Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After five days of wandering in the forest, Errin was footsore and weary. Twice they had been forced to hide from outriding scouts of the King’s Lancers, and three days before they had arrived at a ruined village of rotting corpses. Errin could not forget the scenes of destruction; they had filled him with horror and left him nauseous.

Ubadai had wandered over the scene, examining the tracks. ‘They rode in from the north and south. At sunrise. Breakfast fires just lit. Villagers had nowhere to run. Maybe a dozen escaped east, but horses rode after them — they would have been caught.’

‘Such slaughter is senseless,’ said Errin. ‘What does it achieve?’

Ubadai shrugged. ‘Terror. Good weapon. Make men fear you.’

‘You condone this sort of butchery?’ asked Sheera. ‘What kind of a man are you?’

‘What does that mean?’ Ubadai demanded. ‘Condone?’

‘It means,’ explained Errin, ‘that you agree with this action.’

‘I do not agree. I answer question. What it achieves? In my grandfather’s day the Khan would ride to war and sack the cities of his enemies. He would go to the first city and give them warning: surrender and they lose only treasure; fight and all would die. They always fought first time. But then the Khan would take all the prisoners out of city and kill every man, woman, child — bar one. This one was sent to next city. They surrender mighty fast.’

‘It is still evil,’ said Sheera.

Ubadai spread his hands. ‘This is the way the world knows. Many people now run from forest. Save families. This makes for small rebel army, you understand? And small army less a problem than big army. We should be in Cithaeron.’

On the afternoon of the fifth day Errin sat down beside the path and checked the soles of his riding boots. One had worn through, the other had split at the seam.

‘Look at them,’ he said to Sheera. ‘You know how much these cost?’

She chuckled. ‘Poor Errin! The forest life does not suit you.’

‘Be silent!’ hissed Ubadai, drawing his short sword from its scabbard.

‘What’s happening?’ Errin asked. Three men leapt from the undergrowth and Errin dived aside, rolling to the earth. As he rose and reached for his belt, two more attackers jumped to his back, bearing him to the ground. He twisted his head to see Ubadai at bay, his sword ready.

‘Don’t fight!’ shouted Errin. ‘Put up your sword!’ Ubadai muttered something inaudible and spat, but he sheathed the blade and allowed the newcomers to pin his arms. Errin was hauled to his feet as a young woman stepped from the bushes. She was tall, with honey-blonde hair, and dressed in tunic and trews of buckskin.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘Looking for Llaw Gyffes,’ said Errin. She smiled.

‘For what reason?’

‘That is no concern of yours,’ he answered. She drew a wickedly sharp hunting knife and placed it against his throat. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, ‘why make a mystery of it? We are here to join the rebels.’

‘I think you are spies,’ she said. ‘You are no forester, you are a King’s man.’ Errin managed a smile. The man on his right had firm hold of his bicep, but his forearm was free and carefully he slid his hand to his belt buckle.

‘Ollathair,’ he said.

‘What was that?’ asked the woman, but her voice had slowed and deepened. Errin surged free of the men holding him and brushed aside the knife. The man to his left aimed a clumsy blow at his head, but Errin ducked and crashed a fast right-hand punch to his assailant’s jaw. The man dropped slowly to the grass. Errin leapt and cannoned his foot into the face of the second attacker, who spun and toppled to the ground with graceful lack of speed. The woman was moving in, her knife sweeping up towards Errin’s belly, but he grabbed her wrist, twisted and caught the blade as she dropped it. Raising it to rest against her long neck, he touched the belt buckle.

‘As I said,’ he told her, ‘I am here to join Llaw Gyffes. Will you take me to him?’

‘You are very fast,’ she said, lifting her hand and gently pushing the knife from her neck.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I am no spy. My name is Errin.’

‘May I have my knife back… Errin?’

