Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lamfhada sat with Gwydion, watching the melting snow and the small white and yellow flowers that pushed themselves clear of the ice on the meadow. The sky was gloriously blue and the sun blazed over the mountains. The old man reached out and patted the youth’s shoulder.

‘Do not despair, my friend,’ said the Healer. ‘I know there are many who disagree, but I believe our friend is now at peace in a far better place than this.’

‘He was good to me,’ said Lamfhada. ‘He took me to his home, he taught me many things. And I made a metal bird that flew. He opened the world for me.’

‘He was a good man — and he died badly. But that is not the end, believe me. You should trust these white hairs; I have seen much in the world, and I have learned.’

Lamfhada shook his head. ‘I too have learned. The evil are always strong, and they always win.’

‘You have seen only a part of the circle, Lamfhada — for that is what it is. Good and evil chase each other round and round. If you join the circle in the wrong place, you will find evil triumphant. But continue on the journey and you will see it lose, and win again, and lose… for eternity.’

‘Then nothing is ever achieved?’

The old man chuckled. ‘That would depend on how you view achievement. The winning is not important — it is the struggle that counts.’

‘What is the point of struggling against the impossible?’

‘Hold on to that thought — and examine it, for there you will find evil’s greatest weapon. What can I do, when I am so small and weak? Why should I not steal a little, everyone else does? Why should I try to be pure, when it leaves me poor and disregarded? How can I change the world? Yet all ideas, for good or evil, start in the heart of a single man or woman. From there they spread, one to one, two to two, a hundred to a hundred.’

‘You are flying too high for me, Gwydion,’ said Lamfhada, stretching his legs and rising. ‘I cannot follow all of this.’

Gwydion rose beside him. ‘Ruad was good to you and showed you a path to follow. You will show others. The more men who follow this path because of you, the greater Ruad’s achievement. His death will not stop that. But if you despair, and take another path, his life will have been diminished. That is your debt, my friend.’

‘And how do I walk this path without him to guide me?’

‘You begin by pushing all hatred from your heart, for that is another weapon of the Great Enemy. We can never beat him by employing his tactics. We can destroy his emissaries but ultimately, if we do so with hatred, we slowly, inexorably, come to replace those we have slain.’

‘I am not a scholar, Gwydion, I am a runaway slave. Most of what you say is lost on me. Were I older and stronger, I would take up the sword and follow Llaw Gyffes. I would kill every man who serves the King.’

Gwydion looked away and spoke softly. ‘Perhaps the truth will change you. Perhaps not. Try to find peace, Lamfhada.’ The old man wandered back down the hill to where the refugees were gathering their possessions.

Lamfhada watched him making his slow way back to the caves. How could he not hate the men who had killed Ruad? Did they not deserve his hatred? He transferred his gaze to the first spring flowers. How easy for them, he thought, for when they died they merely returned to the earth, to the warmth of their bulbs, ready to grow again. Not so with men. The day of the Gold returned to his memory and he saw the old, dying stag, and felt again the joy that he, Lamfhada, had found the power to give it fresh life. But this time the joy was sullied by pain. He had never since managed to find the Gold — had he done so, he might have saved Ruad’s life.

Lamfhada closed his eyes and sought the gentle sanctuary of the Yellow. He floated for some time, oblivious to the world beyond, but Gwydion’s words echoed in the corridors of his mind.

‘You begin by pushing all hatred from your heart, for that is another weapon of the Great Enemy. We can never beat him by employing his tactics. We can destroy his emissaries but ultimately, if we do so with hatred, we slowly, inexorably, come to replace those we have slain.’

At no time during his association with Ruad had the sorcerer ever spoken of hate. Even at the last he had felt pity for his fallen Knights. ‘I don’t hate them,’ said Lamfhada. ‘I don’t hate anyone.’ Lost in the Yellow, he began to weep the first tears he had shed for his friend. His mind swam, rolling and twisting in the Colours. At first he did not care, but then an emotion close to panic struck him for he was losing his way. He stretched out the arms of his spirit form and concentrated on the Yellow, but all the Colours streamed by him at dizzying speed.

