Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lamfhada lay in a warm corner of the cabin covered by a thick woollen blanket, his head resting on an embroidered cushion. He could hear Elodan and Gwydion talking in low voices, but the sound washed over him as he reached for the Yellow. He was anxious to see which Colour approached the edge of his vision. Would he be a Healer, or a Wizard, or a Seer, or a Craftsman? He closed his eyes, drawing the Yellow to him and feeling its warmth. His body lost all sensation of weight and he seemed to be floating effortlessly in a warm sea, slowly rolling over and over, yet rising into the glow above. Often he had reached this stage, but mostly he remained a little below it, bathing in the Yellow. Tonight he rose and rose, seeking the Colour of his life. The Yellow deepened into Gold and his eyes snapped open to see the sky was ablaze with colour: Red, Green, White, Blue, Black, Violet — and Gold. They merged and swelled together and he felt himself on a river of magic, whirling above the forest. At first he was frightened and struggled to return, but the Gold brought him tranquillity and he fastened to it.

And from the darkest, deepest corner of the hall of memory came the realization that he had touched the Gold once before — as a nine-year-old child torn by grief at the death of his mother. He remembered the hooded man chanting on the hill and knew him as Ruad Ro-lhessa, the wizard Ollathair. But there was another man close by, he recalled: a man who had sent the frightened boy home. Yet his name was still lost to Lamfhada.

His headlong flight slowed as he reached the edge of the forest. Gazing down at himself, he saw he was naked and standing on a golden circle. Far below him lay the trees, and he could see a stag running on a hillside, pursued by wolves. He shivered, afraid that he would fall from the circle, wishing it had walls. The circle curved up into a half-sphere and he sat back on a high seat.

This was wondrous beyond his dreaming.

On the hillside the stag had turned to face the pack. Lamfhada watched as it lowered its head. A wolf leapt — only to be hurled into the air. A second wolf moved in behind the stag… then another. Their fangs tore at the animal and the stag fell, its throat ripped, blood spilling to the earth. Lamfhada was struck by a terrible sadness, and the golden sphere dropped to the earth. Frightened by the light, the wolves ran off. Lamfhada stepped from the sphere and approached the dead stag. It was old, its fur grey around the mouth. The boy knelt by it and reached out; but his hand passed through the beast, and he remembered that it was his spirit that flew. Golden light flamed from his hand, filling the body of the stag. The wounds closed and the grey hairs vanished. Old, stretched muscles swelled with youth and vitality. The stag’s head came up, it surged to its feet and with one leap it bounded from the hilltop. The wolves closed in, but its speed carried it clear as it ran for the sanctuary of the distant trees.

Lamfhada climbed into the sphere and took to the skies, joy flooding him.

At the edge of the forest once more, he gazed out over the realm beyond and saw the Red gathering like a distant sunset. He sensed another presence and saw a man hovering in the sky. He was dressed in red armour and his hair was glittering white in the moonlight — and yet as Lamfhada looked closer, he saw the knight was almost transparent.

‘Who are you?’ asked Lamfhada.

Blood-red eyes turned on him and the Knight tried to fly closer. But the Gold turned him back.

‘I am Cairbre,’ the Knight whispered. ‘And you?’

‘Lamfhada. Why are you here?’

‘To see, to learn. Are you with Llaw Gyffes?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

The Knight smiled. ‘I will know him… soon. His pitiful little army will see the power of the New Gabala. Tell him I said this. Tell him the King is coming in the spring, with all his soldiers. Tell him there is nowhere to hide from the Red Knights.’

‘He would not hide,’ said Lamfhada. ‘He will not fear you.’

‘All creatures of flesh and blood should fear me,’ declared Cairbre, ‘and all who ride with me. You, boy, what is the source of your magic?’

‘I do not know,’ said Lamfhada warily. ‘I am new to the Colours.’

‘There is only one Colour of importance,’ snapped the Knight.

‘You speak of the Red. Yet it cannot heal.’

‘Heal? It can create a form that needs no healing. Why do I talk to you? Begone, boy! I have no wish to slay you.’

