Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lamfhada watched as Arian measured out her paces. Satisfied, she took a piece of chalk from her pocket and drew a rough circle on the thick bole of an oak, some two feet from the ground. Then she returned to where the youth waited. He loved to watch her walk — her movements smooth, almost liquid, her eyes alert. She grinned at him.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then string your bow.’ Lamfhada removed the string from his borrowed hip-pouch and looped it to his longbow. As he had been shown, he attached it first to the foot of the bow, bending down the top to meet the second loop.

‘That tree,’ said Arian, ‘is thirty paces away. Now we have practised at thirty paces, so you know the pull.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed, drawing an arrow from the doeskin quiver and notching it to the string.

‘Then imagine that chalk circle is a pheasant — and kill it,’ she told him. Slowly he drew back the string until it touched his cheek, focused on the chalk circle — and loosed. The shaft hammered into the tree some seven feet above the circle. He was instantly angry, grabbing for a second arrow.

‘Wait!’ she ordered. ‘Look at the line of flight and tell me what you see?’

‘It is a clear line, unblocked by trees.’

‘What else?’

He stared down at the target. ‘It is downhill.’

‘Precisely, Lamfhada. And, like sighting across dead ground, the eye will betray you. Remember this: You will shoot high, when aiming downhill; low, when sighting uphill or across water. It is also difficult to judge distance in the woods. Now, sight on the target and aim some three paces in front of the tree.’

He did so and the arrow flew to the chalk circle as if drawn there by magic.

‘I did it!’ he yelled.

‘Yes; a fine strike. Now turn to your right and plant an arrow in the trunk of the pine over there.’

Lamfhada notched his shaft to the string and stared at the tree. Judging it to be around forty paces, he pulled for fifty. Smoothly he released the string and the arrow sailed towards the target — then dropped to slice into the earth. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Pace it out,’ she told him. Slowly he walked the distance; the tree was seventy paces away.

‘You must learn to judge such things,’ she said, walking beside him. ‘The reason it fooled you was the number of trees pushing in on the line of flight. They destroyed your perspective and shortened the distance. Come, let us retrieve your arrow from the oak.’

‘Am I improving, Arian?’ he asked, desperate for a word of praise.

‘You have a good arm and your release is without tremor. We will see.’

A good arm! Lamfhada felt like a king.

The rain had passed during the morning and the afternoon was bright and clear as he sat with Arian on the hillside overlooking the settlement. Below them the newcomer Elodan was trying to chop logs using a short hatchet. His movements were clumsy and the blade kept missing the chunks and bouncing from the hard wood ring.

Every day Elodan practised and his improvement — if improvement there was — was slow and frustrating.

Lamfhada was over the worst of his wound, which now itched mercilessly as the scabs peeled on his back.

‘So, young magician, tell me of the Colours,’ said Arian, leaning back on her elbows and grinning at the embarrassed youth. He had tried to impress her with his knowledge of magic, and had shown her Ruad’s boots. But when he put them on and whispered the name Ollathair, nothing happened. The magic had been exhausted during his flight from the Lord Errin and the hunters. She had mocked him then — not spitefully, but he had taken it hard and spent many hours trying to find the Black in order to recharge the power. And he had failed.

‘First, there is the White,’ he told her. ‘That is the Colour of Calm and Serenity. Then the Yellow, which is of Innocence and the laughter of children. This is followed by the Black, which is of the Earth and brings strength and speed. Power, if you will. The Blue is of the Sky, and gives the magic of Flight. The Green is of Growth, and Healing. And the Red is of Fear, and Lust.’

‘Does the Red have no good powers?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. It is of aggression and, used wisely, can aid all other Colours. But it takes a mighty wizard to use it so.’

‘A mighty wizard like you, Lamfhada?’

He blushed and grinned. ‘Do not mock me, Arian,’ he urged. ‘I was only a poor apprentice, and even then I had little time with the Master. But I did make a bird of bronze that flew for a little while; it was a beautiful bird, and it took nearly a year to create.’

‘I would like to have seen that bird,’ said Arian. ‘But now to your education, for I have little time to spend with a wounded boy. Name that tree over to your left.’

‘A sycamore,’ he answered instantly.

