Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nuada was surprised when the Dagda summoned him, following the poet’s evening performance in the hall. The old man had been allocated quarters close to the hut Nuada shared with the girl, Kartia, and a sentry had come to them just before midnight.

‘I don’t think you should go,’ Kartia told Nuada, taking him by the arm. ‘He is a demonic man, and the Lord Groundsel says he never gives good news.’

Nuada shrugged. ‘I have met very few genuine seers; I cannot pass this by. But I will ask him no questions of death. Do not fear for me, Kartia.’ He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. ‘I will return soon.’

He walked out into the cold night air and glanced up at the shining stars. Shivering in the chill, he drew his cloak about him. The sentry pointed to an open doorway, through which he could see the amber glow of a brazier. He stepped inside to see the Dagda sitting cross-legged on a goatskin rug, his eyes closed and his hands spread. Nuada cleared his throat and tapped on the door frame.

‘Enter, poet. Be at ease,’ said the Dagda, opening his eyes and Nuada pushed the door closed. There were no chairs, nor furniture of any kind, so he sat on the rug next to the old man. ‘Is there anything you would ask me?’ queried the Dagda.

Nuada grinned. ‘Nothing, sir. I have no wish to learn the day of my death.’

‘Then why did you obey my summons?’ the Dagda asked, his dark eyes fixing Nuada with a piercing gaze. ‘To learn of you, sir. I would guess there is a song in your travels and I would be delighted to sing it.’

‘Some matters are not suited to song, my boy, and some lives are better left to mystery and magic. But you intrigue me. Are you aware of the Colours?’

‘Of course,’ Nuada replied, ‘though I have no special skill with them. Why do you ask?’

The old man stroked his forked white beard, then rose and added wood to the fire in the brazier. Nuada watched him closely. He seemed older than time, yet his movements were smooth, almost liquid. His hands were slender, yet strong, and there were no liver spots upon their backs.

‘The Colours,’ said the Dagda, returning to sit before the poet, ‘are created of Harmony. We all add, or subtract, to and from the Colours. Even as we talk, the Red is growing stronger over the realm of the Gabala. Everywhere the more vile of emotions predominate. Lust, greed, selfishness rule in Furbolg. Of care and compassion there is little to be seen. How strange then that, in this forest peopled by evil men, the Red should hold little sway. What answer can you offer for this?’

‘I have no answers,’ Nuada told him. ‘I am a saga poet; I merely re-tell stories.’

‘Can you see Colours in men?’ asked the Dagda suddenly. ‘Can you look into a man’s eyes and know his soul?’

‘No. I take it you can?’

The Dagda grinned. ‘Yes, I can. It is both a curse and a gift. I was here last year, in this pit of a settlement. The Red was everywhere. Now it is vanished and the White holds sway here now. Only just, mind. Do you know why?’

‘You keep asking me th£ same question. I can answer it no other way.’

‘You are the answer, poet. I watched you tonight, filling their heads with nobility and strength — none more so than the sewer-rat Groundsel. You are the stone that falls into the centre of the lake, sending ripples out into the farthest corners. Now that is a gift worth having.’

‘You are beginning to lose me,’ said Nuada. ‘Are you saying my stories change men’s hearts? I cannot believe that. I accept that I can — for a short time — suspend their disbelief. But in the morning, when they wake, I am just a part of the previous night’s entertainment.’

‘Not so, Nuada. A man is a complex beast and his soul is like a sponge, drawing in emotions in a random manner. Strike him and he becomes angry, his soul Red as blood. Feed him, stroke him, make love to him — and his soul softens, blurs, changes. You fill them with glory, make them all believe they can be better, stronger. You force them to draw in the power of the White.’

Nuada thought for a moment. ‘Is that bad? Is it wrong?’

‘Not at all; it is close to holiness. A man is what he knows. But his soul will yearn for all that he does not know, for hidden there is all he may become.’

‘I take it, sir,’ said Nuada uneasily, ‘that there is a point to this conversation, and you have yet to make it?’

‘There is, and I have. You have many choices, Nuada. I cannot tell you that which you fear; I do not know. It happens with perhaps one man in a thousand. You could live for fifty more years, or you could die in a few days. All depends on the choices you make. But you are a man of power, and this will mean you will draw evil to you. It cannot be avoided. The King is insane; he has summoned his army and is determined to enter this forest and destroy all who live here.’

‘Why? There is nothing here — no wealth, no army, and surely no threat.’

