Free Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell Page B

the Dark, Hollow-tooths sent to kill you.”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œYou said one question,” he reminded her, “but I’ll answer it. They came for you because of who you are. And that is all I will say now. But I promise you we will speak again soon.”
    She handed him the flagon and sat down.
    â€œI cannot go to the pool, Gwal. I cannot.”
    Gwalchmai did not answer her. The mead was beginning to work its magic, and his mind swam.
    The Baron Ranulph Gottasson ran a bony finger down the line on the map. “And this represents what?” he asked the young blond man shivering before him. Leofric rubbed his cold hands together, thankful that he had had the common sense to wear a woolen undershirt below his tunic, and two pairs of thick socks. His fleece-lined gloves were in his pocket, and he wished he had the nerve to wear them. The Baron’s study at the top of the Citadel was always cold, though a fire was permanently laid, as if to mock the Baron’s servants. “Are you listening, boy?” snarled the Baron.
    Leofric leaned over the table and felt the cold breeze from the open window flicker against his back. “That is the river Dranuin, sir. It starts on the northern flank of High Druin and meanders through the forest into the sea. That is in Pallides lands.”
    The Baron glanced up and smiled. The boy’s face was blue-tinged. “Cold, Leofric?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œA soldier learns to put aside thoughts of discomfort. Now tell me about the Pallides.”
    I’m not a soldier, thought Leofric, I am a cleric. And there is a difference between the discomfort endured through necessity and the active enjoyment of it. But these thoughts he kept to himself. “The largest of the clans, the Pallides number some six thousand people. It used to be more, but the Great War devastated them. In the main they are cattle breeders, though there are some farms which grow oats and barley. In the far north there are two main fishing fleets. The Pallides are spread over some two hundred square miles and live in sixteen villages, the largest being Caswallir, named after a warrior of old who, legend claims, brought the Witch Queen to their aid in the Aenir Wars.”
    â€œI don’t care about legends. Just facts. How many people in Caswallir?”
    â€œAround eleven hundred, sir, but it does depend on the time of the year. They have their Games in the autumn and there could be as many as five thousand people attending every day for ten days. Of course, these are not all Pallides. Loda, Farlain, and even some Wingoras will attend—though the Wingoras are all but finished now. Our census shows only around one hundred and forty remain in the remote Highlands.”
    â€œHow many fighting men?”
    â€œJust the Pallides, sir?” asked Leofric, sitting down and opening a heavy leather-bound ledger. The Baron nodded. “It is difficult to estimate, sir. After all, what constitutes a fighting man in a people with no army? If we are talking men and older boys capable of bearing arms, then the figure would be . . .” He flicked through three pages, making swift mental calculations, then went on: “. . . say . . . eighteen hundred. But of these around a thousand would be below the age of seventeen. Hardly veterans.”
    â€œWho leads them?”
    â€œWell, sir, as you know there is no longer an
official
Hunt Lord, but our spies tell us that the people still revere Fyon Sharp-axe, and treat him as if he still held the title.”
    Lifting a quill pen, the Baron dipped the sharpened nib into a pot of ink and scrawled the name on a single sheet of paper. “Go on.”
    â€œWhat else can I tell you, sir?” asked Leofric, nonplussed.
    â€œWho else do they revere?”
    â€œEr . . . I don’t have information on that, sir. Merely statistics.”
    The Baron’s hooded eyes focused on the younger man’s face.