Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER TWO

The six soldiers lay sprawled in death near the carriage and the two women stood side by side facing the attackers. Groundsel waited with his men behind him, eyeing the women with deep appreciation.

That they were sisters was as obvious as the fact that they were patricians. The taller of the two, dressed in a billowing skirt of green silk and a white blouse gathered at the throat, was holding a short sword she had swept up from the ground. The other was standing beside her, no sign of fear in her wide grey eyes. Both were beautiful. The girl with the sword had short curly hair, dark and glowing like a beaver pelt. Her sister wore her raven hair long, curling to her shoulders; she was dressed in a flowing robe of ash-grey silk, gathered at the waist with a belt braided with gold.

Groundsel felt arousal washing over him. He had never enjoyed sisters before — and these would fight, scratch and claw. He swallowed hard. Which of them should be first? The tall, proud one or the smaller, well-rounded woman with the haughty grey eyes?

One of his men darted forward and the taller woman’s sword snaked out in a fierce backhand cut. At the last second the man hurled himself aside, the blade slicing open his brown leather jerkin. He scrambled back on all fours, to the laughter of his comrades. Yes, thought Groundsel, the swordswoman would be first.

The sound of a trotting horse came to him and Groundsel swung to see a rider entering the hollow. He was a tall man, riding a tall horse, and though he was dressed in tunic and trews he wore a silver helm with the visor raised. He halted his grey stallion some ten paces from the twelve outlaws.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’

Groundsel stepped forward. ‘Be on your way,’ he hissed, ‘or we’ll drag you from the saddle and leave you for the crows.’

‘I was not addressing you, peasant,’ said the rider softly. ‘Where are your manners?’

Groundsel reddened and drew his two short swords, while the eleven outlaws spread themselves out in a circle. The rider slid from the saddle and drew a longsword that shimmered in the sunlight; he held it double-handed.

Just then the thunder of hooves filled the clearing.

‘Back!’ yelled Groundsel and the outlaws sprinted away into the undergrowth as a troop of soldiers rode in.

Manannan sheathed his sword and walked over to the women. He bowed.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ replied the smaller of the women. ‘Our thanks for your gallantry. I am Dianu; this is my younger sister, Sheera.’

Manannan turned. ‘My compliments on your sword-skills, lady. You have a fine wrist.’

A slender fair-haired man joined them; he was cleanshaven and wore no sword, but carried a fine bow of horn. His clothes were of the softest tan leather and, though unadorned, were cut to perfection. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold, making them tawny like those of a great cat. He took Dianu in his arms and kissed her cheek, then he turned to Manannan; his smile was warm and friendly, the eyes open and honest.

‘Thank you, sir. Your courage does you credit.’

‘As does your timing,’ responded Manannan, holding out his hand.

‘I wish it had been better — these loyal men would still be alive. I am Lord Errin of Laene,’ he said.

‘You have grown since last I saw you. Were you not page to the Duke of Mactha?’

‘Indeed I was — the year he won the Silver Lance. I am sorry but I do not recall you, sir.’

‘My name is Manannan. I was clad somewhat differently then and sported no beard. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’

‘Surely not?’ said Dianu. ‘You cannot ride alone in this forest. That robber was Groundsel and even now he will be watching us. You would be in great danger.’

‘As will he, my lady, if he crosses my path again! But do not fear for me. I have no wealth and Kuan rides far — and very fast.’

‘You are welcome to stay with us, sir Knight,’ put in Errin. ‘My estates are less than half a day away. Shelter for the night, and a good meal?’

‘Thank you, but no. There is a man I must find.’ Manannan bowed to the women and walked to his horse.

Dianu watched as he rode away. ‘A strange man,’ she said. ‘He could not have defeated them all — and yet he was prepared to take them on.’

‘I do not remember him,’ mused Errin. ‘Perhaps he was a sentry, or a soldier on duty.’

‘He would have been more than that,’ Sheera said. ‘He walks like a prince.’

‘Well, he must — I fear — remain a mystery,’ said Errin. ‘Come, let us get out of this cursed forest before Groundsel returns with more cut-throats.’

For a week Ruad stayed in his cabin workshop — melting his ingots, creating gold and silver wire, delicate leaves and curious rings. On the eighth night he awoke from a light sleep to hear the sound of horses galloping on the trail. He swung from his bed, stretched, pulled a cloak about his shoulders and moved through the cabin and out into the yard beyond.

Six riders had pulled up before the dwelling.

‘Whom do you seek?’ asked Ruad, straining to recognize the men.