‘Be calm,’ he told himself. ‘Fear is useless here.’ The streaming kaleidoscope slowed until he floated at the edge of the Red. He pulled back, crossing the Black and the Green, seeking the Yellow and the way home. Then the strangest sensation touched him and he realized he was not alone. Yet there were no words, no touch, only a curious certainty. ‘Speak to me,’ he said, but there was nothing — only the warmth of companionship, the knowledge of friendship. ‘Is it you, Ruad?’ he asked. ‘Tell me. Show me.’ The Colours drew back before a blaze of Gold that loomed and engulfed him. On a conjured disc of gold he soared through the rainbow and floated above the Forest of the Ocean far below.

Then he saw a shimmering figure in the sky above the refugee camp. He sped towards it, recognizing the warrior Knight Cairbre. The Red Knight spun towards him.

‘Your sorcerer is gone, and this rag-tag army will concern us not at all,’ said the Knight. ‘What a waste of time and energy.’

‘I think you should leave the Forest,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Cairbre’s pale face was touched by the ghost of a smile. ‘You cannot hurt me, child. You cannot stop me. I travel where I will.’

‘Not any more,’ said Lamfhada, raising his hand. A golden globe sprang up around Cairbre. He drew his sword and lashed at it, but he was trapped.

‘Without Ollathair you have nothing,’ stormed Cairbre. ‘None can stand against Samildanach.’

‘I can,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Now begone!’ The globe flashed away at dizzying speed and the boy sorcerer followed it to the edge of the Forest. The Colours were out of harmony here, the Red pushing all before it. Lamfhada raised his arms and a wall of gold appeared, moving west and east and soaring north over his head. He opened his hand, willing the fingers to turn Red and when they had done so he touched the wall. Burning pain lanced him. He drew back, healed the hand and returned to his body.

The Red Knights would spy no more on Llaw Gyffes, and that would trouble them. Back on the hillside Lamfhada rose wearily. He knew now what he must do — and worse, what must befall them all. But there was no fear… for he was not alone.

Manannan convinced Llaw of the need to move to a safer camp in the high meadows, where they could build new homes and watch all the approaches day and night. For two days the one hundred and twelve refugees marched further into the mountains, passing several small settlements. At each, they obtained food and temporary shelter.

On the third day they were joined by Elodan and his rearguard; they had ambushed the soldiers as they rode north, killing five, and had escaped without loss. At last the refugees came to the high meadows, and began the task of felling trees and clearing the ground for new homes. The weather was calm and temperate, but all knew the winter was not yet passed and the crude dwellings were built with speed against the last savage onslaught of the snow.

Llaw Gyffes and Groundsel were tireless in their labours, stripping trees, dragging timber across the frozen ground, organizing work parties and hunting groups. Elodan took his twenty men back into the forest, scouting for signs of the soldiers and directing other refugees to the main camp. Nuada took part in no physical labour, but earned his salt at night around the camp-fires with stories and jests, tales and songs.

Manannan and Morrigan, bereft of armour, worked among the refugees. The Once-Knight had no talent with carpentry or building, but laboured hard to assist those with more skill.

By the seventh night after Ruad’s death, a new village had been built with more than thirty makeshift dwellings. Elodan had returned to report that the soldiers had sacked two more settlements and the death toll was high. More than a hundred bodies had been counted at the first, but wolves had dragged away many at the second, making a count impossible.

Nuada asked for a meeting of the leaders and chose, as its site, a deep cave above the meadow. Here he lit a large fire and waited as the men gathered. The Healer Gwydion sat beside Lamfhada and watched the warriors as they seated themselves. Groundsel was the first to arrive; short, squat and bearded, he sat with his back to a wall, his eyes on the cave mouth. Gwydion noticed that his right hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Llaw Gyffes came next, with the hawk-faced Elodan. Gwydion bowed his head to the Knight, who responded with a tight smile. Then came the former Gabala Knight Manannan, once more in armour; he and Elodan could have been brothers, for both had the same aquiline features and both were of patrician blood. Manannan was built more powerfully, his face more square, but it was in the eyes that a subtle difference could be seen. Elodan had tasted the despair of defeat, the pain of the vanquished, and it showed.

