Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER ONE

The rider paused at the crest of the pass, the wind swirling about him and screeching through the mountain-tops. Far below him the lands of the Gabala stretched green and verdant, ribbon streams and shimmering rivers, hills and vales, forests and woods — all as he remembered, echoing his dreams, calling for his return.

‘Home, Kuan,’ he whispered, but his words were whipped away by the wind and the tall grey stallion did not hear him. Touching his heels to the horse’s side, the rider leaned back in the saddle as his mount began the long descent. The wind dropped as they neared the deserted Border fort, its gates of oak and bronze hanging on broken hinges. The Gabala Eagle had been hacked from them — only the edge of a wing-tip left on the rotting wood, and this covered by a brown and green patina that all but merged it with the timber.

The rider dismounted here. He was a tall man wearing a long hooded cloak, a heavy scarf wound about his face and holding the hood in place. He led the stallion into the derelict fort and halted before the statue of Manannan. The left arm was broken, and lying on the cobbles. Someone had taken an axe or a hammer to the face and the chin was smashed, the nose split.

‘How soon they forget,’ said the newcomer. Hearing his voice the stallion moved forward, nuzzling at his back. He turned, removed his thick woollen gloves and stroked the beast’s neck. It was warmer here and he unwound the scarf, draping it over the pommel of his saddle. As he pushed back the hood, sunlight flashed from the silver helm he wore.

‘Let us find you a drink, Kuan,’ he said, moving to the walled well at the centre of the courtyard. The bucket was warped by’ the sun, gaping cracks showing beneath the iron rings. The rope was tinder-dry, but still usable if handled with care. He searched the deserted outbuildings and returned with a clay jug and a deep plate, then stood the jug in the bucket before lowering both into the well. When he carefully drew the bucket up, water was gushing from the cracks, but the jug was full and he lifted it clear and drank deeply. Placing the plate on the cobbles, he filled it. The stallion dropped its head and drank. The rider loosened the saddle girth and poured more water into the plate, then climbed the rampart steps and sat in the sunshine.

This was the end of empire, he knew. Not the blood-drenched battlegrounds, the screaming hordes, the discordant clash of steel on steel. Just the dust blowing across.the cobbles, limbless statues, warped buckets and the silence of the grave.

‘You would have hated this, Samildanach,’ he said. ‘This would have broken your heart.’

He searched inside himself for any grief over the Fall of the Gabala. But there was no room… all his grief was for himself as he gazed down at his statue.

Manannan, Knight of the Gabala. One of the Nine. Greater than princes, more than men. He delved into his hip-pouch, pulling clear a silvered mirror which he held up before his face.

The Once-Knight looked into his own deep blue eyes, then at the square face and the silver steel which surrounded it. The plume was gone from the helm, hacked away in some skirmish to the north; the visor, raised now, dented by an axe-blade in the Fomorian War. The runic number that named him had been torn from the brow in a battle to the east. He could not remember the blow; it was one of so many he had endured during the six lonely years since the Gate closed. His gaze shifted to the plate rings that circled his throat and pictured the beard growing beneath them, slowly — oh, so slowly — preparing to choke him to death.

What a death for a Gabala Knight, imprisoned within his helm, strangled by his own beard. Such was the price of betrayal, Manannan told himself. Such was the penalty for cowardice.

Cowardice? He rolled the word in his mind. During the last, lonely, aimless years of wandering he had proved his physical courage time and time again, in sword-play, in the charge, in the long wait before the onslaught. But it was not his body which had let him down on that dark night six years before, when the Black Gate yawned and the stars died. It was altogether a different cowardice which had robbed him of the power to move.

Not so the others. But then Samildanach would have braved the fires of Hell with a handful of snow. As would the others: Pateus, Edrin… all of them.

‘Damn you, Ollathair,’ hissed the Once-Knight. ‘Damn your arrogance!’

Manannan returned his mirror to its pouch.

He rested for another hour and then stepped into the saddle. The Citadel was three days’ ride west. He avoided towns and settlements, buying his food at isolated farms and sleeping in meadows. On the morning of the fourth day he approached the Citadel.