‘Of course,’ he said, reversing the blade and handing it to her. She moved to the fallen men and knelt by them. One was stirring. Errin wandered to where Ubadai and Sheera were still being held. ‘Would you be so kind as to release my comrades?’ he requested. Ubadai shook himself free and stalked away, muttering curses beneath his breath. Sheera approached Errin and took his arm.

‘You are a constant surprise to me,’ she whispered. ‘I am so relieved she didn’t hit you. That would have been embarrassing.’

He grinned. ‘I enjoy surprising you.’

‘I’ll kill the bastard!’ Errin spun as one of his earlier attackers stormed to his feet, dragging a knife from his belt.

‘No!’ shouted the woman. ‘We’ll take them to Llaw.’ The man hesitated, but he was unconvinced. Errin swallowed hard and rested his hand on his belt.

The man walked forward. He was tall and black-bearded and his eyes were angry. ‘I won’t forget this,’ he hissed. ‘You and I will settle it — you understand me?’

‘I believe that I do,’ said Errin. The man nodded, rammed his knife into his belt and pushed past them.

The woman approached. ‘My name is Arian; I am a friend of Llaw’s. If you follow I will take you to him.’

As she walked away ahead of him, Errin’s eyes were drawn to her swaying hips. ‘I think I’d follow her anywhere,’ he said. But Sheera did not smile. Errin looked closely at his companion, but said nothing.

They crested a hill and found themselves looking down on a bustling community. Homes were still being erected, and elsewhere archers were loosing shafts at crudely made targets. On the hillside some wild cattle had been gathered, alongside some bighorn sheep. Errin halted as light flashed from something bright and metallic on the hillside opposite. Four figures in silver armour seemed to be fighting each other; but watching for a few moments, he realized they were merely practising their skills.

‘Who are they?’ he asked Arian.

‘I have no idea. Let’s find Llaw.’

It seemed to Errin that the young woman was more than surprised to be directed to the hillside, and to find the legendary Llaw Gyifes arrayed in silver armour.

‘What the Hell…?’ she began, but Llaw gestured her to silence and approached Errin.

‘I think we’ve been expecting you,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Errin shook it. ‘You have?’

‘Our Armourer told us two would arrive today. I suggest you go up to the cave and speak to him.’

‘Now?’ asked Errin.

‘Unless you have other, more pressing, plans?’

‘No, not at all. We will speak later.’ Errin, Ubadai and Sheera began the long walk to the cave, while Arian remained behind with Llaw.

As the trio approached the cave mouth, a youth strolled out to meet them. Errin stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sheera asked.

‘This is the boy I shot.’

Lamfhada moved to meet them. ‘Welcome, Lord Errin, welcome to the Forest of the Ocean.’

‘Nice to see you again. Can you direct us to the Armourer? I’d love to stop and talk about old times, but…’

‘I am the Armourer. And do not fear "old times". The past is dead. And no one here knows that you hunted me.’

‘I see. What do you require of me… of us?’

‘Stand for a moment… and listen,’ said Lamfhada. Nonplussed, Errin allowed the silence to grow. The sound of distant music came to him; he strained to hear it, but it drifted like the echo of an echo.

‘What is it?’ he asked. Lamfhada said nothing. ‘Can you hear it?’ he asked Sheera; she shook her head.

‘I can,’ said Ubadai. ‘It is something in the cave.’

Errin moved to the cave mouth. The sound — if sound it was — was stronger here. It seemed to whisper in the caverns of his soul… calling, drawing him in. He turned to Ubadai, who was now standing beside him.

‘You can hear it?’

‘Yes,’ answered the Nomad. ‘Let us get away from here.’

‘It does not feel threatening.’

‘Trust me,’ said Ubadai.

‘You should listen to him, Errin,’ advised Lamfhada. ‘If you enter the cave, your life will be changed for ever. Worse, it may bring you pain and an early death.’

‘He’s right. Let’s go,’ said Ubadai, grasping Errin’s arm.

‘No,’ whispered Errin. ‘I must go in.’