‘There is a threat here: it is you. As we speak, the King sits in Mactha with his advisers. They turn their eyes to the Forest of the Ocean and they see the Power of the White and the Green. The Red is beaten back… their Colour, their strength. They cannot tolerate it. They wonder, as wonder they must, how long it will be before the White pushes back.’

‘Are you saying the King and his Knights are right to fear a poet? That is madness.’

‘Did I not say he was insane? All evil men are insane, Nuada. The question is — and here is the point — what will you do?’

‘Do? What is there for me to do? I will tell my stories and move on. In the spring I shall be in Cithaeron.’

The Dagda nodded. ‘That is a good choice. You will live long and happily there and breed fine sons.’

‘That is good to know, but I see by your eyes you are disappointed.’

‘Not at all,’ replied the Dagda sharply. ‘There is nothing in the world of men to surprise or disappoint. When you go, the White will wither and the Red will gain sway. Many will die — and die horribly. The Forest will become a charnel-house.’

‘And if I stay, all will be peace and harmony? I think not, Dagda.’

‘You are correct. But there will at least be balance in the contest. And the White could win — with your help.’

‘Do I still live for fifty years and breed fine sons?’

The Dagda was silent and Nuada chuckled without humour. ‘I thought not. It is not fair of you to put this pressure upon me; I have done nothing to harm you.’

‘On the contrary, young man, you have done much to please me. It was not entirely true to say that there is nothing in the world to surprise me. I wander this forest and I see the brutality, the cruelty of Man. It is more than pleasant to see Groundsel behave like a hero; to see him care for a golden-haired child. You have been good for him; he will die well for you.’

‘I do not want anyone to die for me — least of all Groundsel. Gods, I even like the little man!’

‘And why not?’ offered the Dagda. ‘There is now much to like.’

‘Are you advising me to stay? Are you telling me it is my duty to stand against the King and his Red Knights?’

‘It is not for me to instruct you in the ways of duty, Nuada. You are a man — a good man. I am here to tell you the choices you face… no more than that. I will not judge you if you decide to make a life in Cithaeron.’

‘No, you have merely made sure that I will judge myself. Do not play with words, old man. Tell me what can be done to aid the White?’

The Knights of the Gabala must ride again.’

‘No one knows where they are.’

‘They are with the King,’ said the Dagda. They are his Red Slayers, his Drinkers of Souls. They are Vampyres, Nuada.’

Then how can they ride again on the side of the White?’

They cannot. They are corrupted by the evil they sought to destroy.’

‘Spare me the riddles then!’ stormed Nuada. ‘How can the Knights ride again?’

There must be new Knights to restore the balance. Even more than this, they must reflect the old Knights. We had eight good men who turned to evil; you must help to find eight men who can become good. Seek out a man called Ruad Ro-fhessa. He is the Armourer; he will advise.’

‘Where shall I find him? And how many Knights are there in this forest?’

There is one Lord here — you gave him the title yourself.’

‘Groundsel? You think Groundsel would become a Knight of the Gabala?’

‘He can be the first, Nuada. The first of your Knights of Dark Renown.’

Ruad was walking alone in the high meadows when Lamfhada came up to him. The youth stood back for a while, waiting for Ruad to acknowledge him. The Craftsman cleared snow from a boulder and sat, removing his bronze eye-patch and rubbing at the withered skin of the socket beneath. ‘It itches badly, boy,’ he said, gesturing Lamfhada forward. He forced a smile. ‘What troubles you, lad? When I awoke this morning, old Gwydion seemed ill at ease? Was it something you said?’

Lamfhada nodded. ‘I have been awake most of the night. Gwydion told me I had a nightmare, but I believe I have found my Colour. It is Gold, Ruad. It is all the Colours woven together.’

Tell me of it,’ said the wizard gravely. Lamfhada explained about his first flight as a child, when he had seen the Knights ride through the Black Gate and had destroyed the wolf creature with a blast of golden lightning. Then he spoke of soaring over the Forest of the Ocean on a disc of gold and scattering the wolf pack, and reviving the stag. But he could not. yet bring himself to talk of the Knight, Pateus. Ruad listened in silence until the youth had finished his story.

‘I knew you had power, my boy. I could sense it in you. And I still recall how the falling feathers of your bird reversed their flight. The talent was buried deep within you; it still is. But it will surface again, and next time it will be stronger. Bear with it. Such power is not granted without reason. You will have need of it.’