Manannan steered his stallion through the trees and into what had once been the rose garden. It was overgrown now, but here and there a bloom still flourished, stretching above the choking weeds. The paved path. was mostly covered by grass and small blue flowers. It was only natural, thought the Once-Knight — six years of wind-blown soil settling over the carefully laid stones. The side gate was open and he rode into the courtyard. Here and there grass seeds had settled in the cracks of the pavement, fed by the fountain pool which overflowed its marble parapet.

He dismounted, his silver armour creaking and his movements slow. The stallion stood motionless.

‘Not as you remember it, Kuan,’ whispered the Knight, removing his gauntlet and stroking the beast’s neck. ‘They have all gone.’ He led the horse to the pool and waited as it drank. A wooden shutter nearby was caught by the wind, which cracked it against the window-frame. The horse’s head came up, ears laid flat against its skull.

‘It’s all right, boy,’ Manannan soothed. ‘There is no danger here.’

As the stallion drank, he loosened the saddle girth and lifted the pack from its back. Hoisting this to his shoulder, he walked up the steps to the double doors and entered the Welcome Hall. Dust had gathered here and the long carpet smelt of mildew and corruption. The statues stood staring at him with sightless eyes.

He felt the burden of his guilt grow even stronger and pushed on past the figures to the chapel at the rear of the building. The hinges groaned as he forced open the leaf-shaped door. No dust disturbed this place, with its low altar, but the golden candlesticks were gone — as were the silver chalice and the silken hangings. Yet still the chapel emanated peace. He lowered his pack and unfastened the leather binding thongs. Then he moved to the altar, removed his baldric and scabbard and unbuckled his breastplate, slipping it under the protruding shoulder-plates. Carefully he placed the armour on the altar. Shoulder-plates and habergeon followed. He would miss the sleeveless coat of mail; it had saved his life more than once. Hip-shields, thigh-guards and greaves he laid upon the stone, placing his black and silver gauntlets atop the breastplate.

‘Let it be over,’ he said, reaching up to release the helm, but his fingers froze as fear flowed in him. The spell had been cast by Ollathair in this room six years before — but without the wizard, was the peace of the chapel enough to remove it? Manannan calmed himself. His finger touched the spring-lock, but the bar did not move. He pressed harder, then dropped his hand. Fear fled from the onset of his anger: ‘What more do you want of me?’ he screamed. Sinking to his knees he prayed for deliverance, but although his thoughts streamed out, there was no sense of their reaching a destination. Exhausted, he rose — a knight without armour. Moving to his pack, he dressed swiftly in well-fitting woollen trews and leather tunic, then looped his baldric over his shoulder with the sword and scabbard nestling at his right side. Finally he pulled on a pair of soft doeskin riding boots and gathered his blanket. The pack he left where it lay.

Outside the stallion was cropping grass at the far wall. The man who had been a knight walked past the beast and on to the smithy. It too was dust-covered, the tools rusted and useless, the great bellows torn and tattered, the forge open — a nesting-place for rats.

Manannan picked up a rusted saw-blade. Even had it been gleaming and new, it would have been useless to him. The silver steel of the helm was strong enough in its own right, but with the added power of Ollathair’s enchantment it was impervious to everything but heat. He had once endured two hours of agony as a smith sought to burn the bar loose. At last, defeated, the craftsman had knelt before him.

‘I could do it, sir, but there would be no point. The heat needed would turn your flesh to liquid, your brain to steam. You need a sorcerer, not a smith.’

And he had found sorcerers, and would-be wizards, seers and Wyccha women. But none could counter the spell of the Armourer.

‘I need you, Ollathair,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘I need your wizardry and your skills. But where did you go?’

Ollathair had been above all a patriot. He would not have left the realm unless forced. And who could force the Armourer of the Gabala Knights? Manannan sat silently among the rusted remains of Ollathair’s equipment and fought to remember conversations of long ago.