‘How do you know?’

‘It has leaves with five lobes, and winged seeds.’

‘And that?’ she asked, pointing to another tree.

‘Maple. It is like the sycamore, but the leaves are a lighter green, and the bark is grey and finely furrowed.’

A bird swooped down to perch on a branch of the maple. It was white-breasted, its head grey, and its eyes looked as if they wore a black mask.

‘Before you ask,’ said Lamfhada proudly, ‘that is a grey shrike. It feeds on mice and other birds — Llaw Gyffes told me.’

‘And what does it signal?’ she asked.

‘Signal? I… don’t understand.’

‘It signals the coming of winter. You rarely see it in the summer months. Now I suggest you help Elodan with the wood; you can stack it against the north wall for him.’

‘Where will you go?’ he asked, painfully aware that his time with her was over as she rose smoothly and gathered her bow.

‘I am taking Nuada to Groundsel’s camp. The poet’s fame is spreading through the forest,’ she replied.

‘Will it be dangerous?’

‘Do not fear for me, Lamfhada. I am no country milk-maid. Anyway, Groundsel has offered safe conduct and he will abide by it. Even in the forest there are rules which will not be broken.’

‘But the men Elodan killed, were they not from Groundsel’s camp?’

‘He did not kill them all, boy,’ she snapped. ‘I took one of them.’

She wandered away and he cursed himself for annoying her. During the last ten days he had found her constantly on his mind, making him twist and turn in his bed, unable to sleep. He strolled down the hill and began to gather the wood around the ring.

‘I will do that,’ said the dark-haired Elodan, his face grim and bathed in sweat.

‘I have been told to do it,’ stated Lamfhada. ‘They are finding tasks to make me feel useful.’

Elodan grinned. ‘It is the same for me. But I’ll be damned if I can make my left hand work. It is a question of balance, you see. A man is not just right-handed, but right-sided: foot, eye and hand working together. Now I am just clumsy.’ He sat down. ‘It is hard to be useless.’

‘You are not useless,’ Lamfhada told him. ‘You rescued Arian single… on your own,’ he finished lamely.

Elodan laughed. ‘Do not fear to say single-handed. It is not as if your words bring home any truth I do not know. How is your back?’

‘Almost mended. Arian is teaching me the use of the bow and when I can hunt and bring meat to the settlement, I shall feel much better.’

Elodan wiped the sweat from his face and smiled at the blond youngster. Any fool could see the lad was in love with Arian. Sadly, Arian could see it too. The boy wanted to impress her, but never would, for despite their similarity of age Arian was a grown woman… and already in love.

‘What brought you to the forest?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘A dream. A quest. Both have proved to be without foundation,’ replied Elodan. ‘I shall stay for the winter and then try to get to Cithaeron.’

‘What dream did you have?

‘Gabala is awash with rumours of a revolt led by a great hero,’ Elodan said, shaking his head. ‘His name is Llaw Gyffes, and he has a mighty army gathering in the Forest of the Ocean. I came to join that army.’

‘It is not Llaw’s fault that stories about him have grown,’ said Lamfhada. ‘All he did was rescue some prisoners from Mactha.’

‘No, it is not his fault. Now I must continue with my work, and you should start gathering.’ But Lamfhada saw he made no move to pick up the hatchet.

‘Why did you go against the King?’ the youth asked suddenly.

‘You are full of questions, Lamfhada — but then so was I when young, and my questions were always of the empire. One of my ancestors marched with Patronius to conquer Fomoria and Sercia. Another fell when the Eagle was carried to the east and the Nomad tribes destroyed them. Twenty years later, his son led the Five Armies that smashed the Nomads and established cities across the Steppes to the Far Sea. Always the empire.’ Elodan picked up the hatchet and stared at the curved blade. ‘But — as all empires will — the Gabala failed. There is a truth that cannot be ignored. Empires are like men; they grow to maturity, then they age and wither. When there is nothing left to conquer, decay begins. A sad truth to understand. Ten years ago the Fomorians and the Sercians hammered that truth back at us with an uprising. Ahak led a brilliant counterattack — and he won. But he knew the victory would be short-lived, so he gave the lands back to the rebels and marched home.