‘Are you in pain?’ asked Lamfhada suddenly. ‘Are you ill?’

Cairbre’s eyes flashed and he dragged his sword from its ghostly scabbard, swinging the blade at the golden sphere. But the sword bounced back and Cairbre’s face grew ever more pale.

He dropped the sword, which floated by his side. ‘Kill me,’ he said. ‘Come on, boy, kill me!’

‘Why? Why should I do such a terrible thing?’

‘Terrible? You have no idea of the meaning of the word. But you will, when we come for you in the spring. Tell Llaw Gyffes you saw me. Tell him.’

‘I will. Why do you hate him?’

‘Hate? I do not hate him, boy. I hate myself; to all else I am indifferent.’ The Knight turned away and grew ever more transparent, then suddenly he turned, his body bathed in brilliant red. ‘Ollathair!’ he cried. ‘You come from Ollathair!’

Lamfhada shrank back and a wall of golden light sprang between them.

The Knight began to laugh. ‘Oh, this is rich! Go to him. Send him my regards. Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings!’

And then he was gone.

Lamfhada fled for the cabin and the safety of his body. He awoke with a start, wondering if he had dreamt his flight, yet he could still see the burning eyes of the Knight.

He sat up. In the opposite corner lay Elodan, fast asleep; Gwydion still sat at the table, staring into a goblet. Lamfhada rose.

‘Can you not sleep?’ asked the Healer.

‘May I speak with you, sir?’

‘Why not? There is little else to occupy us.’

‘I have found my Colour.’

Gwydion’s eyes sparkled and he clapped Lamfhada’s shoulder. ‘That is good. I hope it is Green; the world has need of Healers.’

‘It is Gold.’

‘There is no Gold, boy. You are still in the Yellow.’

‘No, sir. I floated in a golden boat and saw an ancient stag die. I gave it life, and it rose.’

‘Pah! What you had was a dream — but it sounds a damn fine one!’

Lamfhada shook his head. ‘Wait! Let me try again.’ He closed his eyes and reached for the Colours. The Yellow welcomed him, but of the Gold there was no sign.

‘Do not be disheartened, lad,’ said Gwydion. ‘These things take time. What else did you see?’

‘I saw a Red Knight floating at the edge of the forest. He gave me a message for Ollathair; he said Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings.’

Gwydion recoiled, the colour draining from his face.

‘Do not deliver that message! Do not speak of it. Do not even think of it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘And that’s as it should be. But trust me, Lamfhada. Say nothing. It was just a dream… just a very bad dream.’

Ubadai knelt by the body that lay across the trail. It had six legs and was covered in scaled skin. The jaws were longer than a man’s arm, and were rimmed with three rows of teeth.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ declared Errin. ‘And there’s not a wound on it.’

Ubadai placed his hand on the creature’s chest. ‘All muscle,’ he stated. ‘No fat; this one freeze to death.’

‘They had many strange beasts in the zoo at Furbolg,’ said Sheera. ‘Perhaps someone was transporting more from the coast and they escaped?’

Ubadai shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I grew to manhood on the Steppes, and I never heard of a lizard with six legs. We should find a safe place to camp. The sun goes down — maybe more beasts.’

Warily they stepped around the carcass and continued on up a winding trail. At the top of the hill the path widened and split, one trail leading to the east, the other south. Ubadai sniffed the air. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing east.

Errin was too tired and cold to argue; he hitched his saddlebags to his left shoulder and walked on. After another quarter of a mile they came to a bend in the trail, and there ahead of them was a small stone-built house nestling against the side of a sheer rock wall.

Before it, on the snow, sat an old man in faded blue robes. His head was bald and round, but a white forked beard grew to his chest.

‘Is he dead?’ Errin asked, as Ubadai approached the man.

The old man’s eyes opened.

‘No, I am not dead,’ he snapped. ‘I was thinking, I was enjoying the solitude.’

‘My apologies,’ offered Errin, bowing low. ‘But are you not cold sitting there?’

