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.