‘I worshipped the man then; I saw in him the seeds of greatness. But he is an old-style Gabalan and he could not let the past rest. We talked of it often. Tell me, Lamfhada, what separates the civilized man from the barbarian?’

‘Learning, culture… architecture?’

‘Yes,’ Elodan agreed, ‘but even more basic than that: an abundance of food and wealth. The barbarian must battle for every crust. He has no time for the weak or the infirm. They die and only the strong survive. But we civilized people, we learn to care. We help the weak and we ourselves grow fat and lazy. We promote the seeds of our own destruction. Three hundred years ago we were a lean, barbarian people. We conquered much of the world. But twenty years ago the greater part of our armies were mercenaries from conquered barbarian tribes; only the officers were Gabalan. Do you see what I am saying?’

‘Not really,’ admitted the youth.

‘The King believes he can reverse the process: eradicate the weak, the tainted. Burn away the fat, and the Gabala will rise again.’

‘And that is why you went against him?’

‘No,’ said Elodan. ‘At the time I believed in everything the King was planning. But I stood for the nobleman, Kester, when he was accused of being tainted.’

‘Why?’

‘To repay a debt, Lamfhada. I killed his son.’

‘Oh,’ said Lamfhada, swallowing hard. He could not think of anything to say and his next question sped from his lips before he could stop it. ‘Was it a terrible thing to lose your hand?’ He looked up into Elodan’s eyes, which grew cold and distant; then his lean face relaxed and he smiled at the youth.

‘No. The terrible thing was to find a man who could cut it from me. Now let us work.’

The girl was not frightened when she was brought to Cairbre’s room by two of Okessa’s most trusted servants. Nor was she concerned when the Knight approached her in the candlelight, his armour still strapped to his lean frame. Her fear began when he smiled, and she saw the whiteness of his teeth and the cold gleam in his eyes.

An hour later Cairbre sat in the middle of the room, the curtains drawn, his eyes swamped in crimson. The girl’s body lay on the bed, curiously shrivelled like a tanned leather sack.

Cairbre placed his hands together as if in prayer.

The candles guttered and died; the room began to glow and seven circles of amber light formed before the Knight, swelling and brightening, coalescing into faces.

‘Welcome, my brothers,’ said Cairbre. All the faces were strangely similar, with short-cropped white hair and blood-filled eyes, yet one stood out from the rest. The eyes were almost slanted, the cheekbones high, the mouth full; it was a strong face, a leader’s face.

‘The Red is growing,’ said the leader. ‘Soon, we will have it all.’

‘How are your plans faring, my Lord?’ Cairbre asked.

‘Furbolg is quiet. We have begun to take our nourishment far from the city, where panic is less contagious. Also there are Nomad women, and none care when they disappear. But that is a small matter. When the Red takes control, the King will gather his army. The east will be the first to feel the might of the New Gabala. Now tell me, Cairbre, what of the wizard Ollathair?’

‘He escaped, my Lord. Okessa sent men to apprehend him, but they were terrified by his demon hounds. I believe he has sought refuge in the great forest.’

‘Have you located him?’

‘Not yet. It is a perplexing matter, but the Red does not seem to be growing there at the same rate. The White is strong — and the Black. I do not understand it.’

‘Ollathair is there,’ said the leader. ‘Perhaps that is the answer. It does not matter; he will be found and destroyed. I am loosing the Beasts.’

‘Will they not slay indiscriminately?’ asked Cairbre.

The leader smiled. ‘Of course they will; it is their nature. But do not concern yourself, Cairbre. The forest is a breeding ground for traitors. Loyal men do not go there. Therefore any life that is lost is already forfeit.’

‘And if the Beasts leave the forest?’

The leader’s eyes hardened. ‘Be careful, Cairbre, your weakness has not passed without comment. Why did you loan your sword to the traitor Errin?’

‘Because I was bored, my Lord. Without it he would have been dead in an instant.’

‘And yet, in giving it to him, you allowed him to wound you. That is why you needed the nourishment. You are a brother to me, Cairbre, you always were. But take no more foolish risks. The fate of the kingdom rests with us — and the future of the world. Our crusade against the evils of corruption and decay must not be allowed to falter. We have made great strides with the gradual elimination of the Nomad curse. Soon will come the real test.’