‘Who says we seek anyone?’ asked a rider, leaning forward across his saddle.

‘It’s late for hunting,’ offered Ruad, ‘and I’m tired, so state your business.’

‘He’s here,’ hissed the rider. ‘Where else would he be? I’ll search the cabin.’ He swung down from the saddle and marched across the yard. Ruad stepped aside, but as the man drew abreast of him his left hand flashed out to circle the rider’s throat and lift him from his feet.

‘I didn’t hear you ask permission,’ said Ruad softly. The man’s feet lashed out weakly and his fingers scrabbled against Ruad’s iron grip.

‘Let him go!’ ordered another man, heeling his horse forward. Just then the moon broke clear of the clouds and by its light Ruad recognized the speaker.

‘I would not have expected an educated man to be riding with dross such as this, Lord Errin,’ said Ruad, flinging his victim aside. The man fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Craftsman, but a slave escaped today after the auction and he is said to frequent your company. We thought he might be here.’

‘Does this slave have a name, Lord Errin?’

‘I believe he is called Lug — an ugly name for such an attractive boy.’

‘Did you buy him?’

‘Yes; he was to be a present for the Duke. Unfortunately, now he will not be suitable. It will be necessary to brand his head and perhaps hamstring him.’

‘Harsh treatment indeed,’ said Ruad, ‘but warranted. Please search my cabin and then allow me to return to my bed.’

‘I would hardly doubt your word, Craftsman. If you assure me he is not here, we will leave you in peace.’

‘Be assured, Lord Errin, I have not seen the boy since last Tiernsday. Now, good night to you.’ Ruad walked to the fallen man, who was struggling to sit; hoisting him to his feet by his hair, he led him to his horse and bundled him over the saddle. Lord Errin grinned, tugged on the reins of his stallion and galloped from the yard.

The man with the bruised throat lagged behind, then rode to where Ruad stood.

‘I tell you…’ he began. Ruad cut him short.

‘Please,’ he said, spreading his hands, ‘do not promise we will meet again. Insults make me angry, but threats bore me. And when I am bored, I am sometimes violent. And neither of us wants that, little man.’ The rider jerked the reins savagely and kicked his mount into a canter.

After he had gone Ruad wandered to the well, hauled up a bucket of cool water and sat on the wooden bench to drink and watch the stars.

Lug had been right to be fearful. The Duke would have been a poor slave-master. The Craftsman closed his eye and searched through the Colours. The boy would be frightened, his emotions racing. Ruad never liked to use the Red, for it always led to paths where evil walked. But the Red was strong and it knew fear. He found the current and concentrated on Lug. Within seconds he snapped clear and turned.

‘Come out, boy,’ he called, and the door of the woodshed opened and Lug stepped into the moonlight. ‘You almost made a liar of me!’

‘I had nowhere else, Master. But tomorrow I will find Llaw Gyffes — if he will have me.’

‘Come inside,’ said Ruad softly. ‘I have a few… toys… that may help you on your way.’

Inside the cabin, Ruad stoked the coals to life and hung the old iron flat pan above the flames. Into this he scooped a little fat and as it began to sizzle he cracked four eggs into the pan.

‘I take it you are hungry, young Lug?’

‘Yes, Master. Thank you. But, with respect, I reached my majority yesterday. I am Lug no longer; I am a man, and it is not fitting to carry a child’s name.’

‘Indeed it is not,’ agreed Ruad. ‘What name have you chosen?’

‘Lamfhada, Master. I have long coveted the name.’

‘LongArm. Yes, it is a good name. The first Knight of the Gabala was called Lamfhada. If you bring to it a fraction of his fame, you will do well.’

‘I will do my best, Master. But I am no hero.’

Ruad slid the eggs from the pan to a wooden platter. Then, slicing several pieces from the dark loaf he had made the day before, he passed the meal to the newly-named Lamfhada.

‘Do not judge yourself too harshly yet. I knew no Knights who sprang, fully-armoured, from the womb. All were striplings once.’

‘Have you known many Knights?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘Many,’ agreed Ruad, pouring a goblet of water and cutting himself a slice of bread.

‘Why did they leave, Master?’

‘You are full of questions, young man. And stop calling me Master — a man such as yourself may now address me as Craftsman. Or, as when you completed the bird, you may call me Ruad.’

‘You would allow me to use your given name?’ whispered the boy.

‘It is not my given name,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I would be pleased if you used it.’ The boy nodded and finished his meal, wiping the bread over the platter to scour the last traces of egg-yolk.