Lamfhada stood and looked away. ‘I am not wise, Ruad. I do not know whether to speak. When I told Gwydion of my flight, and what happened, he grew upset and urged me not to tell you. But I think he was wrong. I hope you will not be angry — but I left something out of my tale.’ And slowly, falteringly, Lamfhada explained about the Red Knight, watching with growing apprehension as the colour faded from Ruad’s face.

‘Pateus? He said his name was Pateus?’

‘Yes, sir. Cairbre-Pateus. Who is he?’

‘He is a Knight of the Gabala, the eldest of my Knights. He is the sin of pride returned to haunt me.’ Ruad saw the fear in Lamfhada’s face. ‘No, no, boy, do not be frightened. You were right and Gwydion was wrong — very wrong. Some time ago, before I came to this forest, I saw a vision of eight Red Knights. Deep down I knew who they were, and I knew who led them. But I would not face my fears.’

‘What happened to them?’ asked Lamfhada, returning to sit beside the Craftsman.

‘They lost. Simply that. They found evil and it conquered them.’

‘How could that be? They were the greatest of Knights.’

‘I have no answers, save that evil rarely stalks the land with horns and fire. If it did so, all men would turn from it. Take me, Lamfhada… I sent nine good men into an unknown realm, filled with terrible dangers. Was that a good deed? I did it not for the world, but for my own glory. I tell myself it was not evil, but great evil has come from it. Do you wish to debate that with me?’

‘I am no debater, sir. But I see no evil in you.’

‘No? But then had you known Samildanach, or Pateus, or Manannan, you would have said the same.’

‘What can you do, Ruad? Are they as strong as before?’

‘If Pateus can now fly the Colours, he is stronger than ever he was. And only the Source knows how powerful Samildanach has become. I need to think, Lamfhada — best that you leave me for a while.’

The youth stood for a moment, wishing he could say something… do something to help the man who had befriended him. But there was nothing and he turned sadly away. At the bottom of the hill he found Elodan hurling stones at a target chalked on a tree. None of the missiles came close to the target and his throwing stance was disjointed and awkward.

‘A pox on it!’ snapped Elodan. Then he saw Lamfhada and grinned. ‘Never give up, boy, that’s the answer. It’s what separates men from the beasts of the herd. The problem is threefold, you see. A man is right-sided or left-sided — eye, hand and leg. I am trying to change the focus of my being: to become left-sided, if you will.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘I doubt it, but I will continue my efforts until my dying day. I can do no more. I will not sit in some hut until my hair turns,silver, dreaming of what once I was. Come, let us find some food.’ He glanced at Lamfhada. ‘What is wrong, boy?’

The youth told him of his conversation with Ruad and Elodan sighed. ‘That is grim news. I knew Samildanach. What a swordsman! It is hard to believe.’

‘Ruad says evil is not always ugly, but I’m not sure I understand what he meant.’

‘I’ll explain it to you, but first we’ll eat,’ said Elodan as they returned to the cabin, where the three golden hounds sat like statues. Gwydion was absent when they arrived and they prepared a meal of cold meat and cheese, washed down with cool spring water. Then Elodan stoked up the fire and sat facing the blond youth.

‘A long time ago, when I was young, I saw a woman who fired my blood. I met her in the King’s Park; she and her servants used to gather flowers there. She was beautiful, but she was married to a nobleman twice her age, and very unhappy. We met by chance, and then by design. I fell in love with her — hopelessly, completely. I dreamed of taking her away to my estates in the north, raising a family. But it could not be — not while her husband lived. I grew to hate him — though there was nothing to hate. By his lights, he was a good man. But I would fall asleep at night dreaming of his death. It could not be right, I decided, that someone so young and beautiful should be saddled with such a husband. Anyway, one day I told a friend of mine to whisper my name to the man, and to tell him I was seeing his wife in secret. The husband had no choice then but to challenge me to single combat. He was old, but still canny. But his years betrayed him — and I slew him. And that was an evil deed.’

Lamfhada swallowed hard. ‘But what of the woman?’

‘She inherited his wealth — and married her lover. I was merely the instrument of her freedom. But I believed I was doing right; I had convinced myself he was evil and cruel. Self-deception, Lamfhada! That is why I stood for Kester against the King. Her husband was Kester’s son. You understand now something of what Ruad meant?’

‘I’m not sure. There are stories of terrible deeds in Furbolg, of Nomad families being massacred. How can the men responsible not see that as evil? It is not the same as being in love with a beautiful woman and fighting a duel.’