‘What has my condition to do with you? This is my home and this is my body. If it is cold, that is its own affair.’

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ agreed Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Look, my companions and I are in need of shelter. Could we prevail upon you to allow us to spend the night in your home?’

‘I do not like company,’ the old man replied.

‘Then sit out here in the snow,’ said Ubadai. He turned to Errin. ‘Why waste time on a stupid old fool? Let’s get inside.’

‘No!’ said Errin. ‘We will find a cave or something.’

The old man grinned. ‘I have changed my mind,’ he announced. ‘You may stay. I expect you will want to light a fire. There is no wood and you will need to gather some. I believe there is an old axe inside.’

Ubadai muttered something under his breath and strode into the house, emerging moments later with the weapon. Errin bowed once more to the man sitting in the snow.

‘Why did you change your mind?’ he asked.

‘Because I am capricious by nature. Now go away and let me think.’

Errin and Sheera moved into the dwelling. There was only one large room, neatly laid out with a bed in one corner and a table with two bench seats set in the centre. The hearth was cold and empty, and there was sign of neither cooking utensils nor food of any kind.

‘I’ll gather some tinder,’ said Sheera. Nodding, Errin dumped his saddlebags against a wall. The stone house was colder than death; ice had formed on the northern wall, where water had flowed through a crack in the roof. He walked over to the bed, where a single threadbare blanket was casually laid. There was no mattress, merely a line of wooden slats.

Errin looked around; the room was stark and inhospitable. He walked out into the gathering dusk, skirted the seated figure and joined Sheera in her wood gathering. In the distance they could hear the steady thud of the axe. For some while they gathered what dead-wood could be found and carried it into the house. Sheera started a fire, but its warmth took an age to penetrate the grim cold of the dwelling.

Ubadai came in after an hour and threw the axe against the far wall. His face was red and shining with sweat. ‘Need help,’ he muttered. Errin and Sheera followed him to a clearing where he had cut down a dead tree, and reduced it to manageable chunks and sections. It was dark by the time they had ferried the fuel to the house, and the fire was blazing brightly in the hearth.

The trio sat round the blaze long into the night, and every once in a while Errin would rise, walk to the door and stare out into the moonlight where the old man was still sitting. It had begun to snow. At last Errin went out to where he sat and squatted down in front of him.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

The man’s dark eyes opened. ‘You again? What is it now? You have the house — what more do you want?’

‘Are you trying to die?’

‘What if I am?’

‘I… I know that is your own business, but the house is now warm and I would feel more comfortable if you joined us. Perhaps we could talk. Death is very rarely an answer to anything.’

‘Don’t be foolish, boy. Death is the final answer to everything. It is the end of every journey; it is peace and an end to strife.’

‘Yes,’ Errin agreed, ‘but it is also an end to laughter and joy, to companionship, to love. And most of all it is an end to dreams and hopes.’

‘Ah, yes, but then death holds no terrors for a man without dreams and hopes. Has it occurred to you that the more we love, the greater is our sadness? For ultimately all things end. No dream is ever completely fulfilled.’

‘Could it not be said the other way around?’ offered Errin. ‘The greater our sadness, the greater our joy. How can we recognize one without the counter-balance of the other?’

‘Answer me this, young debater: if a man loves a woman for forty years, adores her, lives for her, how great is the pain when she dies and leaves him alone? Given the choice to go back and start again, would he not be wise to avoid the first meeting and live his life without love?’

Errin smiled. ‘Does a man who lives in winter regret the summer? Would he choose to spend his life in a perennial autumn? The argument is not a good one, sir. Come inside and enjoy the fire.’

‘The fire is immaterial, but I will join you.’ The old man rose smoothly, brushed the snow from his clothes and followed Errin inside. Sheera was asleep by the fire and Ubadai was sharpening the old axe. He looked up at the old man.

‘Not dead yet, then?’ said the Nomad.

‘Not yet,’ the man agreed.

Errin pushed shut the door and walked over to the fire, holding out his hands to the welcoming blaze. He removed his cloak and outer tunic, allowing the heat to wash over him. ‘How could you sit there so long?’ he asked as the old man sat beside him.