Considering the size of the empire it had once ruled, the lands of the Gabala were not large. From the borders of Fomoria in the south to the coastal routes to Cithaeron was a journey of less than a thousand miles. East to west, from the Nomad steppes to the western sea and Asripur, was a mere four hundred. One fact was sure — Ollathair would avoid cities; he had always hated the marble monstrosity of Furbolg.

Where then? And under what guise?

Ollathair had been merely the name chosen by the Armourer, but there was another name he used when wishing to travel alone and unreported. Manannan had discovered this by chance ten years before, during a visit to the northernmost of the nine Duchies. He had stopped at a wayhouse and seen the owner showing off a small bird of shining bronze that sang in four languages. As the man lifted his hand, the bird circled the room and a sweet perfume filled the air.

Manannan had approached the man, who had bowed low upon seeing the Gabala armour.

‘Where did you come by the bird?’ he had asked.

‘It was not stolen, sir, I promise you. On the lives of my children.’

‘I am not here to judge you, man. It was merely a question.’

‘It was a traveller, sir… two days ago. A stocky man, ugly as sin. He had no money for a room and paid with this. Am I right to keep it?’

‘Keep it, sell it; it is not my concern. Where did this traveller go?’

‘South, sir. Along the Royal Road.’

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘Yes, sir — as is the law. And he signed the register. I have it here.’ He lifted the leather-bound book and showed it to the Knight.

Manannan caught up with Ollathair the following afternoon on a long open stretch of road. The Armourer was riding a fat pony.

‘Is there no peace?’ Ollathair asked. ‘What is the problem?’

‘There is no problem that I know of,’ Manannan told him. ‘This is a chance meeting. I saw your handiwork at the inn; a little extravagant for a night’s lodging, was it not?’

‘It’s flawed; it will not last out the week. Now ride on and leave me to a little serenity. I will see you at the Citadel in a week.’

Now as Manannan looked about him at the cobwebs and the decay, he shivered.

Perhaps Ollathair would have chosen another name. Perhaps he was dead.

But with no other clues the Once-Knight had no choice. He would ride to the north and seek news of a craftsman called Ruad Ro-fhessa.

The boy gripped the tweezers, lifted the tiny bronze sliver and took a deep breath. He licked his lips as he leaned over the bench, his hand shaking.

‘Easy, now,’ said the ugly man, sitting beside him. ‘Be calm and breathe easily. You are too tense.’ The boy nodded and rolled his shoulders, seeking to ease the knots of tension. His hand steadied and the bronze sliver slid into place at the back of the model. ‘There!’ said the man triumphantly, his one good eye examining the metal hawk. ‘Now take the wing and lift it — carefully now!’

The boy did so and the wing spread effortlessly, the bronze feathers gleaming. ‘And release.’ The wing snapped back into place against the scaled body.

‘I did it, Ruad. I made it!’ cried the boy, clapping his hands.

‘Indeed you did,’ the man agreed, a wide grin showing his crooked teeth. ‘In only a year you have duplicated that which took me three, when I was your age. But then you had a better teacher than I!’

‘Will it fly?’ asked the boy. Ruad Ro-fhessa ruffled the lad’s tightly curled blond hair. He shrugged his huge shoulders and stood, stretching his back.

‘That will depend on your ability to draw the air-magic. Come, we will sit for a while.’ Ruad moved away from the bench and through the workshop to a wide room where two deep chairs were set before a hearth in which a log-fire blazed. There he settled himself, stretching his short legs towards the blaze and resting his massive arms across his chest. The firelight gleamed on the bronze patch covering his left eye and highlighted the silver streaks in his thinning black hair. The boy joined him; he was tall for his age, and had almost outgrown the tunic of his House.

‘You did well, Lug,’ said Ruad. ‘One day you will be a Master Craftsman. I am greatly pleased with you.’ Lug blushed and looked away. Compliments were rare from Ruad, and never before had he been asked to sit by the fire.

‘Will she fly?’

‘Can you feel the magic in the air?’ countered Ruad.

‘No.’

