Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell Page B

fierceness that surprises me. It is as strong as my hatred for the Baron and all he represents.” He sighed and turned his head toward the fire. “Why is it that wickedness always seems to triumph? Is it just that evil men freed from the constraints of basic morality are stronger than we?”
    â€œIt is probably just a question of timing,” she said, and his head jerked around.
    â€œTiming?”
    â€œWe have had two kings of legend here, Gandarin and Ironhand. Both were good men, but they were also strong and fearless. Their enemies were scattered, and they ruled wisely and well. But this is the time of the Outland Kings, and not a good time for the peoples of the Highlands. Our time will come again. There will be a leader.”
    â€œNow
is
the time,” he said. “Where is the man? That was the prophecy that brought me here. A great leader will rise, wearing the Crown of Alwen. But I have traveled far, Sigarni, and heard no word of such a man.”
    â€œWhat will you do when you find him?”
    He chuckled. “My skill is strategy. I am a student of war. I will teach him how to fight the Outlanders.”
    â€œHighland men do not need to be taught how to fight.”
    He shook his head. “There you are wrong, Sigarni. Your whole history has been built on manly courage: assembling a host to sweep down on an enemy host, man against man, claymore crashing against claymore. But war is about more than battles. It is about logistics, supplies, communication, discipline. An army has to feed, commanders need to gather reports and intelligence and pass these on to generals. Apart from this there are other considerations—morale, motivation, belief. The Outlanders, as you call them, understand these things.”
    â€œYou are altogether too tense,” she told him, leaning forward and running her hand softly down the inside of his thigh. “Come back to bed, and I will repay you for the pleasure you gave me.”
    â€œWhat of these other matters you had to attend to?” he asked.
    For a moment only she thought of Bernt, then brushed him from her mind. “Nothing of importance,” she assured him.
    At noon the following day Ballistar found Bernt hanging from the branch of a spreading oak. The young cattle herder was dressed in his best tunic and leggings, though they were soiled now, for he had defecated in death. The boy’s eyes were wide open and bulging, and his tongue was protruding from his mouth. When Ballistar arrived at the oak grove a crow was sitting on Bernt’s shoulder, pecking at his right eye.
    Below the corpse was a hawking glove, lovingly made and decorated with fine white beads. Urine from the corpse had dripped upon it, staining the hide.

Chapter Three
    The oxen found pulling the wide wagon too difficult over the narrow deer trails to Gwalch’s cabin, so Tovi was forced to take the long route, down into the valley and up over the rocky roads once used by the Lowland miners when there was still a plentiful supply of coal to be found on the open hillsides. The baker had set off just after dawn. He always enjoyed these quarterly trips into Citadel town. Gwalch was an amusing, if irritating, companion, but the money they shared from their partnership helped Tovi to maintain a pleasant and comfortable lifestyle. Gwalch made honey mead of the finest quality, and much of it was shipped to the south at vastly inflated prices.
    One of the oxen slipped on the rocky shale. “Ho there, Flaxen! Concentrate now, girl!” shouted Tovi. The wagon lurched on, the empty barrels in the back clunking against one another. Tovi took a deep sniff of the mountain air, blowing cool over High Druin. At the top of the rise he halted the oxen, allowing them a breather before attempting the last climb into the forest. Tovi applied the brake, then swung to stare out over the landscape. Many years before he had marched with the Loda men down this long road. They