‘Feel my hand,’ said the stranger. Errin took it and found it was warmer than his own. ‘Incredible. How do you do it?’

‘He is a wizard,’ said Ubadai. ‘I could have told you this.’

‘Are you a sorcerer, sir?’ asked Errin. ‘Of a sort. I am the Dagda. But I cast no spells — you are safe here.’

‘What form does your magic take?’

‘Don’t ask!’ snapped Ubadai.

‘I tell the truth,’ the Dagda answered, ‘and I see all the spinning colours in the circle of life: the past, the present, and all of the futures.’

‘You tell fortunes,’ said Errin. ‘Could you tell mine?’

‘I could, Lord Errin. I could tell you everything that lies in store for you.’

‘Then do so, please.’

‘No. You see, I like you.’ He turned to Ubadai. ‘But you I will tell, should you desire it?’

‘Pah! Not me. You shamen are all alike. Death, despair, and bad luck. You say nothing to me, old man.’

‘Very wise, Ubadai,’ said the Dagda, smiling. ‘Will you answer me one question?’ asked Errin. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Can the King’s evil be defeated?’

‘You are sure Ahak is evil?’

‘Do you see his deeds as good?’ countered Errin. ‘We are talking of the man who led the last victorious army and successfully negotiated a peaceful end to the days of empire. We are talking about the King who introduced legal reforms to aid the poor, who set up a special tax so that food could be distributed among the poverty-stricken. And have you forgotten the free medicines for the sick and needy?’

‘I have not forgotten,’ replied Errin. ‘But nor can I forget the massacre of the Nomads, nor the disgusting events now taking place in the capital.’

‘And what does that tell you?’

‘That the King has become evil.’

‘Indeed, Lord Errin, it does. But the important word is become. There is something that has entered the realm, corrupting all it touches.’

‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said Errin softly, ‘but from wherever it comes, can it be defeated?’

‘The answer must be yes. Most evil springs from the hearts of men. And all men must die — therefore their evil dies with them. But your question was perhaps more specific. Can this evil be destroyed swiftly, by Llaw Gyffes? The answer, as we sit here, is no.’

‘But it could change?’ pressed Errin.

‘There are many futures, and every man has an opportunity to fashion his own. The Colours are shifting, the Harmony gone. But, yes, it could change. You see, the success or failure of your venture depends on the whim of a thief and a murderer.’

‘Llaw Gyffes?’

‘No. Get some sleep, Lord Errin. In the morning I will be gone. Rest here until you are ready to leave, then travel east. You will find the man you seek.’

‘And where will you go?’

‘Wherever I choose,’ answered the Dagda.

Groundsel found himself strangely reluctant to part with the golden-haired child he had carried from the blizzard, but once the refugees had been found quarters in the stockade an elderly woman approached him, naming herself as the girl’s grandmother. The child’s name was Evai, and Groundsel felt both pain and gratification as she wept when her grandmother took her to the makeshift huts being erected against the north wall.

He watched from the doorway as the old woman and the child made their way across the snow, waving when Evai looked back. Arian saw him there and joined him.

‘It’s going to be very crowded here for a while,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll make my way back home.’

‘There’s another blizzard coming,’ he told her, pointing to the lowering sky. ‘Two or three days and it should be safe for a journey. Come inside and share a goblet of wine. It’s good; ten years old.’

Without waiting for a response he moved back into the hall and wandered to a blazing fire. For a moment Arian stood in the doorway, unsure. But she was lonely; Llaw avoided her company and now Nuada was living with the dark-eyed refugee, Kartia. Removing her sheepskin cloak, she went over to the fire, accepting a silver goblet filled with blood-red wine. She sipped it and sat facing Groundsel.

‘An old woman like that is no guardian for a child. She may not last the winter,’ he said, staring into the dancing flames.

‘You would be a better mother?’

His dark eyes swung on her. ‘Do not mock me, girl,’ he hissed.

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean it the way it sounded.’

