Ironhand's Daughter (27 page)

“Kollarin has a talent for these matters. Why are you not with your family?”

“I need time to think.”

Sigarni sat down opposite the man. “You are angry.”

“What do you expect? I know I was a better baker than a Hunt Lord, but I have done my best since the attack. I could do no more.”

“I do not ask for more,” said Sigarni. “I need your skills in other areas.”

“What skills?” he asked bitterly. “You want me to bake bread for you? I can do that. Just build me an oven.”

“Yes, I want bread,” she said softly. “I want the people fed. Battles alone will not win us this war, Tovi. Once we have defeated the first Outland army we will need to move from defense to attack and that means invading the Lowlands. The army will need to be supplied with food. We will need mercenaries, and that means we must have gold; a treasury. Our forces will be spread, and that requires lines of communication. You understand? The role I need you for will stretch your talents to the limit. You will have no time for other burdens.”

“Why could you not say this in front of the others? Why did I need to suffer humiliation, Sigarni?”

She looked at the older man, saw the hurt in his eyes. “They did not need to know my plans. There are hard days coming, Tovi. Some of the men in that room will die in our cause: they may even be captured and tortured. Worse, one or more of them will seek to betray us. What I say to you here is not to be repeated.”

“I may be captured and tortured,” he pointed out.

“It is unlikely, for you will not be fighting.”

“You deny me even that? A chance for revenge, to restore the honor of my family?”

“Listen to me! What is more important, that you drive your claymore into one enemy heart, or your skills bring down a thousand? You are vital to me, Tovi. You have a feel for organization, and a mind that can cope with a score of problems simultaneously. I have seen those talents here, in the four encampments. Few could have achieved what you have. When the war comes I will need your skills.”

He laughed and scratched his beard. “Here we sit with a tiny force made up of many old men and young lads, and you speak of invading the Lowlands! Better still, I believe you when you speak of it. What has happened to you, Sigarni? From where do these ideas spring?”

“From my blood, Tovi.”

“All these years I have watched you, and never seen you. When you were a child you used to hide behind my bakery and wait until I stepped out at the front for a breath of air. Fast as a hawk, you would sprint inside to steal a cake—just the one from the middle of the tray, then you would push the others together, disguising the gap.”

“You knew?”

“I knew. You hid behind the water barrel.”

“How did you know?”

“Lemon mint. Gwalchmai always loved that scent and you used to rub the leaves over your body when you bathed. Every time I stepped back inside I could smell lemon mint.”

“You never caught me,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “I never wanted to. You were a child of sorrow, Sigarni. Everyone loved you. And I could spare a morsel on Cake Day.”

Sigarni fed some wood to the fire and they sat in companionable silence for a while. “I am not that child any longer,” she said.

“I know. Yet she is still there, deep down inside. She will always be there.” He sighed, then smiled. “I will serve you, Sigarni, in any way that you want me.”

“Thank you, Tovi,” she said, her voice tender. “For this— and for the cakes.” Rising smoothly, she moved to the door. “Be at the log hall at dawn.”

“Why?”

“Because I need you there,” she said.

Chapter Ten

Torgan's mood was not enhanced by the news from his scouts that the Loda woman was riding toward the town. At first the people of the Farlain had talked of little else—how strong she was, how noble she looked, how brave. Torgan had fast become heartily sick of it. That was why he had led his rash raid on the Outlanders, to prove that
he
was the natural leader of the clans. It might have worked too, save for the craven tactics of the enemy, drawing back and then loosing cavalry upon him. Had they stood and fought like men he was sure the Farlain warriors would have cut them to pieces. After that he had led two spectacularly unsuccessful attacks on their fort. Another forty men had been struck by arrows; seven had died.

Now the Farlain were talking about Sigarni once more, how she had supposedly killed demons sent against her, and how successful
she
had been against the Outlanders at Cilfallen. God, could they not see what she was? Just a Loda whore in pretty armor! There was little doubt in Torgan's mind that the battle at Cilfallen had been masterminded by the black-skinned bastard who rode with her. Rode with her? Rode her, more like!

Now she was coming here again.

This time I'll make her humiliation complete, he thought.

His wife, Layelia, entered the room, bearing a cup of sweet tisane. He took it without a word and sipped it. Layelia did not depart, but stood staring at him. He looked up into her large, soft brown eyes. “What?” he asked gruffly.

“She is coming,” said his wife.

“I know that. I'll deal with her.”

“Are you sure you are in the right?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. She flinched, which pleased him. A woman should know her place.

“I've heard talk that she
is
the Chosen One. Carela told me . . .”

“I'm not interested in women's gossip, Layelia. And I've heard enough!”

For a moment he thought she would stand her ground, but she bowed her head and left him alone once more. Torgan ran his hand over his close-cropped back hair. The bald spot was growing on the crown and his widow's peak was becoming more pronounced by the day. He swore softly. Why should he alone of his family lose his hair? His father had a shock of white hair, like a lion's mane, until the day he died at eighty.