‘Why you such a fool always?’ shouted Ubadai, but Errin pulled free of him and walked into the cave. It was torchlit, the shadows dancing like ghosts in the dark. Errin walked on until he stood before the three remaining suits of armour. He heard a sound from beside him.

‘It is the armour calling you,’ said Lamfhada.

‘It is Gabala armour; I cannot wear it.’

Lamfhada nodded. ‘It is little known, Lord Errin, but one of the most important virtues of all Knights of the Gabala was that not one of them ever expected the honour. To expect it was to lose it. And what you have just said has been said before, a hundred times, by every man who wore the silver.’

Errin turned. ‘I am a Lord of the Feast, not a warrior. Never a warrior!’ He laughed and pointed to his belt. ‘I wear a sorcerer’s charm that gives me speed. But it is not from me — not from within.’

‘I know all this, Errin. But you have been chosen.’

‘By whom? By you?’

‘Not by me. But now it is your choice. You can walk away — and no man will judge you.’

‘What of the men whose armour this is? What of the real Knights? Supposing they return? Can I give it back?’

‘They have returned, Errin. They are the enemy: the Knights of the Red.’

‘And I will have to go against them? Cairbre? I fought him once. He is unbeatable; he even gave me his own sword.’

‘Then choose your path.’

Errin swung to stare at the armour. Licking his lips, he tried to draw back, but his mind was full of raw memories: Dianu at the stake, the jeering, chanting crowd, Okessa… His hand reached out, his fingers touching the metal. Warmth flowed through him and tears started in his eyes.

‘Damn you!’ shouted Ubadai. ‘Always the fool!’ The Nomad strode forward and pushed past Errin. He walked to a suit of armour and slapped his hand against it. ‘This is mine!’ he hissed.

‘Why?’ whispered Errin. ‘You did not have to join me.’

‘You know nothing,’ said the Nomad. ‘Locked in a pantry, you would starve to death.’

The grey stallion walked into the glade with head held high, ears pricked. It saw the man waiting and approached him boldly, secure in its power. The man rose and held out a hand, rubbing the stallion’s nose and stroking its neck. The touch was sure.

Manannan smiled. ‘You are not Kuan, my friend,’ he said softly, ‘but I think you will do.’ He swung himself to the stallion’s back and the beast reared suddenly, but the Once-Knight was ready, his thighs gripped hard to the horse’s flanks. ‘Steady, now,’ he soothed. ‘Steady.’

Riding bareback, he headed the horse down from the hills to the ruined village. Several dead horses lay where they had fallen, but Manannan dismounted downwind of them and selected a saddle and bridle.

Within the hour he was riding from the forest towards the distant fortress of Mactha.

He was worried, as he rode — and not just for his life, though his peril did not escape his anxiety. His thoughts were of Lamfhada and the new Knights. Only Elodan had the skill and the training for the role — and he was crippled. The outlaw Groundsel was a man full of barely concealed bitterness, while Nuada was a poet who could never take up arms. As for Llaw Gyffes? Manannan liked him; there was iron in him. But was that enough for a Gabala Knight? A man could eat sparrows and convince himself they were turkeys — but the question of taste remained. And Morrigan… poor Morrigan.

For several days Manannan had endured the pangs of withdrawal from Ambria. For Morrigan, the nightmare must have been infinitely worse. And yet she had not complained once. But then the Once-Knight had heard of the disappearance of a man from Groundsel’s group, and his fears had begun.

He reached the edge of the trees and looked back. Somewhere within the vast forest an enemy force was riding. Manannan wished he could have ridden against it with Elodan and the others.

Instead he must ride into the lair of the enemy and fight a duel with a man who had been a brother. It would be Pateus, who had now resumed his former name, Cairbre: Cairbre the thinker, the oldest of the Knights. Cairbre the kind, always the first to entertain the village children with stories. Now he was Cairbre the Drinker of Souls. It was almost inconceivable.