Elodan shrugged. ‘We were talking of self-deception. Samildanach loved the Realm the way most men love a woman. If he came to believe that the Nomads were responsible for the nation’s fall from power, I would guess he could come to hate them. But I cannot answer for him.’

‘They believe Llaw Gyffes has an army and they are coming here in the spring. I think it will be terrible when they arrive.’

Elodan nodded and gazed down at the stump at his wrist. ‘Even were I not crippled, I could not stand against the Gabala Knights. Cairbre took me as simply as I took the husband. Damn Llaw Gyffes!’ Elodan pushed himself to his feet. ‘I need to return to my work. I will see you later.’

Lamfhada watched him go, then cleared away the plates and cleaned them behind the cabin. Glancing up, he saw a stag in the distance. Suddenly its head came up and it sprinted for cover. Lamfhada scanned the countryside, looking for sign of wolves…

And saw the five hundred black-cloaked riders silhouetted against the skyline.

As the riders thundered across the half-mile of snow-covered meadows, Lamfhada raced back into the village shouting at the top of his voice. People streamed from the huts, saw the raiders and began to run for the shelter of the trees. Elodan gathered up a hatchet and joined Lamfhada.

‘Get to Ruad. He must not be taken,’ said the crippled warrior.

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll stay with the stragglers.’ Some of the men had armed themselves with bows and knives and Elodan bellowed at them to make for the trees: ‘Stay together and form a line at the top of the hill.’ There were fourteen bowmen in the party, including Brion, the husband of Ahmta.

‘Why are they attacking us?’ Brion asked, as they ran. ‘There’s nothing here for them.’

‘Ask them when they get here,’ snapped Elodan.

The raiders, swords drawn, galloped into the village. An old man — slower than the other refugees — was the first to be caught as a lance took him high in the back, lifting him from his feet. For a second or so his legs flapped in the air, then the lance snapped and he tumbled to the ground beneath the pounding hooves. A child ran from a cabin, screaming with fear; her mother, on the hillside above, turned and sprinted back for her. The child was trampled to death, the mother speared.

Then the soldiers were clear of the cabins and heading for the hillside. Elodan formed the bowmen into a line. ‘Ignore the riders. Aim for the horses and bring them down. It’s the only way to stop the charge. And do not loose the shafts until I order it.’

Longbows were hastily strung and arrows notched to the strings. ‘Draw!’ bellowed Elodan. The riders were slowing now as the hill took its toll on their mounts, but still they were closing fast. At forty paces, Elodan’s raised arm swept down. ‘Now!’ he shouted. The arrows hammered home at the centre of the line and horses reared and fell. But the wings of the charging line continued forward, sweeping round towards the bowmen. ‘Left!’ ordered Elodan. The bowmen smoothly notched more shafts and loosed them. Horses tumbled to the snow, hurling their riders to the ground. ‘Now to the right!’ The horsemen were almost upon them and two of the bowmen broke and ran for the trees. Elodan ignored them as the remaining archers bent their bows and loosed their shafts at point-blank range. ‘Now run!’ shouted Elodan, turning and sprinting towards the trees. He heard a horse close behind him and turned to see a lancer bent low over the saddle, his weapon aimed at Elodan’s heart. The crippled warrior drew back his arm and flung the hatchet with all his might. It sailed over the horse’s head to bury itself in the rider’s face and he tumbled back from the saddle.

One of the archers was down, hacked to death. The others were racing for the trees. Elodan cursed. They would never make it.

Suddenly a score of arrows flashed from the undergrowth, ripping into the riders. Then again… and again. The soldiers turned and fled down the hillside.

Llaw Gyffes stepped out to stand beside Elodan. ‘You are a man of iron,’ said Llaw.

‘That must be a compliment — coming from a blacksmith?’

‘It is. I sweated blood when I saw you form that fighting line.’

‘They’ll be back, Llaw — and we do not have the men to hold them. But I’m glad you came when you did!’

‘A man needs some luck,’ said Llaw. ‘I came upon a hunting party from this village and they said you were here, so I came with them. Then we heard the screaming and took up positions in the bushes.’

‘So,’ whispered Elodan, ‘the great hero, Stronghand, was seeking me? Might I enquire why?’

‘I need a man who understands the ways of war.’

‘Then you are to gather an army! It’s about time, Llaw. Well, this cripple will help you — if you’ll have him.’

Llaw clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘That hatchet throw was a good one. I’d say you were coming on.’

‘I was aiming for the horse,’ snapped Elodan. ‘I missed it — at less than ten feet.’

