'As far as I know there is only Sigarni, and she is barren.'

Asmidir rubbed his tired eyes and tried to disguise the dejection he felt. 'He must be somewhere,' he whispered, 'and he will need me. The ancient one made that clear to me.'

'He could have been wrong,' volunteered Ballistar. 'Even Gwalch is wrong sometimes.'

'Gwalch?'

'The Clan Gifted One. He used to be a warrior, but he was wounded in the head and after that he became a prophet of sorts. People tend to avoid him. His visions are all doom-filled and gloomy. Maybe that's why he drinks so much!'

Asmidir's spirits lifted. 'Tell me where to find him,' he said.

Sigarni was angry with herself. Four times that morning she had flown Abby, and four times the red hawk had missed the kill. Abby was a little overweight, for there had been three days of solid rain and she had not flown, but even so she was acting sluggishly and the tourney was only two weeks away. Sigarni was angry because she didn't know what to do, and was loth to ask Asmidir. Could Abby be ill? She didn't think so, for the bird was flying beautifully, folding her wings and diving, swooping, turning. Only at the point of the kill did she fail. The pattern with the red hawk was always the same - swoop over the hare, flick her talons, tumbling the prey, then fastening to it. Sigarni would run forward, covering the hare with her glove, then casting a piece of meat some distance from the hawk. The bird would glance at the titbit, then leave the gloved hare to be killed and bagged by Sigarni. But not today.

Sigarni lifted her arm and whistled for Abby. The hawk dived obediently from the high branch and landed on the outstretched fist, her cruel beak fastening to the tiny amount of meat Sigarni held between her fingers.

'What's wrong with you, Abby?' whispered Sigarni, stroking the bird's breast with a long pigeon feather. 'Are you sick?' The golden eyes, bright and impenetrable, looked into her own.

Returning to the cabin, Sigarni did not take Abby to her bow perch but carried her inside and sat her on the high back of a wooden chair. The cabin was cold and Sigarni lit a fire, banking up the logs and adding two large lumps of coal from the sack given to her by Asmidir. From the cupboard she took her scales, hooking them to a broad beam across the centre of the cabin. Fetching Abby, she weighed her. Two pounds seven ounces: five ounces above her perfect killing weight.

'What am I to do with you, beauty?' she asked softly, stroking the bird's^head and neck. 'To keep you obedient I must feed you, yet if you do not fly you get fat and lazy and are useless to me. If I starve you, all your training will disappear and I will be forced to start again as if it never was. Yet you are intelligent. I know this.

Is your memory so short? Mmmm? Is that it, Abby?' Sigarni sighed. Taking the hawk's hood from the pouch at her belt, she stroked it into place. Abby sat quietly, blind now, but trusting. Sigarni sat by the fire, tired and listless.

Lady scratched at the door and Sigarni opened it, allowing the hound to pad inside and stretch her lean black frame in front of the fire. 'I hope you've already eaten,' she told the hound, 'since we've caught nothing today.' Lady's tail beat against the floor and she tilted back her head, looking at Sigarni through one huge, brown eye. 'Yes,' said the woman, 'I don't doubt you have. You're the best hare hound in the Highlands. You know that, don't you? Faster than the wind - though not as fast as Abby.'

The darkness was growing outside and Sigarni lit a small lamp which she hung over the fireplace. Stretching out her legs, she removed her wet doeskin boots and her oiled leather troos. The warm air from the fire touched the bare skin of her legs and she shivered

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with pleasure. 'If only I wasn't hungry,' she said aloud, stripping off her buckskin shirt and tossing it to the floor. The fire crackled and grew, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the cabin.

'I have the bells of Hell clanging in my head,' said Gwalch, walking from the bedroom, clutching his temples.

'Then you shouldn't drink so much, Gwal,' she said, with a smile.

'All right for you but I..." He stopped as he saw her nakedness. 'Jarka's balls, woman! That's not decent!'

'You said you'd be gone, old fool. It would be decent enough were I alone!'

'Ah, well,' he said, with a broad grin, 'I think I might as well make the best of it.'

Pulling up a chair, he gazed with honest admiration at her fire-lit form.

'Wonderful creatures, women,' he said. 'If God ever made anything more beautiful He has never shown it to me.'

'Since your eyes are standing now on reed stalks, I take it that you are a breast man,' she said, with a laugh. 'Now Fell is a legs and hips man. His eyes are naturally drawn to a woman's buttocks. Strange beasts, men. If God ever made anything more ludicrous She's never shown it to me.'