Manannan dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

And rode for the castle…

The Duke of Mactha was brought out into the field and the crowds jeered and hissed. He wore a simple tunic of black wool edged with silver braid, dark grey riding trews and boots, and a short leather cape lined with fur. His head was held high and he looked neither left nor right as he was led to the execution cart set before the King’s pavilion. Climbing into the cart, he stood facing his monarch. All around the field were the newly arrived soldiers of the King’s army, waiting eagerly to see the execution. The Duke glanced to his left at the scaffold and the huge vat of boiling water beside it. A shiver went through him and he looked away. As soon as this farce of a trial was over, he would be taken to the scaffold and hanged. But before he could die, he would be cut down and plunged into the boiling water. Then his arms and his legs would be hacked away. Hanged, drawn and quartered… the traditional end for traitors.

The Duke returned his gaze to the King. On his right sat the eight Red Knights; on his left the Lord Seer, Okessa.

Okessa rose and fixed his pale eyes on the Duke. ‘You have been brought here before your peers and your liege lord to answer charges of treason, of aiding and giving counsel to traitors. How do you plead to these accusations?’

The Duke smiled thinly. ‘I say that they are nonsense. Now shall we get on with the execution? You are beginning to bore me, Okessa.’

‘We will see how bored you will become,’ Okessa snapped. ‘Let us hear from the witnesses.’

For the next hour the Duke listened to a variety of stories from his servants and his soldiers: that he went to Errin and offered to help him escape, that he had condemned the King publicly, that he had suggested to his first officer that if the King were assassinated while at Mactha there was a good chance the Duke himself would be declared the next monarch.

As each witness finished his testimony, the Duke was asked if he had any questions. He had none. At last the ritual came to its close, and now Okessa rose once more, demanding that the traitor should meet his fate at once. The King had sat silently through the trial.

Now he rose — his white hair shining in the sunlight, his pale face glistening with sweat.

‘Has the prisoner no words to say in his own defence?’ he asked. ‘Does he not wish to beg for clemency?’

The Duke laughed aloud. ‘I have stood here and wasted a beautiful morning, my liege, listening to lies and deceits. I will not spoil it further by adding the truth. To be honest, though, for a moment, I think this is rather a good day to die. So let us…’

His words faded away as the sound of a trotting horse came to him. He turned and saw a Knight in silver armour riding slowly across the field. The crowd was silent as the Knight approached.

‘Who are you, sir?’ demanded the King.

‘I am Manannan, a Knight of the Gabala.’

‘That is a lie. The Gabala Knights have gone. You are an imposter.’

‘I see Samildanach sitting beside you, my lord. He will vouch for me.’

The King swung to the Red Knight, who rose and removed his helm. His hair was close-cropped and white, his eyes a brilliant blue.

‘What do you do here, Coward Knight?’ asked Samildanach. ‘Have you come to pay homage to your betters?’

Manannan ignored him and fixed his gaze on the King. ‘I am here, my Lord, to champion the cause of the Duke of Mactha, and demand the right to trial by combat.’

‘A traitor has no rights,’ screamed Okessa, but the King waved him to silence.

‘You wish to go against Sir Cairbre, who is the King’s champion in this Duchy? Is that wise, Sir Knight?’

‘Who knows, sire? It would certainly add some spice to the proceedings,’ Manannan replied.

‘That is true — and it should not be said that the King decries the customs that made our ancestors masters of the world. Very well. Let the fight commence.’

‘It is customary, my lord King, for a horse to be brought to the accused, for should he be proved innocent he may desire to ride from his place of execution and not walk like a prisoner between guards.’

‘Let it be so done,’ said Ahak. ‘Are you ready to champion my cause, Cairbre?’ he asked. The Red Knight stood and bowed. ‘As always, my liege.’

Manannan dismounted, tethered his stallion to the execution cart and waited until a second horse had been brought for the Duke.

‘Why are you doing this for me?’ asked the prisoner. ‘I do not know you.’

