Read Online Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell - Free Book Online

were singing, he recalled; they had met the Pallides warriors down there by the fork in the stream. Seven thousand men— even before the Farlain warriors had joined them.
    All dead now. Well . . . most of them anyway. Gwalch had been there. Fifty years old and straight as a long staff. The King had been mounted on a fine southern horse, his bonnet adorned with a long eagle feather. Every inch a warrior he looked. But he had no real heart for it. Tovi hawked and spat, remembering the moment when the King fled the field leaving them to stand and die.
    â€œBlood doesn’t always run true,” he said softly. “Heroes sire cowards, and cowards can sire kings.”
    The air was crisp, the wind beginning to bite as Tovi wrapped his cloak across his chest. Didn’t feel the wind back then, he thought. I did a week later, though, as I fled from the hunters, crawling through the bracken, wading the streams, hiding in shallow caves, starving and cold. God’s bones, I felt it then!
    High above him two eagles were flying the thermals, safe from the thoughts and arrows of men. Tovi released the brake and flicked the reins over the backs of the oxen. “On now, my lads!” he called. “It’s an easier trip down for a while.”
    Within the hour he arrived at Gwalch’s cabin. The old man was sitting outside in the sunshine with a cup of mead in his hands. There were three horsemen close by, two grim-faced soldiers still sitting their saddles, and a cleric who was standing before the old man, arguing and gesticulating. The soldiers looked bored and cold, Tovi thought. The cleric was a man he recognized: Andolph the Census Taker, a small, fat individual with ginger hair and a face as white as Tovi’s baking flour.
    â€œIt is not acceptable!” Tovi heard the cleric shout. “And you could be in serious trouble. I don’t know why I try to deal fairly with you Highlanders. You are a constant nuisance.”
    Tovi halted the wagon and climbed down. “Might I be of service, Census Taker?” he inquired. Andolph stepped back from the grinning Gwalch. “I take it you know this man?”
    â€œIndeed I do. He is an old friend. What is the problem?”
    Andolph sighed theatrically. “As you know, the new law states that all men must have surnames that give them individuality. It is no longer enough to be Dirk, son of Dirk. Gods, man, there are hundreds of those. It is not difficult, surely, therefore, to find a name that would suffice. But not this old fool. Oh, no! I am trying to be reasonable, Baker, and he will not have it. Look at this!” The little man stepped forward and thrust a long sheet of paper toward Tovi. The baker took it, read what was written there, and laughed aloud.
    â€œWell, it
is
a name,” he offered.
    â€œI can’t put this forward to the Roll Makers. Can’t you see that? They will accuse the old man of making a mockery of the law. And I will be summoned to answer for it. I came here in good faith; I like a jest as well as the next man, and it did make me laugh when first I saw it. But it cannot be allowed to stand. You see that, don’t you?”
    Tovi nodded. There was no malice in the little man, and as far as was possible with an Outlander, Tovi quite liked him. It was a thankless task trying to take a census in the Highlands, especially since the object was to find new taxpayers. “I’ll speak to him,” he said, handing back the paper and walking over to where Gwalch sat. The old man was staring at one of the soldiers, and the man was growing uncomfortable.
    â€œCome on, Gwalch,” said Tovi soothingly, “it is time for the fun to stop. What name will you choose?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Hare-turd?” countered Gwalch.
    â€œI’ll tell you what’s wrong with it—it’ll be carved on your tombstone. And you’ll not be surprised when future generations fail to appreciate