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.'
CHAPTER II
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.