Groundsel was the first to speak. ‘Well, poet, you have us here. Entertain us, for the Gods know we need it.’

Nuada rose. ‘There is no song for you tonight, my Lord Groundsel,’ he said, his violet eyes scanning the small group. ‘Tonight we decide on a matter of great importance. We have here among us a Knight of the Gabala. Might I ask him first to speak?’

‘What would you have me say?’ Manannan asked. ‘I am here as a man, not a Knight. The Gabala Knights are no more.’

‘Then tell us of the Order, and what it stood for.’

‘Surely all of us here know the answer to that,’ said Manannan. ‘What is your purpose, Sir Poet?’

‘Bear with me, sir, and accede to my request.’ Nuada sat down.

Manannan cleared his throat. ‘The history is long, and I will not bore you with it. Suffice to say that the Knights were champions of justice in the Nine Duchies, free from interference and subject not to the power of the King nor any law made by him. They would ride into any castle and have the power to award decisions, to settle all disputes. Is that what you wished to hear?’

‘In part, Manannan,’ answered Nuada. ‘But was it not the case that often you had to fight, to kill, for your cause?’

‘Yes, though not as often as legend has it. In the main we… they represented the common people in disputes against landowners. Such landowners could demand trial by combat; that was within the law.’

‘And why were you needed?’

Manannan gave a nervous laugh. ‘Why? Because the weak must also have champions. There is no riddle there, surely?’

‘So, then,’ said Nuada, ‘without the Knights of the Gabala the weak have no one to stand for them?’

‘That is so,’ agreed Manannan. ‘Perhaps one day the Order will be re-established. I would hope that to be true.’

‘Why not now?’ asked Nuada softly.

‘Now, Sir Poet? But the Armourer is dead, the Knights corrupted — and the King has changed the laws.’

‘The Knights were never subject to the laws; you said that yourself.’

Llaw Gyffes pushed himself to his feet. ‘What are you leading to, Nuada? I thought we were here to talk of sensible things.’

‘Oh, but we are, Llaw Gyffes,’ said Nuada. ‘We are here to talk of rebirth. The Knights of the Gabala must ride again, and the people must know of it. They must ride against the King and his Red Knights.’

‘Why not?’ said Groundsel. ‘We have the armour, after all. It will be a great boost to morale to have the Knights riding beside us. I like the idea.’

‘Do not even think of it in those terms,’ snapped Nuada. ‘That is not the purpose. The Knights must ride, yes. But true Knights, pledged to all the Gabala held dear.’

‘It is not possible!’ said Manannan. ‘Believe me, poet, you have no idea what you are suggesting. There is not a man here who could stand against Samil-danach, Pateus, Edrin, or any of the others. At best you would have an arena-show, a carnival. I was a Knight of the Gabala. I trained for years for the honour, and for years after it I honed those skills. There is not a man in this forest I could not defeat, with or without a weapon — and I could never stand against Samildanach. Do you understand that? It is not enough for men to wear the armour and ride tall horses. The Gabala Knights were special.’

‘Please let me speak,’ interposed Gwydion, ‘for the debate is moving out of hand. Manannan is correct, the Knights were special. Few people understood this when they rode. They were a force not just to aid the dispossessed, or the weak, but to affect the Colours themselves. What they did was to bring hope to those without hope, and fear to those who would rule by fear. They were the balance. For each dispute they settled, ten… twenty… a hundred more would be settled because the Knights existed. Yet now — out in the world beyond — there is despair and hatred and terror. We need the Knights. And I support Nuada in this. We must find special men, strong men, good men.’ He sat down once more beside Lamfhada.

Groundsel began to chuckle; shaking his head, he rose to his feet. ‘Strong men? Good men? Here? I am a killer and a thief. I do not say this as a boast, nor am I ashamed of what I am. The world is a harsh place. Watch the wolf as it hunts the stag, or the hawk as it kills the rabbit. You want holy men in silver armour? You will not find them in the Forest of the Ocean. Now, all I am interested in is survival. An army is gathering to destroy us and the route to the sea has been cut off- So the choices are simple: win or die. And I have no intention of dying. If dressing up in those pretty suits of armour will give us a chance, let us do it.’