‘Close your eyes and rest your head back against the chair.’ Ruad lifted a heavy poker and stirred the blaze to life, adding three fresh logs to the fire. ‘The currents of magic are many, the colours deep and sometimes startling. You must begin with the colours. Think of White, which is peace. Harmony. Picture the colour, flow with it. Can you see it?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Lug.

‘When there is anger, or hatred, or pain, other than that of the flesh, White is the answer. Summon it. Blue is the sky, the power of the air, the dream of things which fly. Blue is what calls them on halting wings. Can you see the Blue?’

‘I can, Master.’

‘Then call on the Blue.’ Ruad closed his good eye and aided the boy in his search. ‘Do you have it, Lug?’

‘I do, Master.’

‘And how do you feel?’

‘I can sense the sky calling me. I feel the need for wings.’

Ruad smiled. ‘Then let us return to the hawk. Hold to your feeling.’

The two craftsmen made their way to the workshop, where the boy lifted a tiny knife. ‘Am I ready?’ he asked.

‘We shall see,’ answered Ruad. ‘Release the magic of the Blue.’

Lug nicked the skin at the base of his right palm and held his hand over the bird’s metallic head. A single drop of blood splashed on the beak.

‘Now the wings,’ Ruad ordered. ‘Swiftly now.’ Lug followed the instructions, then stepped back. ‘Press your finger over the cut and stop the bleeding.’ Lug did so, but his blue eyes were fixed on the bird. At first there was no movement, but then the golden head jerked, the plate rings grinding together. Slowly the wings spread and the hawk rose from the bench, soaring through the open window in search of the sky. The man and the boy ran out on to the mountainside to see the golden bird fly higher and higher. Suddenly it faltered, and Lug watched as a bronze feather floated away from the hawk… then another… and another. The flight was ungainly now.

‘No!’ screamed Lug, raising a slender hand to point at the struggling bird. Ruad watched in amazement as two fragile bronze feathers which had dropped from the bird reversed their flight and pinned themselves to the wings once more. For a few seconds the hawk steadied. Then the wings snapped shut and it plummeted to the ground, lifeless and ruined. Lug ran to it, gathering the feathers and cradling the twisted body.

Ruad Ro-fhessa came up silently, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Do not let this dismay you, Lug. My first bird did not even make the window. It was a great achievement.’

‘But I wanted it to live,’ he protested.

‘I know. And it did; it found the sky. Next time we will check the neck joints more thoroughly.’

‘Next time?’ repeated Lug sadly. ‘I reach the Age next week. There is no place for me in the House and I shall be sold.’

‘That is next week. Many things can happen,’ said Ruad. ‘Bring the bird back to the forge and we will see what can be saved.’

‘I think I will run away. I will join Llaw Gyffes.’

‘Stronghand may not be an easy man to follow — but we will talk about this on another day. Trust me, Lug. And now let us see to the bird.’

Ruad watched as the youth wandered the hillside gathering the fragments of metal. The feathers had fallen away — and then reversed their flight — albeit for only a few seconds. Yet Lug had only reached the Yellow, the least of the Colours.

Back at the workshop, they left the bronze fragments and sat by the fireside. Lug was silent and sorrowful.

‘Tell me,’ said Ruad softly. ‘What did you feel when you shouted to the sky?’

The youth looked up. ‘Despair,’ he answered simply.

‘No, I mean at the moment when you screamed.’

Lug shrugged. ‘I do not know what you mean, sir. I… wanted it to fly.’

‘Did you notice what happened when you called out to it?’

‘No. It fell.’

‘Not immediately,’ said Ruad. ‘It tried to gather itself; in some way you were still linked with it. But you say you felt nothing. What Colour did you feel? Was it the Blue?’

Lug sat for a moment, trying to remember. ‘No, it was the Yellow. I can only reach the other Colours through you, sir.’

‘No matter, Lug. I will think on it. It is almost time for you to be going; your free time ends at dusk, does it not?’

‘I have a little while,’ said the youth. ‘Marshin says the family will not return from Furbolg until tomorrow. They are bringing guests for the auction.’

