'No. That is why she must never be called in vain. Each time she flies to the fist I feed her. The day I do not, she may decide never to return. Hawks know no loyalties. They stay because they choose to.
No man - nor woman - can ever own one.'
Without a word of farewell the huntress strode off into the forest.
CHAPTER I
TOVI CLOSED THE double doors of his oven, removed his apron and wiped the flour from his face with a clean towel. The day's bread was laid out on wooden trays, stacked six high, and the smell of the baking filled his nostrils. Even after all these years he still loved that smell. Taking a sample loaf, he cut through the centre. It was rich and light, with no pockets of air. Behind him his apprentice, Stalf, breathed a silent sigh of relief. Tovi turned to the boy. 'Not bad,' he said. Cutting two thick slices, he smeared them with fresh butter and passed one to the boy.
Moving to the rear door, Tovi stepped outside. Above the stone and timber buildings of the village the dawn sun was clearing the peaks and a fresh breeze was blowing from the north. The bakery stood at the centre of the village, an old three-storey building that once had been the council house. In the days when we were allowed a council, thought Tovi sourly. The buildings surrounding the bakery were sturdily built, and old. Further down the hill were the simpler timber dwellings of the poorer folk. Tovi stepped out into the road and gazed down the hill to the river. The villagers were stirring and several women were already kneeling by the water-side, washing clothes and blankets, beating them against the white rocks at the water's edge. Tovi saw the black-clad Widow Maffrey making her way to the communal well. He waved and smiled and she nodded as she passed. The smith, Grame, was lighting his forge. Seeing Tovi, he strolled across. Soot had smeared the smith's thick white beard.
'Good day to you, Baker,' said Grame.
'And to you. It looks a fine one. Nary a cloud in sight. I see you have the Baron's greys in your stalls. Fine beasts.'
'Finer than the man who owns them. One of them has a split hoof, and both carry spur scars. No way to treat good horses. I'll take a
loaf, if you please. One with a crust as black as sin and a centre as white as a nun's soul.'
Tovi shook his head. 'You'll take what I give you, man, and be glad of it, for you'll not taste a better piece of bread anywhere in the kingdom. Stalf! Fetch a loaf for the smith.'
The boy brought it out, wrapped in muslin. Dipping his huge hand into the pocket of his leather apron, Grame produced two small copper coins which he dropped into Stalf s outstretched palm. The boy bowed and backed away. 'It'll be a good summer,' said Grame, tearing off a chunk of bread and pushing it into his mouth.
'Let us hope so,' said Tovi.
The dwarf Ballistar approached them, labouring up the steep hill. He gave an elaborate bow. 'Good morning to you,' said Ballistar. 'Am I late for breakfast?'
'Not if you have coin, little man,' said Tovi, eyes narrowing. The dwarf made him feel uncomfortable, and he found himself growing irritable.
'No coin,' the dwarf told him affably, 'but I have three hares hanging.'
'Caught by Sigarni, no doubt!' snapped the baker. 'I don't know why she should be so generous with you.'
'Perhaps she likes me,' answered Ballistar, no trace of anger in his tone.
Tovi called for another loaf which he gave the dwarf. 'Bring me the best hare tonight,' he said.
'Why does he anger you so?' asked Grame, as the dwarf wandered away.
Tovi shrugged. 'He's cursed. He should have been laid aside at birth. What good is he to man or beast? He cannot hunt, cannot work. If not for Sigarni maybe he would leave the village. He could join a circus! Such as he could earn an honest living there, capering and the like.'
'You're turning into a sour old man, Tovi.'
'And you are getting fat!'
'Aye, that's the truth. But I still remember the wearing of the Red. That's something I'll take to the grave, with pride. As will you.'
The baker nodded, and his expression softened. 'Bonny days, Grame. They'll not come again.' gave them a fight, though, eh?'
Tovi shook his head. 'We showed them how brave men die - that's not the same, my friend.
Outnumbered and outclassed we were -their knights riding through our ranks, cutting and killing, our sword-blades clanging against their armour and causing no damage. Gods, man, it was slaughter that day! I wish to Heaven I had never seen it.'
'We were badly led,' whispered Grame. 'Gandarin did not pass his strength to his sons.'
The smith sighed. 'Ah, well, enough dismal talk. This is a new day, fresh and untainted.' Spinning on his heel, the burly blacksmith strode back to his forge.
The boy, Stalf, said nothing as Tovi re-entered the bakery. He could see his master was deep in thought, and he had heard a little of the conversation. It was hard to believe that Fat Tovi had once worn the Red, and had taken part in the Battle of Golden Moor. Stalf had visited the battle site last autumn. A huge plain, dotted with barrows, thirty-four in all. And each barrow held the dead of an entire clan's fighting men.
The wind had howled across Golden Moor and Stalf had been frightened by the power and the haunted wailing of it. His uncle, Mart One-arm, had stood with him, his bony hand on the boy's shoulder.
'This is the place where dreams end, boy. This is the resting place of hope.'
'How many died Uncle?'
'Scores of thousands.'
'But not the King.'
'No, not the King. He fled to a bright land beyond the water. But they found him there, and slew him. There are no Mountain Kings now.'
Uncle Mart walked him on to the moor, coming at last to a high barrow. 'This is where the Loda men stood, shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms, brothers in death.' Lifting the stump of his left arm, he gave a crooked smile. 'Part of me is buried here too, boy. And more than just my arm. My heart lies here, with my brothers, and cousins, and friends.' •
Stalf dragged his mind back to the present. Tovi was standing by the window, his eyes showing the same faraway look he had seen that day on the face of Mart One-arm.
'Can I take some bread to me mam?' asked Stalf. Tovi nodded.
Stalf chose two loaves and wrapped them. He had reached the door when Tovi's voice stopped him.
'What do you want to be, lad, when you're grown?'
'A baker, sir. Skilled like you.' Tovi said no more, and the boy hurried from the bakery.
*
Sigarni loved the mountain lands, the lush valleys nestling between them, and the deep, dark forests that covered their flanks. But mostly she loved High Druin, the lonely peak which towered over the high lands, its summit lost in cloud, its shoulders cloaked in snow. There was, in High Druin, an elemental magnificence that radiated from its sharp, defiant crags, a magic that sang in the whispering of wind-breath before the winter storms. High Druin spoke to the heart. He said: 'I am Eternity in stone. I have always been here. I will always be here!'
The huntress let Abby soar into the air and watched her swoop over High Drum's lower flanks. Lady bounded out over the grass, her sleek black body alert, her one good eye scanning for sign of hare or rat. Sigarni sat by the Lake of Tears, watching the brightly coloured ducks on the banks of the small island at the centre of the lake. Abby circled high above them, also watching the birds. The hawk swooped down, coming to rest in a tree beside the lake. The ducks, suddenly aware of the hawk, took to the water.
Sigarni watched with interest. Roast duck would make a fine contrast to the hare meat she had eaten during the last fortnight. 'Here, Lady!' she called. The hound padded alongside and Sigarni pointed to the ducks. 'Go!' hissed Sigarni. Instantly the dog leapt into the water, paddling furiously towards the circling flock. Several of the birds took wing, putting flat distance between them and the hound, keeping low to the water. But one took off into the sky and instantly Abby launched herself in pursuit.