‘I hope my coming here will not bring you trouble. They will use the Seer, Okessa, to find me; he will know I was here.’

‘No,’ said Ruad, showing his crooked teeth in a wide grin. ‘They do not have a Seer good enough to penetrate my secrets — not even Okessa. Do not fear for me. Now, let me give you a present. Come.’ He led the runaway through to the workshop where he opened an oak chest that lay against the far wall. From it he took a pair of doehide boots, edged with silver thread. ‘Try them on,’ he told the boy.

Lamfhada pulled off his sandals and struggled into the boots. ‘They are a little big.’

Ruad pressed his fingers against the boy’s toes.

‘Thick socks should make them more comfortable, and you can grow into them.’

‘Are they magic, Ruad?’

‘Of course they are magic,’ snapped the Craftsman. ‘Do I look like a cobbler?’

‘What will they do?’

‘There is a word which I will write down for you, and when you say that word, the boots will give you speed and strength. You will be able to outrun any man and, over rough ground, even a horseman.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you. They must be priceless.’

‘Unfortunately they are a failure. Yes, even I fail, young Lamfhada. They will not hold the magic. They will give you an hour, maybe two; then they are just boots. But they are good boots.’

‘Can I not restore the magic?’ asked the lad.

Ruad grinned. ‘It will be good practice for you to try, at least. You need the Power of the Black, which is Earth Magic. But the Black is capricious and not easily drawn… and you can only find it at night, under moonlight. I used gold thread, and there is no metal better attuned to the Currents. The difficulty is control. Too much gold and the power is such that no man could wear them and still keep his balance; one leap would carry you so high you’d die of the subsequent fall. Yet too little and the power is exhausted within an hour. The problem has irritated me for a decade.’

‘And the Word?’ Lamfhada asked.

Ruad took a piece of charcoal and wrote it on the table-top. ‘Do you know how to pronounce it? And don’t do it!’

‘I know,’ said the runaway, his blue eyes locking to Ruad’s face. ‘That is your given name, is it not?’

‘It is, boy, and no man must know of it. That is why I asked you never to talk of your work here.’

‘You have shown great trust in me, Ruad. I will not betray it. How is it that men think you dead? And why would you want them to?’

‘You and I are no different, boy,’ Ruad told him. ‘All men are slaves. My joy is that I understand magic better than any man alive. I love to create things of beauty. The Knights of the Gabala were beautiful — their armour beyond compare, their hearts as pure as the hearts of men could be. But there are in the world other powers, aligned to the Red, linked to the Dark-light. My work was sought after by those powers and it still is. But you do not understand me, do you? And indeed, why should you?’

‘Your skill was desired by evil men,’ said Lamfhada. ‘I understand that.’

‘I was captured five years ago by the King’s men and taken to Furbolg; there they burned out my eye. The King wanted magic weapons, but I would give him none.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘By dying. My body was thrown into a pit beyond the castle walls.’

Lamfhada made the sign of the Protective Horn and shivered, but Ruad chuckled. ‘By appearing to die! No heartbeat. No breath. They buried me — thankfully — in a shallow grave. I dug myself clear and staggered to the home of a friend. He nursed me for eight days; then I was smuggled out of the city and made my way here.’

‘One day they will find you, Master. Why not come with me to Llaw Gyffes?’

‘Because I am not ready. And I fear there is something I must undo. But you go. Live your life. Be free — or as free as any man can be.’

‘If only the Knights were still here,’ said Lamfhada sadly.

‘It is childish to dream of what can never be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Now it is time for you to go.’ He opened a drawer under the bench, taking from it a long knife of razor-sharp steel. ‘Here, you may need this.’

‘Is it magic also?’

‘The worst kind of magic there is. With one thrust, you can destroy a lifetime of dreams and hopes.’

Llaw Gyffes stood alone at the crest of the wooded hill on the edge of the forest, one hand resting on the broad trunk of a twisted oak, the other hooked into his wide leather belt. It had begun to rain, but the tall man appeared not to notice. His eyes were fixed on the jagged plain beyond the forest where several deer were grazing alongside a group of big-horn sheep. In the distance six riders were slowly making their way among the boulders and Llaw watched them for some time. It was obvious they were seeking tracks and they were not hunting deer, for the small herd could clearly be seen from their position and they showed no interest in them. The season was too early for wolf-hunting, the grey timber beasts still high in the mountains. That left only Man.