‘It may not be as bad as you think,’ offered Ruad. ‘There are many good Houses. The Lady Dianu may need a house servant — or the Lord Errin. Both have good names for their treatment of slaves.’

‘Why should I be a slave?’ Lug snapped. ‘Why? The empire has gone. All the lands are now being ruled by peoples who were once slaves. Why should I remain? It isn’t fair!’

‘Life has a habit of not being fair, boy. The Fomorian War was the last, and you were a victim of it. But you will have an opportunity to buy your freedom; it is not so bad a life.’

‘Have you ever been a slave, sir?’

‘Only to my Craft,’ admitted Ruad. ‘But that does not count, does it? You were taken… what, five years ago? How old were you? Ten, eleven? It is the way of things, Lug. Wars cost money and that is recouped by plunder and slavery. The Gabala fought that war for national pride, for the right to give away their empire and not have it taken from them. You were one of the last victims. I know it is not fair, but a man who goes through life complaining about fairness will make nothing of himself. Trust me on this, boy. There are three kinds of men: winners, losers and fighters; The winners are blessed by the Colours; no matter what they do, life treats them like gods. The losers waste their energies whining like scolded children; they will amount to nothing. The fighters keep their swords sharp and their shields high; they expect nothing they do not battle for, but they fight until they drop.’

‘I do not want to be a warrior,’ said Lug.

‘Listen to me, boy!’ snapped Ruad. ‘And with your whole mind. I am not speaking of swordsmen, I am speaking of life. Your wits are both sword and shield; it is a matter of perspective. If you want something, then plan for it. Think of all that could go wrong, and picture all that can be done to make it right. Then do it. Don’t talk about it endlessly. Do it! Set your mind to the task. You have a good mind and a great Talent. I do not know how you held that bird in the air, but there is in you a power. So search for it. Build upon it. And never allow despair to rule your heart. You understand me?’

‘I will try, sir.’

‘That is a good enough answer. Now go home and I will examine the bird.’

Lug stood and smiled. ‘You have been very good to me, sir. Why do you take the time?’

‘Why should I not?’

‘I don’t know. In Mactha they say you are a hermit who dislikes the company of people. They say you are… rude and surly, ill-tempered and short of patience. But I have never found you to be so.’

Ruad rose and laid a huge hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I am what they say, Lug. Make no mistake on that. I do not like people; I never have. Greedy, grasping, selfish and self-serving. But I have a way with Talent, boy. I can make it flourish — as a gardener with blooms. You remember the day I caught you hiding in the bushes behind the workshop?’

‘Yes,’ said Lug, grinning. ‘I thought you were going to kill me.’

‘On each Tiernsday for seven weeks you had hidden in that spot and watched me work. You showed patience — and that is rare in the young. That is why I decided to teach you a little of the Colours. And you have been a good student. If the Source is willing, you will continue so to be. Now be off with you!’

After the boy had gone, Ruad gathered together the remains of the metal bird, examining the points below the neck which had given way. The pinions were too slender, but only by a fraction. Lug had good hands and a sure eye, but as yet his soul was not attuned to the magic of the sky. But then, Ruad knew, magic was built on harmony and a slave boy reaching his majority was unlikely to find it. He could be sold to a ship’s captain and spend his life below decks, or to a prince and suffer castration to serve in a harem. And there were other, even less savoury ends for a youth of his looks. Yet these perils were not great. The vast majority of bright young slaves were bought by good masters who used them well in their businesses, giving them opportunities to buy their freedom at the age of thirty.

Still, who could blame a boy for fearing the worst?

Ruad locked his front door and saddled the old bay mare. He rarely rode into Mactha, but now he needed supplies — salt and sugar, dried meat and herbs and, most of all, more ingots of bronze and gold.

Bronze was a good metal for an apprentice to work with, but it did not take to magic like gold. Had Lug’s bird been Fomorian gold, it would have flown over the highest mountain and returned at a thought. But gold was scarcer than a woman’s virtue.