‘But you do, my Lord. A long time ago, you and I jousted and you unseated me. But that is the past. I do it because it needs to be done. When the battle is over, mount the horse and ride like the devil towards the forest.’

‘What of you?’

‘With luck I shall be beside you.’

‘Can you defeat Cairbre?’

‘There is — always a first time,’ replied Manannan, pulling shut his visor and striding out to the centre of the field, where he drew his longsword and plunged it into the ground by his feet. Cairbre walked slowly down the pavilion steps and marched to stand before him. His visor was open, and Manannan was shocked to see that his old friend appeared to have become once more a youth.

‘Surprised, Manannan? You should not be. Paulus, whom you so cruelly slew, could have given you this for yourself. Immortality, Manannan — that is what you threw away.’

‘I did not kill him, Pateus; Morrigan did that. And such immortality as you have, I would not desire. Come, let us cross blades and be done with it.’

‘I do not desire your death, Manannan, but I have no choice. I will make it swift for you, I promise you that.’

‘Youth has changed you, Pateus; it has given you arrogance.’ Cairbre smiled and raised his sword and Manannan’s blade swung up to rest against it. Both men looked to the King.

‘Begin!’ he shouted. Cairbre’s sword slashed down, but Manannan blocked the cut with his cross guard and sent a wicked blow crashing into Cairbre’s side. Crimson armour-plates sundered and split — but the sword was halted by the chain-mail beneath.

The crowd began to bay and cheer as the Knights circled one another, swords ringing and clashing in the discordant music of battle. Cairbre was slimmer and faster, but Manannan was powerful and his defence sure. Time and again the swords hammered against the defensive plate worn by both men, but neither combatant could land a deadly blow. The battle wore on. Manannan’s blade blocked a thrust aimed at the groin, and lashed out to crash against Cairbre’s waist. Again the crimson plates parted, and now blood began to seep through the mail-shirt where the rings had been driven into the flesh beneath. Cairbre circled to his left, trying to guard the wound, but Manannan launched a fresh attack — feinting a blow to the head, only to bring the sword slicing down to rip into Cairbre’s injured side. This time blood sprayed from the wound.

Manannan surged forward — only to suffer a riposte that all but tore his helm from his head. Even wounded, Cairbre was not an opponent to take lightly. Manannan moved in more cautiously; Cairbre was growing desperate, and the Once-Knight knew that the battle was reaching its climax. Now Cairbre had only one chance — a swift attack and a killing blow to the neck-plates. Manannan gave him the opening. Cairbre’s sword flashed in the sunlight. The Once-Knight ducked beneath the slashing blade and rammed his own sword, point first, into Cairbre’s side, driving the blade up, and up, tearing through Cairbre’s lungs. As the Red Knight sagged to his knees, Manannan pushed him to his side and tore loose the sword. Cairbre groaned and tried to speak, but blood fountained from his mouth.

In the stunned silence that followed Manannan rose, walked to his stallion and mounted.

He bowed once to the King and wheeled his horse. The Duke leapt from the cart to the saddle of his own mount and the two riders thundered across the field towards a high picket fence.

‘Stop them!’ shouted Okessa and the crowd ran at them, but the riders approached the fence well ahead. The Duke leaned forward in the saddle and his horse surged up and over the barrier. Manannan followed him, almost losing his balance.

Then they were away and clear.

Manannan glanced back. The King’s riders had reacted swiftly and the chase was on.

Bavis Lan was sick of the forest. For sixteen days he and his men had hunted down traitors, destroyed villages and butchered the inhabitants. And at no time had they come across any sign of a rebel army. It was galling to think of the long ride back to Mactha and the sterile report to be made to the King. Two days ago they had captured the leader of a small settlement and he had been tortured to death. Throughout his ordeal, Bavis had questioned him concerning Llaw Gyffes and his army. The man had known nothing.