‘And what do you say, Llaw Gyffes?’ asked Gwydion.

The former blacksmith added wood to the fire and sat watching the flames. He did not rise, nor did he look at the men around him.

‘I lean towards Groundsel’s view,’ he said. ‘The return of the Knights would be a massive blow to the King and would make us the focus of rebellion. But after that the problems would begin. People would expect the Knights to ride fearlessly against the enemy. Could we do that — and survive? Manannan thinks not. I cannot — will not — make a decision here. I think we should vote on it, and only if all agree should we go ahead.’

Elodan stood and raised his right arm, the leather-covered stump glowing in the firelight. ‘All my life I dreamed of being asked to become a Gabala Knight. I never was. My friend Edrin was chosen, and I remained. But look at my arm before you decide. I was a fine Knight and a great swordsman, yet I could not stand against Cairbre — much less Samildanach. You — Groundsel — seem a strong man. But I could defeat you even with a near-useless left hand. How will you fare when against a Red Knight? When your body is encased in unfamiliar armour and your vision is restricted by the strips of steel in your visor? And you, Llaw Gyffes, can you ride? Can you control a warhorse with your knees while holding a shield and bearing a lance? And you, Manannan, how long did it take you to master the mace, and the hand axe and the sword?’

‘Twenty years,’ answered Manannan softly. ‘And even then I am less able with the axe than many.’

‘We have perhaps a month before we must face the might of Ahak’s army,’ said Elodan. ‘No peasant could begin to master the basics in that time.’

‘I have made swords,’ said Llaw, ‘and hefted them for weight and balance. My arm is strong. I can fight, but I accept what Elodan says and…’

‘You might accept it,’ stormed Groundsel, ‘but I do not. I do not need some defeated cripple to tell me what I can — or can not — do. Listen to him. Like all patricians, he wants to make us believe there is something extraordinary about a knight. Pigswill! A sword is a lump of iron with which you hammer at an opponent until he is down. Strength, courage and will are all you need. I vote the Knights should return.’

Llaw nodded. ‘I agree. Manannan?’

The Once-Knight looked at each man. ‘I will agree — but on one condition. If we become Gabala Knights, there must be iron discipline under the elected Lord Knight and the Armourer. No dissension. Total obedience. If that is understood, I agree.’

‘And I take it you will be the Lord Knight?’ asked Groundsel, sneering.

‘No, I could never assume that role. It should be Elodan.’

‘Why?’ asked Llaw. ‘He was never chosen in the first place — you were.’

‘He was chosen,’ said Manannan softly, ‘on the day he quit the King’s service and fought Cairbre. Trust me on this.’

‘Do not bring religion into this,’ said Groundsel. ‘I will not have it. He was chosen to have his hand cut off, that is all.’

‘Groundsel is right,’ put in Elodan. ‘It would be inconceivable to have a crippled Knight.’

Manannan shook his head. ‘If you are not elected, I take no part in it.’

Nuada raised his hands. ‘There are eight suits of armour, therefore we must find eight men. Groundsel, Llaw, Elodan and Manannan make four. Where do we go for the others?’

‘Why always men?’ said a voice from the cave mouth and they turned to see Morrigan moving into the firelight. ‘I can fight with sword, spear or bow. I can ride like a centaur. Ask Manannan. Any man who wants to take my armour can fight me for it — and die.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Groundsel. ‘A cripple leads us and a woman rides beside us.’

‘Beware, little man,’ Morrigan hissed. ‘It is not wise to offend me.’

‘Be still, my quaking heart,’ jeered Groundsel, but Nuada moved swiftly between them.

‘We will not begin such a venture by warring amongst ourselves. Elodan, do you accept the role of Lord Knight?’

‘If it is the will of all,’ he answered, looking at Groundsel.

The outlaw leader shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said.

‘Then I accept. But who will be the Armourer? You, Nuada?’ Before the poet could answer, Lamfhada pushed himself to his feet.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I will.’ Llaw Gyffes looked hard at the youth and said nothing.

But Groundsel burst into laughter. ‘Who else could it be but a runaway slave boy?’

