Ironhand's Daughter (35 page)

But spring, with her promise of sunshine and plenty, was a season to be loved. The burst of color that appeared on the hillsides as the first flowers pushed their way through the cold earth, the singing of birds in the trees, the fragrant blossom on bush and branch—all these things spoke of
life
.

The ache in Gwalchmai's back had faded away in the morning sunlight, as he sat in the old chair on the porch of his cabin. I almost feel young again, he thought happily. A faint touch of regret whispered across his mind, and he opened the parchment he had held folded in his hand. It had been so long since he had written anything that the words seemed spidery and overlarge, like a child's. Still, it was legible.

Time for the last of the mead, he thought. Leaning to his right, he lifted the jug and removed the stopper. Tipping it, he filled his mouth with the sweet liquor and rolled it over his tongue. He had hidden the mead the year Sigarni was brought to him, which had been a vintage year. Gwalchmai smiled at the memory. Taliesen had walked into the clearing, leading the child by the hand. In that moment Gwalchmai had seen the vision of his death. That night, as the child slept, he had taken two jugs and hidden them in the loft, ready for this day.

This day . . .

The old man pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. The joints creaked and cracked like tinder twigs. Drawing in a deep breath, he swirled the last of the liquor in the jug. Less than half a cup left, he realized. Shall I save it until they come? He thought about it for a moment—then drained the jug. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he sank back to the chair.

The sound of horses' hooves on the hard-packed ground made him start and panic flickered within his breast. He had waited so long for this moment—and now he was afraid, fearful of the long journey into the dark. His mouth was dry, and he regretted the last swallow of mead.

“Calm yourself, old fool,” he said aloud. Rising, he strolled out into the wide yard and waited for the horsemen.

There were six scouts, clad in iron helms and baked leather breastplates. They saw him and drew their weapons, fanning out around him in a semicircle. “Good morning, my brave boys!” said Gwalchmai.

The riders edged their horses closer, while scanning the surrounding trees. “I am alone, boys. I have been waiting for you. I have a message here that you may read,” he added, waving the scrap of parchment.

“Who are you, old man?” asked a rider, heeling his horse forward.

Gwalchmai chuckled. “I am the reader of souls, the speaker of truths, the voice of the slain to come. They found the body, you know, back in your village. Upon your return they intend to hang you. But do not let it concern you—you will not return.”

The man blanched, his jaw hanging slack.

“What's he talking about?” demanded another rider. “What body?”

Gwalchmai swung to the speaker. “Ah, Bello, what a delight to see you again! And you, Jeraime,” he added, smiling up at a third rider. “Neither of you like each other, and yet, together you will stand back-to-back at the last, and you will die together, and take the long walk into Hell side by side. Is that a comforting thought? I hope not!”

“Give me the message, old man!” demanded the first rider, holding out his hand.

“Not yet, Gaele. There is much to say. You are all riding to your deaths. Sigarni will see you slain.”

“How is it you know my name?” demanded Gaele.

“I know all your names, and your sordid pasts,” sneered Gwalchmai. “That is my Gift—though when I gaze upon your lives it becomes a curse. You buried her deep, Gaele, by the riverbank—but you never thought that the old willow would one day fall . . . and in so doing expose the grave. Worse yet, you left the ring upon her finger, the topaz ring you brought back from Kushir. All the village knows you killed her. Even now a message is on its way asking that you be returned for trial! Fear not, brave boy, for your belly will be opened at the Duane Pass. No hanging for you!”

“Shut up!” screamed Gaele, spurring his horse forward. His sword lashed down, striking the old man on the crown of his head and smashing him from his feet. Blood gushed from the wound but Gwalchmai struggled to his knees.

“You will all die!” he shouted. “The whole army. And the crows will feast on your eyes!” The sword slashed down again and Gwalchmai fell to his face in the dirt. All tension eased from his frame, and he did not feel the blades lance into his body.

All these years, he thought, and at the last I lied. I do not know whether Sigarni will win or lose, but these cowards will carry the tale of my prophecy back to the army, and it will rage like a forest fire through their ranks.