Bavis hitched himself round in his saddle, looking back at the four hundred and eighty-three men riding behind him. Only seventeen had died during the brief campaign, and that included young Lugas whose severed arm had turned blue with corruption. He hac? died screaming three nights ago. The slight losses alone should ensure that the King believed his tale: there was no rebellion.

The column wound its slow way down the forest paths and out on to the open ground before a range of wooded hills. Here Bavis raised his arm and signalled a halt for the midday meal. As he did so, three riders came galloping from the woods to the right. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight and tried to identify the men, thinking them to be his scouts. As they neared, he saw that they were dressed in foresters’ buckskins — and each carried a bow.

The riders hauled on the reins of their mountain ponies some thirty paces from the column and loosed their shafts. Bavis ducked low over his stallion’s neck and an arrow took the man behind him in the throat. The three attackers turned their mounts and thundered away towards the trees.

‘First Turma, after them!’ yelled Bavis and sixteen riders promptly peeled away from the column and spurred their horses into a gallop. The tall horses of the soldiers were stronger and faster than the ponies, and Bavis could see that the enemy would be overtaken just before they could reach the safety of the trees. The foresters wheeled their ponies and loosed a second volley of arrows. Two soldiers were shot from their mounts; a third swayed in the saddle — a shaft lodged in his shoulder.

Suddenly six Knights in armour of shining silver rode from the trees and Bavis blinked. The newcomers hammered into the charging lancers, swords bright in the sunlight. Horses reared and men died and the charge broke.

‘Advance!’ roared Bavis Lan, and the entire column galloped towards the fray. The six Knights cut and hacked their way clear of the First Turma and rode back into the forest, their grey mounts barely cantering. Fury filled Bavis. Dragging his sword clear of its scabbard, he screamed a battle cry and set off in pursuit. The trail within the trees was wide and the Knights were just ahead.

A terrible groaning noise came from Bavis’ right and he swung in the saddle in time to see a huge tree crashing down behind him. Men were swept from their saddles, horses crushed beneath the falling giant. A second tree fell — and a third. Panic swept through the column as riders dragged on their reins and tried to steer a path away from the trail. Arrows tore into them from the undergrowth. Bavis was lost. The thunderous noise of crashing trees, the pitiful screams of the trapped and dying, the chaos of the ambush, left him unable to think clearly.

‘Back!’ he yelled. ‘Retreat!’ But there was nowhere to go. An arrow glanced from his breastplate and tore up into his cheek.

He had to get away! He dragged at the reins and found himself facing the six Knights, who had turned and were once more moving in for the attack. Bavis kicked his horse into a run and swerved from the trail; an archer loomed up before him, but he lashed his sword across the man’s face.

Now he was clear and racing for the safety of the open ground beyond. He glanced back to see a single Knight following him. His horse stumbled, righted itself and ran on; the beast was sweating heavily, and foam showed on its neck; the charge uphill had drained its strength. Bavis looked back once more… the Knight was gaining.

‘Dear Gods of Heaven, save me!’ he pleaded as his stallion cleared a fallen tree and galloped out into the open. Far now from the screams, Bavis steered his mount towards a stream at the foot of the valley. If he could just make the stream, he could lose the Knight in the thick undergrowth beyond.

Another look behind him showed that the Knight had not closed the distance between them — but he was still there, grim and deadly.

Bavis’ stallion splashed into the stream and stumbled up the bank beyond. The Knight was closer now. Bavis ducked low over the saddle as branches tore at him. The trail narrowed, cutting left and right. He dragged the stallion to a halt and leapt from the saddle, then slapped his hand against the beast’s rump. It took off at a run and the general hurled himself into the undergrowth. He heard the Knight canter past, then rose and began to make his way deeper into the trees. The ambush had been terrible and he began to realize the awesome implications for his own career. H$s thirty Turmae had been destroyed utterly, of that he was in no doubt. The King would not take it kindly that the pick of his lancers had been wiped out by a band of peasant rebels. Bavis sat down on a large rock. He might have won his way clear of the enemy, but his life would be forfeit upon his return to Mactha.