Torgan threw his cloak around his shoulders and stepped out into the winter sunlight. It was bright, the day clear and cold. He could see the Loda woman in the distance. The black man was not with her, but there were a dozen or so riders following her as she made her way down the long slope. More people were on the streets than was normal for this time of day. They were making their way to the square, ready to hear the whore's words.

Torgan strode out, looking to neither left nor right. His chair had been set at the center of the square, his lieutenants were already standing beside it. This time there was no Neren, or Calias, or Pimali. All had fallen in the battle.

I never would have acted so fast had the woman not inflamed my anger, he thought. It's her fault they are dead.

By the time Sigarni and her followers rode into the square, there were more than two hundred Farlain gathered to witness the exchange. She did not dismount, but sat her horse staring at Torgan.

“Well, woman?” he called out. “What now? Why are you here?”

“Perhaps I just wanted to look at a fool,” she said, her words colder than the wind. “Perhaps I wondered whether the Outlanders had made you a general in return for the number of clansmen you killed for them.”

Torgan was outraged. “How dare you?” he shouted, surging to his feet. “I did not come here to listen to your insults.”

“Where do you normally go?” she said. “By God, I'd think you'd have to travel far from the Highlands
not
to hear insults. Three hundred men! You led them into a trap that a child could have seen. Or did no one mention cavalry to you? Did your scouts not see their hiding places? Come to that, Torgan, did you even send out scouts?”

“I don't answer to you.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Sigarni told him as, dismounting, she walked toward him. “You answer to me, Torgan, because you have wasted three hundred Highlanders. Thrown their lives away in a moment of crass stupidity. Aye, you'll answer to me!”

Stepping in close, she slammed a right-hand punch to his chin. The blow shocked him and he stepped back, trying to ready himself. She turned away from him, then spun back and leaped, her boot cannoning against his jaw. Torgan hit the seat and fell heavily, striking his temple against the cold flagstones. Dazed, he heard her carrying on speaking as if nothing had happened. Only she wasn't talking to him, she was addressing the Farlain. “In eleven weeks,” she said, “an army will come to these Highlands of ours—a murderous force intent on butchery. If we are to destroy them we need to act together, under a single leader. The fool lying there will lead you to destruction. I think you already know that. Pick him up!”

Torgan felt strong arms lifting him to his feet, then sitting him in his chair. “The position of Hunt Lord
can
be passed from father to son,” he heard her say, “but that has not always been the Highland way. We are in a war, and it is up to you to choose a Hunt Lord who can best serve the needs of the people.
All
the people—Farlain, Loda, Pallides, and Wingoras. I do not care who you choose. But whoever it is will serve under my leadership.”

“By what right?” asked a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with a silver mustache. Torgan blinked as Harcanan stepped up to stand before the woman. His uncle would put her in her place. He was a man of iron principles, not one to be fooled by this whore in scarlet.

“By what right?” echoed Sigarni. “By right of blood and right of battle. By virtue of my sword and my skills.”

He shook his head. “I do not know of your blood, Sigarni, but your battle was one skirmish fought at Cilfallen. As to your sword and your skills, I have seen no evidence that you can carry a fight with either. I say this with no disrespect, for I applaud your defense of Cilfallen and your determination to fight against the Outlanders. But I need more proof that you are the war leader we should follow.”

“Well said,” she told him. “And how would you like this proof delivered?”

“I cannot say—but one battle does not convince me. Even now the Outlanders are camped on our land, their position impregnable. A war leader should be able to free us of their presence.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Harcanan.”

“I have heard of you,” she said. “You fought at Colden Moor. It is said you killed twenty Outlanders, and led the King to safety.”

He smiled grimly. “An exaggeration, Sigarni. But I was there the last time the clans gathered against the Outlanders and I will be there the next time, God willing.”

“So then, Harcanan, will you follow me?”

“I have already said that I need more proof.”

Sigarni stood silently for a moment. “I will make a bargain with you, Harcanan,” she said at last. “Pledge yourself to me, and
then
I will show you proof.”

“Why not the other way around?” he countered.

“Because I require your faith, as well as your sword.”

He smiled. “I hear you require men to bend the knee to you, as if to a monarch. Is that what you are asking?”

“Aye, Harcanan. Exactly that. As in the old days. But you will not need to lead me to safety; you will live to see the Outlanders crushed and broken, begging for mercy. Now give me your pledge.”

Torgan sat quietly, waiting for the old warrior to laugh in her face. He did not. Instead he walked slowly forward and dropped to one knee before her. “My sword and my life,” he said.

Sigarni swung to the crowd. Throwing up her arm, she pointed to the line of horse-drawn wagons making their slow way over the crest of the hill. “Those wagons you see are loaded with the spoils of war, taken from the fort on Farlain land. My forces took that fort two days ago. Even as we speak, the Pallides fort is falling to us.”