He shrugged and the anger faded from his gaze. ‘Truth in it, though. I couldn’t raise a child; I wouldn’t know how. But you could.’

‘I’ll have children of my own, when I’m ready.’

‘I don’t doubt it; you’ve the hips for it. But that’s not what I meant. You could stay here… with me. We could raise the child — and some of our own. There is no better catch for you in the forest. I have everything here. And when I am ready I’ll sail for Cithaeron. And, by the gods, I’ll be one of the richest men there!’

Arian took a sip of wine, her mind racing. How could this ugly ape believe that she would marry him? The thought of him touching her made her feel ill. Yes, he was strong — and yes, he would undoubtedly become rich with his thieving and slaying. But a partner for life?

‘I have no love for you,’ she said, at last, bracing herself for his anger. But his response surprised her.

‘Love? You believe it is an arrow from Heaven? It is not. I have seen men and women without love living contented lives. Anyway, love is something that grows through companionship. I do not love you, Arian; I desire you. But that is a beginning. And I know what you see when you look at Groundsel; I am not blind. I am not tall and handsome like Llaw Gyffes, nor a talented wordsmith like Nuada. But I am strong, and I’ll still be here when they are long dead.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I could not marry you. You talk of desire as a beginning. I believe that… and I do not desire you. Your wealth does not interest me, nor a life of riches in Cithaeron. I wish I could say this in a manner less hurtful, but I am not clever with words.’

He nodded, his face showing no emotion. Then he smiled. ‘For most of my life I was denied all that I desired. When I broke away and came here, I decided that never again would I be denied anything. I have asked for your hand — as a man should. But I will have you, Arian, with or without your consent. So take a few days to think over my proposal.’

‘I do not like being threatened,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘And if you think to take me, think again. I will kill you.’

‘You think you could?’

Suddenly she laughed. ‘Take me to your bed, Groundsel, but be careful never to sleep.’

‘It might still be worth it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll never know,’ she retorted, rising. Sweeping her cloak over her shoulder, she moved back into the daylight. Snow was falling fast as she trudged towards her hut. As she approached it, she saw two sentries pulling open the main gates and watched as they bowed to an old man in faded robes of dyed blue wool. His head was bald, but a long, forked white beard flowed to his chest. The sentries backed away from him and Arian stood transfixed. The stranger seemed to float over the snow, leaving barely a trace of footsteps. He stopped in the centre of the village and sat down in the snow. One of the sentries ran to him, bringing him bread; other villagers came from their homes and clustered round him. Puzzled by the commotion, Arian strolled over and Llaw Gyffes joined her.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Arian, as the old man spread out some thirty black stones on the packed snow before him.

Llaw grinned. ‘You have heard of him, Arian — now is your chance to see. He is the Dagda. Have you the courage to question him?’ She glanced up into his mocking gaze.

‘I’ll follow you,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘I have no wish to know the future, and I’ve not the skill to question the old man. He knows it all, right up to the moment of every death.’

‘He’ll freeze sitting there,’ she said.

Llaw turned, then tapped Arian’s shoulder, pointing to the hall. Groundsel was walking forward bearing a heavy sheepskin cloak. ‘It’s part of the ritual in any village he stops in — he will wait for the head man to invite him to his quarters. Very few will refuse.’

‘Why? Does he curse them?’ she asked.

‘Worse than that… he tells them the truth.’

The crowd pa’rted for Groundsel, who bowed to the Dagda. The old man gathered his black stones, tipping them into a leather pouch; then he rose and accepted the cloak. The crowd followed as Groundsel led the yay to the warmth of the hall.

‘Would you like to see his skills in action?’ asked |Llaw. Arian nodded.

Inside the hall a space was cleared by one of the | fires and once again the old man squatted down and spread the stones. He looked up at Groundsel, who shook his head. The crowd stirred. Groundsel pointed to Arian, waving her forward. Llaw came with her and they sat before the Dagda.

‘You first,’ said Arian and Llaw cleared his throat. The Dagda gave a thin smile.