It was all so galling. The success of his foray into the forest had lulled him into a sense of false security. He was convinced there was no rebel army; why in the devil’s name had he charged up that hill?

His thoughts were interrupted as a young woman stepped into the glade. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with long golden hair curiously streaked with silver.

‘Are you lost?’ she asked, moving towards him. He was struck by the sensual grace of her movements.

‘Yes. Where are you from?’

She came close and reached up to touch his bare arm. A shiver of pure pleasure came to him as her fingers stroked his flesh. His mouth was dry — the Knight forgotten.

His hands fumbled at her tunic.

How strange, he thought, that arousal could come at such a time.

Morrigan’s arm circled his neck and drew him down towards her.

Elodan turned away as Groundsel cut the throat of a wounded soldier.

‘Squeamish, Lord Knight?’ asked the outlaw leader.

‘Yes,’ answered Elodan. ‘I was not trained for butchery.’

Groundsel laughed. ‘You would never guess it! Your strategy was perfect — only one escaped.’

Everywhere the rebels were stripping the dead, gaining armour and swords. Thirty horses had survived the massacre, and these were loaded with weapons and armour and led away, back towards the camp in the high meadow. Elodan walked from the bodies to where Llaw, Errin and Ubadai were sitting in a sheltered glade by a tiny stream.

Errin looked up. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘You planned it well, Elodan.’

‘I feel no pride in it,’ owned the Lord Knight. ‘So many dead.’

‘All enemies,’ declared Ubadai. ‘I shed no tears.’

‘No,’ whispered Elodan, ‘nor does Groundsel. He’ll be searching the corpses for gold teeth next.’

Errin grinned. ‘Not an easy man to like, our Groundsel. But he fights well.’

‘There is more to being a Knight than that!’ snapped Elodan. ‘You should know that, Lord Errin. I am ashamed to wear this armour.’

‘Do not say that!’ stormed Llaw Gyffes. ‘Not ever! I know how you feel — but put yourself in my place. I am a blacksmith and an outlaw. As far as history is concerned, I am also a wife killer, t do not know how to be a Knight — but I will do my best not to dishonour the armour. That is all any man can do. Content yourself with this victory; it will give heart to the men.’

‘I hope Morrigan is all right,’ remarked Errin, as the silence grew. ‘One of us should have gone with her.’

‘I think you will find she is capable,’ said Elodan. ‘I watched her during the first encounter. She uses a sword like a veteran and her size belies her strength.’

‘Even so, she is a woman,’ said Errin.

Llaw chuckled. ‘Do not confuse women like Morrigan with the wasp-waisted courtesans you have known, Errin. No — nor Arian nor Sheera. They are women to walk the mountains with. Strong.’

‘I am no expert on mountain women, Llaw. I bow to your knowledge.’

Groundsel joined them, removing his helm and rubbing at his sweat-drenched hair. ‘When do we eat?’ he asked.

‘How can you think of food with the stench of death in the air?’ responded Errin.

‘I think of food because I am hungry. What has the smell to do with it?’

‘There is the woman,’ said Ubadai, pointing to the hillside. Morrigan rode into the glade and dismounted and Elodan rose and strode to meet her. She raised her hand arid lowered the helm visor masking her face.

‘Did you catch him?’

‘Yes, he is dead.’

‘Are you well, Morrigan?’ asked the Lord Knight.

‘I am fine. The sun is bright on my eyes, that is all. When do we leave?’

‘Most of the men are returning to the camp, but I would like you and Groundsel to head west. I am told there is a large settlement there, on a mountainside. It can only be reached by a bridge of chains. Some of the men have been there and they claim that the leader, Bucklar, has more than two hundred warriors. It would be good for us if he could spare a hundred for our cause.’

‘West?’ she queried. ‘That will bring us close to Pertia Port. I thought the enemy was there in force.’

