'It means she'll live for ever. In a thousand years men will speak her name.'

Fell lifted his cup and stared into the amber liquid. 'Drinking this rots the brain, old man.'

'Aye, maybe it does. But I know what I know, Fell. I know you'll live for her. And I know you'll die for her. Hold the right, Fell. Do it for me! And they'll fall on you with their swords of fire, and their lances of pain, and their arrows of farewell.

Will you hold, Fell, when she asks you?' Gwalch leaned forward and laid his head on his arms. 'Will you hold, Fell?'

'You're drunk, my friend. You're talking gibberish.'

Gwalch looked up, his eyes bleary. 'I wish I was young again, Fell. I'd stand alongside you. By God, I'd even take that arrow for you!'

Fell rose unsteadily, then helped Gwalch to his feet, carefully steered the old man to the bed and laid him down. Returning to the fire, he stretched himself out on the bearskin rug and slept.

It was the closest Sigarni could come to flight. She stood naked on the high rock beside the falls and edged forward, her toes curling over the weather-beaten edge.

Sixty feet below the waters of the pool churned as the falls thundered into it. The sun was strong on her back, the sky as blue as gem-stone. Sigarni raised her arms and launched her body forward. Straight as an arrow she dived, arms flung back for balance, and watched the pool roar up to meet her. Bringing her arms forward at the last moment she struck the water cleanly, making barely a splash. Down, down she sank until her hands touched the stone at the base of the pool spinning, she used her feet to propel her body upwards. Once more on the surface she swam with lazy grace to the south of the pool, where Lady anxiously waited.

Hauling herself clear of the water, she sat on a flat rock and shook the water from her hair. The sound of the falls was muted here, and the sunlight was streaming through the long leaves of a willow, dappling the water with flecks of gold. It would be easy to believe the legends on a day like today, she thought. It seems perfectly natural that a king should have chosen this place to leave the world of men, and journey into the lands of heaven. She could almost see him wading out, then

22.

turning, his great sword in his bloodstained hand, the baying of the hounds and the guttural cries of the killers ringing in his ears. Then, as the warriors moved in for the kill, the flash of light and the opening Gateway.

All nonsense. The greatest King of the Highlands had been slain here. Sorain Ironhand, known also as Fingersteel. Last spring, during one of her dives, Sigarni's hands had touched a bone at the bottom of the pool. Bringing it to the surface she found it to be a shoulder-blade. For an hour or more she scoured the bottom of the pool. Then she found him, or rather what was left of his skeleton, held to the pool floor by heavy rocks. The right hand was missing, but there were rust-discoloured screw holes in the bones of the wrist, and the last red remnants of his iron hand close by.

No Gateway to Heaven - well, not for his body anyway. Just a lonely death, slain by lesser men. Such is the fate of kings, she thought.

A light breeze touched her body and she shivered. 'Are you still here, Ironhand?'

she asked aloud. 'Does your spirit haunt this place?'

'Only when the moon is full,' came a voice. Sigarni sprang to her feet and turned to see a tall man standing by the willow. He was leaning on a staff of oak, and smiling. Lady had ignored him and was still lying by the poolside, head on her paws. Sigarni reached down to where her clothes lay and drew her dagger from its sheath. 'Oh, you'll not need that, lady. I am no despoiler of women. I am merely a traveller who stopped for a drink of cool mountain water. My name is Loran.' Leaning his staff against the tree he moved past her and knelt at the water's edge, pausing to stroke Lady's flanks before he drank.

'She doesn't... usually ... like strangers,' said Sigarni lamely.

'I have a way with animals.' He glanced up at her and gave a boyish grin. 'Perhaps you would feel more comfortable dressed.' He was a handsome man, slender and beardless, his hair corn-yellow, his eyes dark blue.

Sigarni decided that she liked his smile. 'Perhaps you would feel more comfortable undressed,' she said, her composure returning.

'Are you Loda people always so forward?' he asked her amiably.

Returning the knife to its sheath, she sat down. Lady stood and padded to her side. 'What clan are you?' she asked.

Tallides,' he told her.

'Are all Pallides men so bashful?'

He laughed, the sound rich and merry. 'No. But we're a gentle folk who need to be treated with care and patience. How far is it to Cilfallen?' He stood and moved to a fallen tree, brushing away the loose dirt before seating himself.

Sigarni reached for her leggings and climbed into them. 'Half a day,' she told him, 'due south.' Her upper body was still damp and the white woollen shirt clung to her breasts. Belting on her dagger, she sat down once more. 'Why would a Pallides man be this far south?' she enquired.

'I am seeking Tovi Long-arm. I have a message from the Hunt Lord. Do you have a name, woman?"

'Yes.'

'Might I enquire what it is?'

'Sigarni.'

'Are you angry with me, Sigarni?' the words were softly spoken. She looked into his eyes and saw no hint of humour there. Yes, I am angry, she thought. Asmidir called me a whore, Fell left without a word of thanks or goodbye, and now this stranger had spurned her body. Of course I'm bloody angry!

'No,' she lied. He leaned back and stretched his arm along the tree trunk. Sigarni swept the dagger from the sheath, flipped the blade, then sent the weapon slashing through the air. It slammed into the trunk no more than two inches from his hand. Loran glanced down to see that the blade had cut cleanly through the head of a viper, the rest of its body was thrashing in its death throes. He drew back his hand.

'You are an impressive woman, Sigarni,' he said, reaching out and pulling clear the weapon. With one stroke he decapitated the snake, then cleaned the blade on the grass before returning it hilt first to the silver-haired huntress.

'I'll walk with you a-ways,' she said. 'I wouldn't want a Pallides man to get lost in the forest.'

'Impressive and blessed with kindness.'

Together they walked from the falls and up the main trail. The trees were thicker here, the leaves already beginning to turn to the burnished gold of autumn. 'Do you usually talk to ghosts?' asked Loran, as they walked.

'Ghosts?' she queried.

'Ironhand. You were talking to him when I arrived? Was that the magic pool where he crossed over?'

'Yes.'

'Do you believe the legend?'

'Why should I not?' she countered. 'No-one ever found a body, did they?'

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 more gullible child.'

'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 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.'

2.

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 centre 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 Golden 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 Golden. 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 1 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 dreamt 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 further 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 Golden 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

28.

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 blood line 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.'