Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell Page A

grow long, protecting his face and neck from the bitter bite of the winter winds.
    Fell climbed on, traversing a treacherous ridge and climbing down toward the supply cave. He reached it just before nightfall. The flap that covered the narrow opening was rotting and he made a mental note to bring a new spread of canvas on his next visit. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it kept stray animals from using the cave as shelter, and on a cold night it helped to hold in the heat from the fire. The cave was deep, but narrow, and a rough-built hearth had been set some ten feet from the back wall below a natural chimney that filtered smoke up through the mountain. As was usual the fire was laid, ready for a traveler, with two flint rocks laid beside it. By the far wall was enough wood to keep a blaze burning for several nights. There was also a store cupboard containing oats and honey, and a small pot of salted beef. Alongside this were a dozen wax candles.
    It was one of Fell’s favorite places. Here, sitting quietly without interruption, he could think, or dream. Mostly he thought about his role as captain of the foresters; how best to patrol the forests and valleys, to cull the deer herds, and hunt the wolves. Tonight he wanted to dream, to sit idly in the cave and settle his spirit. Swiftly he lit a fire, then removed his cloak and pack and stood his longbow and quiver against the wall. From the pack he pulled a small pot and a sack of oats. When the fire had taken he placed the pot over it and made several trips outside, returning with handfuls of snow that he dropped into the pot. At last when there was enough water he added oats and a pinch of salt, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. Fell preferred his porridge with honey, but he had brought none with him and was loath to raid the store. A man could never tell when he would need the provisions in the small store cupboard, and Fell did not want to be stuck on High Druin in the depths of winter, only to remember that on a calm night in late summer he had eaten the honey on a whim.
    Instead he cooked his porridge unsweetened, then put it aside to cool.
    Sigarni’s face came unbidden to his mind and Fell swore softly. “I must have sons,” he said aloud, surprised how defensive the words sounded.
    â€œA man needs love also,” said a voice.
    Fell’s heart almost stopped beating. Leaping to his feet, he spun around. There was no one there. The forester drew his double-edged hunting knife.
    â€œYou’ll have no need of that, boy,” said the voice, this time coming from his left. Fell turned to see, sitting quietly by the fire, the oldest man he had ever seen, his face a maze of firelit wrinkles, his skin sagging grotesquely around the chin. He was wearing a tunic and leggings of green plaid, and a cloak that seemed to be fashioned from feathers of every kind, pigeon, hawk, sparrow, raven . . . Fell flicked a glance at the canvas flap over the doorway. It was still pegged in place.
    â€œHow did you get in here?” he asked.
    â€œBy another doorway, Fell. Come, sit with me.” The old man stretched out a fleshless arm and gestured to the forester to join him.
    â€œAre you a ghost?”
    The old man thought about it. “An interesting question. I am due to die long before you were born. So, in one sense, I suppose I am already dead. But no, I am not a spirit. I am flesh and blood, though there is precious little flesh left. I am Taliesen the druid.”
    Fell moved to the fire and squatted down opposite the old man. He seemed harmless enough, and was carrying no weapon, but even so, Fell kept his dagger in his hand. “How is it that you know me?” he asked.
    â€œYour father gave me bread and salt the last time I came here, nineteen years ago, by your reckoning. You were six. You looked at my face and asked me why it no longer fit me.” The old man gave a dry chuckle. “I do so love the young. Their questions