As if from a great distance, Gwalchmai heard his name being called.

“I am coming,” he said.

Gaele dragged his sword clear of the old man's back, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's tunic. Stooping, he plucked the parchment from the dead fingers and opened it.

“What does it say?” asked Bello as the others gathered around the corpse.

“You know I can't read,” snapped Gaele.

Jeraime stepped forward. “Give it to me,” he said. Gaele passed it over and Jeraime scanned the spidery text.

“Well?” demanded Gaele.

Jeraime was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was trembling. “It says,
‘There will be six. One of them
a wife-killer. Gaele will strike me down. Jeraime will read
my message.' ”

Jeraime let the parchment fall and backed away to his horse.

“He was a sorcerer,” whispered Bello. “He said we were all going to die. The whole army! Dear God, why did we come here?”

The army made camp near the ruins of Cilfallen: seven thousand men, incorporating four thousand heavily armored foot soldiers, fifteen hundred archers and slingers, five hundred assorted engineers, cooks, foragers, and scouts, and a thousand cavalry. The Baron's long black tent was erected near the Cilfallen stream, while the cavalry camped to the north, the foot soldiers to the east and west, and other personnel to the south. Leofric set sentry rotas and dispatched scouts to the north; then he returned, weary, to his own tent.

Jakuta Khan was sitting on a canvas-backed chair, sipping fine wine. He smiled as Leofric entered the tent. “Such a long face,” said the sorcerer, “and here you are on the verge of a glorious expedition.”

“I dislike lying to the Baron,” said Leofric, opening a travel chair and seating himself opposite the red-clad man.

“I told you, it was not a lie. I
am
a merchant—of sorts. Where do you think the first battle will be fought?”

“The Baron believes they will fortify the Duane Pass. We have several contingency plans for such an eventuality. Can you not tell me what they are planning? The fall of the forts has left me out of favor with the Baron. He blames me!”

Jakuta Khan shook his head and adopted a suitably apologetic expression. “My dear Leofric, I would dearly love to help you. But to use my powers while Taliesen is nearby would be costly to me—perhaps fatal. The old man is not without Talent. When he departs I will reach out and, shall we say, observe them. Relax, my boy. Enjoy the wine. It really is very good.”

Leofric sighed. He knew the wine was good; it had cost a small fortune. Accepting a goblet, he sipped the liquid appreciatively. “You said you had tried to capture the woman before, and had failed. Is she charmed? Is this Taliesen as powerful as you?”

“Interesting questions,” said Jakuta Khan, his jovial round face now looking serious and thoughtful. “I have pondered them often. The first attempt was thwarted by Taliesen and a Highlander named Caswallon. They took her as a babe, and hid her . . . here. At that time I did not know of Taliesen's existence, and therefore had no plan to cope with him. By the time I found her hiding place she was a small child; her foster mother threw her from the cabin window, and she ran to a nearby waterfall. There Caswallon and Taliesen once more intervened, though how they came to be there at that precise time, I do not know. They could not have stopped me, for I was well prepared. Sadly, a third force intervened; I believe it was a spirit. He aided her again—and that cost the life of the dearest of my acolytes. But there it is. That is life and we cannot grumble. But last week I used one of the four great spells. Infallible. Either the victim dies, or the sender. I risked everything. And nothing happened. Curiously, the demon I summoned disappeared as soon as my spell was complete. I can tell you, Leofric, I have spent many a long night since thinking over that problem. I know it is hard for you to imagine, but think of aiming a bow at an enemy and loosing the shaft. As it flies through the air, it disappears. It was like that. The question is, where did the demon go?”

“Did you find an answer?” asked Leofric, intrigued.

“I believe so. I cast the spell just outside Citadel town, inside a circle of ancient stones. They are believed to be Gateways to other worlds. In some way I believe I activated the Gateway. Even so, the creature was completely attuned to Sigarni. Therefore wherever it went, she would have been there also. Mystifying.”

Leofric refilled his goblet. “Does that mean the creature is still looking for her?”

