Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Duke was mildly drunk as he sat on the ramparts gazing out over the snow-covered countryside. An iron brazier had been set up beside him, but the glowing coals barely countered the freezing wind.

Far in the distance he could just make out the black line of the forest, and beyond it he could picture the sea and the trade route to Cithaeron. The dawn sky was clear and the doves were waking around the tower, wheeling and diving. The Duke shivered and held out his hands to the coals.

Three days ago he had still nursed hopes of riding the storm of the new age. But then the King had arrived, with a thousand riders. The audience had been short, and when the Duke was summoned to his own hall there had been Okessa sitting at the King’s right. And flanking the throne were the eight demonic Red Knights. The Duke had bowed low.

‘This is a troublesome Duchy,’ said Ahak, Lord of the Realm, Captain of Ten Thousand Lances. The Duke looked up into his red-rimmed eyes and could find no words; the shock of the King’s appearance, white-haired and grey of face, unnerved him. ‘Well? Have you nothing to say, kinsman?’

‘I am… heartbroken that you are distressed, my liege. Perhaps the reports have been unnecessarily alarming. We have identified all of Nomad birth, our taxes are collected and have been despatched to Furbolg. Where is the problem?’

Ahak shook his head and turned to Okessa. ‘Where is the problem, he asks. Is he slow-witted?’ Okessa shrugged and smiled and the King swung on the Duke.

‘Where? Is this not the castle from which the rebel Llaw Gyffes made his escape, to form his rebellious army in that cursed forest? Is this not the Duchy that saw your own Lord of the Feast — a man you recommended should supervise my visit, and attend my person — turn traitor?’ Okessa leaned towards the King and whispered something in his ear. ‘Ah, yes,’ hissed Ahak. ‘And what of this wizard Ollathair, who was allowed to escape? And you do not see where the problem lies?’

‘My liege, I cannot dispute we have suffered… misfortunes. But the man Llaw Gyffes was just a blacksmith who killed his wife. And yes, he escaped. But of the men who escaped with him, all but a mere handful were recaptured. And as for Errin, I blame the Lord Okessa for provoking him at the Council. The man was concerned about a woman he loved.’

‘A Nomad bitch! Who knows what foul treason they would have plotted? I am displeased with you, kinsman. But I will consider what action to take when I have studied your Duchy at close quarters. Go now.’ Dismissed from his own hall, he had not been summoned to the King’s presence since then. But he had seen others who were. Two nights ago three young women from the village had been led into the courtyard by one of Okessa’s servants. An hour later, as the Duke lay in bed unable to sleep, he had heard a terrible scream. The girls had not been seen since that night, but the Duke had watched as three sacks were carried from the royal quarters, their contents buried behind the stables. The Duke had slipped out into the courtyard an hour later and found the fresh-turned earth. Digging his ringers into the ground, he had come up with a small skull which he hastily reburied.

The following morning he had ordered his horse saddled for his usual ride across the hills, but was informed by his captain that the Lord Okessa had requested the Duke’s presence within the castle, in case the King should have need to call on him.

He was a prisoner in his own fortress, guarded by his own troops.

It was barely credible but then neither was the change in Ahak. The Duke had always known the King was a ruthless man. Six years ago the rumours had been strong that he ordered the poisoning of his uncle, the previous monarch, but in those days Ahak had been a powerhouse of physical strength, young and in his prime — his hair was raven-black, his eyes clear. Once, at a feast, he had lifted a twenty-gallon barrel of wine over his head and held it there for ten heartbeats. Now he was a shadow of the man he had been. And yet, how old could he be? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Certainly no more.

As the coals in the brazier died down, the Duke returned to his quarters. His servants brought him hot water and, with the aid of a silver mirror, he shaved carefully around his thin beard, noting the grey hairs that were beginning to appear at his temples.

His face was lean and strong, the eyes deep and set close together above a curved nose. Not handsome, he knew, but powerful. He put down the mirror and rubbed at his face with a warmed towel.

Rebels in the forest! He wished to Hell there was a rebel army ready to sweep down. But all his spies informed him that the legend of Llaw Gyffes was exactly that: a fable. He smiled ruefully. Even if the legend were true, and the army swept into Mactha, he would still be a prisoner. He was a hated man; it was a lesson his father had taught him.

‘A man can rule using either love or fear,’ he had said. ‘But fear is stronger.’ And his words had been proved true. But now, as the Duke waited for news of his fate, he knew there was not a man in Mactha who would assist him and few tears would be shed when his blood ran,

‘Breakfast, my Lord?’ asked a slave-girl, whose name the Duke did not know.