Cairbre bowed his head. ‘I am ready, my Lord.’

‘There is great talk in Furbolg of a rebel force in the forest, led by a man named Llaw Gyffes. What do you know of him?’

‘He is an outlawed blacksmith who killed his wife and one of the Duke’s relatives. He escaped from the dungeons of Mactha.’

‘Rather too many of our King’s enemies are escaping from Mactha,’ snapped the leader. ‘Llaw Gyffes, Ollathair — and now this rebel lord, Errin. Is the Duke a sympathizer?’

‘I do not think so. He is an opportunist.’

‘Watch him carefully. At the first sign of treachery, depose him and install Okessa in his place. His loyalty is without question.’

‘Indeed it is, my Lord, but the man is a snake.’

‘Snakes have their uses, Cairbre. Now, to return to Llaw Gyffes: is he building an army?’

‘I have no reason to believe that he is. But then the forest covers several thousand square miles and in it there are many valleys, and mountains and settlements. It is difficult to know what is being planned there.’

‘And the White is too strong for you to observe their plans?’

‘Yes, my Lord. I flew as close to it as I could last night, but the light almost burnt my soul and I had to flee to my body. That is also why I needed the nourishment.’

‘The Beasts will aid the Red, for they will inspire fear — more than fear. Stark and naked terror will radiate from that damned rats’ nest.’

The faces faded, and Cairbre was alone.

Terribly alone…

Bighorn sheep and a few wild long-haired cattle were grazing together on the hillsides, while a small herd of deer were drinking at a stream which bubbled over white rocks on its journey to the river far below.

At the brow of a hill, where marble boulders had been formed into a rough ring, the air began to crackle. Several sheep stopped their feeding and looked up, but their watery eyes could see no predator and there was no smell of wolf or lion upon the breeze. Warily they milled about. Lightning flashed from the boulders, and the sheep ran. A huge bull, his curved horns scarred by many battle trials, swung to face the boulders. A curious smell reached his nostrils, acrid as smoke, leaving a strange taste in the bull’s mouth. The air rippled before him, and a dark shadow fell across the hillside.

There in the circle of boulders stood a huge creature, its head elongated and vulpine, its grey-furred shoulders ridged with muscle. It ambled forward with jaws gaping — long, wicked fangs dripping saliva to its leathery chest. The bull had seen enough; he backed away.

The creature raised its snout as the wind changed and caught the scent of sheep and cattle. Its eyes widened and long talons slid from their sheaths in the flesh of its fingers.

It stood stock still for a moment, then raced at the flock with surprising speed. The sheep scattered, the cattle stampeding towards the stream. His cows threatened, the bull ducked his head and charged. The creature dropped to all fours as the bull approached and at the last second it leapt, high over the bull’s head, to land on its back. Long talons sliced deep into the dark flesh, then ripped clear.

Blood gushing from several gaping wounds, the bull bellowed in pain and rage and, in a wild effort to dislodge its tormentor, rolled to its back. The creature leapt clear. The bull’s head came up as it struggled to rise, exposing the huge jugular. Talons flashed out. The jugular parted and blood fountained from the dying bull as it sank to the grass, hooves scrabbling weakly. The creature snarled and launched a final murderous assault, ripping and smashing through skin and bone and muscle to finally tear out the heart of the bull…

This it devoured. Then, more calmly, it began to tear and bite at the carcass. Hunger satisfied, its head dropped back with snout pointing to the sky. An eerie, unearthly howl echoed through the hills. The deer raced for the sanctuary of the trees and the sheep ran in terror from the hillside.

The first of the Beasts had arrived in the Forest of the Ocean.

‘You are an idiot, poet,’ said Llaw Gyffes as the slender Nuada packed his spare clothes into a large travelling pack. ‘Groundsel is a notorious liar and a foul-mouthed thief. If he doesn’t like your stories, you could end up staked out on a hillside.’

Nuada chuckled. ‘Come with us, mighty hero. Protect us!’

‘Us?’

‘Yes. Arian is accompanying me.’