“It is possible. In fact, it is more than likely. The Gateways operate through time as well as space, and even now he is winging his way toward her. What a cheering prospect—I'll drink to that!”

“Why do you hate her so? Has she done you some harm?”

“Good Heavens, Leofric, I do not hate her. I don't hate anyone. Such a harmful emotion! I rather admire her, don't you? But I need what she has. The blood royal! All the great spells require blood royal. And anything can be achieved with it, lead to gold, immortality—of a kind—physical strength. As limitless as the imagination.”

“She's just a Highland woman, for God's sake. What royal blood does she carry?”

“What blood? How arrogant of you, Leofric. Your own King does not carry the blood royal, though his grandsons might. Sigarni is the daughter of the great King, Ironhand, who was done to death by assassins centuries ago. He had a fortress near here, colossal and impregnable. Only the foundation stones are left.”

“Then how could she be his daughter?”

“She was carried through a Gateway in time. Do you not listen, my boy?”

“I think the wine must be going to my head,” Leofric admitted. “It all sounds like gibberish.”

“Of course it does,” said Jakuta Khan soothingly, leaning forward and patting the young man's knee. “But that is the simple answer to your question. Her blood carries power, and I need that power. If there was a way to utilize it without killing her, I would. For I am not fond of death.”

Leofric refilled his glass for the second time. “You are a strange man, Jakuta. Perhaps you are insane. Have you thought of that?”

“You are full of interesting ideas, Leofric. It makes you a joy to be with. Let us examine the premise. Insanity: not being sane. Yet how do we establish sanity? Would we, for example, look to the majority of people and claim them as normal and sane?”

“That seems reasonable,” agreed Leofric.

“But the King is not normal like them, is he? He is an extraordinary man, as is the Baron. Does that make them insane?”

“Ah, I see what you are saying,” said Leofric, leaning forward and spilling his wine. “But then normality is not just a question of who farms or who rules. It is surely an ability to discern right from wrong, or good from evil, perhaps.”

“Now the waters become even muddier, my boy. If a farmer sees a neighbor with a bigger section of land, and more wealth, and sets out to murder him, is he evil?”

“Of course.”

“But if a king sets out to destroy his enemy's kingdom in order to swell his own treasury, then he, by that example, is evil also.”

“Not so!” insisted Leofric, aware he was on dangerous ground. “There may be many reasons why a nation goes to war. Security, for example, protecting one's borders.”

“Of course, of course,” agreed Jakuta. “And this war? Against an enemy with no army to speak of, a pretend war for the purpose of self-glorification, is this evil?”

“For God's sake keep your voice down!”

“Sanity is not easy to establish, is it, Leofric? All I know is that one man's good is another man's evil. That is the way life works: It favors the rich and the powerful, it always has and I suspect it always will. I am not rich, but I am powerful. I intend to become more powerful.”

“As powerful as this Taliesen?”

“Less and more. He is a curious fellow. He has vast resources, and chooses not to use them. You would like him, I think, Leofric. He knows more about the Gateways than any man alive. Yet he lives like a peasant, and dresses worse. He has a cloak of feathers that has seen better days, and he has allowed his body to become old and wizened. We have not conversed, but I would make a wager that he believes his powers to be a gift from some supreme source, to be used wisely and carefully.”

“Perhaps he is right.”

“Perhaps. I cannot disprove his theories, but I tend toward disbelief. I have conversed with demons who serve a greater demon, and I have known holy men who claim to have spoken with God. Whereas I, more powerful than most, have never felt the need to serve either God or the Devil, and neither of them has seen fit to approach me.”

“How will you know when Taliesen has left the Highlands?”

“Oh, I will know.”

In the morning Leofric felt that he had a caged horse inside his skull, trying to kick its way to freedom. His head pounded and the bright sunlight induced a feeling of nausea. Jakuta Khan, who seemed untouched by the excesses of the night before, sat quietly, watching the dawn. Leofric stumbled from the tent and made his way to the stream, where he stripped off his tunic and bathed in the clear, cold water.