Ruad heaved his ungainly body into the saddle and steered the old mare down the trail between the pines. The ride took two hours and the sight of the white stone buildings of Mactha brought him little pleasure. He waved to the guard on the North Gate and rode on to the livery stable owned by Hyam. The old man himself was sitting at the paddock fence, bartering furiously with a Nomad trader.

Ruad unsaddled the mare and led her to the hay-box. Then he brushed her back and returned to the fence, where the debate was hotting up.

‘Wait! Wait!’ said Hyam, waving his slender fingers in the Nomad’s face. ‘We’ll put it to this traveller.’ He turned to Ruad and winked. ‘Good sir, be so kind as to examine the two horses by the rail and give me your honest opinion as to their worth. Whatever you say, I will abide by.’

Ruad glanced down at Hyam’s fingers, which swiftly flickered in archaic Roadsign. The burly craftsman wandered to the first beast, a seventeen-hands-high chestnut stallion of some eight years. He ran his hands over the strong legs and down the flanks, then moved on to the gelding. This animal was of sixteen hands, perhaps five years older than the stallion, and showed some evidence of a sway back. Hyam had signalled forty silver halves for the pair.

‘I’d say thirty-eight silver halves,’ stated Ruad.

‘You ruin me!’ squealed Hyam, dancing on the spot. ‘How can this happen to an honest man?’

‘You agreed to abide by this man’s decision,’ the Nomad reminded him. ‘And though it is five pieces more than I offered, I will accept.’

‘There is a conspiracy in Heaven against me,’ said Hyam, shaking his head. ‘But I have been trapped by my own stupidity. I thought this man knew horses. Take them; you have a bargain beyond your dreams.’

The man grinned and counted out the money; then he led the horses from the paddock. Hyam transferred the silver to a hip-pouch and sat back, grinning.

‘You are a rascal,’ said Ruad. ‘The stallion has an inflamed tendon; it could be lame within the week. And the gelding? Its spirit has gone.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said the old man softly. ‘They are from the Duke’s stables and he is not kind to them.’

‘How is life for you, Hyam?’

‘It could always be better,’ answered Hyam, running his hand through his thinning white hair. ‘But there are bad times coming.’

‘According to you — and all horse-traders — times are always bad,’ said Ruad, smiling.

‘I cannot deny it, Ruad, my friend. But this is different, believe me. You can see the signs throughout Mactha. The number of beggars has increased since your last visit. And whores? The town swims in new whores. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have complained about that, but now? Now I see it for what it is. Many are good women who have lost their husbands or their homes. Walk down the Streets of Trade and see the closed shops with their barred windows. And the price of slaves is dropping… that is never a good sign. The beggars fight among themselves for the best sites, and the number of robberies has doubled since last year.’

‘Does the Duke take no action?’

Hyam hawked and spat. ‘What does he care about Mactha? I hear news from all over the Duke’s realm. He has almost doubled the taxes everywhere. Farmers must give him twenty per cent of their crops, or else yearlings. And since most of the farmers rent their lands from the nobility, they are left with about ten per cent to feed their families and plan for the coming year.’

Several men had gathered to view the horses. Hyam signalled Ruad to silence, and they continued their conversation using Roadsign.

‘There is madness in the air, my friend. The Duke ordered three men impaled last month. Their crime? They wrote to the King, asking for justice against the raised taxes. The King sent Earl Tollibar, the Duke’s cousin. Now justice is to be served against the three men who asked for it. There’s a sort of dark poetry there.’

‘Impaling was outlawed more than twenty years ago,’ said Ruad.

‘But in those days the Knights rode the land and the old King ruled. Do not look to yesterday, Ruad. Yesterday is dead — gone, like the Knights.’

‘All the counsellors cannot be dead,’ protested Ruad. ‘What of Kalib?’

‘Poisoned, so they say.’

‘Rulic?’

‘Killed in a hunting accident. I should get in supplies for the winter, Ruad; there is a bad feeling in the air.’

