Free Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell

angry. It was here she had been found on that awful night when her parents were slain: She was just sitting by the willow, her eyes vacant, her blond hair turned white as snow. Sigarni remembered nothing of that night, save that the pool was the one safe place in a world of uncertainty.
    Only tonight there was no sanctuary. A man was dead, a good man, a kind man. That he was stupid counted for nothing now. She remembered his smile, the softness of his touch, and his desperation to make her happy.
    â€œIt could never be you, Bernt,” she said aloud. “You were not the man for me. I’ve yet to meet him, but I’ll know him when I do.” Tears formed in her eyes, misting her vision. “I’m sorry that you are dead,” she said. “Truly I am. And I’m sorry that I didn’t come to you. I thought you wanted to beg me back, and I didn’t want that.”
    Movement on the surface of the pool caught her eye. A mist was moving on the water, swirling and rising. It formed the figure of a man, blurred and indistinct. A slight breeze touched it, sending it moving toward her, and Sigarni scrambled to her feet and backed away.
    â€œDo not run,”
whispered a man’s voice inside her mind.
    But she did, turning and sprinting up over the rocks and away onto the old deer trail.
    Sigarni did not stop until she had reached her cabin, and even then she barred the door and built a roaring fire. Focusing her gaze on the timbered wall, she scanned the weapons hanging there: the leaf-bladed broadsword, the bow of horn and the quiver of black-shafted arrows, the daggers and dirks and the helm, with its crown and cheek guards of black iron and the nasal guard and brows of polished brass. Moving to them she lifted down a long dagger, and sat honing its blade with a whetstone.
    It was an hour before she stopped trembling.
    Gwalchmai’s mouth was dry, and his tongue felt as if he had spent the night chewing badger fur. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes, and the bouncing of the dog cart caused his stomach to heave. He broke wind noisily, which eased the pressure on his belly. He always used to enjoy getting drunk in the morning, but during the last few years it had begun to seem like a chore. The great grey wolfhounds, Shamol and Cabris, paused in their pulling and the cart stopped. Shamol was looking to the left of the trail, his head still, dark eyes alert. Cabris squatted down, seemingly bored. “No hares today, boys!” said Gwalch, flicking the reins. Reluctantly Shamol launched himself into the traces. Caught unawares, Cabris did not rise in time and almost went under the little cart. Angry, the hound took a nip at Shamol’s flank. The two dogs began to snarl, their fur bristling.
    â€œQuiet!” bellowed Gwalch. “Hell’s dungeons, I haven’t had a headache like this since the axe broke my skull. So keep it down and behave yourselves.” Both hounds looked at him, then felt the light touch of the reins on their backs. Obediently they started to pull. Reaching behind him, Gwalch lifted a jug of honey mead and took a swallow.
    Sigarni’s cabin was in sight now, and he could see the black bitch, Lady, sitting in the dust before it. So could Shamol and Cabris, and with a lunge they broke into a run. Gwalch was caught between the desire to save his bones and the need to protect his jug. He clung on grimly. The cart survived the race down the hill, and once on level ground Gwalch began to hope that the worst was over. But then Lady ran at the hounds, swerving at the last moment to race away into the meadow. Shamol and Cabris tried to follow her, the cart tipped, and Gwalch flew through the air, still clutching his jug to his scrawny chest. Twisting, he struck the ground on his back, honey mead slurping from the jug to drench his green woolen tunic. Slowly he sat up, then took a long drink. The hounds were now sitting quietly by the upturned cart, watching him