”
“How many fighting men?”
“Just the Pallides, sir?” asked Leofric, sitting down and opening a heavy leather-bound ledger. The Baron nodded. “It is difficult to estimate, sir. After all, what constitutes a fighting man in a people with no army? If we are talking men and older boys capable of bearing arms, then the figure would be . . .” He flicked through three pages, making swift mental calculations, then went on: “. . . say . . . eighteen hundred. But of these around a thousand would be below the age of seventeen. Hardly veterans.”
“Who leads them?”
“Well, sir, as you know there is no longer an official Hunt Lord, but our spies tell us that the people still revere Fyon Sharp-axe, and treat him as if he still held the title.”
Lifting a quill pen, the Baron dipped the sharpened nib into a pot of ink and scrawled the name on a single sheet of paper. “Go on.”
“What else can I tell you, sir?” asked Leofric, nonplussed.
“Who else do they revere?”
“Er . . . I don’t have information on that, sir. Merely statistics.”
The Baron’s hooded eyes focused on the younger man’s face. “Find out, Leofric. All possible leaders. Names, directions to their homes or farms.”
“Might I ask, sir, why are we gathering this information? All our agents assure us there is no hint of rebellion in the Highlands. They do not have the men, the weapons, the training, or the leaders.”
“Now tell me about the other clans,” said the Baron, his quill at the ready.
Ballistar sat perched on the saddle of the small grey pony and stared around at the village of Cilfallen. Despite his fears, he gazed with a sense of wonder at this unfamiliar view. The pony was only ten hands high, barrel-bellied with short stubby legs—a dwarf horse for a dwarf. And yet, Ballistar estimated, he was now viewing the world from around six feet high, seeing it as Fell or Sigarni would see it.
Fat Tovi emerged from his bakery, and smiled at the dwarf. “What no
nsense is this?” he asked, transferring his gaze to the man on the black gelding who was waiting patiently beyond Ballistar.
“The sorcerer Asmidir has asked me to cook for him,” said Ballistar boldly, though even the words sent a flicker of fear through him. “And he has given me this pony. For my own.”
“It suits you,” said Tovi. “It looks more like a large dog.”
Grame the Smith wandered over. “She’s a fine beast,” he said, stroking his thick white beard. “In years gone by the Lowland chariots were drawn by such as she. Tough breed.”
“She’s mine!” said Ballistar, grinning.
“We must leave,” said the man on the black gelding, his voice deep. “The master is waiting.”
Ballistar tugged on the reins and tried to heel the pony forward, but his legs were so short that his feet did not extend past the saddle and the pony stood still. Grame chuckled and walked back to his forge, returning with a slender riding crop.
“Give her just a touch with this,” he said. “Not too hard, mind, and accompany it with a word—or sound—of command.”
Ballistar took the leather crop. “Hiddy up!” he shouted, swiping the crop against the pony’s rear. The little animal reared and sprinted and Ballistar tumbled backward in a somersault. Grame stepped forward and caught the dwarf, then both fell to the ground. Ballistar, his bearded face crimson, struggled to his feet as Asmidir’s servant rode after the pony and led her back. Tovi was beside himself with mirth, the booming sound of his laughter echoing through the village.
“Thank you, Grame,” said Ballistar, with as much dignity as he could muster. The smith pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself down.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Come, try again!” Pushing his huge hands under Ballistar’s armpits he hoisted the dwarf to the saddle. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Now be off with you!”
“Hiddy up!” said Ballistar, more softly. The pony moved forward and Ballistar lurched to the left, but clung onto the pommel and righted himself.