‘Pick eight of the stones,’ he said, his voice hissing like a wind through the branches of a dead tree. Llaw looked down at them; they were flat and mostly round, obviously gathered from a stream-bed. Slowly he picked his eight, then the old man turned them over one by one, examining the different runes on each. His pale eyes came up.

‘Ask me of your life, Llaw Gyffes.’

Llaw swallowed. ‘I do not know what to ask, Dagda,’ he muttered, reddening.

‘Then shall I tell you all?’

‘No!’ snapped Llaw. ‘All men die — I have no wish to know the time and the place. Tell me if we will have a good spring, with game aplenty.’

‘The spring will be fine,’ said the Dagda, with another thin smile. ‘It will come early, and the game will be more than plentiful. But you will have little time to hunt, Llaw Gyffes, for your enemies are gathering. And they will be here as the snows melt.’

‘I have no enemies,’ stated Llaw.

‘Your enemies are terrible: men of awesome evil. They fear you, Llaw; they fear your army and they fear your name. They must destroy you, and they will come to you with bright swords and dark magic.’

‘Then I shall leave for Cithaeron. Let them come there.’

‘You will never see Cithaeron, Llaw Gyffes.’

‘Can I defeat these enemies?’

‘All men can suffer defeat. I see two armies. Do you wish to know the outcome?’

‘No. Thank you for your counsel.’

The Dagda smiled and turned to Arian. He turned the stones and spread them under his long, bony fingers. She chose her eight and waited.

‘Ask, Arian, and I shall enlighten you.’

‘Will Llaw win?’ she asked. Llaw cursed and pushed himself to his feet, but before he could retreat out of hearing the old man’s voice sounded.

‘I see him lifeless on the ground before the forest, and a demon stalking the hill: a red demon with a dark sword.’

‘You foolish child,’ snapped Llaw, his angry eyes fixed on Arian. ‘A curse on you!’

He strode from the hall and Groundsel knelt by Arian. ‘Ask him about us,’ he whispered. Her face white, Arian shook her head. ‘I don’t want to know any more. I am sorry, Dagda.’

As she tried to rise to follow Llaw, Groundsel held her arm. ‘Ask him! I will abide by what he says.’

She shook herself loose and took a deep breath. ‘Tell me of Groundsel,’ she whispered. The outlaw leader blanched.

‘He too will die in the spring. I see a horse, a white horse — and a rider in shining silver. And a child on a hillside. The demons are gathering, and a great storm will descend on the forest. But Groundsel will not see it.’

‘What should we do?’ Arian asked.

‘Whatever you will.’

‘Does Llaw have to die?’

‘All creatures die. Some die well, others badly.’ He looked up at Groundsel. ‘Would you like to hear more, my new Lord Groundsel?’

‘I never asked you about me, but for years you’ve been longing to tell me, you bastard! Well, I’ll outlive you. And when this shining silver rider comes to me, I’ll kill him too. I do not believe you, Dagda. Nothing is writ in those stones that a strong man cannot change. I will make my own decisions.’

‘Indeed you will. Think on that point when you meet the silver rider.’ The old man turned his attention to Arian. ‘You asked what to do. I do not advise, I merely tell what is. But I see a one-handed swordsman and a Child of Power. I see a Craftsman, a wizard with a burden. All must come together. A balance must be restored.’

Arian left him then and made her way to Llaw’s hut, desperate to apologize. She had not meant to ask the question; it had sprung from her concern. Surely he would be able to understand?

But Llaw’s hut was empty, his belongings gone. She ran to the gate and climbed the ladder to the rampart.

Fresh snow was falling, but she could see his footsteps leading away into the darkness of the forest.

Llaw Gyffes pushed on until an hour before dusk, ploughing his slow way through drifts, down icy slopes and across frozen streams, determined to put as much distance between himself and the Dagda as possible. The man was a grim legend in the forest. None knew where he lived, but stories of his travels claimed he had walked the Forest of the Ocean for more than a century. Some said he was a former Knight, others that he was a priest, but all agreed his words were double-edged. Yet still men and women clamoured to hear of their futures — dark or bright, joy-filled or pain-borne. At dusk Llaw had a fire going against the fallen trunk of an old birch. He built a snow wall to the north to shelter him from the bitter wind and settled down to sit out the night.