‘No.’ He looked at the girl. She was young, dark and pretty. He knew he had bedded her at some time in the winter, but could not remember much of the event. He wandered to his bedroom. He was glad he had never married; he had planned to, of course, in order to sire an heir, but had decided to wait until he was fifty. At least now he would not have the worry of a family waiting to share his fate.

Hearing the thunder of hooves from the courtyard, he walked to the window. Five hundred of the King’s black-cloaked riders were galloping from the castle and he watched them for a while as they headed for the forest.

He summoned his captain. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.

‘I understand the King has commanded them to enter the forest and ascertain the strength of Llaw Gyffes’ army.’

‘There is no army,’ snapped the Duke. ‘They will find a few settlements, and they will rape and kill. Gods! The world has gone mad.’ The man said nothing.

The Duke waved him away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and report what I have said; I don’t doubt Okessa will reward you.’

The man bowed, moved back and closed the door.

The Duke heard the key turn in the lock…

Manannan pushed back the sheets, lifted the girl’s arm from his chest and rolled from the bed. He poured himself a goblet of the golden Ambria and watched the sun rise in glory over the mountains. Strength flowed through him and he swung round to see the girl awake; she smiled at him and sat up.

‘How are you feeling, Lord Knight?’

He chuckled and returned to the bed, stroking her shoulder and pushing back the long, flowing hair to kiss her neck. Her skin was ivory pale, her body soft. Arousal swamped him…

An hour later he watched her leave and lay back on the bed. Sunlight streamed through the open window, bathing his body, and the music of songbirds came floating from the perfumed gardens below.

Manannan drank more of the elixir, then bathed and dressed in robes of blue silk. Wandering to the terraced garden, he strolled there among the blooms and the flowering trees. He found a small group of poets sitting among the camellias, arguing gently with a number of artists on the question of beauty. For a while he listened, but the sound of distant music lured him to a pavilion where women were dancing.

And the sun shone with incredible brightness.

Ollathair had been right. The tunnel beyond the Black Gate was a nightmare to chill a man’s soul: glittering eyes in the darkness, the sweat of terror upon his brow. But beyond it was a land of surpassing beauty and a city the like of which Manannan had never seen. White stone buildings towered over the landscape, wondrous statues lined the streets, and there were gardens everywhere, and woods of flowering trees.

He had been met at the city gates by Paulus, a poet and a Magister. The man, tall and white-haired, had bowed low.

‘Welcome at last, Manannan. It is a blessing for us that you have come.’

‘You know me?’ he had asked, dismounting.

‘Know you, my dear man? Samildanach has talked of nothing else. Welcome indeed! He will be delighted to hear of your arrival.’

‘He is here? Alive?’

‘Not here,’ said Paulus, smiling. ‘But yes, he is very much alive — as are all your comrades. They chose to remain among the Vyre and help us in our troubles. But you are tired from your travels. Follow me to my home; there you can bathe and take refreshment.’

The Magister’s home was a palace of exquisite beauty, marble-fronted and surrounded by terraced gardens. Young women came out to greet them and Manannan allowed Kuan to be led away to the stables beyond the gardens.

‘You have many slaves,’ he said to Paulus as they walked inside.

‘Not slaves, helpers. Servants, if you like.’ He led the Once-Knight to a suite of rooms and gave him his first goblet of Ambria. As he drank it, Manannan felt strength surge through his limbs.

‘What is it?’ he asked, astonished.

‘It is the bedrock of our civilization. It is life, Manannan. Drink of this and you will never have need of medicine, neither will you age.’

Samildanach and the other Knights were away in the north, he was told, but they would return in about a month. At first Manannan was concerned, and restless. Could he not ride out to meet them? Paulus agreed that he could, but advised him to rest for a few days, gather his strength, and then he would supply a guide. But the days passed and Manannan grew to love the white-towered city. There was something about it that opened his soul: the problems of the Realm seemed so far away, and the world he had left behind so remote and petty.

He bathed in scented water and found no need of food — one drink and his strength returned in seconds. The people here were gentle, and he spent several days roaming the libraries and museums, studying the customs of the Vyre. They were not a warrior race, though once — according to the histories — they had boasted great armies. Now they employed a mercenary force to patrol their borders, but there was little trouble with neighbouring lands.

‘Where is Samildanach?’ he asked Paulus on the fourth day of his stay.

‘He is helping to rescue some people from your own troubled land. Nomads, I believe they are called. He has opened a Gate for them to allow them to settle in our land.’

‘That is kind of you.’

‘It is not just kindness, Manannan. We have suffered, terrible plagues here during the last thirty years, and there are few people left to till the earth or supply our | needs. The land needs new blood. There are some two thousand Nomads settled already in the north. Perhaps when Samildanach returns, you can visit the new towns they are building.’