‘So I understand. Take what supplies you will need.’

‘Does it have to be Groundsel? Why not Errin or Llaw — or even the Nomad?’

Elodan grinned. ‘Being the Lord Knight has certain advantages, Morrigan. I do not want him around me, so you have the pleasure of his company.’

‘He may not survive the journey,’ she said.

The Duke dismounted by the cave and stared long and hard at the blond youth waiting for them. ‘What do you want of me?’ he asked.

The youth smiled. ‘I want nothing, my Lord. All I ask is that you step into the cave and make a choice.’

‘No.’ The Duke turned to Manannan. ‘What is in there?’

‘A suit of armour,’ said the Once-Knight.

‘And I am to wear it? I am expected to fight alongside peasants and outlaws?’

‘More than that,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You will be expected to die for them, if necessary.’

‘What madness! I am grateful that you saved my life — but I did not ask for your help and therefore feel no obligation to you. Why should I fight for your cause?’

Lamfhada stepped forward. ‘There is no reason why you should,’ he said. ‘If you desire to ride on, then you may. We will even give you supplies for the journey.’

‘And if I fight for you, what do you offer me?’

‘Nothing at all,’ came the answer.

‘You amaze me, boy. Tell me, Manannan, this suit of armour, is it silver like your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are asking me to become a Knight of the Gabala? It is beyond belief. Ask any man who ever served me and he will tell you I ani a hard man, maybe even a cruel one. I have lied and I have cheated and I have killed. All these things I have done to maintain my position — and had Okessa not turned on me I would still be serving the King. Is that the sort of man you wish to wear the silver helm? I think not.’

‘That was yesterday, Lord Duke,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Now let the armour choose.’

‘What do you say, Manannan? Should I enter the cave?’

‘Why should my opinion make a difference?’

‘Because you are a Gabala Knight. Do you want me for a companion?’

‘No, my Lord. But I am only a man. The armour is imbued with magic and it will choose. Enter the cave.’

The Duke stroked his thin beard and looked at the cave mouth. Then he shrugged. ‘Very well, I will look. But build no hopes, my friends.’

Swiftly he walked into the darkness and approached the solitary suit of armour. It was cold inside the cave and he shivered. Two flickering torches lit the walls, and reflected flames danced upon the breastplate. As a child he had been enchanted by tales of the Gabala Knights, but his father had always dismissed them.

‘Fools,’ he would say. ‘Lite is too short to spend riding the country interfering in other men’s disputes. What does it matter if a peasant loses a farm, or wins one? Who will care a hundred years from now?’

The words seemed to echo inside the Duke’s mind. He remembered his father’s funeral; not one tear had been shed.

‘And who will cry for you, Roem?’ he asked himself, then shook his head. What did it matter? Tears for the dead were a waste of time. The question now was a simple one — did he stay and fight, or leave for Citbaeron? Across the sea, with no wealth, he would find few friends. He would be forced to seek service with other rebels, perhaps as a captain of the guard, or as a Sabreur for some petty tribal chieftain. And here? Here he would fight alongside peasants and outlaws, men with no breeding: men not fit to kiss his hand.

Yet, at least, here he had a chance to regain his position, to win back his father’s Duchy.

He sat on the cold stone floor staring up at the armour. What chance of victory did these rebels have — even with the Knights reborn? Realistically? Against Ahak’s legions, his lancers and his scouts? Little or none. So what was the real choice? Alive in Cithaeron or dead in the Gabala!

Alive? Penniless and without honour — that was not life.

So then, what else is there, Roem? You can either live out your span, despised by your fellows, or fight alongside men you despise.

He stood and walked to the armour, seeing his lean angular face reflected in the breastplate. ‘Put a cloak over your contempt, Roem,’ he whispered. ‘Stand alongside these men and win back your birthright. And then, when the battle is won, the peasants can be herded back into their place.’

He reached out and touched the armour.