Gwalch leaned back and roared with laughter. 'Blasphemy and indecency in the same breath. By Heavens, Sigarni, there is no one like you. Now, for the sake of an old man's feelings, will you cover yourself?'

'Feel the blood rising, old man?'

'No, and that is depressing. Dress for me, child. There's a good girl.'

Sigarni did not argue, but slipped a buckskin shirt over her head. It was almost as long as a tunic and covered her to her thighs. 'Is that better, Gwal? You weren't so worried when I lived with you, and you bathed me and washed my hair.'

'You were a child and titless. And you were hurt, lass.'

'How do you kill a demon, Gwal?' she asked softly.

He scratched at the white stubble on his chin. 'Is there no food in this house? By God, a man could die of starvation visiting you.'

'There's a little cold stew, and a spare flagon of your honey spirit. It's too fiery for my taste. You want that, or shall I heat up the stew?'

He gave a wicked grin and winked. 'No lass. Just fetch me a drop of the honeydew.'

'First a bargain.'

'No,' he said, his voice firm. 'I will tell you no more. Not yet. And if that means a dry night, then so be it.'

'When will you tell me?'

'Soon. Trust me.'

'Of all men I trust you most,' she said moving forward to kiss his brow. She fetched him the flagon and watched as he filled a clay cup. The liquid was thin and golden, and touched the throat like a flame. Gwalch drained the cup and leaned back with a sigh.

'Enough of this and a man would live for ever,' he said.

She shook her head. 'You are incorrigible. Do you know the legend of Ironhand?'

'Of course. Went through a Gateway, to return when we need him.'

'And will he return?'

'Yes. When the time is right.' He drank a second cup.

'That's not true, Gwalch. I found his bones.'

'Yes I know. Under several boulders in the pool of the falls. Why did you tell no one?'

Sigarni was surprised, though instantly she knew she should not have been. 'Why do you ask, when you already know the answer?' she countered.

'It is not polite to answer a question with a question, girl. You know that.'

'People need legends,' she told him. 'Who am I to rob them of their power? He was a great man, and it is nice for people to think that he actually managed to kill all the assassins, instead of being done to death by the murdering scum.'

'Oh, but he did kill them all! Seven of them, and him wounded unto death. Killed them, and their war-hounds. Then he sat by the pool, his strength fading. He was found by one of his retainers, a trusted man, loyal and steadfast. Ironhand told him to hide his body where none could find it until the chosen time. You see, he had the Gift. It came on him as he was dying. So the word went out that Ironhand had crossed the Gateway and would one day return. And so it will be.'

Gwalch filled a third cup and half drank it. Leaning forward, he placed the cup on the hearth-stone, then sank back, his breathing deepening.

'When will he come back, Gwalch?' whispered Sigarni.

'He already has once,' answered the old man, his voice slurring.

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'On the night of the slaughter. It was he who killed the last demon.' The old man began to snore gently.

Fell loved the mountains, the high, lonely passes, the stands of pine and the sloping valleys, the snow-crowned peaks and the vast sweep of this harsh country. He stood now above the snow line on High Druin staring out to the north, the lands of the Pallides and further to the distant shimmering river that separated the Pallides clan from the quiet, grim men of the Farlain, This was a land that demanded much from a man. Farming was not easy here, for the winters were harsh beyond compare, the summers often wet and miserable, drowning the roots of most crops, bar oats which seemed to thrive in the Highlands. Cattle were bred in the valleys, hard, tough long-haired beasts with horns sweeping out, sharp as needles. Those horns needed to be sharp when the wolves came, or the black bears. And despite the long hair and the sturdiness of their powerful bodies, the vicious winters claimed a large percentage of the beasts - trapped in snow-drifts, or killed in falls from the icy ridges and steep rises.

It was no land for the weak of spirit, or the soft of body.

The cool dusk breeze brushed the skin of his face and he rubbed his chin. Soon he would let his close-cropped beard grow long, protecting his face and neck from the bitter bite of the winter winds.

Fell climbed on, traversing a treacherous ridge and climbing down towards the supply cave. He reached it just before nightfall. The flap which covered the narrow opening was rotting and he made a mental note to bring a new spread of canvas on his next visit. It wasn't much of a barrier, but it kept stray animals from using the cave as shelter, and on a cold night it helped to hold in the heat from the fire. The cave was d.eep, but narrow, and a rough-built hearth had been built some ten feet from the back wall below a natural chimney that filtered smoke up through the mountain. As was usual the fire was laid, ready for a traveller, with two flint rocks laid beside it. By the far wall was enough wood to keep a blaze burning for several nights. There was also a store cupboard containing oats and honey, and a small pot of salted beef. Alongside this were a dozen wax candles.