On the fifth day Manannan had been ill at ease. He felt strong as a lion, but on edge. He spoke of his feeling to Paulus, who smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You must understand,’ said the Magister, ‘that the Ambria is working inside you, rebuilding your body, making it stronger than it has ever been. It is also making you more aware of your body. What you need is a companion for your bed.’

‘I am pledged to celibacy,’ Manannan had told him.

‘Truly? For what purpose? Man was intended to mate. Trust me, Manannan.’

He had sent Draya to him that night, and she was divine to look at as well as being bright, witty and charming. Together they had finished a pitcher of Ambria and made love throughout the night. And Paulus was right. The tension in Manannan was gone; he felt smooth and relaxed, at one with this new world. After Draya he had enjoyed Senlis, Marin and others whose names he could not now remember.

The joy of it all was almost too hard to bear. The City of the Vyre was close to Manannan’s view of Paradise. It had everything except an all-powerful god and, truth be told, that made it somehow even better than Paradise. There were no judges here; the only law seemed to be Joy.

And the days passed. Manannan read the Books of the Vyre, learned their poetry, viewed their painting and sculpture, made love to their women. The Once-Knight was content for the first time in his life.

Soon Samildanach would return and they would ride to the rescue of Ollathair, put the Realm to rights, and then return here to enjoy the rewards of the blessed.

On the sixteenth evening Manannan fell asleep with these dreams in his mind. He awoke in the middle of the night, shivering and cold, and reached for his Ambria only to find the pitcher empty. He swore and rose — he was sure it had been half full when he fell asleep, but Paulus would have more. As he stood, he saw a figure sitting in the chair by the window — her back to the moonlight, her face in shadow.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Never mind. Just let me get a drink and I will talk to you.’

‘You need a drink to be able to talk?’ she responded, her voice low and deep. Something stirred in Manannan’s memory, but it danced like morning mist, dispersing as he reached for it.

‘No, of course not. But I am cold.’ He moved towards the door.

‘Then put a blanket around your shoulders. You look foolish standing there naked, holding that pitcher.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am a friend, Manannan. The only friend you have here.’

‘Nonsense. I have made more friends here than in all my life.’

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Sit and talk.’

‘I need a drink.’

‘There is fresh water,’ she offered.

‘I don’t need water,’ he snapped.

‘No,’ she admitted, ‘you need Ambria. You need the Nectar of the Gods. Is it too late for you, Manannan?’

‘Do not speak in riddles, woman. I have no time for this; I did not ask you here.’

‘You did not. Nor did I ask to be here in this cursed city. But such is the game of life. You are a Knight of the Gabala and once that meant something to the world. Only the strongest, the noblest could dream of donning the silver armour. Are you strong, Manannan?’

‘I have never been stronger.’

‘Then let me set you a task — not a difficult task. Sit here with me until the dawn — do not leave this room until the sun rises. Is that too difficult, sir Knight?’

‘What a ridiculous question. Of course it would not be difficult, but I have no wish to play this game. Now leave me in peace.’

‘The call of the Ambria is strong, is it not? I know. I cannot resist it. For me it has been too long, and no one warned me of its terrible properties.’

Manannan hurled the pitcher aside. ‘Damn you, woman, does your prattle never end?’ He stormed across to her and dragged her to her feet. It was then that she turned towards him and the moonlight fell upon her face. Manannan recoiled as if struck. ‘Morrigan? Dear Gods, Morrigan?’

‘I am grateful that you remember me.’

‘How did you come here?’

‘Samildanach brought me. Ten days after you… they… passed the Black Gate. He came to me in the night, took me in his arms and told me he loved me. He said he would show me Paradise.’ She laughed grimly. ‘Instead we came here.’

‘But… this is not an evil place.’

‘Because they are cultured and have treated you well? They have done a terrible thing to you, Manannan.’

‘Not so. I am strong, and I am happy. What terrible thing is that?’

‘And why did you come?’

‘To find Samildanach.’

‘In order to return home?’

‘Yes.’

‘To combat the evil in the realm caused by the King and his Red Knights?’

‘Yes.’

Morrigan sat down and stared out over the moonlit garden, silent for a while. Then she looked up at Manannan. ‘The Red Knights are led by Samildanach. They are your friends, my dear; they are the Knights of the Gabala.’

‘I do not believe it. Paulus says they are in the north, resettling Nomads.’

‘Indeed they are… or they were. But you have not heard it all yet, Manannan. The Nomads are coming here in their thousands… but not to till the land. They are the Ambria… they are the food for the Vyre. That is what we are here, Drinkers of Souls. That is immortality, Manannan. We suck the essence of life itself from other human beings. We are not immortal, we are merely Undead. That is the drink you lust after — if you still want it. Go and find it.’

‘You are lying. It cannot be as you say. It cannot.’