Damn the girl! Death in the spring… lifeless before an army of enemies he had never courted. What unlucky star had he been born under? Which god had he offended to have his life so ruined? First Lydia — and that blow had been savage — and now a meaningless death.

The stars were bright, the temperature dropping as Llaw built up the fire and gathered his cloak around him. A whisper of movement came from the undergrowth and he drew his axe from his belt and swung his head. Sitting some fifteen feet from the fire, and gazing at him with baleful eyes, was a huge grey wolf. In the light from the blaze Llaw could see that his muzzle was white; he was old, and cast from the pack. From the size of the scarred shoulders Llaw guessed he had once been the leader of the pack; but like all creatures age had withered his strength and a younger male had forced him aside. Llaw reached into his pack, pulling out a section of dried beef which he tossed to the wolf. The beast ignored it. Llaw looked away and added more wood to the blaze. When he looked back the meat was gone, but the wolf still sat.

‘Proud, are you?’ said Llaw. ‘No bad thing, in man or beast.’ He tossed another chunk of meat, this time a little closer. Once more the wolf waited until he looked away before scooping the meat into its jaws. There were few recorded instances of wolves attacking men, and Llaw was not worried about his ability to kill the beast. His axe was sharp, his arm strong. But he was glad of the company. ‘Come, Grey One. Enjoy the fire.’

Another piece of beef landed before the wolf, but to his right, bringing him closer to the warmth. As he moved to the morsel Llaw saw the marks of recent combat on the gnarled shoulders, jagged fang marks deep along the flank. An old scar could still be seen on his right hind leg, causing him to limp. ‘You won’t survive the winter, Grey One. Even a tired rabbit could outrun you, and you’ll bring down no stags. Best you stay with me for a while.’ The wolf settled down on his haunches, grateful for the heat and his first meal in ten days.

The wound on his hind leg had been caused in the summer when a huge brown bear had attacked his mate. He had charged the beast and leapt for his throat, jibut the thick fur had prevented his fangs from sinking home and a swipe from the bear’s talons had opened a long wound in his side. His mate had died, and his own wound had been long in the healing. When the pack had gathered for the winter the challenges had come, as they always did, but he had neither the strength nor the will to withstand them. They had driven him from them many days ago.

He had lived on carrion and the leavings of other carnivores. Then with his strength almost gone he had smelt the man and had been gathering himself to attack him. Now he was unsure… but the meat was good, the fire warm. He settled down warily, his yellow eyes fixed on the man, his hunger now less keen.

Llaw delved into his pack; there were three more pieces of meat. He pulled two of them clear and bit into one. The wolfs head came up and he threw the second piece to it. This time the animal ate it at once. Adding fresh wood, Llaw settled down beside the fire. He did not fear an attack from the wolf. How could he? Did not the Dagda say he had until the spring?

He slept without dreams and awoke in the chill of the morning. The fire had died down to glowing embers and the wolf had gone. Llaw felt a sense of loss. He sat up, shivered and stoked the fire to life, adding twigs he had gathered the previous afternoon. Then he took a copper pot from his pack and filled it with snow, placing it at the edge of the fire. As the snow melted, he added fresh handfuls until the pot was half full with water. Into this he mixed some dried oats, stirring with a stick until it thickened.

The words of the Dagda haunted him still. His enemies were gathering, and he could not avoid them. That left the former blacksmith only one option. He would attempt what the legends said he had already achieved. He would build an army. He would take the war to them.

But how? How could a blacksmith raise such a force? He chuckled, ‘Start with one, Llaw. Find one man… then another. The forest is full of rebels.’ His thoughts went to Elodan, the former Knight. He at least was versed in the ways of war. And the wizard who had helped Lamfhada, he too could be a help. Llaw ate the hot oats, doused the fire and set off to the east.