The sky darkened and rain lashed down,-streaming from Llaw’s oiled leather shirt and drenching his green woollen leggings. Reaching up, he took hold of a thick branch and smoothly hauled himself into the sanctuary of the tree, climbing swiftly to the uppermost boughs where a crude wooden platform had been fastened and the branches above interwoven to form a thick roof. He sat down and parted the leaves so that he could see the riders. They were closer now, but still he could recognize none of them.

He pushed his blond hair from his eyes and lay back, willing himself to relax. Why should he care who they were hunting? Had anyone cared when Llaw Gyffes had been taken? Had anyone come forward to speak in his defence? Feeling his anger mount, he swallowed it swiftly. What point would there have been? You cannot blame them, Llaw. The decision was set from the moment he had smashed the bastard’s skull!

One moment was all it took to change a life. In that single heartbeat, the blacksmith had become the outlaw.

The Duke’s soldiers had been seeking a Nomad merchant accused of treason and had already ransacked several homes — stealing what they wished — when they had come upon Lydia. The officer in charge of the search ordered his men out, but stayed within himself. Seconds later Lydia’s scream was heard by many of the neighbours, but they did nothing. Only a young slave boy had the courage to run to the smithy. Llaw had dropped his tools and raced back through the narrow streets. Two soldiers were outside his door, but before they could draw their swords he fell upon them, his huge fists hammering them senseless. One suffered a broken jaw, the other three fractured ribs. When the smith kicked in the door, smashing the bronze hinges, Lydia was lying across the bed, her eyes lifeless; the officer was buckling his belt.

As Llaw Gyffes advanced into the room, the officer drew his sword and lunged. Batting the blade aside with the back of his hand, Llaw crashed a ferocious blow to the man’s face and the officer fell to his knees, the sword slipping from his fingers. Llaw moved to the body of his wife, seeing the purple bruising at her throat. Then a strangled cry of horror escaped from him and he turned on the stunned killer. Blow after blow he ripped into the man until at last the punished skull split and Llaw found himself kneeling over something unrecognizable. He staggered to his feet, his hands drenched in blood and brain, and stumbled from the house — into a fresh squad of soldiers. Llaw made no attempt to defend himself and they dragged him to the prison at Mactha.

For two months he was kept in an airless dungeon, chained to a wall. They fed him maggoty bread and stale water and left him sitting amidst his own filth. It was in this state that he was dragged before the court.

The trial was held in the Duke’s Hall, and many were the faces Llaw recognized in the balconies above, to his left and his right: friends, neighbours, associates. The Duke sat on a raised dais, flanked by his knights, as the prosecutor outlined the facts. Llaw’s anger flared as he heard the twisted version of events: there was a disturbance in the home of the blacksmith and a squad of soldiers, led by the Duke’s nephew, entered the house. There they found that the blacksmith, Llaw Gyffes, had murdered his wife. Valiantly Maradin had tried to subdue the man, but the blacksmith’s strength was prodigious and he had fought like a demon, killing Maradin and severely injuring two other soldiers.

The Duke leaned forward, his baleful eyes locking to Llaw’s. ‘What do you say?’ he asked.

‘It does not matter, I think, what I have to say,’ Llaw replied. ‘All around this hall are men who know the truth. This… Maradin… raped and murdered my Lydia… and he paid for it. That is all.’

‘Then bring forward these men to bear witness for you,’ said the Duke. ‘Where are they?’

Llaw looked up, his eyes sweeping the balconies. No one met his gaze.

‘That brands you for the liar you are,’ the Duke stated. ‘Tomorrow morning you will be quartered and impaled. Take the wretch away.’

Returned to his dungeon, Llaw was once more chained to the wall. But gone now was the malaise that had gripped him during his captivity and in its place was a burning hatred. Hooking his hands around the chains, he hauled on them, feeling for a weakness. There was some movement in the right-hand chain; throwing the weight of his arm forward, he strained at the metal, then relaxed. Pushing his back against the wall, he hooked his fingers into the bracket fixing the chain to the stone. It seemed loose, and he could feel rust on the bolts.

Three times more he tried to loosen it. The bracket was bent now, almost U-shaped, but still it held. He tried the left-hand side, but this was immovable. Breathing deeply and easily he gathered his strength, hooking his right hand once more around the links. The muscles in his shoulders bulged as he fought to straighten his arm… the metal groaned and slowly, agonizingly, the bolts slipped from the mortar binding them and the chain snapped loose. Turning, Llaw could now put both hands to the left chain and pushing his right foot against the wall, he tore the bracket loose.

Free of the wall, there was still the barred dungeon door. Gathering his chains, he moved towards it and listened. There was no sound from the corridor beyond.

Returning to the wall, he loosely fitted the brackets back into place.