‘I want you to try to remember the man you were when you rode here — the dreams that you had. Think back to all you held dear. Think of me as I once was. You have been corrupted, even as Samildanach and the others were corrupted — great men, noble men, who now spend their days gathering human souls for Paulus and the Vyre. Look at me, Manannan!’

Suddenly she rose, gripped him by the shoulders and bared her teeth.

As he watched, her incisors lengthened into fangs, pointed and hollow. He thrust her from him.

‘Can you not see?’ she screamed.

‘Get away from me! You are a demon — you are not Morrigan at all. Begone!’

‘It is too late for you, Manannan,’ she whispered as she moved past him to the door. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Wait!’ he called, as she moved into the doorway. ‘Please, Morrigan.’ She turned. He was sweating now and beginning to feel nauseous. Taking a deep breath he walked back to the window, sitting down on the sill and breathing deeply of the scented air. She came back into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.

‘I cannot believe you,’ he said softly, ‘but I will listen. And I will accept your challenge to sit out the night.’

She nodded and sat facing him in the moonlight. Her face was pale, and there were silver streaks in her long golden hair, but her eyes were as he remembered — large, dark and almost slanted.

‘Samildanach brought me through the Black Gate. Everywhere there were monsters, demons, but he held them at bay with his silver sword and we rode for the city. I could not believe its beauty, and was astonished at the greeting we received. Paulus and several others opened up their homes to the Knights. They fed us Ambria, and we were happy. Never before, or since, have I tasted such happiness. And we changed, Manannan, even as you are changing. I tried to stop drinking the Ambria, but I could not. It fastens to the soul, corrupting… distorting. New realities appeared and we learnt that the Vyre were dying, their food sources disappearing. Soon there would be no Ambria.’

Manannan leaned forward. ‘How did this happen? Are there not people in this land?’

She smiled. ‘The half pitcher you had when I came here would have cost maybe fifty lives. This is a large city, Manannan. To feed it would take a nation of — shall we say — lesser beings? Hence the Nomads. Samildanach and the others returned to the realm, taking with them Ambria for the King. They had new armour then, the magical garb of the Elder Vyre, the warrior race who first conquered this land. They were greeted well and the King took them to his counsel. But the Ambria ran out and the King learned — as did Samildanach — how to draw life from living victims.’

‘That is what is so hard to believe,’ said Manannan. ‘He was always the most noble of men.’ He clutched his stomach and groaned. ‘Where did you put the Ambria? I just need a mouthful; I will be fine then.’

‘Wait! Be strong. You will see. Breathe deeply, Manannan.’

‘I cannot. The smell from the garden is too sickly.’

‘That is what I am saying. The Ambria shifts perceptions. Look around at the room.’ He did as she bade him. The white walls seemed greyer now, and he noticed mould above the window. The silken sheets on the bed were filthy and soiled and the room smelt of decay. He turned back to Morrigan to see that her pale ivory skin was dry, her eyes dull, her lips tinged with blue.

He swallowed hard. ‘But is this real? I don’t know any more.’

‘It is real,’ she whispered. ‘You are living in the City of the Undead. You are in Hell, Manannan. Samildanach almost saw it, but the Ambria took him.’

Manannan looked out into the garden, where the rockery steps were choked with weeds. He staggered to his feet. ‘Is there any water?’

‘Yes,’ she said, fetching him a pitcher from the outer room. ‘But be careful; it will not taste good to you for the Ambria is jealous.’

He drank deeply, and choked.

‘Have some more,’ she urged him. ‘It will do you good.’

His stomach rebelled, but he forced down the water. ‘We must get out,’ he said, ‘back to the Gate.’

‘I would not know how to open it,’ she told him, ‘but Paulus would.’

He groaned again. ‘What is happening to me? There is such pain.’

‘You were becoming one of us. Now your body — your life — is fighting back.’

His head dropped and he rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this for me? How is it that you are not affected by the Ambria?’

She laughed and rose. ‘Not affected, Manannan? Oh, but I am. I drank your half pitcher. When I look around this room I see only beauty — and a man I desire. But I can remember how I felt when first I came here… when Samildanach was a god to me. I cling to that memory and I do not want to see you — my oldest and dearest friend — riding out to gather souls for the Vyre.’

‘Help me to dress.’ He looked around, searching the room. ‘Where is my armour?’

‘You will need no armour where you are going,’ said Paulus from the doorway. Beyond him were several warriors in black armour, helms down, swords in their hands. ‘We offered you immortality, Manannan. Now you will merely aid our own.’

The warriors surged forward to pin the arms of the i Once-Knight.

Paulus shook his head. ‘Such a pity. I thought you were strong like your brothers. But no — even a fallen woman can turn your head from the glories of what could have been for you. Your stupidity offends me. Take him away!’