Llaw’s face flushed and his eyes showed a murderous gleam. He stroked his red-gold beard, struggling for calm. ‘You think it is wise to take a child into Groundsel’s lair?’ he asked.

Nuada laughed aloud and hoisted the pack to his shoulders. ‘Child, Llaw?’ he mocked. ‘Are you blind? She is a woman — and a damned fetching one. Surely you have noticed?’

‘What I notice, or don’t notice, is my own affair,’ snapped the outlaw. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Admit it, you’ll miss me. Go on, be a man, admit it.’

Uttering a foul curse, Llaw rose and stormed from the cabin, almost colliding with Arian but stopping at the last minute by grabbing her shoulders. Mumbling an apology, he stalked off towards the hills. Nuada was right. Llaw would miss him. He was bright company and his stories wove webs of magic that could make a man forget he lived in a forest, in a dark cabin. They could ease the pain of loss and make the world seem a place of heroes and enchantment. Without him this was merely another mud-swamped settlement with no hope and no future.

Llaw’s thoughts flew to Lydia, the wife of his heart — a beautiful woman, strong and yet caring. He found his feelings for Arian a betrayal of Lydia’s memory, and hoped her ghost would forgive him. Seeing Lamfhada and the cripple, Elodan, working to build the winter wood supply, he tried to walk past without stopping, but Elodan waved and he knew it would be churlish to ignore them.

‘How goes it?’ he asked.

‘There will be fuel for the winter,’ replied Elodan. ‘Has Nuada gone yet?’

‘No.’

‘He will be missed here, I think. I hope he is not away too long. I’ve never heard a finer story-teller,’ said Elodan. ‘I first knew him in Furbolg. He put on a performance for the King. It was the tale of Asmodin. Superb! The King — may the Gods rot his soul — gave Nuada a ruby the size of a goose-egg.’

‘He doesn’t have it now,’ said Llaw gleefully.

‘No, I understand he gave it to a lady for a single night of pleasure.’

‘The more fool him,’ snapped Llaw, thinking of the two-day journey the poet was about to undertake with Arian. But then all Nuada could now offer her was a second pair of woollen leggings and a threadbare blanket. Even so, the slender poet was a handsome man! Llaw cursed.

‘What is wrong?’ Elodan asked.

‘Nothing!’ said Llaw, striding off.

‘Is he sick, do you think?’ Lamfhada whispered.

‘No, he is in love,’ answered Elodan, chuckling. ‘But then, in my experience, that is very much the same.’

Llaw stopped at his cabin and sat staring at his spartan surroundings. Then with a muttered curse he packed his belongings in a canvas shoulder-sack, tucked a double-headed axe into his belt and walked from the settlement without a backward glance.

Cithaeron was the place to be, he decided. He could get work in a smithy there and build a new life.

As he topped the line of hills he heard a distant howl. It chilled his blood. The wolves were out early this year, he thought — and walked on.

Nuada stepped into the sunshine and watched the outlaw crest the-hill; Arian stopped beside him. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Llaw. I think he is leaving us.’

‘Ridiculous!’ she snapped. ‘He is making his life here.’

Nuada looked at her and grinned. ‘Lead on, lady,’ he said. ‘I shall follow your beauty to the ends of the earth.’

‘Fool!’

‘Indeed I am. It is the fate of poets.’

He hoisted his pack to his back and waited. ‘What about weapons?’ she asked.

‘I have little use for them. But I have no fear; you will be there to guard me from the evils of the wild.’ His violet eyes sparkled with humour. Arian was unsure of Nuada; in the days she had known him he had made no secret of the fact that he found her attractive, yet not once had he made a move to court her. But then, she reasoned, this was a man who had moved among the ladies of the court, with their soft perfumed skin and their clothes of silk.

‘Let us go,’ she told him, moving off across the settlement. He strolled some paces behind her, enjoying the swaying of her hips in the tight buckskin leggings.

Once more the strange howling came from the distant north. It was answered by a second howl to the east… and another from the south. Nuada shivered.

‘Wolves?’ he asked.

Arian stopped. ‘It must be a trick of the wind,’ she said, ‘or a twisted echo. Anyway, it will not trouble us. Wolves keep well clear of people — except in the worst of winter, when food is scarce. But even then they can be scared away by a hunter with nerve.’