‘Guard!’ he yelled. ‘Guard!’ He heard the sound of footsteps.

‘What is it? Why are you screaming?’

‘Guard!’

‘Damn you, be quiet!’

But Llaw continued to shout at the top of his voice and finally a grille opened at the centre of the door, the guard looking in to see the huge prisoner still chained to the wall.

‘Be quiet, you whoreson, or I’ll come in there and cut out your tongue!’

‘You haven’t the nerve,’ hissed Llaw. ‘You’re a gutless sack of cow droppings!’

The grille slammed shut and Llaw heard the sound of the bar being lifted clear. Then the door opened and he blinked hard against the sudden light from the torches beyond as the guard advanced.

‘I know what you want,’ whispered the man. ‘You want me to kill you. You can’t stand the thought of your limbs being cut off; you don’t want to think about the sharp stake rising through your body, ripping and tearing. Well, I won’t kill you! I’ll just make you wish you were dead.’ From his belt he pulled a hide-handled whip.

Llaw hurled himself forward, his body cannoning into the startled guard. They fell to the floor, Llaw’s hands circling the guard’s throat with increasing pressure until his neck snapped and his body jerked. Llaw rose and stared down at the body. He had no regrets; Lydia’s death and the injustice of the trial had conspired to alter the soul of the blacksmith. Gathering up the chains, he moved to the corridor. Some twenty feet to his left was the table and chair at which the guard had been stationed, and hanging from a hook on the wall were the keys to the chains. Llaw unfastened the manacles and left the chains on the table.

He was not yet free. He did not know the layout of the dungeons, nor had he any idea of a way of escape. He knew he was on the fourth level below ground, and that the stair-well led to the Great Hall. There would be no way to freedom by that route. But where the other stairs led he had no idea. He sat back on the table, thinking. To come this far and still be a prisoner was galling. Returning to his cell, he stripped the liveried tunic from the body of the guard. At the man’s belt was a knife, its edge razor-sharp. Slowly and painfully Llaw scraped away his red-gold beard, leaving only his moustache. Then, donning the guard’s tunic, he moved back to the table. The corridor was some sixty feet long, with six barred doors on either side. Swiftly Llaw opened them all, freeing the prisoners and removing their manacles.

They staggered into the corridor. All were covered in filth and many had weeping sores on their skeletal limbs.

‘You have a chance at freedom,’ whispered Llaw. ‘But stay silent and follow me.’

He climbed the stairs at a run, not bothering to look back, while the prisoners shuffled after him. On the next level a guard sat at a table, idly rolling dice. Llaw waved the prisoners back and boldly approached the man, who glanced at a marked candle.

‘You’re early,’ said the guard, grinning, ‘but I’ll not complain.’ Scooping up his dice he rose — straight into a clubbing fist — and slumped back to his seat, his head dropping to thud against the table-top. Once again Llaw opened the cell doors, freeing the prisoners. He neither knew nor cared what crimes they had committed; all that mattered was his own escape.

‘Now you may do as you please,’ he told them.

‘But how do we get out?’ asked a thick-set bearded man, with a jagged scar on his cheek.

‘Take the stairs and free the others. There are two more levels,’ Llaw told him.

‘What about you?’

‘I have other business.’

‘Who are you?’ another man asked.

‘Llaw Gyffes,’ he told them.

‘Stronghand? I’ll remember it, my friend,’ the bearded man promised.

Llaw nodded and moved away into the shadows, climbing a narrow stair-well which led to a carpeted hallway with curtained windows. Drawing back the hangings, he looked out over the courtyard less than ten feet below. The great gates were open and two sentries stood chatting in the shadows. On the walls he counted five bowmen. Beyond the gates he could see the lights of Mactha and the far mountains shining in the moonlight. Easing himself through the window, he silently dropped to the cobbles. A sudden shout froze him in his tracks, but it came from within the castle.

‘The prisoners are free!’ came the call as Llaw ran to the gates.

‘What’s happening?’ asked a sentry.

‘The prisoners have broken out,’ Llaw told him. ‘Quickly, get to the Hall and guard the stair-wells!’

The two sentries raced towards the doors and Llaw glanced at the men on the battlements. ‘Help them,’ he shouted. ‘Guard the Hall!’

The bowmen ran to join their comrades and Llaw slowly walked from the fortress, skirting Mactha and heading for the distant mountains.

He learned later that the twenty-three men he had freed had opened the cell doors for forty more. Thirty of the prisoners died in the hand-to-hand fighting inside the castle, twenty-two more had been captured in the first three days, but eleven had escaped.