‘Look after the mare,’ said Ruad, aloud. He walked out through the crowd gathering for the horse auction and on to the Streets of Trade. As Hyam had said, many traders had closed their businesses. It was not a good sign.

A young woman approached hint. ‘Your pleasure, sir.’

He smiled at her. ‘Business must be bad for you to approach one so ugly.’

She did not return his smile. ‘Only three copper quarters,’ she said, her eyes avoiding his.

He took her hands and turned them over. They were clean, the nails scrubbed. ‘Why not?’ he told her, and followed her through a maze of alleys to a dismal structure with a broken door. Inside it was clean but dingy, and a baby slept on a pile of blankets by the far wall.

She led him to a pallet bed and swiftly lay back, hauling her woollen dress up around her hips. Ruad was about to loosen his belt when he heard a movement behind him and stepped sideways so that the club whistled harmlessly past his shoulder. Turning, he hammered a blow to the assailant’s midriff, doubling him over, then cracked the blade of his right hand to the man’s neck. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The woman sat up, her hand over her mouth.

‘We needed money,’ she said. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’

‘No,’ said Ruad, ‘and you’ll get your money when you’ve earned it.’

He loosened his belt.

Ruad stepped from the gloom of the dwelling into the sunlit street — his good eye narrowing, his senses alert. The woman had been a disappointment, bursting into tears as he moved to her. She had made him angry and, unlike some men, anger had no part in Ruad’s sexual desires. He had dressed and left her.

He found his way back to the main street, brushing aside beggars as he walked. Hyam was right; Mactha was becoming a running sore.

The Street of Ore was. near deserted and Ruad was surprised to see boards being hammered across the. windows of Cartain’s establishment. The front door was open and he stepped inside. The former Nomad was supervising the packing of several large crates, but he spotted Ruad and waved him through to the back room.

Cartain joined him there, and poured a goblet of apple juice which he passed to the bemused Craftsman.

‘You are leaving, too?’ said Ruad. ‘Why?’

The tall, angular merchant sat down at his desk, his dark slanted eyes fixing on Ruad. ‘You know why I am rich?’ he asked, stroking his hawk beak of a nose.

‘I have always disliked my questions being answered by questions,’ Ruad snapped.

Cartain grinned, showing a golden tooth. ‘I like you, Ruad — but answer my question.’

‘You buy cheap and sell dear. Now, why are you leaving?’

‘I am rich,’ said the merchant, smiling at Ruad’s increasing annoyance, ‘because I read the wind. When it blows fresh there is money to be made; when it blows bad, there is money to be made. But when it does not blow, it is time to move on.’

‘You are an irritating man,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I shall miss you. Where now shall I peddle my toys?’

‘I will send someone to you. Your work is still highly sought after. Do you have something for me?’

‘Perhaps. But I need gold ingots and more bronze — also a quantity of that Eastern oil.’

‘How much gold?’ Cartain asked, leaning back and averting his eyes.

‘You will earn three hundred Raq for my little singer. I will take the equivalent of one hundred.’

‘Show me.’

Ruad opened the leather pouch at his side and took from it a small golden bird with emerald eyes. He stroked its back and stood it on his palm. Then, lifting it to his lips, he whispered a word. The bird’s metallic wings spread and it rose from his hand to circle the room. Soft music sang from its beak and a heady perfume filled the air.

‘Beautiful,’ said Cartain. ‘Simply exquigite. How long will the magic last?’

‘Three years. Four.’ Ruad lifted his hand and the bird spread its wings and glided to his palm. He passed it to Cartain.

‘And the words of command?’

‘The name of its maker.’

‘Perfect. You are a Master. There is a king far to the east who desires a giant eagle to carry him into the sky. He would pay in diamonds as large as skulls.’

‘It is not possible,’ said Ruad.

‘That cannot be true, my dear partner. All things are possible.’

Ruad shook his head. ‘You do not understand the limits. Magic is a finite power. A long time ago Zinazar sought to extend it; he used the blood of innocence. It did not work then and it will not now.’

‘But supposing a thousand people were willing to give their blood?’