‘That howling went through me like a winter wind,’ he said.

She smiled at him. ‘That’s because you are a city man,’ she told him.

‘So you are not concerned by it?’

‘Not at all,’ she lied.

Manannan, the Once-Knight, sat alone with Ollathair the Armourer. The cabin was empty, for Gwydion and the family had wandered out into the settlement square. Ruad waited for Manannan to speak, but the Once-Knight sat silently staring at the table. Finally Ruad spoke.

‘We need them, Manannan. If they are alive, they must be brought back.’

‘I cannot do it; I cannot pass the Black Gate.’

The Armourer reached over and gripped Manan-nan’s arm. ‘The nation is in great danger. The Colours are in disarray; the Red is swelling. Nomads are being murdered. Lust, greed and evil are swamping the Harmonies. Do you understand? The King has gathered to him eight Knights — Red Knights. I sense their evil. They must be countered, Manannan. Only the Knights of the Gabala could hope to stand against them.’

‘Then you should not have sent them,’ said Manannan, fixing his gaze to Ollathair’s.

The older man looked away. ‘You are right. It was folly of the worst kind. But I cannot put it right.’

‘Go after them yourself.’

‘I cannot. There is no one to open the Gate this side, and the spell may not be reversible in the other world. You must go.’

Manannan laughed and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand; you never did. I came to you the night before the quest began. I told you then of my fears. It was not death that troubled me. I knew that if I passed the Gate my soul would be in peril. But no, you would not listen. Well, they are gone, Ollathair. You cannot bring them back. They died in whatever Hell they found beyond the Gate.’

‘You cannot be sure.’

‘No, I can’t. But if Samildanach and the others were alive, they would have found a way back. I am sure of that. Samildanach was almost the wizard you are.’ Manannan poured water into a clay cup and drained it; then he stood and looked down at Ollathair. ‘On that last night, I saw Samildanach saying farewell to Morrigan; she cried and he left her. I went to her and dried her tears and she told me she had dreamt strange dreams of blood and fire, of angels and demons. In her heart, she said, she knew she would never see Samildanach again. What could I say? But when we stood before the Gate and I felt the cold wind blow through it, my courage died. It is the same now. But you do not understand, Ollathair. You never did. You never felt the fear that gnaws away at the soul. You could never understand what it is to find yourself a coward. Oh yes, I can face men in battle. I am confident of my skills. But faced with the Gate, I was lost. Even now when I think of it my heart races, my breath seems short. I panicked, Ollathair. I did it then — I would do it now.’

He walked to the door and turned. ‘I am truly sorry.’

‘Manannan!’ called Ruad and the warrior swung to face him.

‘What is it?’

‘I have known that fear… when the King had me in chains and they burned my eye from me. But a man must overcome his fears, or they will overcome him. You are not a coward. It is not death you fear; it is the dark, the unknown, the journey into night. Will you not try to conquer it?’

‘You still do not understand,’ said Manannan wearily. ‘If I could do it, I would. Can you not see that?’

‘What I see is a man who was once a Knight of the Gabala — a man who swore an oath to protect and defend the Order. Go from here, Manannan. I free you from your oath. Now you can do as you will.’

‘Farewell, Armourer,’ said the Once-Knight.

Outside in the sunlight, he mounted Kuan and rode from the settlement. Death was now assured, he knew; but then, death came to all men. He would find a place high in the mountains and he would cheat his fate. When the pressure on his throat grew great, he would find a way to die that pleased him.

He rode throughout the afternoon, ever higher into the tree line, passing cabins and skirting other settlements. Towards dusk he heard a high-pitched howling from the forest. Kuan’s ears pricked and Manannan felt him shudder.

‘You have nothing to fear from wolves, Greatheart,’ he said, patting the stallion’s neck. ‘It is not yet winter.’

He rode on, following a narrow track peppered with the spoor of deer. The trees were thicker here and he ducked low over his saddle to avoid overhanging branches. At the bottom of the track the ground opened out and he saw a cabin and a tilled field. Before the cabin lay a man with blood seeping from a terrible wound in his side. The Once-Knight drew his sword and rode warily towards the body. The man was dead; his right arm and half his chest had been torn from him. Kuan whinnied as the smell of blood came to him. By a roughly-dug well lay a woman, her head smashed; there was no other wound in evidence.