It was one of Fell's favourite places. Here, sitting quietly without interruption, he could think, or dream. Mostly he thought about his role as captain of the foresters; how best to patrol the forests and

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valleys, to cull the deer herds, and hunt the wolves. Tonight he wanted to dream, to sit idly in the cave and settle his spirit. Swiftly he lit a fire, then removed his cloak and pack and stood his longbow and quiver against the wall. From the pack he pulled a small pot and a sack of oats. When the fire had taken he placed the pot over it and made several trips outside, returning with handfuls of snow which he dropped into the pot. At last when there was enough water he added oats and a pinch of salt, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Fell preferred his porridge with honey, but he had brought none with him and was loth to raid the store. A man could never tell when he would need the provisions in the small store cupboard, and Fell did not want to be stuck on High Druin in the depths of winter, only to remember that on a calm night in late summer he had eaten the honey on a whim.

Instead he cooked his porridge unsweetened, then put it aside to cool.

Sigarni's face came unbidden to his mind and Fell swore softly. 'I must have sons,' he said aloud, surprised how defensive the words sounded.

'A man needs love also,' said a voice.

Fell's heart almost stopped beating. Leaping to his feet, he spun around. There was no one there. The forester drew his double-edged hunting knife.

'You'll have no need of that, boy,' said the voice, this time coming from his left.

Fell turned to see, sitting quietly by the fire, the oldest man he had ever seen, his face a maze of fire-lit wrinkles, his skin sagging grotesquely around the chin. He was wearing a tunic and leggings of green plaid, and a cloak that seemed to be fashioned from feathers of every kind, pigeon, hawk, sparrow, raven... Fell flicked a glance at the canvas flap over the doorway. It was still pegged in place.

'How did you get in here?' he asked.

'By another doorway, Fell. Come, sit with me.' The old man stretched out a fleshless arm and gestured to the forester to join him.

'Are you a ghost?'

The old man thought about it. 'An interesting question. I am due to die long before you were born. So, in one sense, I suppose I am already dead. But no, I am not a spirit. I am flesh and blood, though there is precious little flesh left. I am Taliesen the druid.'

Fell moved to the fire and squatted down opposite the old man. He

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seemed harmless enough, and was carrying no weapon but, even so, Fell kept his dagger in his hand. 'How is it that you know me?' he asked. 'Your father gave me bread and salt the last time I came here, nineteen years ago, by your reckoning.

You were six. You looked at my face and asked me why it no longer fit me.' The old man gave a dry chuckle. 'I do so love the young. Their questions are so deliciously impertinent.'

'I don't remember it.'

'It was the night of the twin moons. I had another man with me; he was tall and recklessly handsome, and he wore a shirt of buckskin emblazoned with a red hawk motif.'

'I do remember,' said Fell, surprised. 'His name was Caswallon and he sat with me and taught me how to whistle through my teeth.'

The old man's face showed a look of exasperation. He shook his head and whispered something that sounded to Fell like a curse. Then he looked up. 'It was a night when two moons appeared in the sky, and the Gateways of time shimmered open causing a minor earthquake and several avalanches. But you remember it because you learned to whistle. Ah well, such, I fear, is the way of things. Do you intend to share that porridge?'

'Such was not my intention,' said Fell testily, 'but since you remind me of my manners I am obliged to offer you some.'

'It never does a man harm to be reminded of his manners,' said Taliesen. Fell rose and fetched two wooden bowls from the cupboard. There was only one spoon, which he offered to the old man. Taliesen ate slowly, then put aside his bowl half finished. 'I see you've lost the art of porridge in this time,' he said. 'Still, it will suffice to put a little energy into this old frame. Now ... to the matter at hand.

How is Sigarni?'

'She is well, old man. How do you know her?'

Talisen smiled. 'I don't. Well, not exactly. My friend with the hawk shirt brought her to the people who raised her. He risked much to do so, but then he was an incautious man, and one ruled by an iron morality. Such men are dangerous friends, but they make even more deadly enemies. Thankfully he was always more of a friend.'

'What do you mean brought her? She lived with her father and mother until...'

'The night of the slaughter... yes, yes, I know. But they were not her parents. Their child died in her cot. Sigarni was a... changeling.