Lamfhada raised his hand and looked Groundsel in the eye. ‘Please be silent, sir, until I have finished speaking,’ he said quietly. ‘I studied with Ruad Ro-fhessa, and I have found my Colour. I am not a sorcerer, but I have talent. And I have the will to walk the paths Ruad walked, and the desire to see an end to this evil. I also know how you may choose your Knights and be sure of them.’

‘How?’ asked Llaw Gyffes.

‘Come with me.’ The boy turned and they followed him to the wooden armour-trees. ‘There, Groundsel, choose your armour.’

The outlaw leader walked along the line of trees. ‘There is nothing here to fit me; it will need to be altered.’

‘Take the suit that beckons you,’ Lamfhada advised.

‘What does that mean?’ snapped Groundsel. ‘I hear no voices.’

‘Choose, Groundsel.’

‘Do not order me, boy!’ He looked around. ‘That one; that will do.’

‘Now put it on.’

‘It won’t fit; it’s too high and narrow. Oh, all right…’ Groundsel reached up and took down the breastplate. Manannan stepped forward and helped him into the habergeon, then buckled the breastplate into place. Piece by silver piece the armour was fitted to the squat outlaw, until he stood arrayed in the full splendour of a Gabala Knight. He looked at the helm and lifted it. ‘Well, this will never fit,’ he said. ‘Look at it!’ He lifted it to the top of his head and lowered it gently, waiting for the touch of metal to his skull. The helm settled into place. He lifted it clear again. ‘So I was wrong. It only looked too small.’

‘No,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Pick up a gauntlet — just one — do not touch the other.’ Groundsel did so. It was black, with silver mail across the knuckles. He slid it on and was amazed to find that it fitted his short, thick fingers exactly. ‘Now place it beside its partner and observe them,’ instructed the boy. Groundsel obeyed and Elodan and Llaw leaned over to see that the gauntlet he had tried was now shorter than the other, the fingers thicker. ‘Now the other,’ said Lamfhada, and Groundsel was not surprised when the second glove fitted as well as the first.

‘The armour is waiting,’ said Lamfhada. ‘They will choose the new Knights.’

‘And what of me?’ Morrigan asked.

‘You are already chosen, Lady, as are all here. But others will come. Two will be here tomorrow — and one awaits rescue.’

‘What has happened to you, boy?’ asked Llaw, placing his hand on the youth’s shoulder.

Lamfhada smiled. ‘I flew too high and saw too much.’ Gently he lifted Llaw’s hand from his shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, Elodan will begin to teach you all what it means to be Knights of the Gabala. But before he does, one fact must be made plain. When the final battle is over, some of you will be dead. You must understand that and accept it, or there is no point in continuing.’

The warriors stared hard at the youth, but nothing was said until Manannan moved forward.

‘You have a task for nie, I think?’

‘Yes,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Do not be sorry, Armourer. It is a long time since I felt the Colours move so strongly. I knew before you spoke that you were chosen, as I knew that Elodan would lead us.’ He swung to face the others. ‘The Gabala Knights are reborn, and I pledge my life to their cause. Any man who disgraces that cause will answer to me. There is no oath to swear, no holy relic to hold. But you will make a promise to yourselves. From this day on no evil shall touch you, and nothing you do will be for selfish gain. From now, until the end, the Knights will represent justice. Win or lose, there is no compromise. If any here feel they cannot live to these ideals…’ he stared hard at Groundsel, ‘walk away now. Do not look back. Do not even consider moving on.’

‘I’ll do my share,’ promised Groundsel. ‘I do not need to be preached at. And the armour chose me — isn’t that right, boy?’

‘You were the first to be chosen,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Is that not true, Nuada?’

‘Yes,’ admitted the poet. ‘And now, since I am no longer needed here…’

‘But you are,’ Lamfhada told him.

Nuada swallowed hard. ‘I am not a Knight. I cannot use a sword. I…’

‘You can hear the armour calling you. Take it.’

‘I can’t! I won’t. I… don’t want to die here. Do you understand?’