Now, seven months later, as Llaw sat in his tree hideaway, the hunters were once more seeking a runaway.

Llaw hoped they caught him.

He didn’t want armed men riding through his forest, disturbing the deer and putting Llaw himself in peril.

Lamfhada crouched behind two jagged boulders and watched the horsemen. The rain was lashing at their eyes, but still they came on, led by the tracker — a wizened Nomad with slanted eyes. Lamfhada was sure the Nomad was a man of magic. How else could he track him across rocks and scree?

The youth glanced back at the mountains and the forest’s edge. There lay security — but it was at least a mile distant and uphill. He was chilled by the biting rain and his empty belly gnawed at him. Here in this desolate place he wondered at his decision to flee, cursing himself for his stupidity. Was the Duke’s service so bad, compared with this? It was… he knew that well enough. The Duke often had his servants whipped and, at the Midwinter Solstice, had ordered an elderly slave to be flayed alive for some indiscretion. No, thought Lamfhada, better to be a runaway.

The Nomad tracker stopped some two hundred paces away from the boulders and suddenly pointed. Lamfhada blinked and shrank back as the riders spurred their mounts into a gallop. The youth leapt from his hiding place and sprinted towards the mountains, slipping and slithering on the mud and the greasy rocks. The horses thundered after him and he could hear the shouts of the riders.

In panic Lamfhada screamed the magic name and instantly felt his weight lessen, his stride lengthen. He was almost floating over the rocks. Swerving to the left, he leapt ten feet to a boulder, cutting to the right up a narrow trail towards the trees. The horsemen could not follow directly and were forced to skirt the boulder, losing ground on the runner in the process. Once more the chase was on.

Lord Errin spurred his giant black gelding into a gallop and bore down on the runaway, scarcely able to believe the speed at which the youth was moving. Had he known he was this swift, he would never have dreamt of giving him to the Duke but would have kept him and taken him to Furbolg for the races. Too late now, thought Errin, as he closed on the boy.

Hearing the hoofbeats Lamfhada cut left, clambering up a scree slope and clawing his way over the jutting boulders. Errin cursed and guided the gelding on to the treacherous slope but the horse slithered, dropping to its haunches. Another rider galloped up.

‘Give me your bow,’ shouted Errin, taking the weapon and notching an arrow to the string. Lamfhada was almost in the clear as Errin drew back the string, took a deep breath, allowed the air to drift from his lungs and, between breaths, loosed the shaft. The arrow sped to its target, catching the youth high in the back. He staggered, but did not fall and reached the sanctuary of the trees.

‘Should we follow, my Lord?’ asked the Nomad.

‘No, we are not strong enough to face the rebels. Anyway, the arrow went deep; he will not survive.’ Errin threw the bow back to the rider and led the black gelding from the scree slope. ‘What was it the boy shouted?’ he asked.

The Nomad shrugged. ‘It sounded like a name, Lord: Ollathair.’

‘That is what I heard. Now why would a runaway use the name of a dead wizard? And why did his speed increase so greatly?’ Again the Nomad shrugged and Errin smiled. ‘You do not care, do you, Ubadai?’

‘No, Lord,’ the Nomad agreed. ‘I track him. I do my job very good.’

‘Indeed you did. But it is intriguing; I will ask Okessa when we return.’ The Nomad hawked and spat and Errin chuckled. ‘He does not like you either, my friend. But beware, for he is a powerful man to have as an enemy.’

‘A man may be judged by his enemies, Lord. Sooner strong ones than weak ones, I think.’

Errin grinned at him and led the group back towards the safety of Mactha.

Just beyond the tree line Lamfhada stumbled to a halt, a great weariness rising within him. He tried to move on, but his vision blurred and the trees seemed to move and sway before him. The ground swept up at him and his eyes closed.

A slender man stepped from behind a thick pine and advanced towards the fallen youth. He was dressed in a shirt of sky-blue silk, leather trews and silver-buckled shoes, with around his shoulders a fine cloak of sheepskin. His long hair was gathered at the nape of his neck by a silver band, and his eyes were violet. Kneeling by Lamfhada, he saw the blood seeping from the arrow wound and turned away his head.

‘Well, are you going to take it out?’ came a voice and the man jerked and rose swiftly to his feet, turning to face the newcomer — a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with blond hair and a red-gold beard.

‘I don’t know anything about wounds. I think he could be dead.’

Llaw Gyffes grinned. ‘Your face is as grey as a winter sky.’ Ignoring the man, he strode to the stricken youth and ripped away his shirt. The arrow was deep and lodged under the shoulder-blade, the flesh around the wound already swollen and puffy. Llaw gripped the shaft.