Manannan dismounted and searched the ground. There was no spoor in the immediate vicinity, but he followed a trail of blood from the man’s body until he reached softer earth. Here he found paw-marks of great size — like the pad of a lion, but almost a foot across. He knelt by the track and stared off into the undergrowth. The beast had obviously moved off to feed. But why? The bodies could have been devoured where they lay. The beast must have been disturbed.

By his arrival? If so, that meant it was still close by. He stood and backed away from the undergrowth. A beast of this size was not something to anger.

At that moment a child came running from the trees, saw Manannan and screamed. She was around nine years old, with long blonde hair, and wearing a tunic of homespun wool.

A creature from nightmare moved out behind her. It was huge and double-headed, in part like a lion but wider at the shoulder. Its fangs were long and curved, and each head showed two great incisors long as sabres. In that instant Manannan realized the beast had not been disturbed by him but had moved off in pursuit of the child. He ran towards the girl, but knew he would never reach her before the beast bore her down. He cut to the left, shouting at the top of his voice.

The creature’s heads swung towards him.

‘Here, Ugliness!’ Manannan bellowed. ‘Come to me!’

The sound of its roaring filled the clearing — and it charged!

The Once-Knight stood his ground, his sword held double-handed over his right shoulder, ready for the slashing sweep. As the beast closed on the slender figure, Manannan saw it crouch for the spring and as it leapt he dropped to one knee, his sword flashing in a disembowelling arc. The blade buried itself in the beast’s side as it swept over him, and was almost torn from his hands. In his desperation to keep his grip, Manannan was dragged several yards; he rolled swiftly, but the beast — blood gushing from its side — turned and was upon him. The stallion, Kuan, galloped forward and hearing the sound of the charging warhorse, the monster hesitated. Manannan gained his feet and hammered the blade through the neck of the nearest head. The great jaws snapped shut and the head toppled to hang by a sinew. Blood fountained from the neck. Kuan turned his back on the beast, lashing out with his hind legs, his hooves thundering against the creature’s body and hurling it into the air.

Manannan rushed in and clove a mighty blow to its remaining head; his blade smashed the skull asunder. The beast reared and a massive claw raked out at Manannan, catching his helmet. The Once-Knight was torn from his feet as the beast fell and died.

Manannan rose. Never had he seen a beast like this — nor heard of any such in the Worlds of Civilization.

The sound of sobbing broke across his thoughts and he turned to see the child kneeling by her mother, pulling at the woman’s arm. He sheathed his sword and walked over to the child, lifting her to his chest.

‘She is dead, girl. I am sorry.’

Several men came running from the trees, carrying bows and lances, but they stopped, awe-struck, by the body of the beast. As the Once-Knight carried the child to them, her arm reached up to touch his helm and the metal slipped. Swiftly he passed the child to a waiting man and took hold of the helm. The claw had torn away a hinge at the top of the neck-plates and he raised his hands to the metal, but at that moment a thick-set man spoke.

‘What is this creature?’ he asked, staring down at the two-headed monster.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Manannan. ‘But I hope it lives alone.’

The man held out his hand. ‘I am Liam. We saw you tackling the beast, but we did not think we could reach you in time. Are you a King’s man?’

‘I am no one’s man. Excuse me.’ He walked slowly away from the group and lifted his hand to the spring bar on his helm. It slipped sideways… His mouth was dry, and he was almost too frightened to raise the helm. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the metal and straightened his arms… the helm grated against the neck-plates and then slid loose. His matted hair caught in the rotting leather padding within, but he tore it free. Without the helm in place the neck-plates fell away, draping his shoulders. The wind was cool on his face; his beard was matted and filthy, and sores stung his skin.

‘How long have you been wearing that?’ asked Liam, moving to stand beside Manannan.

Too long. Do you live far from here?’

‘No. You are welcome to eat with us.’

‘Hot water and a razor would be a blessing beyond my power to describe,’ Manannan told him.

In the distance came a terrible howling.

‘Something has tasted blood,’ said Liam.