‘We all understand,’ said Llaw Gyffes. ‘Don’t worry, poet. Go. back to the village.’ Nuada nodded and walked away for several steps… then he stopped and turned. His face was ghostly pale and he stared at the armour. He closed his eyes as if in pain, then opened them and took a deep, shuddering breath. As the others watched, he walked forward and touched a suit of armour. It shimmered and changed. Slowly he drew the sword from its scabbard and held it before him. Jagged black lines snaked along the blade, the steel splitting into shards that tumbled to the floor.

‘What in Hell’s name does that mean?’ whispered Groundsel.

‘Time will tell,’ answered Lamfhada, with a broad smile.

As dawn touched the sky, Elodan walked beside Lamfhada to the rear of the cave. Ruad’s three golden hounds sat before the armour.

‘How did they come here?’ asked Elodan.

‘I summoned them,’ the boy sorcerer told him. ‘They may prove useful, though I hope not to use them. You know which armour must be yours?’

‘Yes,’ answered the Knight, moving to stand before the white and silver helm of Samildanach. An eagle adorned the visor and filigree work of exquisite beauty covered the helm. The breastplate too was embossed with shimmering leaves, as were the greaves and leggings.

‘This armour is worth more than my entire estate,’ whispered Elodan, reaching out and resting his hand on the metal. ‘It is magnificent.’

‘Wear it with pride, Elodan.’

‘Wear it? I am not fit to touch it.’ He lifted his stump. ‘And how do I even put it on?’

‘I will help you.’

Elodan laughed. ‘This is a sorry jest, Lamfhada. The shades of past Gabala Knights would burn with shame.’

‘I do not think so, Lord Knight. It always took more than a steady sword hand to be a Gabala Knight. It was a question, surely, of heart and soul? You told me of the woman you loved and the husband you slew. Nothing can wipe away the deed, Elodan. But that is the past, so let it lie. Let it be buried. Be the Lord Knight to the best of your abilities. Teach the others and those who will follow them.’

‘I am not worthy,’ repeated the Knight.

‘None of us is. And we have little time to become so. Come, let me help you into your armour.’

Within the hour Elodan, Llaw Gyffes, Groundsel, Morrigan and Nuada were all fully dressed in the chain and plate of the Gabala. Lamfhada called the poet to him and left Elodan to instruct the others.

‘What good will I be to the cause?’ asked Nuada. ‘I feel ridiculous; it is a sham.’

‘No, it is not,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘The sword broke because it was not needed. You will not be a warrior Knight, Nuada. It is not — thank the Source — in your nature to kill. You will be our herald. You will journey through the forest, to every settlement, and tell them the Knights have returned. You will gather men to our cause. But more than this, you will help the Harmony of the Colours. You must lift and inspire your hearers as never before. You must fill their hearts with hope. Take Kartia with you, and Brion. Go north for two days. You will find a sheltered valley and a man who breeds horses. Purchase mounts for yourselves, and ask the man to deliver seven grey stallions here during the next week.’

‘Seven stallions? Does he have that many to spare?’

‘He has — and he will part with them. He is a Nomad called Chrysdyn; he is a fair man, and you will meet the price he asks.’

Nuada!s violet eyes pulled away from Lamfhada’s gaze. ‘You have seen the future, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ admitted the young Armourer. ‘I have seen all the futures. Do not question me, Nuada.’

‘No, I won’t.’ The poet forced a smile. ‘You have come a long way since I found you in the forest with an arrow in your back. I think you have found a truth that has eluded me all my life. I wish you would share it.’

‘I cannot do so, Nuada — not because it is secret, but because it is not. And you will discover it; you will know, even as I know. Be careful where you ride, my friend.’

The two shook hands and Lamfhada walked with the poet to the cave mouth.

‘Where is Manannan?’ asked Nuada suddenly. ‘I have not seen him this morning.’

‘He left last night. And that reminds me: Chrysdyn has lost one stallion and he will search for him most of today. Tell him you will pay for the lost horse, and that it is safe.’

‘Manannan has it?’

‘Yes. I brought it to him.’

‘I take it Manannan will be in danger?’

‘We are all in danger, Nuada. But yes, Manannan is riding into the demon’s lair. Think of him as you journey.’