‘Wait!’ said the other. ‘If it is barbed, it will rip him to pieces.’

‘Then pray it is not,’ replied Llaw, suddenly wrenching the shaft clear. Lamfhada groaned, but did not wake. Llaw held up the arrow; the head was not barbed. Blood was pouring from the wound now and Llaw plugged it with a piece of torn shirt. Lifting the youth, he draped the body over his right shoulder and walked away into the shadow-haunted forest.

The other man followed. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘There is a settlement about an hour ahead. They have an apothecary and a Wyccha woman,’ Llaw told him.

‘My name is Nuada.’

Llaw walked on without speaking.

The sun was sinking behind the mountains when they crested a small rise above the village. There were seven cabins and a longer hall to the south, while at the northern end was a paddock in which five ponies were gathered.

Llaw turned to his companion. ‘Check if the boy still lives,’ he ordered.

Gingerly Nuada took Lamfhada’s arm, feeling for a pulse. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but the heart is beating erratically.’

Llaw made no comment and began the long walk down the hill. As they approached two men came from the nearest hut; both were armed with longbows and had knives at their belts. Llaw waved at them and, recognizing him, they returned the arrows to their quivers.

Llaw took Lamfhada to the.furthest cabin, mounted the steps to the rough-hewn porch and tapped at the door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman. Seeing his burden, she stepped aside; he entered the cabin and made straight for the narrow bed beneath the eastern window.

The woman helped him to lay the youth on the bed and pulled the blood-drenched plug from the wound. More blood began to flow and she watched it carefully.

‘It did not pierce the lung,’ she said. ‘Leave him here; I will see to him.’

Llaw said nothing. He rose and stretched his neck, then noticed Nuada standing in the doorway.

‘What do you want here?’ he asked.

‘A meal would be pleasant,’ Nuada said.

‘Can you pay?’

‘I usually sing for my supper,’ stated Nuada. ‘I am a saga poet.’

Llaw shook his head and pushed past, stepping into the gathering darkness. Nuada joined him. ‘I am a good poet. I have been welcomed in the palace at Furbolg and have sung before the Duke in Mactha. And I have been east.’

‘Good poets are rich poets,’ said Llaw. ‘It is the nature of things. But it does not matter; I expect the villagers will be glad of a song. Do you know the saga of Petric?’

‘Of course, but I tend towards the contemporaneous. That’s why I am here — gathering material.’

‘Take my advice — and give them Petric,’ advised Llaw, walking away towards the long hall.

Nuada ran to catch up. ‘You are not very sociable, my friend.’

‘I have no friends,’ Llaw told him, ‘and I need none.’

The hall was some seventy feet long, with two stone hearths set on opposite sides at the centre. There were a dozen tables and, at the far end, a long trestle stand behind which were several barrels. Llaw elbowed his way through the crowd and lifted a tankard from a hook on the wall. This he filled with ale from a smaller barrel placed on the trestle table. Nuada saw that he left no payment, so he too gathered a tankard.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked a swarthy man, poking a thick finger into Nuada’s chest.

‘Getting a drink,’ the poet answered.

‘Not with my jug, you don’t,’ he said, snatching the tankard away.

‘My apologies,’ said Nuada. Turning, he saw the blond warrior talking to a man nearby. The man — thickset and with a swelling belly — swung to stare at the poet, then smiled and made his way over.

‘You are a saga sayer?’ the man asked.

‘Indeed I am, sir.’

‘Have you travelled far?’

‘From Furbolg. I sang at the court.’

‘Good. You have news, then. I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?’

‘Nuada. Sometimes called Silverhand — when I play the harp.’

‘We have no harps — but there’s a meal and a bed if you tell us what is happening in the world. Nothing too flowery, mind,’ he warned. ‘Keep it simple.’

Llaw Gyffes sat down on a bench seat against the wall, pushing his long legs out before him. He grinned as he experienced a moment of sympathy for the poet. This was not Furbolg, nor even Mactha. The courtly saga-sayer was about to practise his art before a group of nithings, wolfsheads, men who knew the difference between romance and reality. He watched as Nuada climbed atop a broad table, then the hallkeeper called for quiet and introduced the poet. Conversations ceased momentarily, then began again as Nuada started to speak. Men turned away and a joke told in the far corner of the hall brought hearty laughter.

Suddenly Nuada’s voice rose above the clamour, rich and resonant.

