'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.
'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 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 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.