‘I’ll not tell a soul,’ Llaw promised. ‘Now let’s get back. Brion is heading the villagers for the long caves. But we’ll need food, and firewood.’

‘Might I suggest something?’

Llaw grinned. ‘You are our general.’

‘Leave me twenty men and I will form a rearguard while you move on.’

‘Be careful, Elodan. I don’t want to lose you this early in the fight.’

‘They’ve made it a war, my friend. Now they must learn what that means.’

Bavis Lan, the leader of the raiders, dismounted before the cabin where sat the three golden hounds. He walked under the rough-hewn porch and knelt by the statues. ‘By Chera! They’re gold,’ he whispered. His aide, Lugas, joined him and stood by silently as Bavis examined the statues. ‘Well?’ snapped the leader. ‘Don’t just stand there, Lugas. Make your report!’

Lugas saluted crisply. ‘We lost eighteen horses and nine men dead. Eight other men have injuries. Shall we pursue them into the trees?’

Bavis stood, a tall, lean man in his middle forties. He removed his helm and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. ‘No. Once inside the tree line they would pick us off with ease. We hit two settlements today, and we’ve given them something to think about. We’ll camp here, and strike north along the valley tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What do you make of these statues?’

‘They’re beautiful, sir.’

‘Aren’t they just? I shall take them back to Mactha as a present for the King.’

The cabin door opened and a thickset man appeared. Bavis turned, his hand reaching for his sword. The man was powerfully built and sported an eye-patch of bronze; behind him stood a blond youth, his eyes fearful.

‘Who the devil are you?’ Bavis asked. ‘The owner of the hounds. I fear they are too precious to put before a dullard like Ahak. He would not appreciate them — they have no blood, you see.’

‘Your conversation brands you a traitor,’ snarled Lugas, dragging his sword clear.

‘And your deeds brand you a butcher,’ responded the man, dropping his hand to touch the head of the nearest hound. ‘Ollathair,’ he said.

The hound’s jewelled eyes snapped open and as Lugas’ sword came up it leapt, sinking Its teeth into the officer’s forearm. Before he could even scream, the hound’s jaws snapped shut and the arm and hand were torn clear. Lugas sank to his knees, staring in horror at the blood seeping from the stump at the end of his arm.

The general was frozen to the spot. The man with the eye-patch stepped back into the cabin, the three hounds following him. The door closed.

A flash of golden light streamed from the open window. Bavis Lan blinked and then ran forward, kicking the door from its hinges. The cabin was empty.

‘Help me!’ pleaded Lugas. ‘Dear Gods, help me!’

‘Surgeon!’ bellowed Bavis. ‘Someone find the surgeon!’

High on the hillside the air split with a flash of light and Ruad stepped clear, followed by Lamfhada and the hounds. The sorcerer’s face was grim, and his hands were shaking. He turned and dragged the blood-drenched arm from the jaws of the hound and hurled it out onto the hill.

‘A curse on them all!’ he hissed.

‘We should find the others,’ said Lamfhada softly, unable to tear his eyes from the dismembered limb on the snow.

Ruad did not hear him. He stared down at the village, watching the soldiers running to aid the crippled officer.

‘I will make you pay for this, Ahak,’ he swore. ‘Somehow, Ollathair will make you pay.’ He turned away and walked swiftly into the trees, the hounds padding alongside.

They reached the long caves at dusk and found Gwydion tending an injured man. Fires had been lit inside the caves and the refugees were gathered round them. Llaw Gyffes approached the one-eyed sorcerer.

‘Are you the Craftsman?’

‘I am,’ said Ruad. He looked closely at the broad-shouldered blond warrior, noting the pale blue eyes and the red-gold beard. ‘And you are Stronghand. I hope the name fits you, boy — you’ll have need of your strength when the snow clears.’

‘I know. The Dagda spoke of the King’s army. Will you aid us?’

‘I will do what I can. But you should know the King’s forces are led by the Knights of the Gabala, and they will prove deadly enemies.’

Llaw smiled. ‘If I put my mind to it, wizard, I think I can be just as deadly. Have a little faith.’

‘It’s not faith I lack, Stronghand. But the Knights wear armour protected by spells, and carry swords of eldritch power — and even without these… gifts… their talents are extraordinary.’

Llaw put his huge hands on Ruad’s shoulders. ‘Do not tell me of their powers, wizard. Devote your mind to the problem of defeating them.’

‘It is not going to be quite that simple.’

‘I do not doubt it. But they live and breathe, so they must also be able to die. Find me a way to kill them.’