‘When a hero dies,’ he said, ‘the gods give him a gift. But it is double-edged. You!’ he stormed, pointing at a stout man wearing a wolfskin jerkin. ‘Do you know the gift? Yes, you, the pig in wolfs clothing!’ A ripple of laughter sounded and the man’s face flushed red as his hand reached for the dagger at his belt. Nuada swung to point at another man. ‘What about you? Do you know the gift?’ The man shook his head. Then I’ll tell you. When a hero dies, his soul wanders, called hither and yon by saga-sayers and poets. When they speak of him before a crowd — even such a pack of beggars as is gathered here — then his soul appears in their midst. That is magic! That is a kind of sorcery no wizard can create. And why is it double-edged?

‘Because that hero will stand among you and see that you care nothing for his deeds. They are less than shadows.

‘By that fire stands Petric, greatest of warriors, noblest of men. He fought evil and he stood for something greater than glory. And what does he see when he looks around him? Sniggerers and loafers, runaways and lechers. Such a man deserves far better.’

Llaw Gyffes glanced nervously at the fire, but could see nothing apart from the dancing flames. But the hall was quiet now and the poet held that silence for several moments; then his voice softened.

‘It was at the dawn of a different age,’ Nuada began, ‘when Petric walked from the Forest. Tall he was…’

Llaw listened as the familiar tale unfolded. Not a sound disturbed the telling and Nuada’s magic wove its spell. At the close, when he recounted the treachery and the gallantry when Petric was slain at the Pass of Souls, all eyes were on the poet. But he did not end the tale there, with the winged demons closing in on the body. He spoke of Petric’s warrior soul rising from the slain corpse and continuing his battle in a ghostly sky — his sword a blade of moonlight, his eyes two shining stars. When Nuada’s voice finally faded to silence the applause was thunderous.

For an hour he spoke, telling stories of ancient heroes, ending with the tale of the Knights of the Gabala and their journey to slay the essence of evil. Despite himself, Llaw found his own cynicism drowned by the poet’s eloquence and applauded as loudly as the rest when the tales were over.

The hallkeeper brought Nuada a tankard of ale, which he downed swiftly. Then he called for a chair and set it at the centre of the table, sitting down for the questions.

Men gathered around, asking of events in the world outside. He told them of the purge in the capital, of Nomad merchants hunted like rats; of rising prices, and food shortages in the north. He talked of the Great Race and the stallion, Lancer, a giant grey which had beaten the best horses in the empire.

At last he stepped from the table and rejoined Llaw Gyffes.

‘You have talent,’ said the outlaw. ‘But was Petric really here?’

Nuada smiled. ‘He was, if you felt his presence.’

‘How is it that a man of your skills should find himself in such a place as this? You should be rich, and living in a palace.’

Nuada shrugged and his violet eyes narrowed. ‘I have lived in a palace. I have dined from gold plates.’ He touched his blue silk shirt. ‘Once I would have worn this shirt for one day only, and then given it to a slave or thrown it upon a fire.’

Llaw smiled. ‘But you are going to tell me that all this was as nothing compared with the freedom of life in the forest?’

‘Not at all. Look at me, man! What do you see?’

‘You are handsome enough, with that long dark hair and those odd eyes. What is there to see?’

‘I am a Nomad. My father was one of the richest merchants in Furbolg.’

Llaw nodded. ‘I understand; it was all taken from you.’

‘Worse than that. My family were slain. I was not at home when the soldiers came; I was with… a friend. She smuggled me from the city.’

‘These are bad days, right enough. What made you choose this forest?’

‘I heard there was a rebellion here, led by a hero, and I came to learn his tale. Then I will travel east to kingdoms where sanity still rules.’

‘You’ll find no rebellion here. Outlaws and thieves, perhaps, but no heroes.’

Nuada said nothing for a moment, then leaned close to the outlaw.

‘There is a new saga being told in Furbolg and many other towns. It is about a hero who has defied both Duke and King. He slew the Duke’s nephew and was sentenced to death; but he escaped the dungeons of Mactha and released all the prisoners there. All over the country his name is a byword in the fight against tyranny.’

Llaw chuckled. ‘The fight against tyranny? What nonsense is this, poet? Fighting tyrants is like spitting against a storm.’

‘You are wrong. This man exists and I will find him.’

‘He has a name, this paragon?’

‘He is called Stronghand. Llaw Gyffes.’ Nuada’s eyes gleamed as he spoke the name.

‘Good luck in your quest, poet.’

‘Then you do not know him?’

‘No, I do not know the man you speak of. Come, let us eat.’