‘There are not a thousand people in all the world who can drink the Colours. Forget his diamonds, Cartain. How rich can one man be?’

Cartain chuckled. ‘He can have all the wealth of the world — and one copper piece more.’

Ruad drained his apple juice. ‘Now tell me why you are leaving — and not a single word about the wind, if you please.’

Cartain’s smile faded. ‘There are bad times coming and I want no part of them. My messengers tell me of evil deeds in the capital. This in itself would be of no consequence to a Nomad like me, but King Ahak’s mismanagement has left him with a thin treasury. Several Nomad merchants have been arrested, accused of treason and tortured to death. Their wealth has accrued to the King. Old Cartain will not feed the vulture’s treasury.’

‘I had my problems with the King,’ said Ruad. ‘He is arrogant and headstrong, but he is no despot.’

‘He has changed, my friend,’ Cartain told him. ‘He has surrounded himself with men of evil — even recruited men for a group he called the Knights of the New Gabala… and they are terrible. It is said he was gravely ill and a sorcerer cured him, but his soul died. I do not know. These stories abound. But then men will always talk of kings. What I do know is that the climate is not good for Nomads — or those of Nomad blood. I have seen these things before — in other lands. No good will come of it.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Across the Inner Sea to Cithaeron. I have relatives there… and a young wife.’

‘You have a wife here, as I recall?’

‘A rich man cannot have too many wives! Why not come with me? We could make a fortune.’

‘I do not desire a fortune,’ Ruad told him. ‘Have my goods sent to the mountains tomorrow.’

‘I will. Take care, Craftsman. All secrets have a habit of becoming known and yours, I fear, will prove no exception. And this time you would lose more than an eye.’

Ruad left the merchant and wandered back towards the stables, stopping to eat at a small inn.

Cartain’s planned departure bothered him, leaving him uneasy. Cunning as the merchant was, he was also a man to be trusted. There were few like him, and Ruad needed him. He finished his meal and sat staring at the gathering clouds.

All secrets become known.

There was truth in that, but it was a problem for another day. He paid the innkeeper and, carrying a sack of provisions, returned to the stable. Hyam had gone, but his youngest son saddled Ruad’s mare. The boy was sharp-eyed, with a flashing smile.

‘You should buy a new horse,’ said the lad. ‘This one is worn out.’

Ruad mounted and grinned down at him. ‘This is the beast your father sold me two months ago, swearing on the souls of his sons that she would run for ever.’

‘Ah,’ replied the boy, ‘but then Father is not as young as he was. Now, I have a gelding that was sired by Buesecus and even a man of your size could ride him all day and see not a mark of sweat upon him.’

‘Show me,’ said Ruad, following the boy back into the paddock. The black gelding was almost seventeen hands high, with a strong back and good legs.

Ruad dismounted. ‘Is it true?’ he asked the horse, ‘that your sire was Buesecus?’

The gelding swung its head. ‘No,’ it replied. ‘The boy is as big a liar as his father.’

The lad backed away, his eyes wide and fearful.

Ruad shook his head. ‘And you looked so innocent!’

‘You are a sorcerer?’ the boy whispered.

‘Indeed I am. And you have offended me,’ said Ruad, fixing the boy with a bleak look.

‘I am sorry, sir. Truly. Please forgive me.’

Ruad turned away and remounted his mare. ‘Your father may be old, boy, but he was never stupid.’ He heeled his mount and set off for the mountains. The lad was gullible and deserved to be fooled. Even as a child Hyam would have known the difference between magic and trickery.

All secrets become known.

He calmed his mind and reached into the Colours. It took’him time to find the White and ease his fears. At the top of a rise he swung in the saddle to look back at Mactha. The sun was dropping behind the mountains and the town was bathed in crimson.

Ruad shivered and, before he could steel himself, a vision shook him. Eight Knights in red armour, theft-faces ghostly white, their eyes filled with blood, were riding across the sky with dark swords in their hands.

With a great effort Ruad tore himself clear of the vision. Rubbing the sweat from his face, he kicked the mare into a run.