Harcanan rose. “How many men did you lose?” he asked.

“None,” she told him. “Assemble the council, for I would address them.”

Harcanan bowed, and Sigarni turned to Torgan. “I could— and probably should—kill you,” she said. “But you are a Highlander, and not without courage. Be at the council meeting.”

Torgan rose and stumbled away, his mind reeling.

Gwalchmai was sober. It was not an uplifting experience. As he sat in the log hall, surrounded by the younger children of the encampment, he found himself yearning for the sanctuary of the jug. There were several older women present, dishing out the last of the milk to the eager young, and about a dozen younger mothers sitting in a group, holding their babies and talking animatedly. Gwalchmai could not hear their conversation, for most of the smaller children had gathered around him and were asking questions he found it hard to answer. For some weeks now his powers had been waning, and he found himself unable to summon visions. It was ironic, that now of all times his Talent should desert him. He had often prayed to be released from the gift—the curse—and now that it had happened he felt terribly alone, and very frightened.

The clan needed him—and he had nothing more to give.

“Why do they want to kill us all, Gwalchmai?” asked a bright-eyed young boy of around twelve. “Have we done something wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong,” he grunted, feeling himself hemmed in by the youngsters.

“Then why are we being punished?”

“It's no good asking me to make sense of it, lad. It's a war. There's no sense in war.”

“Then why are we doing it?” questioned another boy.

“We don't have a choice,” said Gwalchmai. There was still a little left in the jug, he remembered. But where had he put it?

“Are we all going to be killed?” asked a girl with long red hair. Gwalchmai cleared his throat. A man's voice cut in and Gwalchmai looked up to see Kollarin, moving through the youngsters. The younger man grinned at Gwalch, patted his shoulder, and then sat down beside him. “When a thief enters your house,” he told the children, “to take what is yours, then you either allow him to roam unchecked or you stop him. When a wolf pack attacks your cattle, you slay the wolves. That is the way of the hunter. The Outlanders have decided to take all that is yours. Your fathers have decided to stop them.”

“My father is a great hunter,” declared the girl. “Last year he killed a rogue bear.”

“Not on his own,” said the boy. “My father was with him. He shot it too.”

“He did not!” A squabble broke out between the two. Kollarin's laughter boomed out.

“Come, come, clansmen, this is no way to behave. I did not have a father—well, not that I recall. I had a mother who could shoot a bow, or wield a sword. Once, when a lioness got in among our sheep she strode out to the pasture, carrying only a long staff, and frightened it away. She was a fine woman.”

“You are an Outlander,” said the first boy, his earnest gaze fixed to Kollarin's face. “Why do you want to kill us?”

“I never wanted to kill anyone,” Kollarin told him. “There are many . . . Outlanders, as you call them, from many nations. They have built an empire; I am from one part of that empire. They conquered my country a hundred and ten years ago. The Outlanders are not, by nature, evil; they do not eat babies, or make blood sacrifices to vile gods. Their problem is that they believe in their own destiny as masters of the world. They respect strength and courage above all else. Therefore the strongest, the most ruthless, tend to achieve high rank. The Baron is such a man; he is evil, and because he leads in the north his evil spreads through the men under his command.”

“What happened to your father?” asked the red-haired girl.

“He ran away when I was a babe.”

“Why?”

Kollarin shrugged. “I cannot answer for him. My mother told me he found life on the farm too dull.”

“Did people torment you?” asked a small boy with thick curly hair.

Kollarin nodded. “Aye, they did. A boy without a father becomes, for some reason, an object of scorn.”

“Me too,” said the boy. “My father ran away before I was born.”

“He didn't run away,” put in another child scornfully. “Not even your mother could have said who he was.”

The curly-haired boy reddened and started to rise. Kollarin spoke swiftly. “Let us have no violence here. You are all of the clan, and the clan is in danger; it is no time to argue with another. But there is something else you could think about. How does evil grow? What makes it appear in a human heart, growing like a weed among the blooms? I tell you. It is born from anger and injustice, from resentment and jealousy. You have all witnessed the tiniest seed of it here in this hall. A boy with no father has been insulted for what may—or may not—have been the sin of his mother. That insult, and others like it, will simmer inside him as he grows. And by what right is he treated so unjustly?” Kollarin fixed his eyes on the older boy. “Has his birth damaged you in some way?”

“Everyone knows his mother is a—”

“Do not say it!” said Kollarin icily. “For when you speak thus, you give birth to evil.”

“It's the truth!”

“No, it is a
perception
of the truth. There is a difference. To the Outlanders
you
are an untutored barbarian, worth less than a pig. You are not even human: Your mother is a whore and your father is a stinking piece of filth who needs to be eradicated. That is their
perception
of the truth. They are wrong—and so are you. I do not say this to you in anger, boy. In fact, it saddens me.”